THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
GIFT OF FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD
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ALDEN'S CYCLOPEDIA
TJniyersal Litekature
PRKSENTIN(J
BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES, AND SPECIMENS
FROM THE WRITINGS OF EMINENT AUTHORS
OF ALL AGES AND ALL NATIONS
VOL. XIII
NEW YORK JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER
1889
Copyright. 1889,
BY
THE ALDEN PUBLISHING COMPANY,.
CONTENTS OF VOL. XIII,
PAGE
Kalkva'la, The. — Wainamoinen loses the Magic Words. — Wainamoinen learns the Magic Words.- The Departure of Wainamoinen. — Epilogue, - - 0
Kane. Elisha Kent, {Amer.. 18M-1857.)— Icebergs.— The Polar Bear at Home. — Perpetvial Daj-light. — Per- petual Darkness. — Tlie returning Sun.— A Day in tlie Arctic Bureau.— Utilizing Rats.— A Seal in Time. - 18
Kant, Immanuel, (Genu., 1724-1804.)— The Judgment and the Understanding.- The Ideal of Beauty, - - 3-i
Karam'zin, Nikolai, (Ruxs., 170.5-1826.) -Song of the good Tzar.— An Epigram.— .Vutuiiin. — The Grave : two Voices, - - - - - - - 37
Keats, John, (EikjI., 170.^-1821.)— A Thing of Beauty.— Hymn to Pan.— Saturn.— Oceauus.— Ode to a Grecian Urn.— On first reading Chapman's Homer.— Ode to a Nightingale. — A Fairy Song.— Ode to Autumn.— Bards of Passion and of Mirth.— The Grasshopper and the Cricket.— The Human Seasons.— Sonnet written in January, 1818.— Lines ou the Mermaid Tavern. — Keats's last Sonnet, - - - - - - 42
Ke'ble. John, (Engl., 1792-1866.) — Third Sunday in Lent.— Second Sunday after Easter. — Fifteenth Sun- day after Trinity.— All Saints' Day.— The Waterfall, 57
Kkightley [kite'ly], Thomas, (Brit., 1789-1782.)— Milton and the Ptolemaic Astronomy, - - - - 66
Keli/gren. Johan Heinrik, (Stoed., 1751-1795.)— Folly no Proof of Genius, - - - - - - 67
Kem'ble. Frances Anne, (Enr/l., 1809- .)— The Struggle of Life, 71
Kem'pis Thomas a, (Germ., 1.380-1471.)— On the Imitation of Christ.— Of Obedience and Subjection.— The Love of Solitude and Silence. — Of the Inward Life.— Of the Consideration of One's Self.— The Joys or Sor- rows of the Present and of the Future.— Lowly Du- ties to be performed.— A Spiritual Exercise before Communion. — On Inquiries into the Mysteries of the Holy Sacrament, - - - - - - 72
Ken, THOMA.S, (EiujI., 1637-1711.)— An Evening Hymn.— A Morning Hymn, - - - - - - 81
Ken'nan, George, (Amer., 184.5- .)— Russian Exile by Administrative Process.— Exile Sufferings, - - 84
Kbn'nedy, John Pendleton, (Amer., 179.5-1870.)— A Vir- ginia Country Gentleman, a.d. 1825, - - - 88
G84y9;e
4 CONTENTS.
PAGE
Ken'nedy, William, {Scot., 1799-1849.)— At the Grave of William Motherwell, - - - - 94
Ken'ney, James, {Brit., 1780-1849.)— Tom, if you love me,
say so, .... 9G
Kent, Charles, {Engl., 1823- .)— Love's Calendar, - 98
Key, Francis Scott, {Amer., 1770-1843.)— The Star- spangled Banner, ... - 99
KiM'BALL, Harriet McEwen, (Amer., 1834- .)— The Guest.— All's Well.— Longing for Rain, - - 101
KiM'BALL, Richard Burleigh, (Amer., 1816- .)— Prob- lems of Youth.— An Interrupted Wedding, - - 103
King'lake, Alexander William, (Engl., 1811- .)— Colloquy between Traveller and Pasha. — Todleben, the Defender of Sebastopol, . - . . i06
KiNG'o, Thomas, (Dan., 16:i4-l7:i3.)— A Morning Song, . 117
Kings'ley. Charles, (Engl., ISIO-ISI-t)- The Sands of Dee.— The Gothic Tribes and the Roman Empire. — The dear old Doll.— The World's .\ge.— The Three Fishei-s, - - - - - - - 118
Kip, William Ingraham. {Amer., 1811- .) — Church Principles.— The Fall of Paganism, - - Hi
Kirch'berg, Conrad, (Germ., about 1050.) — The Merry Month of May. - 126
Kirk, John Foster, (Amer., 1824- .)— The Fight at Morat.- Finding the Body of Charles the Bold, - 127
KiRK'LAND, Caroline Matilda, {Amer., 1801-1864.) — Meeting of the Female Beneficent Society, - - 132
KiT'TO, John, (Engl., 1804-1854.)— Origin of his Deaf- ness, ----.--. 139
Klop'stock. Friedrich Gottlieb, (Germ., 1724-1803.)— Ode to God, 145
Knapp, Francis, {Amer., 1B72-1712.)— A New England Pond. 149
Knaust, Heinrich, (Germ., 1.541— 1557.)— Dignity of the Clerks, 151
Knk'bel, Karl Ludwig, (Germ., 1744-1834.)— Adrastea, 152
Knight, Charles, {Engl., 1791-1873 )— A Prophecy of Printing, ....... i.^js
Knowles, Herbert, (Engl., 1798-1817.) — Building our Tabernacles, - - - - - - - 161
Knowle.s. James Sheridan, (Brit., 1784-1862.)— The Death of Virginia.— William Tell among the Moun- tains, ..--.-.- 163
Knox, Thomas Wallace, (Amer., 1835- .) — Future Modes of Travel, - - - -108
Knox. William. (F!cot., 1789-182.5.) —Why should the Spirit of Mortal be proud? .... 170
CONTENTS. 5
PAGE
KocK. Charles Paul de, (Fi:, 1794-1871.)— Children of Nature, ..... 172
Kohl [kol], Johan Georg^ (Germ., 1808-1878.)— Ojibbe- way Marriages.— Native Help to Explorers, ■ 174
Koran', The —The "Fatiiiat."— Concerning Almsgiving.
— Concerning Usury. — Concerning Contracts. — A General Supplication. — The " .\doration." —Moses and tlie Divine Messenger. -The Declaration of God's Unity.— "The Daybreak. ■■— The Conclusion, - -176
KiiR'SER. Karl Theodor, (Germ., 1791-18ri)— The Bene- diction of the German Free-Corps.— Prayer during the Figlit.— A Prayer.— Adieu to Life.— Sword-Song, 187
KosE'fiARTEX, LuDWiG Theobul, (Germ., 1758-1818.)— The Amen of the Stones, - - - - - 193
Krauth, Charles Porterfield, (Amer., 1823-1883.)— The Word and Sacraments —Martin Luther, - - 195
Krummacher [Ivroom'aker], Friedrich Adolf, (Germ., 1768-1845.)— Davids Harp. —Tiie Sheep shearing, - 197
Kri'mmacher [kroom'aker], Friedrich Wilhelm, (Germ., 1796-1868.)— The Psalms, 199
Kry'loff [krelof], Ivan, (Riiss., 1768-1844.)— The Ele- phant and the Pug-Dog.— The Horse and the Dog, - 200
Laboulaye [laboolay'l, ^DorARD RenS, (Fr., 1811-1883.) —The Departure of the Volunteers, - - - 202
Lacoste, Marie R., (Amer., 1842- .) —Somebody's Darling, 210
Laighton [lay'ton], Albert, (Amer., 1829-1887.)— Under the Leaves.— To my Soul, - - - - - 212
Lamarti.ne'. Alphonse db, (Fr., 1790-1 869.) -The Cedars of Lebanon.— The Gulf of Baya.— The " Temple •" ar Paris, - - - 214
IjAUB, Charles, (Engl , 1775-1834.)— A Quakers' Meeting.
— Modern Gallantry. — Distant Correspondents. — Hester.— Lines written in my own Album.— Choosing
a Name.— Parental Recollections, - - - '223
Lamb, Martha Joanna, (Amer., 1829- .)— Manhattan Island.— George Washington in New York. - 238
Lamennais [la-ma-nay], Hi'gues Felicity, (Fr., 1782- 1854. )-Justice and Liberty.— Loyalty, - - -243
Lan'don. Letitia Elizabeth, (Engl., 1802-1838.) — The Setting of the Pole Star, - - - - -247
Lan'dor. Walter Savage, (Engl., 177.5-1864.) — Roger Ascham and Lady Jane Grey.- The Germans and the French. — The Prometheus of .^^schylus.— The Homer of the Odyssey.— Tlie Homer of tlie Iliad.— Homer an Asiatic. — Landor's Sea Sliell. -Words- worth's SeaShell.— The two Sea-Shells. -Efficacy of Prayers.— Sparing Flowers.— Iphigeneia and Aga- memnon—Rose Aylmer. -On Southey's Death.— An Old Poet to Sleep, 249
(5 CONTENTS.
PAGE
Lang, Andrew, (Brit., 1844- .)- Egyptian Divine Myths, - ~^5
Lanier [laneer'l, Sidney, (Amer., 1S43-1881.) — The Marshes of Glynn.— A Rose-Moral, - - - 2G7
Lan'man, Charles, (Amer., 1819- .)— The Acadians, 273
Lar'com Lucy, {Amer., 1826- .)— Hannah binding Shoes, -'•'^
Lard'ner, Dionysius, (Brit., 1793-1859.)-The Steam- engine proper, ...--- 2i8
Lard'ner. Nathaniel, (Engl, 1684-1768.)-Credibility of the Evangelists, - - - - - 281
La'throp, George Parsons, (Amer., 1851- .)— Music of Growth.— The Lover's Year, - - - - 283
Lat'imer. Hugh, (Engl., 1485-1555.)— On Covetousness.— Satan a diligent Preacher and Prelate, - - - 285
Lav'ater, Johann CA.SPAR, (Siriss, 1741-1801.) — Maxims, 291
Lay'ard, Austen Henry, (Engl., 1817- .)— The Ruins in Assyria and Babylonia.— The first Day 's Excava/- tion at Nimroud.-The Discovery of " Niuuod."— The Palace of Sennacherib.- The Assyrian Records. - 295
Laz'arus Emma, (Awcr., 1849-1887.)— The Banns^r of the Jew.— The New Colossus.— Yonth and Death —Age and Death.— A June Night, - - - - 304
Lea, Henry Charles, (Amer., 1825- .)— The Inquisi- tion as an Institution.— Policy of the Church towards Heresy.— The Organization of the Inquisition.— ThQ Functions of the Inquisitor.— The Inquisition and Luther.— The 3Iiddle Ages and the Present Age.— Summary of the Inquisition, - - - - 308
Leck'y, William E. H., (Brit., 1838- .)-The Middle Ages.— Rationalism.— Italian Skeptics and Reformers. —Persecution.— Marcus Aurelius.— Heathen Conform- ity.—Truth vs. Dogma, - - - - - 31(5
Led'yard, John. (Amer.. 1751-1789.)— The Tartars and the Russians.— Physiognomy of the Tartars.— Origin of Tartar Peculiarities. Characteristics of Woman, - 326 Legare [leh-gree] Hugh Swinton, (Amer., 1789-1843.)
Chaiacteristics of Lord Byron, - Leg'gett. William, (Amer., 1802-1839.)— Jack Cade.—
Shakespeare's Beatrice, - - - • -332
Leighton [lay'ton], Robert, (Scot., 1611-1684.)— The Hap- piness of the Life to come.— The Course of Human
Life, - 339
Lk'land, Charles Godfrey, (Amer., 1824- .)— A Thousand Years ago.— The two Friends.- Schneit- zerl's Philosopede, .----• 342 Le Sage [le-sazh], alain Ren^, (fV., 1668-1747.)-Theory and Practice of Medicine.— Perils of a Critic, - - 347
328
CONTENTS. 7
PAGE
Les'sixg. Gotthold Ephraim, (6V)-»h., 1730-1781.)— Nathan the Wise and the Sultan Saladin, - - 354
Lk'vkr, Charles James, [Trish, 1806-1S72.)— Legend of Luttrell and the D Widow Malone, - - 359
Lewes du'es), George Henry. (Engl., 1817-1878.)— Phi- losophy and Science.— Xenophanes.— A Picture of Wiemar, - - - - - - - 366
Leu'is, Charlton Thomas, {Amer., 1834- .)— The Ownerhip of Ideas, ------ 371
Lew'is. Tayler, (Amer.. 1802-1877.)— The Theology of Plato, - - 373
Ley'den, John, (Scot., 1775-1811.)— To an Indian Gold Coin, ----..-- 37V
Lie'ber, Francis, (German-Ainer.. 1800-1872.) — Vox Populi Vox Dei, - - - - - 279
Lix'coLN, Abraham, (.!;((<?)•., 1809-1865,)— The Perpetuity of the Union.— Tlie Emancipation Proclamation. — The Consecration Speech at Gettysburg.- Malice toward None : Cliarity for All, . - - - ;^83
LiN'GARD, John, (Engl., 1771-1851.)— The Expulsion of the
Long Parliament by Cromwell, - - - - 388
Lin'ton, Eliza Lynn, (Engl, 1822- .)— Fenced in, - .392
Lin'ton, William James, (Engl., 1812- .)— A Prayer for Truth.— Real and True.— Poets.— Labor in Vain, - 397
LiP'PiNCOTT, Sara Jane, (Amer., 1823- .)— The Poet of To-day.— Invocation to Mother Earth, - - - 400
Liv'iNOSTONE, David, (Scot., 1813-1873.)— Encounter with a Lion.— The Falls of Mosioatunya.- Latest Geo- graphical Speculations.— The dead Livingstone, - 403
Li'vY, (Rom., B.C. 59-A.D. 17.)— The Legend of Romulus and Remus.— The Combat of the Horatii and the Curatii. — Hannibal's Passage of the Alps. — In Rome, after the Defeat near Lake Thrasymenus.— In Rome, after the Victory on the Metaurus.— Hannibal re- called from Italy to Carthage. — The Death of Han- nibal, - - - - - - - - 413
Locke, John, (Engl., 1632-1704.)— Mackintosh and Hal- lam upon Locke. — School Logic and the Understand- ing.—Natural Parts.— Theology.— Fundamental Veri- ties.—Bottoming, ------ 425
Lock'er, Frederick, (Engl., 1821- .)— The Unrealized Ideal. -^- Vanity Fair, - - - - - 433
Lock'hart. John Gibson, (Scot., 1794-1854.)— Burns on liis Farm at Ellisland. — Children of Great Men. — An Old English Mansion. -The Broadswords of Scotland. —Eulogy on Captain Paton, . - . - - 435
Lo'GAN, John, (Scot., 1748-1788.)- To the Cuckoo, - 441
Long. George, (iJnf//., 1800-1879.)— Marcus Junius Brutus, 443
S CONTENTS.
PAGE
Long'fellow, Henry Wadsworth, {Amer., 1807—1882.) —The Picnic at Roaring Brook.— Themes for Song.— Hymn to the Night.— Footsteps of Angels.— The Warning. — Grand Pr6 in Acadie.— Launching the Ship. — John Alden and Priscilla.— The Song of Hiawatha.— The Departure of Hiawatha.- Maiden- hood.—The Buildor.s.-~The Day is done.— Dante. — The Two Angels.— Curfew, - - - -446
LoNGi'NtJS, (Gr., A.n. 213-273.V-The Subl-me in Homer and Moses.— The Iliad and the Odys.sey, - - 469
LoNG'STREET, AuGtTSTys BALDWIN, {Amev . ■'7"f>-1870.)— A Monomachia in Georgia, . , - 47:5
CYCLOPEDIA
OF
UNIVERSAL LITERATURE.
KALEVALA, The, an epic poem — or perhaps a cycle of runes of Finland, which have been handed down orally from very ancient times. There are not wanting scholars who hold that portions at least of the Kalevala antedate Homer and Hesiod, and probably go back as far as the days of David, or still earlier. That such a group of heroic poems existed in Finland was hardly suspected until within a little more than half a century, when Topelius, a practicing physician of Sweden formed a collection of Finnish runes which he wrote down from the lips of bards, much as Mac- pherson professed to have done with the so- called Gaelic poems of Ossian. Topelius put forth these fragments in 1822, and a still more complete collection in 1839. Elias Lcinnrot, born in 1802, took up the work begun by his predecessor. His first work on the subject appeared as early as 1827. He subsequently journeyed through all the districts of Finland, " often through wild fens, forests, marshes, and ice-plains — on horseback, in sledges drawn by reindeer, in canoes, and other forms of primitive
THE KALEVALA.— 2
conveyance." He Lad the good fortune to meet an old peasant who was held to be the most famous reciter of the country, and was reputed to know more of the ancient runes of his people than any other hving man. In 1835 Lonnrot put forth the frag- ments which he had brought together. The idea gradually developed itself in his mind that these runes were parts of a great cycli- cal poem, of which the central figure was Wainamoinen, a mighty bard and magician. Lonnrot set himself to arrange these runes into a connected poem, and the result of his labors was published in 1849.
The Kalevala, as thus edited, consists of fifty runes, containing in all nearly 23,000 lines. It is written in octo-syllabic trochaic verse — the measure with which we have become familiar through Longfellow's Hia- watha. It seems certain that Longfellow had become acquainted with the KaJevala, probably in the German translation of Schiefner, which was published in 1852. In any case, he borrowed the general idea oi Hiaicatha^ and its peculiar metre from the Kalevala. The poem at once attracted the attention of scholars. Max Miiller says of it: "From the mouths of the aged an epic poem has been collected equalling the Iliad in length and completeness ; nay, if we can forget for a moment all that Ave in our youth learned to call beautiful, not less beautiful. . , , The Kalevala possesses merits not dissimilar from those of the JUail, and will claim its place side by side with the Ionian Songs, with the Mahahharata, the Shahnameh, and the Nihelunye.''' Stein- thal is still more emphatic. He recognizes but four great national epics : the lliad^ the
10
THE KALEVALA.— 3
fCalevala, the Nibelimye, and the Rola.id Son(js.
In 1858 was published a translation of a verj'- small portion of the Kalevala by Uie late Prof. John A. Porter, of Yale, whose early death probably prevented the trans- lation of other of the runes. In 1888 Dr. John Martin Crawford, of Cincinnati, put forth a translation of the entire poem, which is now for the first time made ac- cessible to the English-speaking race. From this admirable translation the following ex- tracts are taken :
WAINAMOINEN LOSES THE MAGIC WORDS.
Wainanioinen, old and skilful, Tlie eternal wonder-worker, Builds his vessel by enchantment; Builds his boat, by art of magic, From the timber of the oak-tree. From its posts and planks and flooring ; Sings a song, and joins the frame-work ; Sings a second, sets the siding; Sings a third time, sets the row-locks ; Fashions oars and ribs and rudder, Joins the sides and ribs together.
When the ribs were firmly fastened, Wiien the sides were tightly jointed, Then alas ! three words were wanting. Lost the words of master-magic, How to fasten in the ledge, Flow the stern should be completed, How complete the boat's forecastle. Then the ancient Wainanioinen, Wise and wonderful enchanter, Heavy-hearted spake as follows : — " Woe is me, my life hard-fated ! Never will this magic vessel Pass in safety o'er the water, Never ride the rough sea-billows."
Then h(! thought and long considered, Where to tind these words of magic, U
THE KALEVALA.— 4
Find the lost-words of the Master : From the brains of countless swallows, From the heads of swans in dying. From the plumage of the sea-duck? For tliese words the hero searches, Kills of swans a goodly number. Kills a flock of fattened sea-ducks, Kills of swallows countless numbers ; Cannot find the words of magic. Not the lost-words of the Master. Wainamoinen, wisdom-singer. Still reflected and debated : — " I perchance may find the lost-words On the tongue of summer-reindeer. In the mouth of the white squirrel."
Now again he hunts the lost-words» Hastes to find the magic sayings ; Kills a countless host of reindeer, Kills a rafter-ful of squirrels ; Finds of words a goodly number, But they are of little value, Cannot find the magic lost-word. Long he thought and well considered ;— " I can find of words a hundred In the dwellings of Tuoni, In the castles of Manala."
Wainamoinen quickly journeys To the kingdom of Tuoni, There to find the ancient wisdom, There to learn the secret doctrine ; Hastf.'iis on through fen and forests Over meads and over marshes. Through the ever-rising woodlands ; Journeys one week through the brambles, And a second through the hazels, Through the junipers the third week. When appear Tuoni's islands, And the hill-tops of Manala. Rime XVIl^
WAINAMOINEN LKARNS THE MAGIC WORDS.
When the ancient Wainamoinen Well had learned the magic sayings, 12
THE KALEVALA.— 5
Learned tlie ancient songs and legends, Learned the words of ancient wisdom, Learned tlie lost- words of the Master, Well had learned the secret doctrine, He prepared to leave the body Of the wisdom-bard, Wipunen, Leave the bosom of the master, Leave the wonderful enchanter.
Spake the hero, AVainamoinen : — »' O thou Antero Wipunen, Open wide thy mouth and fauces ; I have found the magic lost -words, I will leave thee now forever. Leave thee and thy wondrous singing ; Will return to Kalevala, To Wainola's fields and firesides."
Thus Wipunen spake in answer : — " Many are the things I've eaten. Eaten bear, and elk, and reindeer. Eaten ox, and wolf, and wild boar. Eaten man, and eaten hero ; Never, never have I eaten Such a thing as Wainamoinen. Thou hast found what thou desirest, Found the three words of the Master ; Go in peace, and ne'er returning. Take my blessing on thy going." Thereupon the bard AVipunen Opens wide his mouth, and wider ; A.nd the good old AVainamoinen Straightway leaves the wise enchanter. Leaves AVipunen 's great abdomen. From the mouth he glides and journeys O'er the hills and vales of Northland, Swift as red-deer of the forest, Swift as yellow-breasted marten, To the firesides of AVainola, To the plains of Kalevala.
Straightway hastes he to the smitliy Of his brother, llmarinen. Thus the iron -artist greets him : — <' Hast thou found the long-lost wisdom ?
13
THE K ALE V ALA.— 6
H;ist thou learned tlie secret doctrine.'' Hast thou learned the master-magic, How to fasten in the ledges, How the stern should be completed, How complete the sliijj's forecastle? "
Wainamoinen thus made answ(>r : — "• I have learned of woi'ds a humlred, Learned a thousand incantations, Hidden deep for many ages ; Learned the words of ancient wisdom, Found the keys of secret doctrine, Found the lost-words of the Master."
Wainamoinen, magic-builder, Straightway journeys to his vessel, To the spot of magic labor, Quickly fastens in the ledges. Firmly binds the stern together, And completes the boat's forecastle.
Thus the ancient AVainamoinen Built the boat with magic only. And with magic launched his vessel ; Using not the hand to touch it. Using not the foot to move it. Using not the knee to turn it. Using nothing to propel it. Thus the third task was completed For the hostess of Pohyola, Dowry for the Maid of Beauty, Sitting on the arch of heaven. On the bow of many colors. Rune XVI.
THE DEPARTURE OF WAINAMOINEN.
As the years passed, Wainamoinen Recognized his waning powers, Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, Sang bis farewell song to Northland, To the people of Wainola ; Sang himself a boat of copper. Beautiful his bark of magic ; At the helm sat the magician. Sat the anc'ient wisdom-singer.
Westward, westward, sailed the hero u
THE K/VLEVALA.-7
O'er the blue-back of the waters, Singing as he left AVainola ; This his plaintive song and eclio : — " Suns may rise and set in Suonii, Rise and set for generations, ^\ hen the North will learn my teachings, Will recall my wisdom-sayings, Hungry for the true religion ; Th<'n will Suomi need my coming, Watch for me at dawn of morning. That 1 may bring back the Sampo, Bring anew the harp of joyancc, Bring again the golden moonlight. Bring again the silver sunshine. Peace and plenty to the Northland."
Thus the ancient Wainamoinen, In his copi)er-banded vessel. Left his tribe in Kalevala, Sailing o'er the rolling billows. Sailing tlirougli the azure vapors, Sailing through the dusk of evening, Sailing to the fiei'y sunset. To the lower verge of heaven ; Quickly gained the far horizon, Gained the purple-colored harbor. There his bark he firmly ancliored, Rested in his boat of copper ; But he left his harp of magic, Left his songs and wisdom-sayings To the lasting joy of Suomi. Rune L.
EPILOGUE.
Now I end my measured singing,
Bid my weary tongue keep silence,
Leave my songs to other singers.
Horses have their times of resting
After many hours of labor ;
P^ven sickles will grow weary
When they have been long at reaping ;
Waters seek a quiet haven
After running long in rivers;
Fire subsides and sinks in slumber
15
THE KALEVALA.— 8
At the dawning of tlie inornin"; : Therefore should I end my singing, As my song is growing weary, For the pleasure of the evening, For the joy of morn arising.
Often have I heard it chanted, Often heard the words repeated : " Worthy cataracts and rivers Never empty all their waters." Thus the wise and worthy singer Sings not all his garnered wisdom ; Better leave unsung some sayings Than to sing them out of season.
Thus beginning and thus ending, Do I roll up all my legends, Roll them in a ball for safety, In my memory arrange them, In their narrow place of resting, Lest the songs escape unheeded. While the lock is still unopened. While the teeth remain un parted, And the weary tongue is silent.
Why should I sing other legends, Chant them in the glen and forest. Sing them on the hill and heather ? Cold and still my golden mother Hears my ancient songs no longer, Cannot listen to my singing ; Only will the forest listen, Sacred birches, sighing pine-trees, Junipers endowed with kindness, Alder-trees that love to hear me. With the aspens and the willows. When my loving mother left me, Young was I, and low of stature ; Like the cuckoo of the forests, Like the thrush upon the heather. Like the lark I learned to twitter, Learned to sing my simple measures, Guided by a second motlier, Stern and cold, without affection ; Drove me helpless from my chamber 16
THE KALEVALA.-9
To the north-side of her cottajze. Where the chilling winds m mercy Carried off the unprotected. As a lark I learned to wander, Wander as a lonely song-bird, Through the forests and the I'enlands, Quietly o'er hill and heather ; Walked in pain about the marshes. Learned the songs of winds and waters, Learned the music of the ocean, And the echoes of the woodlands.
Nature was my only teacher, Woods and waters my instructors. Homeless, friendless, lone and needy. Save in childhood with my motlier. When beneath her painted rafters. Where she twirled the flying spindle, By the work-bench of my brother, By the window of my sister, In the cabin of my father. In my early days of childhood.
Be this as it may, my people, This may point tiie way to others, To the singers better gifted. For the good of future ages, For the coming generations, For the rising folk of Suomi. 2 17
ELISHA KENT KANE.— 1
KANE, Elisha Kent, an American physician and arctic explorer, born at Phil- adelphia in 1820 ; died at Havana, Cuba, in 1857. He studied medicine at the Uni- versity of Pennsylvania, graduating in 18-12, and the next year received the ap- pointment of assistant surgeon in the U. S. navy, and as such accompanied the embassy to China. After making numer- ous tours in China and the adjacent regions and in India, his health failing, lie set out for home near the close of 1814. In the Spring of 1846 he sailed, on board the frig- ate United States for the coast of Africa. Joining a caravan he made a trip to Daho- mey; but in returning to tlie coast he was attacked by malarial fever, and returned home, reaching Philadelphia in April, 1847. A few months afterwards he was trans- ferred, at his own request, from the naval to the military service ; and was ordered to Mexico. While endeavoring to make his way to the capital he was encountered by a guerilla party, and received a severe wound in consequence of which lie was invalided, and returned to the United States. In Jan- uary, 1849, he sailed in a store-ship bound to Brazil, Portugal, and the Mediterranean, returning in October.
At this time a deep interest was felt in the fate of Sir John Franklin and his party, who iiad been since July, 1845, lost to sight in the arctic regions. A searching expedi- tion was fitted out, mainly through the munificence of Henry Grinnell, alSTew^York merchant. It consisted of two vessels, the Advance and the Rescue, commanded by Lieutenant DeHaven, U. S. N. Kane re- ceived the appointment of surgeon to this
ELTSHA KENT KANE.— 2
expedition. It sailed IVoni New York in May, 1850, but tailing to reach an advanta- geous point from which to prosecute the ob- ject in view, the commander resolved tore- turn that year. But in September the vessels were beset by ice, and drifted help- lessl}^ with the pack untilJune, 1851, when they got free and made their Avay home. Dr. Kane wrote an account of this expedi- tion, under the title, Narrative of the Grin- nell Exjyedition in Search of Sir John Franklin (1854.)
The failure of this expedition to accom- plish its object only intensified public inter- est in the matter. The Advance was re- fitted, and placed under the command of Dr. Kane. They succeeded in reaching latitude 78° 43', the most northerly point ever gained by a sailing vessel, and win- tered in a bay about half a dozen miles south of this point. During the winter sledge-parties were sent out, one of which went as far north as latitude 80° 85'. The ice remained unbroken, all the next sum- mer: and it became evident that it was out of the question to hope to survive another year in these arctic regions. There was nothing to be done but to abandon the vessel and attempt to make their way by sledges and boats to the settlements in Greenland. This occupied eighty-four days of extreme peril and hardship, Upernavik, the most northerly Danish settlement, was reached August 5, 1855. Dr. Kane wrote an ac- count of this expedition, under the title, Arctic Explorations (1856.)
This expedition, although it failed to
throw light upon the fate of Franklin,
made important additions to our knowledge 19
ELISHA KENT KANE.— 3
of the arctic regions. Congress voted Arctic Medals to the members of the expe- dition. The Royal Geographical Society of England awarded the Founder's Medal for 1856 to Kane, and the French Sociute de Geographic gave him its gold medal for 1858, In the hope of recovering his shat- tered health he sailed for England, and thence to the West Indies. On this last voyage he suffered a paralytic stroke, and died soon after reaching Havana.
ICEBERGS.
The first iceberg which we approached (July 2) Avas entirely inaccessible. Our com- mander, in whose estimate of distance and mag- nitude I have great coiitidence, made it nearly a mile in circumference. With the exception of one rugged corner, it was in shape a truncated wedge, and its surface a nearly horizontal plateau. The next presented a well-marked characteristic, which, as I observed it afterwards in other ex- amples, enabled me to follow the history of the berg throughout all its changes of equilibrium. It was a rectilinear groove at the water-line, hollowed out by the action of the waves. These grooves were seen in all the bergs which had re- mained long in one position. They were some- times crested with fantastical serrations, and their tunnel-like roofs were often pendant with icicles. On a grounded berg the tides may be accurately gauged by these lines ; and in the berg before me a number of them, converging to a point not unlike the rays of a fan, pointed clearly to those changes of e<iuilibrium wliich had depressed one end and elevated the other.
A third was a monstrous ice-mountain, at least two hundred feet high, irregularly |)oly- hedral in shape, and its surface diversified with hill and dale. Upon this one we landed. I hnd never appreciated before the glorious variety of iceberg scenery. The sea at the base pf this 20
ELISHA KENT KANE — 1
berg was dashing into hollow caves of pure and intense ultramarine ; and to leeward the quiet water lit the eye down to a long spindle-shaped root of milky whiteness, which seemed to dye the sea as it descended, until the blue and white were mixed in a pale turquoise. Above, and high enough to give an expression akin to sub- limity, were bristling crags.
This was the first berg that I had visited. I was struck with its peculiar opacity, the result of its granulated structure. I had incidentally met with the remark of Professor Forbes, that " the floating icebergs of the Polar Seas are for the most part of the nature of neve : and. while I was at a distance, had looked upon the sub- stance of the mass before nie as identical with the Jirn, or consolidated snow of the Alpine glaciers. I now found cause to change this opinion. The ice of this berg, although opaque and vesicular, was true glacier-ice, having the fracture, lustre, and other external characters of a nearly homogeneous growth. The same authority, in speaking of these bergs, declares that " the occurrence of true ice is comparatively rare, and is justly dreaded by ships." From this im- pression, which was undoubtedly derived fi'om the appearance of a berg at a distance, I am also compelled to dissent. The iceberg is true ice, and is always dreaded by ships. Indeed, though modified by climate, and especially by the alter- nation of day and night, the Polar glacier must be regarded as strit^tly atmospheric in its incre- ments, and not essentially differing fi-oin the glaciers of the Alps. The general color of a berg I have before compared to frosted silver. But when its fractures are very extensive, the exposed faces have a very brilliant lustre. Noth- ing can be more exquisite than a fresh, cleanly- fractured berg surface. It reminded me of the recent cleavage of sulphate of strontium — a re- semblance the more striking from flic slightly lazuli tic tinge of each.-77(e GrinneU Expedition^ Ciiap. VIII.
21.
ELISHA KENT KANE.— 5 THE POI.AK BKAR AT HOME.
While working with the rest of tlie crew (July 12) upon the ice, I Avas startled by a cry of "Bear!" Sure enough, it was that menagerie wonder. Not, however, the sleepy thing which, with begrimed hair and subdued dirty face, ap- j)eals to your sympathies as he walks the endless rounds of a wet cage. Our Hrst polar bear moved past us on the floe, a short half-mile otf, wilh the leisurely march of fearless freedom. He was a bear of the flrst magnitude — about nine feet long, as we afterwards found by measuring his tracks. His lengtli appeared to us still greater than this, for he carried his head and neck on a line with tlie long axis of his body. His color, as defined upon the white snow, was a delicate yellow — ^not tawny, but a true ochre or gamboge — and his blue-black nose looked ab- rupt and accidental, his haunches were regularly arched, and, supported as they were on ponder- ous legs, gave him an almost elephantine look. The movements of the animal were peculiar. A sort of drawling dignity seemed to oppress him, and to forbid his lifting his august legs higher than was absolutely necessary. It might have been an instinctive philosophy that led him to avoid the impact of his toes upon ice of un- certain strength ; but whatever it was, he re- minded me of a colossal puss-in-boots The
Grinnell Expedition, Chap. XII.
PERPETUAL DAYLIGHT.
The perpetual daylight had continued up to this moment (August 18) with unabated glare. The sun had reached his north meridian altitude some days before, but the eye was hardly aware of the change. Midnight had a softened cliar- acter, like the low summer's sun at home, but there was no twilight. At fiist the novelty of this unvarying day made it pleasing. It was curious to see the "midnight Arctic Sun set into sunrise," and pleasant to tind that, whether you 22
ELISHA KKNT KANE— 6
ate or slept, oi- idled or toiled, the same dtiyliglit was always there. No irksome night forced upon you its system of compulsory alternations. I (!ould dine at midnight, sup at breakfast-tiine, and go to bed at noonday ; and but for an i\\)- jiaratus of coils and cogs called a watch, wonld have been no wiser and no worse.
My feeling wji^ at first an extravagant sense of undefined relief — of some vague resti'aint re- moved. I seemed to have thrown off the slavery of hours. In fiict, I could hardly realize its en- tirety. The astral lamps, standing dust-covered on our lockers, puzzled me as things obsolete and fanciful. But l)y-and-by came other feel- ings. The perpetual light, garish and unfluctu- ating, disturbed me. I became gradually aware of an unknown excitement, a stimulus acting constantly, like tiie diminutive of a strong cup of coffee. My sleep was curtailed and irregular; my meal-hours trod upon each other's heels ; and but for stringent regulations of my own im- posing my routine would have been completely broken up. I began to feel how admirable, as a systematic law, is the alternation of day and )iight — words that type the two great conditions of living nature — action and repose. To those who with daily labor earn the daily bread, how kindly the season of sleep ! To the drone who, urged by the waning daylight, hastens the de- ferred task, how fortunate that his procrastina- tion has not a six-month's morrow! To the brain-workers among men, the enthusiasts who l)car irksomely tlie dark screen which falls upon their d;iy-dreams, how benignant the dear night- blessing whi('h enforces reluctant rest! — 77/e Grhiaell Expedition, Chap. XIX.
PKKl'ETUAL DARKNESS.
Our men are hard at work preparing for tlie Christmas theatre — the arrangements exclusively tlieir own. But to-morrow (December 22) is a day mon; welcome than Christmas — the solstitial day of greatest darkness, from which we may
23
ELISHA KENT KANE.— 7
begin to date our returning light. It makes a man feel badly to see the faces around him bleaching into waxen paleness. Until to-day — as a looking-glass does not enter into an Arctic toilet — I thought I was the exception, and out of delicacy said nothing about it to my com- rades. One of them, introducing the topic just now, told me, with an utter unconsciousness of his own ghastliness, that I was the palest of the party. So it is : "All men think all men," etc. Why, the good fellow is as white as a cut po- tato.
In truth, we were all of us at this time un- dergoing changes unconsciously. The hazy obscurity of the nights we had gone through made them darker tlian the corresponding nights of Parry. The complexions of my comrades — and my own too, as I found soon afterwards — were toned down to a peculiar waxy paleness, Our eyes were more recessed, and strangely clear. Complaints of shortness of breath be- came general. Our appetite was most ludi- crously changed. Ham-fat frozen, and sour-krout swimming in olive-oil, were favorites ; yet we were unconscious of any tendency towards the gross diet of the polar region. Most of my companions would not touch bear ; indeed I was the only one except Captain DeHaven that still ate it. Fox, on the other hand, was a favorite. Things seemed to have changed their taste ; and our inclination for food was at best very slight- Worse than this, our complete solitude, com- bined with permanent darkness, began to affect our morale. Men became moping, testy, and imaginative. In the morning, dreams of the night — we could not help using the term — were narrated. Some had visited the naked shores of Cape Warrender, and returned laden with water- melons. Others had found Sir John Franklin in a beautiful grove lined by quintas and orange- trees. Even Brooks, our hard-fisted, unimagina- tive boatswain, told me. in confidence, of having
ELISHA KENT KANE.— 8
heard three strange groans out upon the ice. He " thought it was a bear, but could see nothing." In a word, the health of our little company was broken in upon. It required strenuous efibrt at washing, diet, and exercise to keep the scurvy ;it bay. Eight cases of scorbutic gums were al- r(-ady upon my black-list. One case of severe pneumonia left me in anxious doubt of the residt. There was, however, little bronchitis — The Grlnm'U Expedition, Chap. XXl.
THE RETURNING SUN.
For some days the snn-clouds at the south had been changing their character. Their edges be- came better defined, their extremities deiitated, their color deeper as well as warmer; and from the spaces between the lines of the stratus burst out a blaze of glory typical of the longed-for sun. He came at last. It was on the 29th of February. Going out on deck after breakfast at eight in the morning, 1 found the dawning far advanced. The whole vault was bedewed with the coming day ; and except Capella the stars were gone. The southern horizon was clear. We were certain to see the sun after an absence of eighty-six days.
It had been arranged on board that all hands should give him three cheers for a greeting ; but I was in no mood to join the sallow-visaged party. I took my gun, and walked over the ice about a mile away from the ship to a solitary spot where a big hummock almost hemmed me in, opening only to the south. There, Parsee- like, I drank in the rosy light, and watched the horns of the crescent extending themselves round towards the north. There was hardly a breath of wind, with the thermometer only — 19°, and it was easy, therefore, to keep warm by walking gently up and down.
Very soon the deep crimson blush, lightening
into a focus of incandescent white, showed me
that the hour was close at hand. Mounting
upon a crag, I saw the crew of our ship formed
35
ELISHA KENT KANE.— 9
in line upon the ice. Then came the shout from the ship — three shouts — cheering the sun. And a few moments after, I fired my salut. The first indications of dawn to-day were at forty-five minutes past five. By seven the twilight was nearly sufficient to guide a walking-party over the floes. At nine the dark-lantern was doused. At a quarter-past eleven those on board had the first glimpse of the sun. At five p.m. we had the dim twilight of evening — Tlie Grinnel Ex- pedition, Chap. XXXIII.
A DAY IN THE ARCTIC BUREAU.
Itjs Thursday, March 9, 1854. Take a look into our Arctic Bureau, on board the Advance! One table ; one salt-pork lamp, with rusty chlori- nated flame ; three stools, and as many waxen- faced men with their legs drawn up under them — the deck, at zero, being too cold for the feet. Each has his department : Kane is writing, sketching, and projecting maps ; Hayes copying logs and meteorologicals ; Sontag reducing his work at Tern Rock. At twelve a round of in- spection, and orders enough to fill up the day with work. Next, the drill of the Esquimaux dogs — my own peculiar recreation — a dog-trot, specially refreshing to legs that creak with every kick, and rlieumatic shoulders that chronicle every descent of the wiiip. And so we get on to dinner-time — the occasion of another gather- in», which misses the tea and coffee of break- fast, but rejoices in pickled cabbage and peaches instead.
At dinner, as at breakfast, the raw potato comes in — our hygienic luxury. Like doctor- stuff generally, it is not as appetizing as desira- ble. Grating it down nicely, leaving out the ugly red spots liberally, and adding the utmost oil as a lubricant, it is as much as I can do to persuade the mess to shut their eyes and bolt it ; two absolutely refuse to take it. I tell them of the Silesians using its leaves as spinach, of the whalers in the South Seas getting drunk on
26
ELISHA KENT KANE.— 10
the molasses wliicli had preserved the large jiotaloes of the Azores. I point to this gum, so fungoid and angry the day before yesterday, and so Hat and amiable to-day — all by a potato-poul- tice. My eloquence is wasted ; they persevere in rejecting this admirable compound.
Sleep, exercise, amusement, and work at will, carry on the day till our six o'clock supper — a meal something like breakfast and something like dinner, only a little more scant; and the otKcers come in with tiie reports of the day. Dr. Hayes shows me the log — I sign it; Sontag the weather — I sign the weather ; Mr. Bonsall the tides and thermometers. Tliereu|)on comes in '• mine ancient," Brookes, and 1 enter in his Journal No. ;i all the work done under his charge, and discuss his labors for the morrow. McGarry couies next, with the clcaning-up ar- rangements insiile, outside, and on the decks ; and Mr. Wilson follows with ice-measurements. And last of all comes my own record of the day gone by ; every line, as I look back upon the pages, giving evidence of a weakened body and
harassed mind Arctic Explorations, Vol. I.,
Chap. XV.
UTILIZING RATS.
Another article of diet, less inviting at first than bear's liver, but which I found more in- nocuous, was the rat. We had failed to exter- minate this animal by our varied and perilous efforts of the year before, and a well-justified fear forbade our renewing the crusade. It Avas marvelous, in a region appai'cntly so unfavorable to reproduction, what a ])erfect wan-en we soon had on board. Their impudence and address increased with their numbers. It became im- possible to stow anything below decks. Furs, woolens, shoes, specimens of natural history — everything we disliked to lose, however little valuable to them — was gnawed into and de- .stroyed. They harbored among the men's bed- ding in the forecastle, and showed such boldness
ELISHA KENT KANE— 11
in figlit, and such dexterity in dodging missiles, that they were tolerated at last as inevitable nuisances. Before the winter was ended I avenged our griefs by decimating them for my private table. I find in my Journal of October 10 an anecdote that illustrates their boldness :
" We have moved everything movable out upon the ice ; and besides the dividing moss- wall between our sanctum and the forecastle, we have built up a rude baiTier of our own, iron-sheathed, to prevent these abominable rats from gnawing through. It is all in vain. They are everywhere already — under the stove, in the steward's lockers, in our cushions, about our beds. If I was asked what — after darkness and cold and scurvy — are the besetting sins of our Arctic sojourn, I should say. Rats, Rats, Rats. A mother-rat bit my finger to the bone last Friday as I was intruding my hand into a bear- skin mitten which she had chosen as a home- stead for her little family. I withdrew it, of course, witii instinctive courtesy ; but among them they carried off the mitten before I could suck the finger. Last week I sent down Rliina, the most intelligent dog of our whole pack, to bivouac in their citadel forward. I thought she would be able to defend herself against them, for she had distinguished herself in a bear hunt. She slept very well for a couple of hours on a bed she had chosen for herself on the top of some iron spikes. But the rats could not, or would not, forego the horny skin about her paws; and they gnawed her feet and nails so ferociously that we drew her up, yelping and vanquished."
Before I pass from these intrepid and pertina. cious visitors, let me add that, on the whole, I am personally much their debtor. Through the long winter night Hans used to beguile his lonely hours of watchfulness by shooting them with the bow-and-arrow. The repugnance of my associates to share with me the table-luxur}-
ELISHA KENT KANE— 12
of such "small deer" gave me the tVeqntiit ad- vantage of a fresli-nieat soup, wliich eoutriluitt'd. no doubt, to my comparative imnuunty froin S'urvy. I had only one competitoi- in tlie dispen- sation of ih.\s ent re met — or, rather, one coni[)an- ion — for there was an abundance for both. It was a fox. AVe caught and domesticated him late in the winter ; but the scantiness of our resources, and of course his own, soon instructed him in all the antipathies of a terrier. He had only one fault as a rat-catcher ; he would never catch a second until he had eaten tiie first. — Arctic Explorations, Vol. I., Chap. XIX.
A SEAL IN TIME.
Things grew worse and worse with us. The old difficulty of breathing came back again, and our feet swelled to such an extent that we were obliged to cut open our canvas boots. But the symptom which gave me most uneasiness was our inability to sleep. A form of low fever which hung by us when at work had been kept down b}' the thoroughness of our daily rest. All my hopes of escape were in the refreshing influ- ences of the halts. It must be remembered that we were now in the open bay, in the full line of the great ice-drift to the Atlantic, and in boats so frail and unseaworthy as to require constant bailing to keep them afloat.
It was at this crisis of our fortunes that we saw a large seal floating — as is the custom of these animals — on a small patch of ice, and seemingly asleep. It was an iissitk, and so large tiiat I at first mistook it for a walrus. Signal was made for the ffope to follow astern ; and, trembling with anxiety, we prepared to crawl down upon him. Petersen, with the large Englisli rifle, was stationed in the bow, and stockings were drawn over the oars as mufllers. As we nearcd the animal, our excitement be- came so intense that the men could hardly keep stroke. I had a set of signals for such occa- sions, wliich spared us the noi.se of the voice ; 29
ELISHA KENT KANE.— 13
and when about three hundred yards off, the oars were taken in, and we moved on in deep silence with a single scull astern.
He was not asleep, for he reared liis head when we were almost within rifle-shot, and to this day I can remember the hard, careworn, almost despairing expression of the men's tliin faces as tliey saw him move. Their lives de- pended on his capture. I depressed my hand nervously as a signal for Petersen to fire. McGarry hung upon his oar, and the boat, slowly but noiselessly sagging ahead, seemed to me within certain range. Looking at Petersen, I saw that the poor fellow was paralyzed by his anxiety, trying vainly to obtain a rest for the gun against the cutwater of the boat. The seal rose on his fore-flippers, gazed at us for a moment with frightened curiosity, and coiled himself for a plunge. At tliat instant, simulta- neously with the crack of our rifle, he relaxed his long length on the ice, and at the very brink of the water his head fell helpless to one side. I would have ordered another shot, but no disci- pline could have controlled the men. With a wild yell, each vociferating according to his own impulse, tliey urged both boats upon the floe. A crowd of hands seized the seal and bore him up to safer ice.
The men seemed half-crazy. 1 had not real- ized how much we were reduced by actual fam- ine, _They ran over the floe, crying and laugh- ing, and brandishing their knives. It was not five minutes before every man was sucking his bloody fingers or mouthing long strips of raw blubber. Not an ounce of this seal was lost. The intes- tines found their way into the soup-kettles with- out any observance of the preliminary home- processes. The cartilaginous parts of the fore- flippers were cut off in the melee^ and passed around to be chewed upon ; and even the liver, warm and raw as it was, bade fair of be eaten before it had seen the pot. That night, on the 30
ELISHA KENT KANE.— 14
large halting floe, to which, in contempt of the damages of drifting, we had hauled our hoats, two entire planks of the Red Eric were devoted to a grand cooking fire, and we enjoyed a rare and savage feast.
This was our last experience of the disagree- able effects of hunger. In the words of George Stephenson, "-the charm was broken, and tlie dogs were safe." The dogs I have said little about, for none of us liked to think of them. The poor creatures, Toodla and Whitey, had been taken with us as last resources against starvation. They were, as McGarry worded it, "Meat on the hoof," and "able to carry their own fat over the floes." Once, near Weary Man's Rest, I had been on the point of killing them ; but they had been the leaders of our winter's team, and we could not bear the sacri- fice. I need not detail our journey further. Within a day or two we shot another seal, and from that time forward had a full supply of food.
On the first of August we sighted the Devil's Thumb, and were again among the familiar lo- calities of the whalers' battling-ground. The bay was quite open, and we had been making casting for two days before. We were soon among the Duck Islands, and passing to the south of Cape Shackleton, prepared to land. '■'■Terra firma ! Terra fir ma ! " How very pleasant it was to look upon, and with what a tingle of excited thankfulness we drew near it! A little time to seek a cove among the wrinkled hills, a little time to excliange congratnlations. and then our battered boats were hauled high and dry upon the rocks, and our party, with liearts full of our
deliverance, lay down to rest Arctic Explora
tions, Vol. II., Chap. XXIX. 31
IMMANUEL KANT.— 1
KANT, Immanuel, a German philoso- pher, born at Konigsberg in 1724; died there in 1804. His fathei'. who was of Scottish de- scent, was a saddler by trade. In 1740 he entered the University of Konigsberg as a student of theology, but his first attempts at preaching were so unpromising that he gave up the idea of becoming a clergyman, and devoted himself to the study of mathe- matics and the physical sciences. In 1755, having been for about ten years a tutor in private families, he became an academical instructor, his inaugural theses being On Fire^ and on the First Principles oj Meta- physical Science. He delivered regular courses upon Physical Geography, Anthro- pology, Pedagogy, Natural Law, and the Philosophy of Religion, Ethics, Logic, and Mathematics. In 1764 he declined an of- fer of the professorship of Poetry; but in 1770 (after having declined similar profes- sorships at Jena and Erlangen) he accepted the position of Professor of Logic and Met- aphysics at Konigsberg, with a salary of $300 a year. His inaugural dissertation, De Mundi SensibiUs Atqxie Intelliyibilis Forma et PriTicijnis, contains the germs of the metaphysical system which he slowly elaborated. But his great work, the Kritik der reinen Vernunft (" Criticism of the Pure Eeason"), upon which he had been em- ployed for eleven years, did not appear un- til 1781, when he had reached the age of fifty-seven.
From this time until near the close of his life his literary activity was remarka- ble. The following are the titles of his principal works: Prolegomena to Every future System of Metaphysics claiming to
32
IMMANUEL KAXT— 2
he a Science (1783), Foundation of the Mela- physics of Ethics (1785), Metaphysical Ele- ments of Natural Science (1786), a second edition, somewhat altered, of the Criticism, of the Pure Reason (1787), Criticism of the Practical Reason (1788), Religion within the Bounds of mere Reason, a work wliich ulti- mately led to his withdrawal from the Uni- versity (1788), Metaphysical Elements of Law and Metaphysical Elements of Virtue (1797), The Strife of the Faculties, and An- thropolo(/y in a Pragmatic Point of View (1798.) '
It would be impossible in this place to attempt to set fortli the metaphysical sys- tem of Kant, or to enumerate tlie whole library of works to which it has given rise in German, French, Italian, and English. The following extracts from Kant's works are in the translation of Frederick H. Hedge : —
THE JUDGMENT AND THE UNDERSTANDING.
Judgment is the faculty of conceiving the Particular as contained in the Universal. When tlie Universal (the Rule, the Principle, the Law) is given, Judgment, which subordinates the Par- ticular to it, is determinative. But where the Particular is given, for which the Universal is to be sought, it is merely reflective.
The determinative Judgment lias only to sub- ordinate particulars to the general transcen- dental laws furnished by the understanding; law is given a priori. But so manifold are the forms in Nature, the modifications, as it were, of the general transcendental principles of Nature left undetermined by the laws furnished a priori by the pure Understanding (since these apply only to the possibility of Nature in gen- eral, as perceptible by the senses), that there must exist for them hiws wliich indeed, as empir-
3 33
IMMANUEL KANT.-3
ical, may be accidental to the view of our Under- standing, but which, if they are to have the name of Laws (as the idea of Nature demands) must be considered as necessary, and as proceed- ing from a principle of unity among the mani- fold Particulars.
The reflective Judgment, whose province it is to ascend from the Particular in Nature to the Universal, is therefore in need of a principle — and this it cannot derive from Experience, since its very aim is to establish the unity of all em- pirical principles under principles higher — though likewise empirical — and this is to establish the possibility of a systematic subordinatioii among them. Such a transcendental principle the re- flective Judgment must therefore give to itself, and cannot take it from anything else (since it would then be determinative) ; nor yet impose it upon Nature, since all study of the laws of Na- ture must conform to Nature, as something inde- 'ft pendent of the conditions of reflection. ^
Now, as the general laM's of Nature have ^ their foundation in the Understanding, the prin- % ciple in question can be none other than this, ^j that the particular empirical laws (as far as tliey are left indeterminate by general laws) are to be considered as so connected togethei- as if Nature had been subjected to these also, by an Under- standing (though not by ours), so as to render possible a System of P^xperience according to particular natural laws. Not as if such an Un- derstanding must actually be postulated (for it is only the rejiective and not the determinative Judg- ment tliat requires this idea as its principle), but the reflective faculty prescribes it as a law for itself, and not for nature.
OF THE IDEAL OF BEAUTY.
As to Taste, there are no objective rules to determine what is beautiful. For all judgment from these sources is aesthetic — that is, subjec- tive— feeling, and not a conception of any object that determines it. To seek a Principle of
34
IMMANUEL KANT.— 4
Taste, which should give indefinite conceptions of a universal criterion of the Beautiful, is a fruitless endeavor, since what is sought is impos- sible and self-contradictory.
That this feeling (of pleasure or displeasure) shall be capable of being generally communicated — and this without any conception of the nature of the object; and the general approxinuiie agreement of all nations in relation to this feel- ing as to certain objects, is the empirical though obscure criterion of Taste, scarcely reaching to conjecture which, as so many examples show us, has a deep hidden foundation in the common nature of man, in the common princi- ples of judgment as to the forms under which objects are presented to us.
Hence some products of Taste are considered as models ; not as if Taste could be acquired by imitation — for Taste must be a faculty of the in- dividual ; but he who copies a model shows him- self expert, as far as he copies correctly ; but Taste involves the power of judging of the model itself. From this it follows that the highest model — the prototy[)e of Taste — can only be an Idea, which everyone must awaken in himself.
An Idea is properly a conception of Reason. An Meal is the image of something adequate to the Idea. Eacli such prototype of Taste rests upon the vague idea of a " maximum of Beauty ; " V)ut can be reached only by representation, and not by conceptions. It is tlierefore more prop- erly an " Ideal," than an " Idea " of Beauty ; and this, though we may not possess it, yet we strive to produce within ourselves. But since it de[)ends- upon representation, and not upon conception, it is an Ideal of the Imagination only — the Imagination being the faculty of Re- presentation. Now, how do we arrive at this Ideal of Beauty — a priori or by experience? and also, what kind of Beauty is capable of an Ideal ?
Man, as a being having the end of his exist-
35
IMMANUEL KANT.— 5
ence within himself, and able to determine its aims l)y means of Reason — or, where he is obliged to take them from the outward world, yet able to compare them with fundamental and universal aims, and to form an aesthetic judgment from I'omparison — Man alone can present an Ideal of Beauty; in like manner as Humanity alone, among all earthly things, can afford an Ideal of perfection in him as Intelligence. The ideal of the huxnan form consists in the expres- sion of the moral nature, without which it can- not atford a universal and positive pleasui'e, as distinguished from the merely negative satisfac- tion of an academically correct representation.
The correctness of such an Ideal of Beauty is tested ill this : that it permits no intermixture of sensuous satisfaction with the pleasure de- rived Irom the object, and yet excites a strong interest in it.
The Understanding alone gives the law. But if the Imagination is compelled to proceed ac- cording to a definite laAv, the product -will be determined as to its Form according to certain conceptions of the perfection of the thing ; and in this case the pleasure will not be owing to Beauty, but to Goodness (to Perfection, though mere formal Perfection), and the judgment will be no a-sthetic judgment. It is thus a normal regularity without law ; a subjective harmony of the Imagination and the Understanding, without any objective harmony (wherein the Notion is referred to a previous conception of the object); and it is thus alone that the free- dom and the regularity of the Understanding can co-exist with the peculiar nature of an testhetic judgment.
36
KARAMZIN.— 1
KARA MZ IN, Nikolai Mikhailovitch, a Russian historian and poet, born in 1765, died in 1826. After studying at Moscow and St. Petersburg, and visiting Central and Western Europe, he published his Letters of a Russian Traveller^ first (1791-2) in the Moscoiv Journal^ which he, edited then in six volumes (1797-1801). Sundry tales followed, as Poor Liza^ Natalia the Boyar^s Daughter^ and Marfa the Posadnitza of Novgorod^ which are still popular in Rus- sia. He pulished two miscellanies, Aylaia (179-1-5), The Aonides (1797), compiled from foreign authors The Pantheon (1798), and edited The European Messenger (1822- 1828). My Trifles is a collection of his lighter pieces. Appointed historiographer by the Czar in 1803, he gave himself up to study and lived in retirement. In 1816 he removed to St. Petersburg, where lie en- joyed the favor of Alexander I., who was interested in the progress of his history. He lived to carry it to the eleventh volume, A.D. 1813. It began to appear 1818, and met witli immediate success. Karamzin glorifies the rough Russian annals, and his sentiments are so conservative that the book has been called the " epic of despot- ism." It has been translated into French, modern Greek, and other languages, but not into English. As a novelist Karamzin was of the sentimental school then everywhere prevalent; as a lyric poet he is rather graceful than eminent. He was the introducer of reviews and essays in Russia.
SONG OP THE GOOD TZAR.
Russia had a noble Tzar, Sovereign honored wide and far ; 37
KAKAMZIN.— 2
He a father's love enjoyed. He a father's power employed.
And he sought his children's bliss. And their happiness was his ; Left for them his golden halls, Left for them his palace walls.
He, a wanderer for them,
Left his royal diadem ;
Staff and knapsack all his" treasure,
Toil and danger all his pleasure.
Wherefore hath he journeyed forth From his glorious, sceptred North? Flying pride, and pomp, and poiir ; Suffering heat, and cold, and shower.
Why? because this noble king Light and truth and bliss might bring, Spread intelligence, and power Knowledge out on Russia's shore.
He would guide by wisdom's ray AH his subjects in their way. And while beams of glory giving, Teach them all the arts of living.
Oh, thou noble King and Tzar ! Earth ne'er saw so bright a star. Tell me, have ye ever found Such a prince the world around ?
EPIGRAM.
He managed to live a long life through. If breathing be living ; — but where he was bound, And why he was born, not asked nor knew, — Oh, why was he here to cumber the ground?
AUTUMN.
The dry leaves are falling;
The cold breeze above Has stript of it glories
The sorrowing grove. 38
KARAMZIN.— 3
The hills are all weeping,
The Held is a waste, The songs of the forest
Are silent and past ;
And the songsters are vanished,
In armies they fly To a clime more benignant,
A friendlier sky.
The thick mists are veiling
The valley in white ; With the smoke of the village
They blend in their flight.
And lo ! on the mountain
The wanderer stands, And sees the pale Autumn
Pervading the lands.
Thou soiTowful wanderer,
Sigh not, nor weep ; For Nature, though shrouded,
Will wake from her sleep.
The Spring, proudly smiling, Shall all things revive,
And guy bridal garments Of splendor shall give.
But man's chilling Winter
Is darksome and dim. For no second Springtime
E'er dawns upon him.
The gloom of his coming TiuKi dissipates never ;
His sun when departed Is vanished forever.
KARAMZIN.— 4
THE GRAVE.
First Voice.
How frightful the grave ! how deserted and
drear ! With the howls of the storm-wind, the creaks of
the bier, And the white bones all clattering together !
Second Voice.
How peaceful the grave ! its quiet how deep ! Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep, And flowrets perfumed it with ether.
First Voice.
There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead, And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed, And snakes in its nettle weeds hiss.
Second Voice.
How lovely, how sweet the repose of the tomb ! No tempests are there: — but the nightingales come And sing their sweet chorus of bliss.
First Voice.
The ravens of nightPflap their wings o'er the
grave : 'Tis the vulture's abode, 'tis the wolf's dreary
cave. Where they tear up the earth with their
fangs.
Second Voice.
There the coney at evening disports with his
love. Or rests on the sod, while the turtles above Repose on the bough that o'erhangs.
40
KARAMZIN.— 5
First Voice.
There darkness and dampness with poisonous
breath And loathsome decay till the dwelling of death ; The trees are all barren and bare !
Second Voice.
O soft are the breezes that play round the tomb, And sweet with the violet's wafted perfume, With lilies and jessamines fair.
First Voice.
The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and fears He is launched on the wreck-covered river.
Secotid Voice.
The traveller outworn with life's pilgrimage
dreary Lays down his rude staff', like one that is weary.
And sweetly reposes for ever.
Transl. of John Bowring.
41
JOHN KEATS.— 1
KEATS, John, an English poet, born at London in 1795 ; died at Rome in 1821. His lather, the proprietor of a livery stable, died when this son was nine years of age, leaving a moderate competence to his family. Tlie lad and his two brothers were sent to a good school at Edmonton, kept by the father of Charles Cowden Clarke. At fif- teen he was removed from school, and ap- prenticed to a surgeon. He carried with him from school a little Latin, and appar- ently no Greek— a somewhat notable cir- cumstance when taken in connection with the fact, that his principal poems are im- bued with the spirit of Grecian poesy. At the conclusion of his apprenticeship he went back to London to " walk the hos- pitals ; " that is, to study surgery in a prac- tical way. The profession was not suited to him, nor he for it. He had in the mean- time become acquainted with Leigh Hunt, Hazlitt. Godwin, and other men of letters, and resolved to make literature his vocation. His first volume of poems, published in 1817, contained the Epistles^ which a])pear in his collected Works. The poem, Endy- mion^ published in 1818, was sharply criti- cized in Blachiaood and the Quarterly Re- view. A pulmonary disease set in, which was aggravated by private difficulties, and in 1820 he set out for Italy, to try the effects of a warmer climate. Before leaving Eng- land he put forth a volume of poems which contained the fragmentary poem Hyperion^ Lamia, Tlie Eve of St. Agnes^ Isabella, and several of the best of his smaller poems. He lingered for a while at Naples and at Rome, where he died. A few days before his death, he said that he " felt the daisies
42
JOHN KEATS.— 2
srowiuii" over him." He was buried in the Protestant Cemetery at Rome, and upon liis tombstone was carved the inscription, dic- tated by himself: "Here lies one whose name was writ in water." The Life of Keats has been written by several persons, notably by Richard Monckton Milnes,aftei-- wards Lord Houghton (1848), and lastly by Sidney Colvin (1887.)
BEAUTY.
A thing of Beauty is a joy forever :
Its loveliness increases ; it will never
Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health and quiet
bieathing. Therefore, on every morrow are we wreathing A tiowery band to bind us to the earth, Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days. Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways Made for our searching : yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, Trees, old and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils, With the green world they live in ; and the
clear rills That for themselves a cooling covert make 'Gainst tiie hot season ; the mid-forest brake. Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms; And such too is the gi'andeur of the dooms We liave imagined for the mighty dead ; All lovely tales that we have heard or read : An endless fountain of immortal drink, Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
Eiidyudon.
HYMN TO PAN.
O liearkener to the loud-dapping shears, While evt'r and anon to his shorn peers
JOHN KEATS.— 3
A nun goes bleating: winder of the horn, When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn Anger our huntsmen : breather round our farms, To keep off mildews and all weather-harms : Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds. That come a-swooniug over hollow grounds. And wither drearily on barren moors : Dread opener of the mysterious doors Leading to universal knowledge — see, Great son of Dryope,
The many that are come to pay their vows, With leaves about their brows.
JEndymion.
SATURN.
Deep in the shady saidness of a vale,
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn.
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star,
Sat gray-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone.
Still as the silence round about his lair.
Forest on forest hung about his head
Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there ;
Not so much life as on a summer's day
Robs not on€ light seed from the feathered grass,
But whei'e the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more
By reason of his fallen divinity,
Spreading a shade. The Naiad 'mid her reeds
Pressed her cold finger closer to her lips.
Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went, No further than to where his feet had strayed. And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, Unsceptred ; and his realmless eyes were closed ; While his bowed head seemed listening to the
Earth, His ancient mother, for some comfort yet.
It seemed no force could wake him from his place ; But there came one wlio, with a kindred hand. Touched his wide shoulders, after bending low With reverence, though to one who knew it not.
44
JOHN KEATri.— 4
She \v:is ;i goddess of the infant world ;
By hei- in stiituie the tall Amazon
Had stood a pigmy's height ; she would have
ta'en Achilles by the hair and bent his neck ; Or with a finger stayed Ixion's wheel. Her face was large as that of Memphian Sphinx, Pedestaled haply in a palace court, When sages looked to Egypt for their lore. But oh ! how unlike marble was that face ; How beaut ifiU, if Sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self. There was a listening fear in her regard, As if calamity had but begun ; As if the vanward clouds of evil days Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear "Was with its stored thunder laboring up. One hand she pressed upon that aching spot Where beats tlie humun heart, as if just there, Tliough an immortal, she felt cruel pain ; The other upon Saturn's bended neck She laid, and to the level of his ear Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake In solemn tenor and deep organ tone : Some mourning words, which in our feeble
tongue Would come in these-like accents ; O how frail To tUiit large utterance of the early gods !
Hyperion, Book I.
OCEANUS.
So ended Saturn ; and the God of the Sea,
Sophist and sage, from no Athenian grove.
But cogitation in his watery shades.
Arose, with locks not oozy, and began.
In murmurs, which his first endeavoring tongue
Caugiit infant-like from the far-foamed sands :
" O ye, whom wrath consumes ! who passion- stung, Writhe at defeat, and nurse your agonies ! Shut up your senses, stifle up your ears, My voice is not a bellows unto ire.
^ 45
JOHN KEATS.-f)
Yet listen, ye who will, whilst I bring proof How ye, perforce, must be content to stoop; And in the proof much comfort will I give, If ye will take that comfort in its truth. AVe fall by course of Nature's law not force Of thunder nor of Jove. Great Saturn, thou Hast sifted well the atom-universe ; But for this reason that thou art the King, And only blind from sheer supremacy : One avenue was shaded from thine eyes Through which I wandered to eternal truth. And tirst, as thou wast not the first of powers, So art thou not the last ; it cannot be. Thou art not the beginning nor the end.
" From Chaos and parental Darkness came Light, the first fruits of that intestine broil, That sullen ferment, which for wondrous ends Was ripening in itself. The ripe hour came. And with it Light ; and Light, engendering Upon its own producer, forthwith touched The whole enormous matter into life. Upon that very hour, our parentage, The Heavens and tlie Earth, were manifest : Then thou first-born, and we the giant race. Found ourselves ruling new and beauteous realms. " Now comes the pain of truth, to whom 'tis pain ; O folly ! for to bear all naked truths. And to envisage circumstance, all calm. That is the top of sovereignty. Mark well! As Heaven and Earth are fairer, fairer far Than Chaos and blank Darkness, though once
chiefs ; And as we show beyond that Heaven and
Earth, Li form and shape compact and beautiful. In will, in action free, companionship. And thousand other signs of purer life ; So on our heels a fresh perfection treads, A power more strong in beiiuty, born of us, And fated to excel us, as we pass 46
JOHN KEATS.— 6
111 lilory tliat old Darkness: nor are we "More conquered than by us the rule Ot" shapeless Chaos.
'' Say, doth the dull soil Quarrel with the proud forests it hath fed, And feedeth still, more comely than itself? Can it deny the chiefdom of green groves ? Or shall the tree be envious of the dove Because it cooeth, and hath snowy wings To wander wherewithal and find its joys? — We are such forest-trees, and our fair boughs Have bred forth, not pale solitary doves, But eagles, golden-feathered, who do tower Above us in their beauty, and must reign In riglit thereof; for 'tis the eternal law Tiiat first in beauty should be first in might. Yea. by that law, another race may drive Our conquerors to mourn as we do now.
" Have ye beheld the young God of the Seas, My dispossessor ? Have ye seen his face ? Have ye beheld his chariot, foamed along By noble-winged creatures he hath made? I saw him on tlie calmed waters scud. With such a glow of beauty in his eyes. That it enforced me to bid sad fiirewell To all my empire. Farewell sad I took. And hither came to see how dolorous fate Had wrought upon ye ; and how I might best Give consolation in this woe extreme. Receive the truth, and let it be your balm."
Hyperion, Book II.
ODE TO A GRECIAN URN.
Thou still unravished bride of quietness !
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A rtowery tale more sweetly than our rhynu : What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both.
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these ? What maidens loth ?
47
JOHN KEATS.— 7
What nijul pursuit? What struggle to escape ? What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ec- stacy ?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : Fair Youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Tliy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss Though winning near the goal — yet do not grieve ; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair !
Ah, happy boughs ! that cannot shed
Your leaves or ever bid the Spring adieu ; And happy melodist, unwearied.
Forever piping songs forever new ; More happy love ! More happy, happy love ! Forever warm and still to be enjoyed. Forever panting, and forever young ; All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed, A burning forehead and a parching tongue.
Who are those coming to the sacrifice ?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heif^' lowing at the skies. And all her silken flanks with garlands drest ? What little town by river or sea-shore, Or mountain-built, with peaceful citadel. Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be, and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 4»
JOHN KEATS.— 8
O Attic sliape ! Fair attitude ! with brede
Of marble men and maidens over-wroiiglit, With forest branches and the trodden weed ;
Thou silent form ! dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity. Cold pastoral !
When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou
say'st : " Beauty is truth, truth beauty — that is all
Ye know ou earth, and all ye need to know."
ON FIRST READING CHAPMAN'S HOMER.
Much have I traveled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ;
Round many Western Islands have I been. Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
Tliat deep-browed Homer ruled as his de- mesne :
Yet never did I breathe its pure serene Till I heard Cliapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken ;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific — and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise — Silent, upon a peak of Darien.
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-ward had sunk; 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot. But being too happy in thy happiness
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees. In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless. Singest of Summer in full-throated ease.
4 49
JOHN KEATS.— 9
) for a draught of vintage, that hatli been
Cooh'd a long time in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Floi-a and the country-green.
Dance, and Provenyal song, and sun-burnt mirth ! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful hippocrene. With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth ; That I might drink, and leave the world un- seen, And with thee fade away into the forest- dim :
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves bast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, Avhere men sit and hear each other groan ; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies ; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs ; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes. Or new Love pine at them beyond to-moi-- row.
Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards. But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : Already with thee! tender is the night.
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne. Clustered around l)y all her starry Fays ; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
.50
JOHN KEATS.— 10
I cauiiot see wliat flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the bouglis, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves ; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer
Darkling I listen, and for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called iiim soft names in many a mused rhyme
To take into the air my quiet breath ; Now more than ever seems it rich to die. To cease upon the midnight with no pain. While thou ail pouring forth thy soul abroad.
In sucli an ecstacy ! — Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain ! — To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird !
No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown : Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien coi-n ; The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do — deceivintr elf.
51
JOHN KEATS— 11
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is the music: — do I wake or sleep?
A FAIRY SONG.
Shed no tear ! Oh, shed no tear ! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more! Oh, weep no more! Young birds sleep in the root's white core. Dry your eyes! Oh, dry your eyes! For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies —
Shed no tear.
Overhead ! look overhead ! 'Mong the blossoms white and red — Look up, look up. I flutter now On this flush pomegranate bough. See me ! 'tis this silvery bill Ever cures the good man's ill. Shed no tear ! Oh, shed no tear ! The flower will liloom another year. Adieu, adieu — I fly, adieu, 1 vanish in the heaven's blue —
Adieu, adieu !
ODE TO AUTUMN.
Season of mists, and mellow fruitfulness !
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that lound the thatch- eaves run ; To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel- shells With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has o'er brinnned their clMmniy cells.
52
JOHN KEATS.— 12
Who hath not seen thee oft within thy store ? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor.
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed \\nth the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers ; And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy'laden head across a brook ; Or by a cider-press, with patient-look, * Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
"Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they ? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day.
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft.
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
BAUDS OF PASSION AND OF MIRTH.
Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth ! Have ye souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new ? Yes, and those of heaven commune With the spheres of sun and moon ; With the noise of fountains wondrous, AVith the parle of voices thundero.us : With tlie whisper of heaven's trees, And one another, in soft ease Seated on Elysian lawns Browsed by none but Dian's fawns ; Ihideriu'atli large bluf-bells tented,
JOHN KEATS— 13
Where the daises are rose-scented, And tlie rose lierself has got Pert'ume which on earth is not ; Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless tranced thing, But divine melodious truth, Pliilosophic numbers smooth, Tales and golden histories Of heaven and its mysteries.
Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again ; And the souls ye left behind. you Teach us here the way to find you, *
Where your other souls are joying, Never slumbered, never cloying. Here, your earth-born souls still speak . To mortals of their little week ; Of their sorrows and delights ; Of tlieir passions and their spites ; Of their glory and their shame, What doth strengthen and what maim : Thus ye teach us, every day, Wisdom, though fled far away.
Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth ! Ye have souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new.
THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET.
The poetry of earth is never dead :
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown
mead : That is the Grasshopper's he takes the lead In summer luxury — he has never done With his delights ; for, when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never : On a lone winter evening when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
64
JOHN KEATS.— 15
The Cricket's song, in warmtli increasing ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half lost The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
THE HUMAN SEASONS.
Four seasons fill the measure of the year ;
There are four seasons in the mind of man : lie has his lusty Spring, when iiancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span : lie has liis Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honeyed cud of youthful tliought he loves To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close ; contented so to look On mists in idleness — to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
SONNET WRITTEN IN JANUARY, 1818.
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain, Before high ])iled books, in cliaractery,
Hold like full garners the full-ripened grain ; Wlien I l)ehold upon the night's starred face
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance And feel that I may never live to trace
Their sliadows, with the magic hand of chance ; And when 1 feel, fair creature of an hour !
That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love ! — then on the shore Of the wide world, I stand alone, and think Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN.
Souls of poets dead and gone, Wliat Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern. Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
55
JOHN KEATS.— 15
Have yc tippled drink more fine Tluin mine liost's Canary wine? Or are the IVnits of Pai-adise Sweeter tlian tliese dainty pies Of venison ? O generous food ! Drest as though bold Robin Hood Would, with his maid Marian Sup and bowse from horn and can.
Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy tield or mossy cavern. Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ?
KEATS'S LAST SONNET.
Brit^ht star! would I were steadfast as thoi\ art —
Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lips apart,
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, The moving w^aters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors — No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable.
Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fiill and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest ; Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath And so live ever — or else swoon to death. 56
JOHN KEBLE.— 1
KEBLE, John, an English clergyman and poet, born in 1792 ; died in 1866. He took his degree at Oriel College, Oxfoixl, in 1810, receiving a "double first" in classics and mathematics, a distinction which had never been gained before except by Robert Peel, in 1808. He was ordained in 1815, and in 1823 resigned all his Oxford employ- ments and accepted three small curacies, the united emoluments of which were less than £100 a year. In 1824 he declined an archdeanery in the West Indies, worth £2,000 a year; and in 1825 accepted tlie curacy of Hursley, becoming Vicar of the parish in 1839. In 1832 he was made Pro- fessor of Poetry at Oxford, holding that po- sition for two terms of five years each, with an interval between them. His Prseltct tones Academica, in Latin, were published in 1832-40. His sermon, "The National Apostacy," preached by appointment at Oxford in 1833, is characterized by Dr. Xewman "the start of tlie religious move- ment " of that time. He was also the author of several of the famous " Tracts for the Times." He edited and annotated The Complete Work of Richard Hooker (4 vols., 1836); and in 1838, in conjunction with Newman and Pusey, began the editing of the Library of the Fathers^ a collection extending to some forty volumes. His poetical works, upon which his reputation mainly rests, comprise : The Christian Year (1827, 100th edition, 1865), The GhiMs Christian Year (4th edition, 1841), T}ie Psalter^ in Emjlish Verse (1839), Ljjra Innocentinm (1846), and a volume of Post- liuraous Poems. The Life of Keble lias been written Chief Justice Sir John Taylor Coleridge (1868.)
57
JOHN KEBLE.— 2
THIRD SUNDAY IN LENT.
{The Christian Inheritance.)
See Lucifer like lightning fall.
Dashed from his throne of pride ; While, answering Thy victorious call, The Saints his spoils divide ; This world of Thine, by him usurped too long, Now opening all her stores to heal Thy servants' wrong.
So when the first-born of Thy foes
Dead in the darkness lay, When Thy redeemed at midnight rose And cast their bonds away, The orphaned realm threw wide her gates, and
told Into freed Israel's lap her jewels and her gold.
And when their wondrous march was o'er,
And they had won their homes, Wiiere Abraham fed his flocks of yore, Among their fathers' tombs ; — A land that drinks the rain of Heaven at will. Whose waters kiss the feet of many a vine-clad hill ;—
Oft as they watched, at thoughtful eve,
A gale from bowers of balm Sweeps o'er the billowy corn, and heave The tresses of the palm, Just as the lingering Sun had touched with gold, Far o'er the cedar shade, some tower of giants old.
It was a fearful joy, I ween.
To trace the Heathen's toil The limpid wells, the orchards green. Left ready for the spoil. The liousehold stores untouched, the roses bright Wreathed o'er the cottage walls in garlands of
delight.
58
JOHN KEBLE.— 3
And now another Canaan yields
To Thine all-conquering Ark ; — Fly from the " old poetic" fields, Ye Paynim shadows dark ! Immortal Greece, dear land of glorious lays, Lo ! here the " unknown God " of thy uncon- scious praise!
The olive-wreath, the ivied wand, '' The sword in myrtles drest," Each legend of the shadowy strand Now wakes a vision blest ; As little children lisp, and tell of Heaven, So thoughts beyond their thought to those high bards were given.
And these are ours : Thy partial grace
The tempting treasure lends : These relics of a guilty raq^ Are forfeit to Thy friends ; What seemed an idol hymn now breathes of
Thee, Tuned by Faith's ear to some celestial melody.
There's not a strain to Memory dear,
Nor flower in classic grove, Tliere's not a sweet note warbled here, But minds us of Thy love ; O Lord, our Lord, and spoiler of our foes. There is no light but Thine ; with Thee all beauty glows.
The Cliristian Tear.
SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EASTER. {Balaam'' 8 Propheq/.) O for a sculptor's hand. That thou might'st take thy stand, Thy wild liair floating on the eastern breeze. Thy tranced yet open gaze Fixed on the desert haze. As one who deep in heaven some airy pageant sees.
59
JOHN KEBLE.— 4
In outline dim and vast
Tiieir fearful shadows cast The giant forms of empires on their way
To ruin : one by one
They tower, and they are gone, Yet in the Prophet's soul the dreams of avarice stay.
No sun or star so bright, In all the world of light, That they should draw to Heaven his downward eye: He hears the Almighty's word, He sees the angel's sword. Yet low upon the earth his heart and treasures lie.
Lo ! from yon argent field,
To liim and us revealed, One gentle Star glMes down, on earth to dwell :
Chained as they are below.
Our eyes may see it glow. And as it mounts again, may track its brightness well.
To him it glared afar,
A token of wild war, The banner of his Lord's victorious wrath :
But close to us it gleams.
Its soothing lustre streams Around our home's green walls, and on our church-way path.
We in the tents abide
Which he at distance eyed, Like distant cedars by the waters spread ;
While seven red altar-fires
Rose up in wavy spires, Where on the mount he watches his sorceries dark and dread.
He watched till morning's ray On lake and meadow lay, 60
JOHN KEBLE.— 5
And willow-shaded streams, that silent sweep
Around the bannered lines,
Where by their several signs The desert-wearied tribes in sight of Canaan sleep.
He watched till knowledge came
Upon his soul like flame, Not of those magic fires at random caught :
But true Prophetic light
Flashed o'er him, high and bright, Flashed once, and died away, and left his dark- ened thought.
And can he choose but fear, Wiio feels his God so near. That when he fain would curse, his powerless tongue In blessing only moves ?—~^ Alas I the world he loves Too close around his heart her tangling veil hath flung.
Sceptre and Star divine. Who in Thine inmost shrine Hast made us worshippers, O claim Thine own ; More than Thy seers we know : — O teach our love to grow Up to Thy heavenly light, and reap what Thuo hast sown.
77*6 Christian Tear.
KIKTEENTH SUXDAY AFTER TRINITY. {2Vie Lilies of the Field.) Sweet imrslings of the vernal skies,
Hathed in soft airs, and fed with dew, What more than magic in you lies.
To fill the heart's fond view? In cliildhood's sports companions gay, In sorrow, on life's downward way, How soothing; in our last decay Memorials piomj)t and true. 61
JOHN KEBLE.— 6
Relics ye are of Eden's bowers, As pure, as fragrant, and as fair,
As when ye crowned the sunshine hours Of happy wanderer there.
Fallen all beside the world of life.
How is it stained with fear and strife !
In Reason's world what storms are rife, What passions range and glare !
But cheerful and unchanged the while, Your first and perfect form ye show,
The same that won Eve's matron smile In the world's opening glow.
The stars of heaven a course are taught
Too high above our human thought ;
Ye may be found if ye are sought. And as we gaze, we know.
Ye dwell beside our paths and homes. Our paths of sin our homes of sorrow ;
And guilty man, where'er he roams. Your innocent mirth may borrow.
The birds of the air before us fleet,
They cannot brook our shame to meet ;
But we may taste our solace sweet, And come again to-morrow.
Ye fearless in your nests abide ; Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise, Your silent lessons, undescried
By all but lowly eyes : For ye could draw the admiring gaze Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys Your order wild, your fragrant maze,
He taught us how to prize.
Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour.
As when He paused and owned you good ; His blessing on earth's primal bower.
Ye felt it all renewed. What care ye now if winter's storm Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form ? — Christ's blessing at your heart is warm. Ye fear no vexing mood. 62
JOHN KEBLE.— 7
Ala^ ! of thousand blossoms kind,
That daily court you and caress, How few the happy secret find
Of your calm loveliness ! Live for to-day ! to-morrow's light To-morrow's cares shall bring to siglit, Go sleep like closing flowers at night,
And Heaven thy morn will bless.
The Christian Tear.
ALL saints' day.
Why blowest thou not, thou wintry wind,
Now every leaf is brown and sere. And idly droops, to thee resigned, ^ The fading chaplet of the year? Yet wears the pure aerial sky The summer veil, half drawn on high, Of silvery haze, and dark and still," The shadows sleep on every slanting hill.
How quiet shows the woodland scene !
Each flower and tree, its duty done. Reposing in decay serene.
Like weary men w^hen age is won : Such calm old age, as conscience pure And self-commanding liearts ensure, Waiting their summons to the sky. Content to live, but not afraid to die.
Sui-e, if our eyes were purged to trace God's unseen armies hovering round,
We should behold, by jingels' grace.
The four strong winds of heaven fast bound ;
Their downward sweep a moment stayed.
On ocean cove and forest glade.
Till the last flower of autumn shed
Her funeral odors on her dying bed.
So ill Thine awful armory, Lord, ^ The lightnings of tlie Judgment day Pause yet awhile, in mercy stored. Till willing hearts wear (juile away
C'i
JOHN KEBLE.— 8
Their earthly stains ; and spotless shine
On every brow in light divine.
The cross, by angel hands imprest,
Tlie seal of glory won, and pledge of promised
rest.
Little they dream, those haughty souls
Whom empires own with bended knee, Wliut lowly fate their own controls.
Together linked by Heaven's decree: — As bloodhounds hush their hayings wild To wanton with some fearless child, So Famine waits, and War with greedy eyes. Till some repenting heart be ready for the skies.
Think ye the spires that glow so bright
In front of yonder setting sun. Stand by their own unshaken might?
No. — Wliere the upholding grace is won, We dare not ask, nor Heaven would tell ; But sure from many a hidden dell. From many a rural nook unthought of there. Rises for that proud world the Saints' prevailing prayer.
On, champions blest, in Jesus's name;
Short be your strife, your triumph full, Till every heart have caught your Hame,
And, lightened of the world's misrule, Ye soar those elder Saints to meet, Gathered long since at Jesus's feet ; No woi-ld of passions to destroy. Your prayers and struggles o'er, your task all praise and joy.
Tlie Christian Tear.
THE WATERFALL.
Mark how a thousand streams in one — One in a thousand, on they fare,
Now flashing in the sun.
Now still as beast in lair. 64
JOHN KEBLE— 9
Now roiiiul the rock, now mounting o'er, In lawless dance they win their way,
Still seeming- more and more
To swell as we survey.
They rush and roar, they whii-1 and leap, Not wilder drives the winter storm ; Yet a strong law they keep, Strange powers their course inform.
Even so the miglity sky-born stream : Its living waters, from above,
All marred and broken seem,
No union and no love.
Yet in dim caves they softly blend, In dreams of mortals unespied:
One is their awful end.
One their unfailing Guide.
Lyra Innocentium. 65
THOMAS KEIGHTLEY.— 1
KETGIITLBY, Thomas, a British au- thor, born ill Dublin in 1789; died in Eng- land in 1782. After taking his degree at Trinity College, Dublin, in 1808, he went to Loudon, where he devoted himself to general literature, and near the close of his life received a pension from the Govern- ment. He aided Crofton Croker in prepar- ing the Fairy Legends of Ireland; wrote popular Histories of Rome^ Greece^ and Eny- land, Fairy Mythology^ Outlines of History^ Mythology of Ancient Greece and Italy^ History of India^ Scenes and Events of the Crusades, The Shakespeare Expositor, Life of Milton, and other works.
:\IILTON AND THK PTOLEMAIC ASTRONOMY.
With the seventeenth century, at least in Eng- land, expired the astronomy of Ptolemy. Had Milton, then, lived after that century, he could not for a moment have believed in a solid, glob- ous world, inclosing various revolving spheres, with earth in the centre, and unlimited, unoccu- pied, undigested space beyond. His local heaven and local hell would then have become, if not impossibilities, fleeting and uncertain to a de- gree which would preclude all firm, undoubting faith in their existence; for far as the most powerful telescopes can [)ierce into space, there is nothing found but a uniformity of stars after stars in endless succession, exalting infinitely our idea of the Deity and his attributes, but en- feebling in proportion that of any portion of space being his peculiar abode. Were Mil- ton in possession of this knowledge, is it pos- sible that lie could have written the first three books of Paradise Lost ? We are decidedly of opinion that he could not, for he would never have written that of the truth of which he could not have persuaded himself l)y any illusion of the imagination.
66
JOHAN HEINKIK KKLLGKEN.— 1
KELLGREN, Johan Heinrik, a Swed- ish poet, born in 1751 ; died in 1795. He took his first degree at the Universitj'- of Abo in 1772, and in 1777 became tutor in the famiW of a nobleman of Stockhobn. In the toHowing year, in conjunction with Lenngren, he established the Sfockholms Poste7i, a weekly literary Journal, and be- came a favorite Avith the King and Court. He wrote several dramatic pieces, among whicli are Gustav Wasa, Christ/ i/t\ and Gustav Adolf urid Abba Brain'. But his reputation in Swedish literature rests mainly upon his Satires and Lyrical P'li'ins.
KOLLY NO PROOF OK GENIUS.
I jrnuit 'tis oft of greatest men the lot
To stumble now and then, or darkly grope ;
KxtreuK's forever border on a blot,
And loftiest mountains' sides abruptest slope.
Alortals, observe what ills on Genius wait !
Now God, now worm ! — Why fallen ? — a dizzy head. The energy that lifts thee to Iieaven's gate.
What is it Ijut a hair, a distaff's thread ?
He who o'er twenty centuries, twenty climes, Il;us reigned — whom all will first of poets vote. —
K'(Mi our good father Homer, nods at times — So Horace says — (Your pardon, but I quote. )
Thou, Eden's bard, nextclaimest Genius's throne: Hut is the tale of Satan, Death, and Sin,
Of Iieaven's artillery, the poet's tone? —
More like street-drunkard's prate, inspired by
Is madness only amongst poets found ? Grows folly but on literature's tree ? 67
JOHAN HEINKIK KELLGREN. -2
No ! Wisdom's self is to fixed limits bound, And, passing those, resembles idiocy.
He, who the planetary laws could scan, Dissected light, and numbers' mystic force
Explored, to Bedlam once that wondrous man Rode on the Apocalypse's mouse-colored horse.
Thou, whose stern precepts against sophists iiurled. Taught that to Truth Doubt only leads the mind, Thy law forgot'st — and in a vortex whirled, Thou wanderest, as a Mesmer, mad and blind.
But though some spots bedim the star of day. The moon, despite her spots, remains the moon ;
And tliough great Newton once delirious lay, Swedenborg's nothing but a crazy loon.
Fond dunces ! ye who claim to be inspired, In letters and philosophy unversed,
AVho deem the Poet's fame may be acquired By faults with which great poets have been
cursed !
Ye Swedenborgian, Rosicrucian schools, Ye number-pickers, ye physiognomists,
Ye dream-expounding, treasure-seeking fools. Alchemists, magnetizers, cabalists —
Ye're wrong : though error to the wisest clings. And judgments, perfect here, may there be shaken.
That Genius, therefore out of Madness springs. When ye assert, ye're deucedly mistaken.
Vain reasoning I — all would easily succeed. Was Pope deformed, were Milton, Homer, blind ? To be their very likeness what would need But just to crook the back, the eyes to liliud ? 1^8
.TOilAX JIKINklK KKLLGKEN.— 3
But leave we jest ; — weak \viaj)on jest, in soolli, When Justice and Religion bleeding lie,
Society disordered, and 'gainst Ti'uth Error dares strike, upheld by Treachery.
Arouse thee, Muse ! snatch from the murderer His dagger, plunging it in his vile breast !
By Nature thou Reason's interpreter
Wast meant ; obey — and nobly — her behest !
Manheim ! so named from older Manhood's sense, And older Manhood's force, from Error's wave What haven shelters thee ? Some few years hence On spacious Bedlam shall the Baltic lave.
Virtue from light, and Vice from folly springs ;
To sin 'gainst AVisdom's prece[;t is high trea- son Against the majesty of Man and Kings !
Fanaticism leads on Rebellion's season.
Pardon, my Liege, the venturous honesty That swells the poet's, breast, and utterance craves!
The enthusiast for thy fame must blush to see Thy sceptre raised to favor fools or slaves.
But you who to his eyes obscure the light.
AVhat is't you seek? what recompense higlier |)rized? I see it — O Fame! all, all confess thy might.
And even fools would be inunortalized.
Ye shall be so ! Your brows and mind await A thistle and a laurel crown. To thee,
Posterity, their names I dedicate, Thy laughing-stock to all eternity.
Trcmsl. in For. Quart. Renew, 69
FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.— 1
KEMBLE, Frances Anne, an English actress and author, born at London, in 1809. She was the daughter of Charles Kemble, niece of Mrs. Siddons and John Philip Kemble, the actor, and sister of John Mitchell Kemble, the arcliEeological scholar. She made her first appearance on the stage at Convent Garden Theatre in 1829, as Ju- liet, her father enacting Mercutio, and her mother, Lady Capulet. In 1832 she came to America, and played in all the principal cities. In 183-1 she was married Mr. Pierce Butler, of South Carolina. The marriage proved an unliappy one ; and in 1848 the husband sued for a divorce, on the ground of " incompatibility of temper and aban- donment." Tlie divorce was granted, to the satisfaction of both parties, and the wife resumed her maiden name. From this time until about 1877 she resided mainly at Lenox, Mass., and Philadelphia, appearing frequently as a Shakespearean reader. Miss Kemble wrote : Francis the First, a drama (1882), e/owma? (1835), Phil- adelphia and Boston (1835), The Star of Seville, a drama (1837), A Year of Consola- tion (18-17), Journal of a Residence on a Geor- gia Plantation (1863). Records of a Girl- hood (1879), Records <f Later Life (1882), Notes on some of Shakespeare's Plays (1882.)
THE STUGGLE OF LIFE.
Struggle not with thy life !^ — the heavy doom
Resist not, it will bow tliee like a slave Strive not ! — thou shalt not conquer ; to thy tomb Thou shalt go cTushed and bound, tliougli ne'er so brave. 70
FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.— 2
Complain not of thy life ! — for what art tlioii More than thy feHows, that thou should'st not weep ? Brave thoughts still lodge beneath a furrowed brow, And the way-wearied have the sweetest sleep.
Marvel not at thy life ! — Patience shall see The perfect work of wisdom to her given ;
Hold fast tliy soul to this higli mystery,
And it shall lead thee to the gates of heaven.
71
THOMAS A KEMPIS— 1
KEMPIS, Thomas a, a German devo- tional writer, born at Kempen, near Co- logne, about 1380 ; died at the monastery of Mt. St. Agnes, near Zwolle in the Nether- lands, in 1471. The name by v/hich he is known comes from his birth-place, the family name being " Hammerkin," " Little Hammer," (Lat. Malleolus, as he is some- times called.) At the age of thirteen he entered the school of ''The Brothers of the Common Life" at Devxntei". In 1400 he began his novitiate at the monastery oi Mount St. Agnes; was ordered priest in 1413 ; and in 1425 was elected Sub-Prior of the monastery, having in cliarge the spiritual direction of the novices. In 1429 he and his brethren were forced to migrate to Lunel^erke, in Friesland. Tlie}^ returned to Mount St. Agnes in 1432, when Brother Thomas was made Treasurer of the monas- tery. In 1448 he was again chosen Sub- Prior, and held that post as long as he lived. He was a voluminous writer. A complete edition of his works in Latin was printed at Antwerp — (third edition in 1615), and a translation into German by Silbert was published at Vienna in 1834. The De hnitatione CJirisii has been attributed to several persons, notably to John Gerson, Chancellor of the University of Paris, (1363-1429) ; but it is almost universally accepted as the work of the monk of jVIount St. Agnes. The Imitatione Cliristi is proba- bly the most popular work of its kind ever written, not even excepting Bunyan's Pll- grim^s Progress. It has been translated into every civilized language, including Hebrew. There are more than sixty versions into French, and in the library of
'72
THOMAS A KExMI'Irf.— 2
Cologne are not less than live hundred editions published within the present cen- tury. A polyglot edition, in seven lan- guages^Latin, Italian, Spanish, French, Gorniaii, English, and Greek, was published at Sulzbacli in 1837. It is divided into four books, entitled respectiv(^ly," Admoni- tions useful for a Spiritual Life," "Ad- monitions tending to Things Interna!,' •• Of Internal Consolations," and "Concern- ing the Sacrament ; " each book being sub- divided into from twelve to sixty shi>it chapters.
ON THK IMITATION OF CHRIST.
" He that followeth Me, walketh not in (l:iik- iiess," saith the Lord. These are tlie words of Christ, by wliich we are admonished liow w • ouiilit to imitate His life and manners if we will he truly enlightened, and delivered from all blindness of heart. Let, therefore, our chiefest endeavor be to meditate upon tiie life of Jesus Clirist. The doctrine of Christ exeeedeth all the doctrines of holy men ; and he that hath the Spirit will find therein a hidden m;iiuin. But it fallcth out that many who often hear the gospel of Christ are yet but little affected, because they are void of the spirit of Christ.
But whosoever would fully and feelingly ini- derstand the words of Christ nnist endeavor to conform his life wholly to the life of Christ. U'hat will it avail thee to dispute profoundly of the trinity if thou be void of hnniility, and art thereby displeasing to the Ti-inity ? Surely high words do not make a man holy and just ; but a virtuous life maketh him dear to God. I had rather feel compunction than understand (he definition thereof. If thou didst know the whole Hible by heai't, and the sayings of all (he phi- losophers, what would all that profit (liee Ti
THOMAS A KEMPIS.— 3
without the love of God, and without grace? — De Imttatlune, Book L, Chap. 1.
OF OBEDIENCE AND SUBJECTION.
It is a gn'at matter to live in obedience, to be under a superior, and not to be at our own dis- posing. It is much safer to obey than to govern. Many live under obedience, rather for necessity than for charity ; such are discontented, and do easily repine and murmur. Neither can tiiey attain to freedom of mind unless they willingly and heartily put themselves under obedience, foi- the love of God. Go whither thou wilt, thou shalt find no rest but in humble subjection under the government of a superior. The imagination and change of place have deceived many. True it is that every one willingly doth that which ao-reeth with his own sense and liking ; and is apt to affect those most that are of his own mind.
But if God be among us, we must sometimes cease to adhere to our own opinion for the sake of peace. Who is so wise that he can fully know all things ? Be not therefore too confident in thine own opinion, but be willing to hear the judgment of others. If that which thou thinkest be not amiss, and yet thou partest with it ibr God, and followest the opinion of another, it siiall he better for thee. I have often lieard tiiat it is safer to hear and take counsel than to give it. It may also fall out that each one's opinion may be good ; but to refuse to yield to others, when reason or a special cause requireth it, is a sign of pride and stiffness — De I mi tatione, Book I., Chap. 9.
THE LOVE OF SOLITUDE AND SILENCE.
Seek a convenient time to retire into thyself; and meditate often upon God's loving kindnesses. Meddle not with curiosities; but i-ead such things as may rather yield compunction to thy heait than occupation to thy head. If thou withdraw thyself from speaking vainly and from gadtling 74
THOMAS A REM PIS— 4
illv, as also from hearkening after novelties and rinnors, thou shall find leisure enough and suitable for meditation on good things.
The greatest saints avoided the society of men wiien they could conveniently, and did rather choose to live to God in secret. One said : '• As oft as I have been among men, I returned home less a man that I was before." And this we find true when we talk long together. It is easier not to speak a word at all, tlian not to speak more words than we should. He there- fore that intends to attain to the more inwjird and spiritual things of religion must, with Jesus, depart from the multitude and press of people.
No man doth safely appear abroad but he who gladly can abide at home, out of sight. No man speaks securely but he that holds his peace willingly. No man ruleth safely but he that is willingly ruled. No man securely doth com- in:uid but lie that hath learned readily to obey. No man rejoiceth securely unless he hath within him the testimony of a good conscience. — De Imitatione, Book I., Chap. 20.
OK THE INWARD LIFE.
" The Kingdom of God is witliin you," saith the Lord. Turn thee with thy whole heart unto the Lord, and forsake this wretched world, and thy soul shall find rest. Learn to despise outward things, and give thyself to things in- ward, and thou shalt perceive the Kingdom of God to come in thee. " For the Kingdom of God is peace and joy in the Holy Ghost," which is not given to the unholy. Christ will come unto thee, and show thee His consolations, if thou pi-epai'c for Him a worthy mansion within thee. All His glory and beauty is from within, and there He dehghteth himself. The inward n)an He often visiteth, and hath with him sweet dis(;ourses. pleasant solace, much peace, familiar- ity excfrdinirlv wonderful. — De hnitutione. Book IL, Ch:ip. -2. ■
THOMAS A K EM PIS— 5
OF TiiK oonsidki;ation of one's self.
We cannot trust much to ourselves, because grace oftentimes is wanting to us, and under- standing also. There is but little light in us, and tliat which we have we quickly lose Ijy our negligence. Oftentimes too we do not perceive our own inward blindness. We often do evil, and excuse it worse. We are sometimes moved with passion, and we think it to be zeal. We reprehend small things in others, and pass over greater matters in ourselves. We quickly enough feel what we suffer at the hands of others; but we mind not what others suffer from us.
He that dotli well and rightly consider his own works, will iind little cause to judge iiarshly ot' another. The inward Christian preferri'th tlie care of himself before all other cares; and he that diligently attendeth unto liimself doth sel- dom speak much of others. Thou wilt never lie so inwardly religious, unless thou pass over other men's matters with silence, and look especially unto thyself. If thou attend wliolly unto God and thyself thou wilt be but little moved with whatsoever thou seest abroad. Where art thou when thou art not with thyself? and when I lion hast run over all, what hast thou then piotited, if thou hast neglected thyself? If thou desirest peace of mind and true unity of purpose, thou must put all things behind thee, and look only upon thyself. Thou shalt then make great prog- ress if thou keep tliyself free from all temporal care ; thou shalt greatly decrease if thou esteem anything temporal as of value. Let nothing be great unto thee, nothing high, nothing pleasing, nothing ac- ceptable, but only God himself, or that which is of God; esteem all comfort vain which thou receiv- est from any creature. A soul that loveth God despiseth all things that are inferior unto God. God ah)ne is everlasting, and of infinite great- ness, fdling all cn'atures, tlie soul's solace, and the true joy -of the heart. — Ih Imifatione, liooU II., Chap. 3.
THOMAS A KEMPIS.— 6
HIE JOYS OR SORROWS OF THE PRESENT THE
SORROWS OR JOYS OF THE FUTIRE.
( )i" two evils the less is always to bo cliosen. Tliat thou inayst therefore avoid the future ever- histiiig j)unisliinent. endeavor to endure present evils patiently for God's sake. Dost thou think tliat the men of this world suft'er nothing or Isnt little? Ask even of those who enjoy the great- est delicacies, and thou shalt find it otherwise'. But thou wilt say, '• They have many delights, and follow their own wills, and therefore they do not much weigh their own afflictions."
Be it so. that they do have whatsoever they will : but how long dost thou think it will last ? Behold the wealthy of this world shall consume away like smoke, and there shall be no memory of their past joys. Yea, even while they are yet alive, they rest in them not without bitter- ness, weariness, and fear ; for from the selfsame thing in wiiich they imagine their delight to be, oftentimi's they receive the penalt}' of sorrow. Nor is it anything but just that, having inordi- nately sought and followed after pleasures, they should enjov them not without shame and bitter- ness.
Oh, how brief, how false, how mordinate and fdthy are all those pleasures I Yet so drunken and blind are men that they understand it not ; but. like dumb beasts, for the }ioor enjoyment of tliis corruptible life, they incur the death of the soul. Thou, therefore, my son, go not after thy lusts, but refrain thyself from tliine appetite ; de- liglit thyself in tin; Lord, and He shall give the desires of thy heart. For if thou desire true delight, and to be more plentifully comforted I)y Me, behold, in the contempt ol" all worldly things, and in the cutting off of all base de- lights, shall be this blessing ; and abundant consolation shall be rendered to thee. And the more thou withdrawest thyself from all solace of creatures, so much the sweeter and more'power- ful coiisulations shalt thou find in Me. liut at 77
THOMAS A KEMPIS.— 7
the first thou slialt not, without some sadness, nor Avithout a hiborious conflict, attain unto these consolations. — De Imitatume, Book III., Cliap. 12.
LOWLV DUTIES TO BE PERFORMED.
INIy son, thou art not able always to continue in the more fervent desire of virtue, nor to per- sist in the higlier pitch of contemplation ; but thou must sometimes of necessity, by reason of original corruption, descend to inferior things, and bear the burden of this corruptible life, tliough against thy will and with wearisomeness. As long as thou carriest :i mortal body, thou shalt feel weariness and lieaviness of heart. Thou oughtest therefore in the Hesh oftentimes to bewail tlie bunh^n of the tlesh, for that tliou canst not always continue in spiritual exercises and di- vine contem[)lations.
It is then expedient for thee to flee to hum) tie and exterior works, and to refresh thyself with good actions ; to expect with a firm confidence My coming and heavenly visitation ; to bear pa- tiently thy banishment, and the dryness of the mind, till I shall again visit thee, and set tluM' free from all anxieties ; for I will cause thee to forget thy former ])ains, and to enjoy thorough inward quietness; and thou shalt say: "The Sufferings of this present time are not ^vorthy to be com[)ared with the future glory that shall be
revealed in us De Imitatio7ie, Book III., Chap.
51.
A SPIRITUAL EXERCISE BEFORE COMMUNION.
When I weigh Thy worthiness, O Lord, and mine own vileness, I am confounded within my- self; foi' if I come not unto Thee I fly fiom my life ; and if I uiiworthily intrude myself I incur Thy displeasure. What therefore shall I do, O my God, my Helper and my Counsellor in all necessity ? Teach Thou me the right way ; ap- point me some brief exercise snital)le to this Holv Communion, For it is good foi- iiic to 78
THO.MAS A KEMPIS— 8
know how I should ivveirntly and religiously prepare my heart for Thee, for the profitable re- ceiving of Thy .Sacrament, or (it may be) also for the celebrating of so great and divine a saeri- tk-e. Do Imitatlone, Book IV., Chap. 6.
ON INQIUMHS INTO THE 3IYSTERIES OF THE HOLY SACRAMENT.
Tliou oughtest to beware of curious and un- pn.tilable searching into this most profound Sacrament, if thou wilt not be plunged into the depths of doubt. '• He that is a searcher of My Majesty shall be overpowered by the glory of it." God is able to do more than man can un- derstand. A dutiful and humble inquiry after truth is allowable, provided we be always ready to be taught, and study to walk according to the sound opinions of the Fathers.
It is a blessed simpli(Mty when a man leaves the dilficult ways of questions and disputings, and goes forward in the plain and Hrm ways of God's commandments. Many have lost devo- tion while they sought to search into things too high. Faith is required at thy hands, and a sincere life ; not height of understanding nor deep incjuiry into the mysteries of God. If thou dost not understand nor conceive those things that are under thee, how slialt thou be able to comprehend those that are above thee ? Sub- mit thyself unto God, and humble thy sense to faith, and the light of knowledge shall be given thee in such degree as shall be necessary and profitable unto thee.
Some are grievously tempted about Faith and the Holy Sacrament ; but this is not to be imputed to themselves, but rather to the Enemy. Be not thou anxious herein ; do not dispute with thine own thoughts, nor give any answer to doubts suggested by the Devil ; but trust the words of God, trust his Saints and Proplu^ts, and the wicked Enemy will flee from tliee. It oftentimes is very profitable foi- the servant of 71)
THOMAS A KEMPIS.— 9
God to I'lulure snch tilings. For the Devil tempts not unbelievers mu\ sinners whom he already has possession of; but faithful and re- ligious devout pei'sons he in various ways tempts and vexes.
(to forwaid therefore with simple and nn- <loiil)tii!g faith, and with the reverenee of a sup- plieaiit approach this Holy Sacrament; and whatsoever thou art not able to understand com- mit securely to Almighty God. God deeeivetli thee not ; he is deceived that trusteth too much in himself. God walketh w^itli the simple, re- vealeth Himself to the humble, giveth under- standing to the little ones, openeth sense to pure minds, and hideth grace from the curious and proud. Human Reason is feeble and may be deceived ; but true Faith cannot be deceived.
All Reason and natural search ought to follow Faith, not to go before it, nor to break in upon it; for Faith and Love do here specially lake the lead, and work in hidden ways in this most holy, most supremely excellent Sacrament. God, who is eternal and incomprehensible, and of infinite power, doeth things great and un- searchable in heaven and earth, and there is no tracing out of His marvelous works. If the works of God were such as that they might be easily comprehended by human Reason, they could not be justly called marvelous or un- speakable— De Imitatione, Book IV., Chap. 18. 80
THOMAS KEN.— 1
KEN, Thomas, an English divine and author, born in 1637; died in 1711. He was educated at Winchester and Oxford ; took Holy Orders; held various ecclesiasti- cal positions, and became chaplain to Charles II., who, in 1681, made him Bishop of Bath and Wells. After the accession oi' James II. he refused to read in his church the Declaration of Indulgence issued bv that monarch, and was with six other bishops committed to the Tower for con- tumac^^ Upon the accession of William III., in 1688, Ken refused to take the oath of allegiance to the new sovereign and was deprived of his bishopric. He had saved about £700, for which Lord Weymoitlh gave him an annuitv of £80, with a resi- dence at his mansion of Longleat, in Wilt- shire. Ken was a voluminous writer both in pro.se and ver.se, mainly upon devotional themes. Ten years after his death was j)ublished a collection of his poems, in four volumes; and an edition of his prose wi'it- ings was issued in 1838. His Life has been written by Hawkins (1713), and by George L. Duyckinck (1859.) Many of his Hymns — usually abridged and sometimes considerably altered — find place in various Ilj'mnals.
AN KVKXING HYMN.
All praiso to TIicc, my God, this night, Ym all the blessings of the light I K(*«'j) me, oil keep me. King of kings, Beneath Thine own almighty wings.
Forgive me, Lord, for Thy dear Son The ills tlijit I this day have done ; That with till," world, myself, and Thee I, ere I >1(('|), ;it peace may be.
THOMAS KEN.— 2
Teach me to live, tluit I may dread The grave as little as my bed ; Teach me to die, that so I may Triumphing rise at the last day.
When in the night I sleepless lie, My soul with heavenly thoughts supply; Let no ill dreams disturb my rest, No powers of darkness me molest.
Dull sleep! of sense me to deprive! I am but half my time alive ; Thy faithful lovers, Lord, are grieved To live so long of Thee bereaved.
But though sleep o'er my frailty reigns, Let it not hold me long in chains ; And now and then let loose my heart, Till it a Hallelujah dart.
The faster sleep the senses binds, The more unfettered are our minds. Oh, may my soul, from matter free, Thy loveliness unclouded see!
Oh, may my Guardian, while I sleep, Close to my bed his vigils keep ; His love angelical instil. Stop all the avenues of ill.
May he celestial joys rehearse, And thought to thought -with me converse ; Or, in my stead, all the night long, Sing to my God a grateful song.
Oh, when shall I, in endless day, Forever chase dark sleep away. And hymns divine with angels sing. Glory to Thee, eternal King !
A MOUNING HYMN.
Awake, my soul, and with the sun Thy daily course of duty run ; Shake off dull sloth, and early rise To pay thy morning sacrifice.
THOMAS KEN.— 3
Redeem thy inis-s|ienf time thut's past; I/ive this day as if 'twcne thy Uist; To improve thy talents take due care; 'Gainst the Great Day thyself prepare.
Let all tl>y converse be sincere, Thy conscience as the noon-day clear ; Think how the all-seeing God thy ways And all thy secret thoughts surveys.
Wake, and lift up thyself, my heart. And with the angels bear thy part ; Who all night long unwearied sing, " Glory to Thee, eternal King ! "
I wake, I wake, ye heavenly choir; May your devotion, me inspire ; That I, like you, my age may spend, Like you may on my God attend.
Glory to Tliee, who safe hast kept, And hast refn-sliod me while I slept ; Grant, Lord, when I from death shall wake, 1 may of endless life partake.
Lord, I my vows to Thee renew ; Scatter my sins as morning dew ; Guard my first spring of thought and will, And with Tliyself my spirit fill.
Direct, control, suggest, this day
All I design, or do, or say:
That all my powers, with all their might,
Li Thy sole glory may unite.
Praise God, from wiiom all blessings flow ; Praise Him, all creatures here below ; Praise Iliin al)ove, angelic host ; Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
83
GEORGE KENNAN.— 1
KENNAN, George, an American trav- eller and author, born at Norwalk, Oliio, in 1845. His education was derived from the public schools, and he early supported him- self as a telegraph operator. In that capacity he went to Kamtchatka at the end of 1864, and for three years was engaged in explor- ing northeastern Siberia, and locating a route I'or the proposed Russo-American tel- egraph line from the Okhotsk Sea to Beh- ring Strait. These experiences he described in Tent Life in Siberia and Advenfttres Anion;/ the Koraks (1870.) He came home in 1868, but undertook an exploration of the Caucasus in 1870-71, crossing that great range thrice. In 1885 the Ccidnry Company sent him again to Russia and Si- beria to investigate the exile system. In a journey of 15,000 miles he visited the prisons and mines between the Ural and the Amoor River. Beginning his task with sympathies leaning toward the government and against the revolutionists, he I'ound oc- casion to change this view. The publica- tion of his articles on Siberia and the ex- ile system, in the Century ifayazine, 1887-88, has proved an event of more than literary importance. Besides drawing wide attention and deep interest in English- speaking countries, they have been trans- lated, while yet hardly more than begun, into several foreign languages, and are ap- pearing as a serial in the organ of the Rus- sian Liberals at Geneva, and as a s\i))})le- ment to a Dutch paper issued at Batavia. Our extracts are from this work.
KXILE BY ADMINISTRATIVE PROCESS.
Exile by administrative process means the bain,--linu'nt of an olmoxions person from one
GEORGE KENNAN.-2
|iait of the cnipirc to anotlicr witliout tlio oltser- viince of any of the legal formalities that, in most civilized countries, precede or attend de- privation of rights and the infliction of punish- ment. The person so banished may not be giiihy of any crime, and may not have rendered liiniself amenable in any way to any law of tlie s'ate; but if. in the opinion of the local author- ities, his presence in a particular place is "preju- dicial to social order," he may be arrested with- out a warrant, and, with the concurrence of the Minister of the Interior, may be removed forci- bly fo any other place within the limits of the empire, and there be put under police surveil- lance for a period of five years. He may, or may not, be informed of the reasons for this summary proceeding, but in either case he is perfectly helpless. He cannot examine the wit- nesses upon whose testimony his presence is de- clared to be prejudicial to social order. He can- not summon friends to pi-ove his loyalty and good character without great risk of bringing upon them the same calamity which has liefal- len him. He has no right to demand a trial, or even a lu\aring. He cannot sue out a writ of habeas corpus. He cannot appeal to the juiblic tiirough the press. His communications with the world are so suddenlv severed that some- times even his own relatives do nf»t know what has happened to liim. He is literally and abso- lutely without any means whatever of self-pro- tection. . .
A young student, called Vladimir Sidorski (I use a fictitious name), was arrested by mistake instead of anoth(!r and a different Sidorski, named Victor, whose presence in IMoscow was regarded by somebody as " prejudicial to social oi-dcr." Vladimir protested that he was not \'i<'tor, that he did not know Victor, and that his arrest in the place of Victor was the residt of a stu|)id bhindei-; but his protestations were ot MO avail. The police were too miieli occu-
GEORGE KENNAN.— 3
pied in unearthing " conspiracies" and looking after " untnistwortliy " people to devote any time to a troublesome verification of an insignificant student's identity. There must have been some- thing wrong about him, they argued, or he would not have been arrested, and the safest thing to do with him was to send him to Siberia — and to Siberia he was sent. When the con- voy-otHcer called the roll of the outgoing exile party, Vladimir Sidorski failed to answer to Victor Sidorski's name, and the ofilcer, with a curse, cried, " Victor Sidorski! why don't you answer to your name?" " It's not my name," replied Vladimir, "and I won't answer to it. It's another Sidorski who ought to be going to Siberia." " What is your name, then ? " A'^lad- imir told him. The officer coolly erased the name " Victor," in the roll of the })arty, inserted the name "Vladimir," and remarked cynically, " It doesn't make a bit of diftierence ! "
EXILE SITFFERIN<;S.
In tlie city of Tomsk we began to feel for the fii-st time the nervous strain caus(?d by the sight of remediless human misery. From that time until we recrossed the Siberian frontier on our way back to St. Petersburg, we were subjected to a nervous and emotional strain that was some- times harder to bear than cold, hunger, or fa- tigue. One cannot witness unmoved such suffer- ing as we saw in the " bologans " and the hospi- tal of the Tomsk forwarding prison, nor can one listen without the deepest emotion to such sto- ries as we heard from political exiles in Tomsk, Krasnoyarsk, Irkutsk, and the Trans-Baikal. One pale, sad, delicate woman, who had been banished to Eastern Siberia, and who had there gone down into the valley of the shadow of death, un- dertook one night, I remember, to relate to me her experience. I could see that it was agony for her to live over in nariation the sufferings and bereavements of her tragic past, and I would gladly have sjjared her the self-imposed
86
GEORGE KENNAN.— 4
torture ; but i^lie av;i,< so deterniiiied that the worM shouUl know thiougli me wliat Russians endure before tht y become terrorists, tliat she nervrd herself" to bear it, and between fits of half-controlled sobbing, during which I could only pace the floor, she told me the story of her life. It was the saddest story I had ever heard. After such an interview as this with a heart-broken woman — and I had niany such — I could neither sleep nor sit still; and to the nervous strain of such experiences, ([uite as much as to liardship and privation, was attributable the final bieak- ing down of my health and strength in the Trans-Baikal.
87
JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY.— 1
KENNEDY, John Pendleton, an American lawyer, statesman, and author, born at Baltimore in 1795; died at New- port, R. I., in 1870. He graduated at Bal- timore College in 1812, and was admitted to the bar in 1816. He was elected to the Maryland House of Delegates in 1820, and was re-elected in the two subsequent years. He was elected to Congress in 1838, and again in 1842. In 1852 he was made Sec- retary of the Nav\^ and in this capacity rendered efficient aid to Perry's Japan Ex- pedition, and to Kane's Second Arctic Voy- age. Upon the accession of Mr. Pierce to the Presidency, in 1853, he retired from po- litical life. During the civil war he was an earnest supporter of the Union cause. After the close of the war he made several visits to Europe. Here he became acquainted with Mr. Thackeray, who was then writing The Viryinians. Mr. Thackeray on one occasion spoke of the difficulty in prepar- ring the copy for the forthcoming Number, and said, jestingly, to Mr. Kennedy, " I wish you would write one for me." '' Well," re- plied Mr. Kennedy, " so I will, if you will give me the run of the story." The result was, as we are told, that Mr. Kennedy wrote the fourth Cliapter of the second Volume of The Viryinians, which contains an accurate description of the local scenery of a region, with which Kennedy was familiar, tind with which Thackeray was wholly unacquainted.
By his will Mr. Kennedy made provision for the publication of a uniform edition of his Works, which appeared in 1870, in ten volumes. Besides a large number of dis- courses, addresses, and essays, this collec- tion inchules his three novels : Swallmc
JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY.— 2
Bnrii, n story of rural life in Virginia (1882) Horsf'-Shoe Robinson^ a tale of tin* Tory Ascendency (1835), and Roh of tlw Boivl, describing the province of Maryland in the davs of the second Lord Baltimore •)
A VIUniNIA COIXTRY GENTLEMAN, A.D. 1825.
Frank Meiiwetlier lias some claims to suprem- acy as Justice of tlie Peace ; for diii-ing three years 1h^ smoked cigars in a lawyer's office in Richmond, wliic-ji enabled him to obtain a bird's- eye view of Blacksfone and the Revised Statutes. Besides this, he was a member of a Law De- bating Society, which ate oysters once a week in a cellar; and lie wore, in accordance with tlie Usage of the most promising law-students of the day, six ci'avats, one above the other, and yel- low-topped boots, by which he was recognized as a blood of the metropolis.
Having in this way qualiiied himself to assert and maintain his rights, he came to his estate, U[)on his ari'ival at age, a very model of a country gentleman. Since that time his avoca- tions have a certain hterary tincture ; for hav- ing settled liiniself down as a married man, and got rid of his superfluous foppery, he rambled with wonderful assiduity through a wilderness of I'onuiiices, poems, and dissertations, which are now collected in his library, and, with their batteied blue covers, present a lively type of an army of Continentals at the close of the war, or a hospi- tal of invalids. These have all at last given way to newspapers — a miscellaneous study very at- tractive to country gentlemen. This line of study has reiuh'red Meriwether a most perilous antagonist in the matter of Legislative Proceed- ings.
A landed proprietor, with a good house and a host of servants, is naturally a hospitable man. A guest is one of his daily wants. A friendly face is a necessity of life, without which the
89
JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY.— 3
heart is ;ii»t to starve, or a luxury without which it grows parsimonious. Men who are isohited from society by distance, feel those wants by an instinct, and are grateful for an opportunity to relieve them. In Meriwether the instinct goes beyond this. Tt has, besides, something dialec- tic in it. His house is open to everybody as freely almost as an inn. But to see him when he has bad the good fortune to pick up an intel- ligent, educated gentleman — and particularly one who listens well ! — a respectable assenta- tious sti'anger ! — all the better if he has been in the Legislature ; or, better still, in Congress. Such a person caught within the purlieus of Swallow Barn, may set down one week's enter- tainment as certain — inevitable — and as many more as he likes : the more the merrier. He will know something of the qualities of Meri- wether's rhetoric before he is gone.
Then, again, it is very pleasant to note Frank's kind and considerate bearing towards his servants and dependents. His slaves appreciate this, and hold him in most aifectionate reverence ; and therefore are not only contented but happy under his dominion.
Meriwether is not much of a traveller. He has never been in New England, and very sel- dom beyond the confines of Virginia. He makes now and then a winter excursion to Richmond, which, I rather think, he considers as the centre of civilization ; and towards autumn it is his custom to journey over the mountains to the Springs — which he is obliged to do to avoid the unhealthy season in the tide-water region. But the Upper Country is not much to his taste, and would not be endured by him if it were not for the crowds that resort there for the same reason that operates upon him; and, I imagine — though he would not confess it — for the opportunity whicii this concourse aifords him for discussion of opinions.
He thinks lightly of the mercantile interest;
90
JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY.— 4
and, in lact, undervalues the manners of large cities generally. He believes that those who live in them are hollow-hearted and insincere, and wanting in that substantial intelligence and virtue wliich he affirms to be characteristic of the country. He is an ardent admirer of the genius of Virginia, and is frequent in his com- mendation of a toast in which the State is com- pared to the Mother of the Gracchi. Indeed, it is a familiar thing with liim to speak of the aris- tocracy of talent as only inferior to that of the landed interest : — the idea of a freeholder im- plies to his mind a certain constitutional pre-emi- nence in all the virtues of citizenship, as a mat- ter of course.
The solitary elevation of a country gentle- man, well-to-do in the world, begets some mag- nificent notions. He becomes as infallible as the Pope; gradually acquires a habit of making long speeches; is apt to be impatient of contra- diction ; and is always very touchy upon " the point of honor." There is nothing more conclu- sive than a rich man's logic anywhere ; but in the country, amongst his dependents, it flows with the smooth and unresisted course of a full stream irrigating a meadow, and depositing its mud in fertilizing abundance. Meriwether's sayings, about Swallow Barn, import absolute verity. But I have discovered that they are not so current out of his jurisdiction. Indeed, every now and then, we have quite obstinate discussions, when some of the neighboring poten- tates, who stand in the same sphere with Frank, come to the house. For these worthies have opinions of their own ; and nothing can be more dogged than the conflict between them. They sometimes fire away at eacli other, with a most amiable and convincing hardihood, for a wlicdc evening, bandying interjections, and making bows, and saying shrewd things, with all the courtesy imaginable. But for inextinguishable pertinaiil V in argument, niid uIIit imprctrna- <)\
JOHN rKNDLETON KENNEDY.— 5
Idlily of belief, tlici'c is no other dis[»Lit;iii( like your country gentleman who reads the iiews- [)apers. AYhen one of these discussions fairly gets under weigh, it never fairly comes to an anchor again of its own accord. It is either blown out so far to sea as to Ite given up for lost ; or puts into port in distress for want of documents ; or is upset l>y a call foi- boot-jacks and slippers — which is something like the Pre- vious Question in Congress.
If my worthy cousin be somewhat over-argu- mentative as a politician, he restores the equi- librium of his character by a considerate coolness in religious matters. He piques himself upon being a High-Churchman, but is not the most diligent frequenter of places of worsliip ; and very seldom permits himself to get into a dispute upon points of faith. If Mr. Chub, the Presby- terian tutor ill the family, ever succeeds in draw- ing him into this field — as he has occasionally the address to do — Meriwether is sure to fly the course ; he gets puzzled with Scripture names, and makes some odd mistakes between Peter and Paul, and then generally turns the parson over to his wife, who, he says, "has an astonish- ing memory."
He is somewhat distinguished as a breeder of blooded horses ; and ever since the celebrated race between Eclipse and Henry has taken to this occupation with a renewed zeal, and as a matter affecting the reputation of the State. It is delightful to hear him expatiate upon the value, importance, and patriotic bearing of this employment, and to listen to all his technical lore touching the mysteries of horse-craft. He has some fine colts in training, which are com- mitted to tiie care of a pragmaticfd old negro named Carey, who in his reverence for the occu- pation is the perfect shadow of his master. He and Frank hold grave and momentous consulta- tions upon the affairs of the stable, in such a sagacious strain of equal debate that it would 92
JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY.— 6
puzzle a spectator (o tell which was the leadiii'^ member in the council. Carey thinks he knows a great deal more npon the subject than his master; and their frequent intercourse has begot a familiarity in the old negro which is almost fatnl to Meriwether's supremacy. The old man feels himself authorized to maintain his positions according to the freest parliamentary form, and sometimes with a violence of asseveration that compels his master to abandon his ground, purely out of faint-heartedncss. Meriwether gets a little nettled at Carey's doggedness, but generally turns it off with a laugh. I was in the stable with him one morning soon after my arrival, when he ventured to expostidate with the venerable groom upon a professional point ; but the controversy terminated in its customary way :—
"Who sot you up, Master Frank, to tell me how to fodder that 'ere creature, when I as good as nursed you on my knee?"
*' Well, tie up your tongue, you old mastiff," replied Frank as he walked out of the stable ; "and cease growling, since you will have it your own way." And then, as we left the old man's presence, he adtled, with an affectionate chuckle. •■ A faithful old cur, too, that snaps at me out of pure honesty ; he has not many years h-ft, and it does no harm to humor "him." — Swallow Ram.
93
WILLIAM KENNEDY— 1
KENNEDY, William, a Scottish poet, born at Paisley in 1799; died near London in 1849. He was associated with Mother- well in conducting the Paisley Mafjazine. Subsequently he became private secretary to the Earl of Dalhousie, whom he accom- panied to Canada. He was afterwards ap- pointed Consul at Galveston, Texas, and in 1841 published in London The Eise, Pro- (jress^ mid Prospects of the Republic of Texas. Kenned3''s other works are : My Early Days^ a tale (1825), Fitful Fancies^ a volume of poems (1827), TJie Arroio and the Rose, and other Poems (1830), besides some later occasional poems. He retired on a pension in 1847, and died shortly after a visit to Scotland, when tlie follow- ing poem was written : — ■
AT THE GRAVE OF WILLIAM MOTHERWELL,
1847.
Place we a stone at his head and liis feet ; Sprinkle his sward with the small flowers sweet; Piously hallow the poet's retreat : —
Ever approvingly,
Ever most lovingly. Turned he to nature, a worshipper meet.
Harm not the thorn which grows at his head ; Odorous honors its blossoms will shed, Grateful to him, early summoned, who sped
Hence not unwillingly —
For he felt thrillingly — To rest his poor head 'mong the low-lying dead.
Dearer to him than the deep minster-bell, Winds of sad cadence, at midnight will swell, Vocal with sorrows he knoweth too Avell,
AVho, for the early day,
Pliiining this roundelay, Might his own fate from a brother's foretell. ',•4
WILLIAM KENNEDY.— 2
Worldly ones treading this terrace of graves, Grudge not the minstrel the little he eraves, When o'er the snow-mound the winter-blast raves —
Tears — -which devotedly,
Though unnotedly. Flow from their spring in the soul's silent caves.
Dreamers of noble tlioughts, raise him a shrine, Graced with the beauty which lives in his line ; Strew with pale flowerets, wlien pensive moons shine,
His grassy covering.
Where spirits, hovei'ing, Chant for his requiem music divine.
Not as a record he lacketh a stone !
Pay a light debt to the singer we've known —
Proof that our love for his name hath not flown
With the frame perishing —
That we are cherishing Feelings akin to the lost poet's own.
95
JAMES KENNEY.-l
KENNEY, James, a British poet, born in Ireland in 1780; died in 1849. He was employed as a clerk in a banking-liouse. In 1803 he published Society^ wiiJi other Poems. He subsequently wrote Raisiruj Lite Wind^ Sioeelhearts and Wives, and sev eral other successful dramatic pieces.
TOM, IF YOU LOVE ME, SAY SO.
Dear Tom, my brave, free-hearted lad,
Where'er you go, God bless you; You'd better speak than wish you had,
If love for me distress you. To me, they say, your thoughts incline —
And possibly they may so: Then, once for all, to quiet mine,
Tom, if you love me, say so.
On that sound heart and manly frame.
Sits lightly sport or labor; Good-humored, frank, and still the same.
To parent, friend, or neighbor : Then why postpone your love to own
For me, from day to day so ; And let me whisper, still alone,
" Tom, if yon love me, say so? "
How oft when I was sick, or sad
With some remembered folly, The sight of you has made me glad —
And then most melancholy ! Ah ! why will thoughts of one so good
Upon my spirits prey so ? By you it should be understood —
" Tom, if you love me, say so ! "
Last Monday, at the cricket-match,
No rival stood before you ; In harvest-time, for quick dispatch.
The farmers all adore you ; And evermore your praise they sing ; —
Though one thing you delay so. And I sleep nightly murmuring,
" Tom, if you love me, say so ! " 96
JAMES KENNEY.— 2
Whate'er of ours you chance to seek,
Almost before you breathe it, I bring, with blushes on my cheek.
Ami all my soul goes with it. Why thank me then, with voice so low.
And faltering turn away so? When next you come, before yon go,
'' Tom, if you love me, say so ! "
Wlien Jasper Wild, beside the brook,
Rosenlful round us lowered, I oft recall that lion-look
That (luelled the savage coward. Bold words and free you uttered then :
W^ould they could find their way so, When these moist eyes so plainly mean,
" Tom, if you love me, say so ! "
My friends, 'tis true, are well-to-do,
And yours are poor and friendless ; Ah, no ! for they are rich in you —
Their iiappiness is endless. You never let them shed a tear.
Save that on you they weigh so : There's one might bring you better cheer ;-
'• Tom, if you love me, say so ! "
My uncle's legacy is all
For you, Tom, when you choose it ; In better hands it cannot fall.
Or better trained to use it. I'll wait for years ; but let me not
Nor wooed nor plighted stay so : Since wealth and worth make even lot —
" Tom, if you love me, say so ! " 97
CHARLER KENT.-l
KENT, Charles, an English poet, was bom at London in 1828. Besides several tales and essays in prose, he published Dreamland, with other Poems in 1862. A complete collection of his poems was issued in 1870.
love's calendar.
Talk of love in vernal hours,
When tlie landscape blushes With the dawning glow of flowers,
While the early thrushes Warble in the apple-tree ;
When the primrose springing From the green bank, lulls the bee,
On its blossom swinging.
Talk of love in summer-tide
When tlirough bosky shallows Trills the streamlet — all its side
Pranked with freckled mallows ; When in mossy lair of wrens
Tiny eggs are warming ; When" above the reedy fens
Dragon-gnats are swarming.
Talk of love in autumn days,
When the fruit, all mellow, Drops amid the ripening rays,
While the leaflets yellow Cir(de in the sluggish breeze
With their portents bitter ; When lietween the fading trees
Broader sunbeams glitter.
Talk of love in winter time.
When the liailstorm hurtles. While the robin sparks of rime
Shakes from hardy myrtles, Never sjieak of love with scorn,
Such were direct treason ; Love was made for eve and morn,
And for every season.
FRANCIS SCOTT KEY.— 1
KEY, Francis Scott, an American lawyer and poet, was born in Maryland in 1870 ; died at Baltimore in 1843. He was educated at St. John's College, Md., studied law, and commenced practice in his native county, but subsequently removed to Washington, where he became District Attorney for the District of Columbia. He wrote only a few occasional poems, which were collected into a volume, and published in 1857. The only notable poem in this volume is the song " The Star-span- gled Banner." It happened that, in Au- gust, 1814, the author witnessed the bom- bardment of Fort McHenry, near 'Balti- more, bv the British fleet. It could hardly be hoped that the American flag, which they could plainly see when night closed in, would be seen flying in the morning. But when morning broke it was still flying. Upon the spur of the moment Key wrote the poem, which at once took rank as one of our national songs. An imposing mon- ument to him was erected in 1887, in the Golden Gate Park, San Francisco.
THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER.
Oil ! say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at tlie twilight's
last gleaming — Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through
the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watched were so gal- lantly streaming? And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting
in air, Gave proof, through the night, that our flag was
still there. Oh ! say, does that Star-spangled banner yet
wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the
brave ?
U9
FRANCIS SCOTT KEY.— 2
On that sliore, dimly seen through the misis of the deep, AVhere the foe's haughty liost in dread .silence reposes.
What is tliat which the breeze, o'er tlie tower- ing steep. As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now dis- closes ?
Now it catches the gleam of the murning's first beam.
In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream :
'Tis the Star-spangled Banner — Oh, long may it wave [brave !
O'er the land of the free and the home of the
And where is the band who so tauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's con- fu.sion
A liome and a country should leave us no more? Tlieir blood has washed out their foul foot- steps' pollution !
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave ;
And the Star-spangled Banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Oh ! thus be it ever when freemen sliall stand Between their loved home and the war's des- olation : Blessed with victory and peace, may the Heaven- rescued land, Praise the Power that hath made and per- served it a nation ! Thus conquer weT must, when our cause it is
just:
And this be our motto — "In God is our trust ! ".
And the Star-spangled Banner in triumph shall
wave [brave.
O'er the land of the free and the home of the
100
HARRIET McEWEN KIMBALL.— 1
KIMBALL, Harriet McEvven, an American poet, born at Portsmouth, N. H., in 1834. Her works, which are mainly re- ligious lyrics, are : Hymns (1867), Sivalloiv Fliyhts of SoiKj (1874), and the Blessed Company of all Faithful (1879.)
THE GUEST.
Speechless Sorrow sat with me, I was sighing heavily ; Lamp and tire were out ; the rain "Wildly beat tlie window-pane. In thu dark we heard a knock, And a hand was on the lock ; One in waiting spake to me,
Saying sweetly, " I am come to sup with thee."
All my room was dark and damp ; " Sorrow," said I, " trim the lamp ; Light the Hre, and cheer thy face ; Set the guest-chair in its place." And again I heard the knock ;
In the dark I found the lock
"Enter! I liave turned the key;
Enter, Stranger, Who art come to sup with me."
Opening wide the door, he came ; But I could not speak his name. In tlie guest-chair took his place ;
But I could not see his face
When my che(?rful fire was beaming. When my little lamp was gleaming, And the feast was spread for three —
Lo ! my Master Was the Guest that supped with me.
all's well. The day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep
My weary spirit seeks repose in Thine : Father, forgive my trespasses, and keep This little life of mine. 101
HARRIET McEWEN KIMBALL.— 2
Witli loving kindness curtain Thou my bed; And cool in rest my burning pilgrim-feet; Thy pardon be the pillow for my head — So shall my sleep be sweet.
At peace with all the world, dear Lord, and
Thee, No fears my soul's unwavering faitli can
shape ; All's well ! whichever side the grave for me
The morning light may break.
LONGING FOR RAIN.
P^arth swoons, o'erwhelmed with weight of bloom ;
The scanty dews seem dropped in vain ; Athirst she lies, while garish skies
Burn with their brassy hints of lain.
Morn after morn the flaming sun Smites the bare hills with fiery rod ;
Night after night, with blood-red light. Glares like a slow-avenging god.
Oh for a cloudy curtain drawn
To screen us from the scorching sky!
Oh for the rain to lay again
Tiie smothering dust-clouds passing by !
To wash tlie hedges, white with dust, Freshen the grass and fill the pool ;
While in the breeze the odorous trees Drip softly, swaying dark and cool. 102
RICHARD BURLEIGH KIMBALL.— 1
KIMBALL, Richard Burleigh, an American author, born at Plainfield, N. H., in 181B. He graduated at Dartnioutli in 1834, studied law at home and in France, and practised it at Waterford, N. Y., and in New York City from 1842 till he went to Texas, founded a town which bore his name, constructed a railroad from Galves- ton to Houston, and was its president 1854- 60. He received the degree of LL. D. from Dartmouth in 1873. He published Ldttrs from EiKjland (1842), Letters from Cuba (1850), Cuba and the Cubans '(1850), St. Leger or TJireads of Life (1849), Romance of Student Life Abroad (1852), Laic Lectures (1853), Undercurrents of Wall Street {l^CA\ Was lie Successful (1864), Henrif Powers^ Banher (1868), To-day in New York (1870), and Stories of Exceptional Life (1887.) He edited In the Tropics (1862) and The Prince of Kashna (1864), was an editor with others of the Knickerbocker Gallery (1853), and wrote much for the magazines. St. Tje'jer^ his most popular work, was twice re))rinted in England and once in Leipsic; lour of liis books were translated into Dutch, and several into German and French,
PROBLEMS OF YOUTH.
My father (erroneously perhaps) deteiinined to give his children a private education, atfirni- ing tliat pulilic schools and universities were alike destructive to mind, manners, and moi-als. So at home we were kept, and furnished with erudite teachers, who knew everything about l>ooks and nothing about men.
I had ill all this abundance to foster the un- happy fi'ding which burned within. Thought, liow it troubled me— and I had so mucli to think aliont. But bcvoiid all, tln' trn-at wonder ' l0:i
RICHARD BURLEIGH KIMBALL— 2
of my life was, ' Wliat life was made for? ' I wondered what could oecii|)y tlie world. I read over the large volumes in the old library, and wondered why men should battle it with each other for the sake of power, when power lasted but so short a time. I wondered why kings who could have done so much good had done so much evil ; and I wondered why anybody was very unhappy, since death should so soon relieve from all earthly ills. Then I felt there was some unknown power busy within me, which de- manded a field for labor and development, but 1 knew not what spirit it was of. I wanted to see the world, to busy myself in its business, and try if I could discover its fashion, for it was to me a vast mystery. I knew it was filled with human beings like unto myself, but what were they doing, and wherefore ? The lohat and the why troubled me, perplexed me, almost crazed me. Tiie world seemed like a mad world, and its inhabitants resolved on self-destruction. How I longed to break the shell which encased this mystery ! I felt that there was a solution to all this; but how was I to discover it? — Saint Leger.
AN INTERRUPTED WEDDING.
The ceremony went on — the moments to me seemed ages ; the responses had been demanded and were made by Leila, in a firm unwavering voice ; and the priest had taken the ring in order to complete the rite. At this moment, a moan at my side caused me to turn, Wallenroth had sunk down insensible. The priest paused, startled by the interruption ; a gesture from Vautrey recalled him to his duty ; but now a slight disturbance was heard, proceeding from the entrance : the noise inci-eased — the priest paused again — when a hideous creature with the aspect of a fiend darted swiftly forward, and be- fore one could say what it was. lighted with a single bound upon the shoulders of the Count. I saw the glitter of steel aloft, and flashing sud-
104
RICHAKD BUKLEIGH KIMBALL.— 3
deiily downward; I saw Vautrey fall heavily upon the mosaic — dead. His exeoutioiu'r crouched a inonient over hira, with a brute fierceness ; then drew the dirk from the wound, and as drops of" blood fell from its point, sprang quickly toward me, shaking the weapon with a wild and triumphant air, and exclaiming, ' Tat's petter dune ! ' The truth flashed upon me — I beheld in the repulsive w-retch before me the creature we had encountered at the toll-gate — the wild sav- age seen at St. Kildare, tlie fierce cateran of the highlands, the leal subject of Glenfinglas — Doii- acha Mac Ian.
105
ALEXANDER WILLIAM KINGLAKE.— 1
KINGLAKE, Alexander Willl^m, an English historian, born near Taunton in 1811. He was educated at Eton and at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he took his degree in 1832, and was called to the bar in 1837. Soon after he made a tour in European Turkey, Asia Minor, Syria, and Egypt. Letters which he wrote to his friends were several years later, in 1844, published under the title of Eothe.n (" From the East.") On his return from the East he entered upon practice in London as a Chancery lawyer. In 1857 he was returned to Parlia- ment, in the Liberal interest for the borough of Bridgewatei" ; for which he was again returned in 1868, but was unseated on peti- tion. Besides ^o(;Aew lii.s only notable work is the History of the Invasion of the Crimea^ of which- volumes T. and II. appeared in 1863 ; volumes VI [. and VIII. in 1877 ; the other volumes having been published inter- mediately.
COLLOQUY BETWEEN TRAVELLER AND PASHA, AS INTERPRETED BY THE DRAGOMAN.
Unless you can contrive to learn a little of the language, you will be rather bored by your visits of ceremony ; the intervention of the interpre- ter, or dragoman, as he is called, is fatal to the spirit of conversation. A traveller ma}' write and say " the Pasha of So-and-So was par- ticularly interested in the vast progress which has been made in the application of steam, and appeared to understand the structure of our machinery," and so on, and that "he expressed a lively admiration for the many sterling qualities for which the people of England are dis- tinguished." But the heap of commonplaces thus quietly atti-ibuted to the Pasha will have been founded, perhaps, on some such conversa- tion as this ; —
106
ALEXANDER WILLIAM KINGLAKE.— 2
Pasha. — The Englishman is w<4c'ome ; most blessed among hours is this of his coming.
Dragoman. — The Pasha pays you his compli- ments.
Traveller Give him my best compliments in
return, and say I'm delighted to have the lionor of seeing him.
Dragoman His Lordship, this Englishman,
Lord of London, Scorner of Ireland, Suppres- sor of France, has quitted his governments, and left his enemies to breathe for a moment, and has crossed the waters in strict disguise, with a small but eternally faithful retinue of followei-s, in order that he might look upon the bright countenance of the Pasha among Pashas — the everlasting Pashalik of Karagholookoldour.
Traveller What on earth have you been say- ing about London? The Pasha will be taking me for a mere cockney. Have I not told you always to say that I am from a branch of the family of Mudcombe Park, and am to be a magistrate for the county of Bedfordshire, only I've not {pialilied, and that I should have been a Deputy-Lieutenant if it had not been for the ex- traordinary conduct of Lord Mountpromise, and that I was a candidate for Goldborough at the last election, and that I should have won easy, if my committee had not been bought? I wish to Heaven that if you do say anything about me, you'd tell the simple truth.
Pasha — What says the friendly Lord of Lon- don ? Is there aught that I can grant him within the Pashalik of Karagholookoldour?
Dragoman — This friendly Englishman — this branch of Mudcombe — this head-purveyor of Goldborough — this possible policeman of Bed- fordshire, is recounting liis achievements, and the numljer of his titles.
Pasha — The end of his honors is more dis- tant than the ends of the Earth, and the cata- logue of his glorious deeds is brighter than the firmament of Heaven.
107
ALEXANDER WILLIAM KINGLAKK— 3
Dragoman. — The Pasha congratulates your Excellency.
Traveller About Goldborough ? The deuce
he does ! But I want to get at his views in re- lation to the present state of the Ottoman Em- pire. Tell him that the Houses of Parliament have met, and that there has been a Si)eech from the Throne, pledging England to preserve the integrity of the Sultan's dominions.
Dragoman. — This branch of Mudcombe, this possible policeman of Bedfordshire, informs your Highness that in P^ngland the Talking Houses have met. and that the integrity of tlie Sultan's dominions has been assured forever and ever by a speech from the Velvet Chair.
Pasha Wonderful Chair ! Wonderful
Houses ! Whirr ! whirr ! whirr ! all by wheels ! whiz ! whiz ! all by steam ! Wonderfid Chair ! Wonderful Houses ! Wonderful Peo[)le ! Whirr ! whirr ! all by wheels ! whiz ! whiz ! all by steam !
Traveller. — What does the Pasha mean by tlie whizzing? He does not mean to say, does he, that our Government will ever abandon their pledges to the Sultan ?
Dragoman No, your Excellency ; but he
says the English talk by wheels and by steam.
Traveller. — That's an exaggeration ; but say that the English really have carried machinei-y to great perfection ; tell the Pasha (he'll be struck by that) that wherever we have any disturban- ces to put down — even at two or three hundred miles from London — we can send troops by the thousands to the scene of action in a few hours.
Dragoman His Excellency, this Lord of
Mudcombe, observes to your Highness that whenever the Irish, or the French, or the In- dians rebel against the English, whole armies of soldiers, and brigades of artillery, are dropped into a mighty chasm called Euston Square, and in the biting of a cartridge they arise up again in Manchester, or Dublin, or Paris, or Delhi,
108
ALEXAXDKR WILLIAM KINGLAKE.— 4
ami iiiteily exterminate the enemies of England iVoin tlie face of the Eartli.
Pasha. — I know it — I know all — the particu- lars have been faithfully relate<l to me. and my mind comprehends locomotives. The armies of P^ngland ride upon the vapors of boiling caul- drons, and their horses are flaming coals ! whirr ! whirr I all by* wheels ! whiz ! whiz I all by steam.
Traveller. — I wish to have the opinion of an unprejudiced Ottoman gentleman as to the pros- pects of our English commerce and manufact- ures. Just ask the Pasha to give me his views on the subject.
Pasha. — The ships of the English swarm like flies ; their printed calicoes cover the whole earth ; and by the side of their swords tlie blades of Damascus are blades of grass. All India is but an item in the ledger-books of the merchants, whose lumber-rooms are filled with ancient thrones! "Wiiirr! whirr! all by wlieels ! wliiz I svhiz ! all by steam !
Dragoman. — The Pasha compliments the cutlery of England, and also the P^ast India Company.
Traveller. — Well, tell the Pasha I am exceed- ingly gratified to find that he entertains snch a high opinion of our manufacturing energy ; but I should like him to know, thougli, that we have got something in England besides that. You can explain that we have our virtues in the country — that the British yeoman is still, thank (Jod I the British yeoman. Oh ! ])y-tlie-I)ye, whilst you are about it. you may as well say that we are a truth-telling people, and, like the Osmanlees, are faithful in the performance of our promises.
Pasha — It is true, it is true : through all Eeringstan the English are foremost and best ; for the Russians are drilled swine, and the Ger- mans are sleeping babes, and the Italians are the servants of songs, and the French are the
109
ALEXANDER WILLIAM KINGLAKE.— 5
sons of newspiipei's, nnd the Greeks they are weavers of lies; but the English and the Osmanlees are brothers tonrether in righteons- ness ; for the Osmanlees believe in only one God, and cleave to the Koran, and destroy idols; so do the Englisli worship one God, and abomi- nate graven images, and tell the trnth, and be- lieve in a Book ; and though they drink the juice of the grape, yet to say that they worship their prophet as God, or to say that they are eaters of pork — these are lies — lies born of Greeks, and nursed by Jews.
Dragoman. — The Pasha compliments the English.
TrareUer (rising) — Well, I've had enough of this. Tell the Pasha I'm greatly obliged to him for his hospitality ; and still more for his kindness in furnishing me with horses ; and say that now I must be off.
Pasha. — Proud are the sires, and blessed are the dams of the horses that shall carry your Excellency to the end of his prosperous journey. May the saddle beneath him glide down to the gates of the happy city, like a boat swimming on the third river of Paradise. May he sleep the sleep of a child, when his friends are around him, and the while that his enemies are abroad, may his eyes flame red through the darkness — more red than the eyes of ten tigers ! — Farewell !
Dragomcm — The Pasha wishes your Excel- lency a pleasant journey.
So ends the visit — Eothen.
TODLEBEN, THE DEFENDER OF SEBASTOPOL.
The more narrow-minded men of the Czar's army — and even while Nicholas lived, the con- fused Czar liimself — would have thought they suf- ficiently descT-ibed the real defender of Sebastopol by calling him an " Engineer Officer," with perhajjs superadded some epithet such, as "ex- cellent," or "able," or "good ; " and it is true that his skill in that brancli of the service en-
110
ALEXANDER WILLIAM KINGLAKE.— 6
ablfd the great volunteer to bring liis powers to act at a critical time; but it would be a wild mistake to imagine that, because fraught with knowledge and skill on one special subject, his mind was a mind at all prone to run in accus- tomed set grooves. He was by nature a man great in war, and richly gifted with power, not oidy to provide in good time for the dimly ex- pected conditions which it more or less slowly unfolds, but to meet its most sudden emergen- cies. AVlieii, for instance, we saw him at Inker- man in a critical moment, he, in theory was only a spectator on horseback ; but to avert the impending disaster, he instantly assumed a com- mand, lie seized, if one may so speak, on a competent body of troops, and rescued from im- minent capture the vast, clubbed, helpless pro- cession of Mentschikoflf's retreating artillery.
He was only at first a volunteer colonel, and was afterwards even no more, in the langujtge of formalists, than a general commanding the engineers in a fortress besieged ; but the task he designed, th<i task he undertook, the task he — till wounded — pursued with a vigor and genius that astonished a gazing world, was — not this or tiiat fraction of a mighty work, but simply the whole defence of Sebastopol. Like many an- other general, he from time to time found him- self thwarted, and too often encountered obstruc- tions ; but upon the whole, even after the " heroic period," when the glorious sailors were mainly his trust and his strength, there glowed in the hearts of the Russians, notwithstanding tbreign invasion, a genuine spirit of jjatriotism which not only brought tliem to face the toils and dangers of war with a ready devotion, but even in a measure kept down the growth of ignoble jealousies directed against this true chief.
The task of defending .Sebastopol was a charge of su[)erlative moment, and drew to it- self before long the utmost efforts that Russia 111
ALEXANDER WILLIAM KINGLAKE.— 7
could bring to bear on the war. Since tlie fort- ress— because not invested — stood open to all who would save it, and only closed against enemies, the troops there at any time planted were something more than a " garrison," being also in truth the foremost column of troops en- gaged in resisting invasion ; and moreover the one chosen body out of all the Czar's forces which had in charge his great jewel — the price- less Sebastopol Roadstead.
The invaders and the invaded alike had from time to time fondly dwelt on plans for deciding the fate of Sebastopol by means of action else- where; but tiie Russians, deterred from " ad- ventures" by the terrible Inkerman day, had since given up all recourse to field operations attempted with any such object ; and, on the other hand. General Pelissier by his great strength of will had substantially brought the invaders to follow a like resolve. From this avoidance on both sides of serious field opera- tions, it resulted of course that hostilities be- came, as it were, condensed on the Sebastopol battle-field. There, accordingly, and of course with intensity proportioned to the greatness and close concentration of efforts made on both sides, the raging war laid its whole stress.
On the narrow arena thus chosen it was Rus- sia— all Russia — that clung to Sebastopol, with its faubourg the Karabelnaya ; and since Todle- ben there was conducting the defence of the place, it follows from what we have seen, that he was the chief over that very part of the Czar's gathered, gathering, armies which had " the jewel " in charge ; and moreover that, call him a Sapper, or call him a warlike Dictator, or whatever men choose, he was the real com- mander for Russia on the one confined seat of conflict where all the long-plotted hostilities of both the opposing forces had drawn at last to a centre.
To appreciate the power he wielded, and dis- 112
ALEXANDER WILLIAM KINGLAKE.— 8
tinguish liim from an olficer defending an iii- vt'sted fortress, one must again recur to the [)eculiar nature of the strife on which France and Enghind had entered. Though maintained in great part with the kind of appliances tliat are commonly used by the assailants and defenders of fortresses, the conflict was so strongly marked in its character by the absence of complete investment as to be rather a con- tinuous battle between two entrenched armies than what men in general mean when tliey casually speak of a "siege." Each force, if thus lastingly engaged, was likewise all the wliile drawing an equally lasting support, the one from all Russia extending the strength of the Eni[)ire in her own dominions, the other from what was not less than a great European Alliance with full command of the sea.
Tlie commander of a fortress besieged in the normal way. cut off from the outer world, must commonly dread more or less the exhaustion of his means of defence; but no cares of that ex- act kind cast their weight on the mind of the chief engaged in defending Sebastopol; for be- ing left wholly free to receive all the succors that Russia might send him, he had no exhaus- tion to fear, except, indeed, such an exhaustion of Russia herself as would prevent her furnish- ing means for the continued defence of the for- tress. The garrison holding Sebastopol, and made, one may. say, inexhaustible by constant reinforcement, used in general to have such a strength as the Russians themselves thought well fitted for the defence of the fortress; juid if they did not augment it, this was simply be- cause greater numbers for service required be- hind ramparts would have increased the ex- acted sacrifices without doing proportionate good.
But in truth — because constantly drawing
fresh accessions of strength from the rear this
peculiarly circumstanced garrison represented 118 8
ALEXANDEli WILLIAM KINGLAKE.— 9
both a power {iiid n sacritice tliat could not be measured by merely counting its numbers at any one given time. The force was so privi- leged as to be exempt from the weakness of ai- mies with dwindling numbers. The garrison was ever young, ever strong, ever equal in num- bers to what were considered its needs. It was constantly indeed sending great numbers of men, sick and wounded, to hospitals over the Roadstead, and was always contributing largely to "the grave of the hundred thousand" in the Severnaya ; but the wounded, the sick, tiie dead were constantly replaced by fresh troops ; and even a plague of downheartedness in the sol- diery, such as showed itself on the 18th of June, was an evil that the commander of the garrison knew how to shake off by marching away the dispirited regiments, and promptly filling their places with troops in a more warlike mood.
Great of course was the power, though not to be told by arithmetic, of an ever fresh body of troops thus peculiarly circumstanced, with Todle- ben's mighty defenses to cover their front ; but proportionately great was the strain that Sebas- topol put upon Russia by continually exacting fresli troops for a garrison that was fast losing- men, yet — on peril of a fatal disaster — must al- ways be kept in due strength. Because he de- fended the fortress under all these conditions at a time when the forces on each side were avoid- ing grave field operations. General Todleben, I think, must be said to have virtually held the command in that protracted conflict which we have almost been ready to call a "■ continuous battle," and, indeed, since the Inkerman days, to have virtually wielded the power — the whole of the power — that Russia opposed to her invad- ers on the Sebaslopol theatre of war. . . .
And what Todleben achieved, he achieved in his very own way. Never hearkening appar- ently to the cant of the Russian army of those days, which, with troops marshalled closely like sheep,
114
ALEXANDER WILLIAM KIX( iLAKE.— 10
professed lo fight with the bayonet, he made it his task to avert all strife at close quarters, by pouring on any assailants sucli storms of mitrail as should make it impossible for them to reach the verge of his counterscarps. That is the plan he designed from the first, and the one he in substance accomplished. From tiie day when he made his first eflforts to cover with earth- works the suddenly threatened South Side to the time when his wound com])elled him to quit the fortress, he successfully defended Sebastopol ; and, as we have seen, to do this — after Inker- man, or at all events, after the onset attempted against Eiipatoria — was to maintain the whole active resistance that Russia o[)posed to her in- vadei'S iu tiie south-western Ci'imea.
One may say of Todleben, and the sailors and the other brave men acting with them, that by maintaining tlie defence of Sebastopol. not only l(Mig after the 20th of September, but also long after the oth of November, they twice over vancpiished a moral obstacle till then regarded as one that no man could well overcome: '"If a battle undertaken in defence of a fortress is fougiit and lost, the place will fall." This, be- fore the exploit of the great volunteer, was a saying enounced with authority as though it were almost an axiom that science had deigned to lay down. Yet after the defeat of their army on the banks of the Alma, aftei- even its actual evasion from the neighborhood of Sebas- topol, he, along with the glorious sailors and the rest of the people there left to their fate proved to be of such (piality that, far from consenting to let the place "fall," as experience declared that it must, he and they — under the eyes of the en- emy— began to create, and created that vast chain of fortress defence which, after more than eight months, we saw him still holding intact. And again, when — in sight of the fortress which it strove to relieve — an army gathered in strength, fought and lost with great slaughter 115
ALEXANDER WILLIAM KINGLAKE.— 11
the battle of Inkcrnuui, sending into the Kara- belnayaits thousands u[)on thousands of" wounded soldiery, the resolute chief and brave garrison did not therefore remit, did not slacken, their defence of the place ; so that — even twice over — by valor they refuted a saying till then held so sure that, receiving the assent of mankind, it had crystallized into a maxim.
For other Russians the glory of having de- fended Sebastopol until the time we have reached was, after all, a forerunner of defeat ; but for Todleben personally, whilst he still toiled in the fortress, no such reverse lay in wait. The time when he quitted it (wounded) was for him more tlian ever a time of victory, following close, as it did, on his crowning achievement made good on the 18th of June. If the Czar had come down to Sebastopol, or rather to the Karabelnaya, at the close of the engagement on the morning of the 18th of June, he might there have apostrophized Todleben, as he did long years after at Plevna, when saying : " Edward Ivanovitcli, it is thou that hast ac- complished it all!" — Iiwasion of the Crimea. ^ 116 -^
THOMAS KINGO.— 1
KIXGO, Thomas, a Danish ecclesiastic and poet, born in 163-± ; died in 1723. He became Bishop of Funen, and wrote num- erous Psalms and Spiritual Songs, which are held in high esteem among the pious of his native land. He has been "the Watts of Denmark."
A MOKNING SONG.
From eastern quarters now
The Sun 's up-wandering, His rays on the rock's brow
And hill's side squandering ; Be glad, my soul, and sing amidst thy pleasure.
Fly from the house of dust.
U[) with thy thanks, and trust To heaven's azure.
Oh, countless as the grains
Of sand so tiny, Measureless as the main's
Deep waters briny, God's mercy is, which He upon me showereth !
Each mirroring in my shell
A grace innumerable To me down pouretli.
Thou best dost understand,
Lord God, ray needing ; And placed is in Thy hand
My fortune's speeding; And Thou foreseest what is for me most fitting.
Be still, then, O my soul!
To manage in the whole, Thy God permitting.
May fruit the land array,
And corn for eating ! May Truth e'er make its way,
With Justice meeting! Give Thou to me my share with every other.
Till down my staff I lay,
And from this world away Wend to another !
Transl. in For. Quart. Review.
117
CHARLES KINGSLEY.— 1
KTNGSLEY, Charles, an English cler- gyman and author, born in 1819 ; died in 1875. He took his degree at Magdalen College, Cambridge, in 1842, and two years afterwards was presented to the living of Eversley in Hampshire. In 1859 he was appointed Professor of Modern History at Cambridge, and was made Canon of West- minster in 1872. His publications number about thirty -five. Besides several volumes of Se)-?no7is, h.\s principals works are: T7ie Saint's Tragedy (1848), Alton Locke, Tailor and Poet (1850), Yeast, a Problem (1851), Hypatia, or new Foes with an old Face (1853), Westward Ho ! (1855), The Heroes, or Greek Fairy Tales (1856), Sir Walter Baleigh and his Tinips (1859), The Water Babies (1863), Hereward, tlie Last of the English (1866), Hoiv and Why (1869), A Christmas in the West Indies (1871), Prose Idyls (1873), Health and Education (1874). Most of his poems are inserted in his tales,
THE SANDS OF DEE.
"O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home. And call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee." The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, And all alone went she.
Tlie creeping tide came up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see ; The blinding mist came down and hid the land — And never home came she.
" Oh, is it a weed, or fish, or floating liair — A tress o' golden hair, 0' drowned maiden's hair, 118
CHAKLEH KlNGttLEY.— 2
Abovt' the nets at sea? Was lu'ver salmon yet that slione so fair, Among tlie stakes on Dee."
They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel, crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea ; But still the boatman hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee. ,
THE GOTHIC TRIBES AND THE ROMAN EMPIRE.
The health of a Church depends not merely on the creed which it pi'ofesses, not even on the wisdom and holiness of a few great ecclesiastics, but on the faith and virtue of its individual members. The mens sana must have a corpus sffiiui/i to inliabit. And even for the AVesteni Churcli tlie lofty future which was in store for it would have been impossible without some in- fusion of new and healthier blood into the veins of a world drained and tainted by the influence of Rome. And the new blood was at hand in the early years of the fifth century. The great tide of those Gotliic nations of which the Nor- wegian and the German are the purest remain- ing types, though every nation of ICurope, from (iibraltar to St. Petersburg, owes to them the most precious (dements of strength, was swee])- ing onward, wave over wave, in a steady south- western current across the Roman territory, aiul only stopping and recoiling when it reached the siiores of the Mediterranean.
Tliose wild tribes were bringing witli them into the magic circle of the "Western Church's influence the very materials which she re(|uired for tlie building up of a future Christendom, and wliich slie would find as little in tlie Western Empire as in the Eastern : — comparative purity of morals ; sacred respect for woman, for family life, for law, equal justice, individual freedom,
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CHARLES KINGSLEY.— 3
and, above all, for honesty in word and deed ; bodies untainted by liereditiiry eifeminuey ; hearts earnest though genial, and blest with a strange willingness to learn even from those whom they despised ; a brain equal to that of the Roman in practical power, and not too far beliiiid that of the Eastern in imaginative and speculative acute- ness.
And their strength was felt at once. Their vanguard, confined with difficulty for three cen- turies beyond the Eastern Alps, at the expense of sanguinary wars, had been adopted, wherever it was practicable, into the service of the Empire ; and the heart's core of the Roman legions was composed of Gothic officers and soldiers. But now the main body had arrived. Tribe after tribe was crowding down to the Alps, and trampling upon each other on the frontiers of the Empire. The Huns, singly their inferiors, pressed them from behind with the irresistible weight of imm- bers ; Italy, with her rich cities tiiid fertile lowlands, beckoned them on to plunder. As auxiliaries, they had learned their own strength and Roman weakness ; a casus belli was soon found.
The whole pent-up deluge bunst over the plains of Italy, and the Western Empire became from that day forth a dying idiot, wliile the new invaders divided Europe among themselves.
The fifteen years, 398-413, had decided the fate of Greece; the next four years that of Rome itself. The countless treasures which five centuries of rapine had accumulated round the Capitol had become the prey of men clothed in sheep-skins and horse-hide ; and the sister of an Emperor had found her beauty, virtue, and pride of race worthily matched by tliose of the hard- lianded Northern hero who led her away from Italy as his captive and his bride to found new kingdoms in South France and Spain, and to drive the newly-arrived Vandals across the
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CHARLES KINGSLEY.— 4
Stniits of Gibraltar into tlu' tlieii blooming coast-land of Northern Africa.
Eveiywhere the mangled limbs of the Ohl World were seething in the Medea's cauldron, to come forth whole, and young, and strong. The Longobards — noblest of their race — had found a temporary resting-place upon the Austrian frontier, after long southward wanderings from the Swedish mountains, soon to be dispossessed again by the advancing Huns, and, crossing the Alps, to give their name forever to the plains of Lombardy. A few more tumultuous years, and the Franks would find themselves lords of the Lower Rhineland ; and before the hairs of Hy- patia's scholars had gi-own gray, the mytliic Hengst and Ilorsa would have landed on the shores of Kent, and an English nation have be- gun its world-wide life.
But some great Providence forbade our race — triumphant in every other quarter — a footing Ijeyond tlie Mediterranean, or even in Constan- tinople, which to this day preserves in Europe tlie faith and manners of Asia. The Eastern World seemed barred by some strange doom from the only influence which could have regen- erated it. Every attempt of the Gothic races to establish themselves beyond the sea — wh<;ther in the form of an organized kingdom, as did the Vandals in Africa ; or as a mere band of bii- gands as did tlie Goths in Asia Minor, under Gaiiias ; or as a pretorian guard, as did the \'arangiaiis of tlie Middle Ages; or as religious invaders, as did the Crusaders — ended onlv in the corruption and disappearance ol' the colon- ists. Climate, bad example, and the luxury of power degraded them in one century into a race of helph'ss and debauched slaveholders, doomed the Vandals to utter extirpation before the semi- Gothic jirmies of Belisarius; and with them van- ished the last chance that the Gothic races would exercise on the Eastern World the same stern yet wliolesome discipline under which the Western had been restored to life. — Hypatia.
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CHARLES KINGSLEY.-5
THE DEAR OLD DOLL,
I liad once a sweet little doll, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world ; Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears.
And her hair was so charmingly curled. Hut I lost my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day ; And I cried for her more than a week, dears.
But I never could tind where she lay.
I round my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day ; Folks say that slie is terribly changed, dears.
For her paint is all waslied away, And lier arm trodden off by the cows, dears,
And her hair not the least bit cuiled ; Yet, for old sake's sake, she is still, dears.
The prettiest doll in the world.
Tlie Water Babies.
THE world's age.
Who will say the woi id is dying ?
Wliowill say our prime is past? Sparks from Heaven, within us lying,
Flash, and will flash, until the last. Fools! who fancy Christ mistaken;
Man a tool to buy and sell; Eartli a failure, God-forsaken,
Ante-room of Hell.
Still the i-ace of Hero-spirits
Pass the lamp from hand to hand ; Age from age the words inherits —
" Wife, and child, and Father-land." Still the youthful hunter gathers
Fiery joy from wold and wood ; He will dare, as dared liis fathers,
Give him cause as good.
While a slave bewails his fetters;
While an orphan pleads in vain ; While an infant lisps his letters,
Heir of all the ages' gain ;
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CHAKLES KINGSLEY.— 6
While a lip grows ripe for kissing ;
"While a moan from man is wrung — Know, by every want and blessing,
That the world is young.
THE THREE FISHERS.
Three fishers went sailing away to the West, Away to the West as the sun went down ; Each thought on the woman who loved him the best. And the children stood watching them out of
the tow n ; For men nuist work, and women must weep. And there's little to earn, and many to keep Though the harbor bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the light-house tower, And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down ; They looked at the squall, and they looked at
the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbor bar be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sands.
In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their
hands. For those who will never come home to the town ; For men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep; And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
123
WILLIAM INGRAHAM KIP.— 1
KIP, William Ingraham, an Ameri- can clergyman and author, born in New Yorlv in 1811. After graduating at Yale in 1831, he studied law, and then divinity, and was ordained deacon in 1835. Having min- istered for a time at Morristowu, N. J., and Grace church. New York, he became rector of St. Paul's, Albany, in 1838, and was elected Missionary Bishop of California in 1853. His jurisdiction became a diocese in 1857. His publications include : The Lenten Fast, (1843), The Double Witness of the Church (1844), Christmas Holidays in i?ome(1845). Early Jesuit Missions in Am- erica (1846), Early Conflicts of ChrisLianity (1850), The Catacombs of Rome (1854), Unnoticed Things of Scripture (1868), The Olden Time in New Yorh (1872), and The Church of the Apostles (1877.) He edited Confessions of a Romish Convert (1850.)
CHURCH PRINCIPLES,
No one can long labor with effect \n a cause which he does not perfectly understand. He may be aroused to a spasmodic effort by some sudden burst of entliusiasm, but it needs something more to sustain him amid the weariness and self- denial of continued exertion. To inspire him with an abiding earnestness, liis views must be clear and distinct. He must be, as it were, deeply penetrated with the truth he would advo- cate, and then he will be compelled to listen reverently to her voice, and to go forth and labor in her behalf, when she [wints him to the held. Otherwise a secret, lurking unbelief will belie the cold profession of his lips ; or else, if believed at all, the truth for which he is bound to con- tend will be entirely inoperative, and " lie bedrid- den in the dormitory of the soul ! "
The Church can never depend upon the stabil- ity of her ignorant members. He who attends
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WILLIAM INGRAHAM KIP.— 2
her services merely because he was boni a Churchman — or because to do so is convenient — or because he prefers the minister who happens to officiate at her altar — can be of but little ben- efit to her cause. The slightest reason will in- duce him to leave lier fold and unite with others. He has merely a personal preference, not founded on any distinct understanding of her claims Tke Double WitTiess of the Church.
THE FALL OF PAGANISM.
And where is the Kingly power of Rome, from which came forth those edicts condemning the faithful to the wild beasts and the sword ? Look at that bill, which lies between us and the walls. It seems covered with a mass of mighty ruins, as if destruction there had fjillen on some splendid city and changed its stately magnifi- cence to crumbling walls and prostrate columns. That is the Palatine Hill, and there are the ruins of Nero's Golden House ; and there the trees twine their roots through marble fioors once trodden by the masters of the world, and the tall grass and rank weeds wave above them in wild luxuriance. A solitary building raises its white walls in the midst of all this desolation, hourly the sound of a bell is wafted through the air, and those who are lingering round hear a low chant borne faintly to their ears ; for that is the monasteiy of the Capuchin monks, and their prayers and anthems have replaced the sensual rt^vellings of the Caesars.
And the ancient paganism, too, like the civil power which supported it, has vanished as a dream. There is the Capitoline Hill, which once had its fifty shrines, yet no smoke ascends from its height — no altars are seen — the temples which once crowned it are gone, and their col- umns and precious marbles have been used to erect the Christian churches. — The Catacombs of Rome.
125
CONRAD KIRCHBERG.— 1
KIRCHBERG, Conuad, a German Min- nesinger, of whom we only know that he flourished during the latter half of the eleventh century. Several of his poems have come down to us.
THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY.
May, sweet May again is come,
^lay that frees the land from gloom.
Children, children, up, and see
All her stores of jollity.
On the laughing hedgerow's side
She hath spread her treasures wide ;
She is in the greenwood shade,
AVhere the nightingale hath made
1-Cvery branch and every tree
Ring witli her sweet melody.
Hill and dale are May's own treasures :
Youths, rejoice in sportive measures ;
Sing ye ! join the chorus gay !
Hail this merry, merry May !
U|) tlien, cliildren ! We will go Where the blooming roses grow ; III a joyful company, We the bursting flowers will see. Up ! your festal dress prepare ! Where gay hearts are meeting, there May hatli pleasures more inviting. Heart and sight and ear delighting. Listen to the birds' sweet song ; Hark, how soft it floats along ! Country dames, our pleasures share ; Never saw I sky so fair ; Therefore dancin<r forth we go. Youths, rejoice! the flowerets blow!
Sing we! join the chorus gay.
Hail this merry, merry May !
Transl. of E. Taylor.
126
JOHN FOSTER KIRK.-l
KIRK, John Foster, an American his- torian, born in New Brunswick, Canada, in 1824. He took up his residence at Boston about 1843, and from 1847 to 1859 was secretary to William H. Prescott, whom he aided in the preparation of his later works. From 1870 to 1886 he was the editor oi Lip- pencotfs Mayazine. in Philadelphia. .Tnl886 lie was appointed Lecturer on European History at the University of Pennsylvania. His principal work is the History of Charles the Bold., Duke of Burgundy, (three vol- umes 1863-68.)
THE FIGHT AT .^MORAT.
Charles saw himself on Sunday, January 5, 1477, stripped of both his wings, assailed at once on botli his flanks. He had liis choice be- tween a rapid flight and a speedy death. Well, then — death. Leading his troops, he plunged into the midst of his foes, now closing in upon all sides. But so encaged, so overmatched, what courage could have availed ? " The foot stood long and manfully," is the testimony of a hos- tile eye-witness. The final struggle, thougli ob- stinate, was short. Broken and dispersed, the men had no recourse but flight. The greatest nuniljer kept to the west of Nancy, to gain the road to Conde and Luxembourg. Cliarles, with tiie handful that still remained around liini, fol- lowed in the same direction. The mass, lioth of fugitives and pursuers, was already far ahead. There was no clioice now. Fliglit, coiiil);!!, deatii — it was all one.
Closing up, the little band of nobles — last iclir of chivalry — charged into the centre of a body of foot. A halbardier swung his weapon, and brought it down upon tiie head of Charles. He leeled in the .saddle. Citey flung his arms around iiim and steadied him, receiving, while so engaged, a tLrusI from a spear throiigli tlie parted joints of 127
JOHN FOSTER KIRK.— 2
his corsekt. Pressing on, still figlifiiig, still hemmed in, they dropped one by one. Charles's page — a Roman of the ancient family of Colonna — rode a little behind, a gilt helmet hanging from his saddle-bow. He kept his eye upon his master — saw him surrounded, saw him at the edge of a ditch, saw his hoi-se stumble, the rider fall. The next moment Colonna wa.s himself dismounted and made prisoner.
None knew who had fallen, or lingered to see. The rout swept along, the carnage had no pause. The course was strewn with arms, banners, and the bodies ofthe slain. Riderless horses plunged among the ranks of the victors and the van- quished. There was a road turning directly westward : but it went to Toul : French lancers were there. Northward the valley conti-acted. On the one side was the forest, on the other the river; ahead, the bridge of Bouxieres, guarded, barred by Campobasso. Arrived there, all was over. A few turned aside into the forest, to be hunted still, to be butchered by the peasantry, to perish of hunger and cold. Others leaped into the river, shot at by the arquebusiers, driven back or stabbed by the traitors on the opposite bank, swept by the current underneath the ice. The slaughter here was far greater than on the field. No quarter was given by the Swiss. But the cavalry, both of Lorraine and the allies, re- ceived the swords of men of rank. When Rene came up the sun had long set. There was little chance, less occasion, for further pursuit. The short winter's day had had its full share of blood. Merciful Night came down, enabling a scanty remnant to escape. — History of Charles the Bold.
FINDING THE BODY OF CHARLES THE BOLD.
If the Duke of Burgundy were still alive — that was the thought which now occupied eveiy breast. If he were alive, no doubt but that he would return — no hope that the war was over.
128
JOHN FOSTER KIRK.— 3
Messengers were sent to inquire, to explon-. Tlie field was searched. Horsemen went to IMetz and neijiliboring places to ask whether he had passed. None had seen him, none could find him, none had anything to tell. Wild rumors had started up. He had hidden in the forest, retired to a hermit- age, assumed tlie religious garb. Goods were bought and sold, to be paid for on his re-appear- auce. Years afterwards there were those who still believed, still expected.
Yet intelligence, proof, was soon forthcoming. In the evening of Monday Campobasso pre- sented himself, bringing with him Colonna, who told what he had seen, and gave assurance that he could find the spot. Let him go, then, and seek, accompanied by those who would be surest to recognize tlie form — Mathieu, a Portuguese physician, a valet-de-chambre, and a '" laundress " who had prepared tlie baths for the fallen prince. They pass(Ml out of the gate of Saint John, descending to the low, then marshy ground, on the west of the town. It was drained by a ditch, the bed of a slender rivulet that turned a mill in the faubourg. The distance was not great — less than half an English mile. Several hundred bodies lay near together; but these they passed, coming to where a small band, " thirteen »r fourteen," had fallen, fighting singly, yet to- getlier. Here lay Citey, here Contay, here a C'roy, a Helvoir, a Lalain — as in every battle-^eld ; here a Bievre, loved by his enemies, his skull laid )|)en " like a pot."
Tliese are on the edge of the ditch. At the l)Ott()m lies another body, " short, but thick-set :iMil well-membiMcd,'' in a worse plight than all the rest; strip[)ed naked, horribly mangled, the ilieek eaten away by wolves or famished dogs. Can tills be he ? They stoop and examine. The nails, never pari;d, ure '• longer than any man's." Two teeth are gone — thi'ough a fall years ago. rhere are othei marks : a fistula in the groin, in the neck a scar left by a sw(ud-lln'ust received
9 129
JOHN POSTER KIEK.-4
at Montlheiy. The men turn pale, the woman shrieks and throws herself upon the body : "My lord of Burgundy ! My lord of Burgundy ! " Yes, this is he — the " Great Duke," the de- stroyer of Liege, the " Terror of France ! "
They strive to raise it. The tiesh, embedded in the ice, is rent by the effort. Help is sent for. Four of Rene's come — men with imple- ments, cloths, and bier ; women have sent their veils. It is lifted and borne into the town, through the principal street, to the house of George Marqueiz, where there is a large and suitable chamber. The bearers rest a moment ; set down their burden on the pavement. Let the spot be forever marked with a cross of black stones.
It is carried in, waslied with wine and warm water, again examined. There are three princi- pal wounds. A halberd, entering at the side of the head, has cloven it from above the ear to the teeth ; botli sides have been pierced with a spear ; another has been thrust into the bowels from be- low. It is wrapped in fine linen, and laid out upon a table. The head, covered with a cap of led satin, lies on a cushion of the same color and material. An altar is decked beside it ; waxen tapers are lighted ; the room is hung with Idack.
Bid his brother, his captive nobles, his sur- viving servants, come and see if this be indeed their prince. Tliey assemble around, kneel, and weep ; take his hands, his feet, and press them to their lips and breast. He was their sovereign, their " good lord," the chief of a glorious house, the last, the greatest of his line.
Let Rene come, to see and to exult. Let him come in the guise of the paladins and preux on occasions of solemnity and pomp — in a long robe sweeping the ground, with a long beard in- terwoven with threads of gold ! So attired, lie enters, stands beside the dead, uncovers tlie face, takes between his warm liaiuls that cold right hand, falls upon his knees, and bursts into sobs. " Fair cousin," Ik^ says — not accusingly, but
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JOHN FOSTER KIRK.— 5
lialt-excusingly — " thou brouglitest great caUinii- (ics and sorrows upon us; may God assoil tliy soul ! " — Gentle Rene, good and gentle prince, (Tod, we doubt not, hath pardoned many a fault of thine for those tender thoughts, those cliarita- ble tears, in the hour of thy great triumph be- side the corpse of thy stern foe! — A quarter of an hour he remains, praying before the altar ; then retires to give ordeis for the burial. Let liim Avho for a twelvemonth was Duke of Loi- raine be laid in tlie Church of Saint George, in front of Ihe High Altar, on the spot where lie stood when invested witli the sovereignty won I)v conquest, to be so lost. — History of Charles
the Bold.
131
CAKOLINE MATILDA KIKKLAND.— 1
KIKKLAND, Caroline Matilda (Stansbury), ail American author, born at New York in 1801 ; died there in 1864. After the death of her father, a publisher of books, the family removed to Clinton, N. Y., where in 1827 she married Mr. Wil- liam Kirkland. About 1888 thej emi- grated to Michigan, which was their home for nearly three years ; and this residence in what was then a " new country," furnished material lor several books. Returning to New York, she established a successful school for young ladies ; and wrote much for various periodicals, becoming in 18-18, editor of the Union Mat/az/jie, afterwards issued at Philadelphia asSartarn''s McKjazine. At the beginning of the civil war she en- tered warmly into the philanthropic meas- ures growing out of that struggle. Her sudden death was the result of overwork in behalf of the " Sanitary Fair." Her princi- pal works are : A Neio Home : Who'' II Fol- low (1839), Forest Life (1842), W<tstern ClearitKjs (1846), Holidays Abroad (1849), The Evejiin;/ Book (1852), A Book for the Home Circle (1853), The Book of Home Beauty, and Personal Memoirs of George Washington (1858.)
Herhusband, William Kirkland(1800- 1846) was for some time a Professor in Hamilton College ; and after returning from Michigan, embarked in journalism, being one of the founders of the Christian In- quirer. Their son, Joseph Kirkland, is a ]awyeY of Illinois. He served in the army during the civil war, and has written Zury, the meanest Man in Spring County (1887.) His sister, Elizabeth Stansbury Kirk- jiAND, Principal of a Female Seminary in
132
CAROLINE .M.\rilJ)A KIKKLAND.— 2
Chicago, has written : iSix hide Cook.s{lS7b), Dor(Cs Housekecpinfj {iS77), A Short History of France (1878), and Speech and Manners (1885.)
.MEETING OF THE FEMALE BENEFICENT SOCIETY.
At length came the much desired Tuesday, whose destined event was the first ineetinji' of" the Society. I had made preparations tor sucli plain and siniph' tare as is usual at such feminine gather- ings, and began to think of arranging my dress witli the decorum required by the occasion, when about one hour before the appointed time came Mrs. Nippers and Miss Clincli, and ere they were unshawled and uniiooded, ^Irs, Flyter and her three children — the eldest four years, and tiie youngest six months. Then Mrs. Muggles and her crimson Itaby, four weeks old. Close on her heels, Mrs. Briggs and her little boy of about three years' standing, in a long-tailed coat, with vest and decencies of scarlet Circassian. And there I stood in my gingham wrapper and kitchen apron, much to my discomfiture and the undis- guised surprise of the Female Beneficent So- ciety.
" I always calculate to be ready to begin at the time api)ointed," remarked the gristle-lipped widow.
" So do I," responded JNIi's. Flyter and Mrs. Mugirles, both of whom sat the whole afternoon, and did not sew a stitch.
" What ! isn't there any work ready r " con- tinued Mrs. Nippers, with an astonished aspect ; " well, I did suppose that such smart officers as we have would have prepared all beforehand AVe always used to at the East."
Mrs. Skinner, wlio is really quite a pattern- woman in all that makes woman indispensable — cookery and sewing — took up the matter (piite warmly, just as I slipped away in disgrace to inakf tiie requisite reform in my costume. When I returned, the work was distributed, and
133
CAROLINE MATILDA KIRKLAND.— 3
the company broken up into little knots or coteries, every head bowed, and every tongue in full play.
I took my seat at as great a distance from the sharp widow as might be ; though it is vain to think of eluding a person of her ubiquity — and reconnoitred the company who were " done off" in first-rate style for this important occasion. There were nineteen women, with thirteen babies, or at least " young 'uns," who were not above ginger-bread. Of these thirteen, nine held large chunks of ginger-bread or doughnuts, in trust for the benefit of the gowns of the Society, the re- maining four were supplied with lumps of maple- sugar, tied up in bits of rag, and pinned to their shoulders, or held dripping in the hands of their mammas.
Mrs. Flyter was '' slicked up " for the occasion in the snufF-colored silk she was married in, curiously enlarged in the back, and not as voluminous in the floating part as is the waste- ful custom of the present day. Her three im- mense children, white-haired and blubber-lipped like their amiable parent, were in pink ging- hams and blue glass-beads. IMrs. Nippers wore her unfailing brown merino and black apron ; Miss Clinch her inevitable scarlet calico ; Mrs. Skinner her red merino, with baby of the same ; Mrs. Daker shone out in her very choicest city finery; and a dozen otlier Mistresses shone in their " 'tothcr gowns " and their tandjoured collars. Mrs. Philo Doubleday's pretty black-eyed Dolly was neatly stowed in a small willow basket, where it lay looking about with eyes of sweet wonder, behaving itself with marvelous quiet- ness and discretion — as did most of the other little torments, to do them justice.
Much consultation, deep and solemn, was held as to tiie most profitable kinds of work to be undertaken by the Society. Many were in favor of makin<i; up linen-^cotton-linen of course — but Mrs. Nippei's assiu-ed the company that
134
CAROLINE -MATILDA KIRKLAND — 4
,-liiils never used to sell well at tlie Ea.-t. and theii'tbre she was perfectly eertain that they woulil not do here. Pincushions and such like teminalities were then proposed; hut at these Mrs. Nippers held up both hands, and showed a double share of blue-white around her eyes. Nobody al)Out her needed pincushions ; and, besides, where should we get materials ? Aprons, capes, caps, collars were all proposed with the same ill-success. At length Mrs. Doubleday, with an air of great deference, incpiired what Mrs. Nippers would recommend. The good lady hesitated a little at this. It was more her forte to object to other peoples' plans than to suggest better; but, after a moment's considera- tion, she said she should think fancy boxes, watch-cases, and alum-baskets Avould be very pretty.
A dead silence fell on the assembly ; but of course it did not last long. Mrs. Skinner went on quietly cutting out shirts, and in a very short time I'ui'nished each member with a good supply of work, stating that any lady might take work home to finish if she liked.
Mrs. Nippers took her work, and edged herselC Into a coterie of which Mrs. Flyter had seemed till then the magnate. Very soon 1 heard — " I declare it's a shame ! " — " I don't know what'll be done about it ! " — " She told me so with her (iwn mouth I " — '• Oh, but I was there myself !" etc., etc.. in many different voices ; the inter- stices tilled with undistinguishable whispers, '•not loud but deep." It was not long before tlie active widow transferred her seat to anothei- corner ; Miss Clinch plying her tongue — not her needle — in a third. The whispers and excla- malions seemed to be gaining ground. The few silent members were inquiring for more work.
" Mrs. Nippers has the sleeve ! Mrs. Ni[)pers, have you finislied that sleeve?" Mrs. Nippers colored, said '• No," and sewed four stitches, i;j5
CAROLINE MATILDA KHiKT-AXD— 5
At length the storm grew loud upace : " It will break up the Society — "
"What is that?" asked Mrs. Doubleday in her sharp treble. " What is it, Mrs. Nippers ? You know all about it."
Mrs. Nippers replied that she only knew what she had heard, etc., etc. But after a little urging consented to inform the company in general that there was great dissatisfaction in the neighbor- hood; that those who lived in log-houses iit a little distance from the village had not been in- vited to join the Society ; and also that many people thought twenty-five cents quite too high for a yearly subscription.
Many looked quite aghast at this. Public opinion is nowhere so strongly felt as in the country, among new settlers ; and as many of the present company still lived in log-houses, a tender string was touched. At length an old lady, who had sat quietly in a corner all the afternoon, looked up from behind the great woolen sock she was knitting :
" Well, now ! that's queer ! " said she, ad- dressing Mrs. Nip[)ers with an air of simplicity simplified. " Miss Turner told me you went round her neighborhood last Friday, and told that Miss Clavers and Miss Skinner despised everybody that lived in log-houses. And you know you told Miss Briggs that you thf)Ught twenty-five cents was too much ; didn't she, Miss Briggs?"
Mrs. Briggs nodded. The widow blushed to the very centre of her pale eyes ; but " e'en though vanquished," she lost not her assurance: " AVhy, I am sure I only said that we only paid twelve-and-a-half cents at the East ; and as to log-houses, I don't know — I can't just recollect — but I didn't say more than the others did."
But human nature could not bear up against the mortification ; and it had, after all, the scarce credible effect of making Mrs. Nippei-s sew in silence for some time, and carry her
136
CAROLINE MATILDA KIKKLAND.-- 6 colors at halt'-inast tlie remainder of t lit' aftor-
IlOOIl.
At tea each lady took one oi' iiiore ot' lier liabies oil lier lap, and nuicli grabbing ensued. Those who won; calicoes seemed in good spirits and a|)petitc^ror green tea. at least; but those who had unwarily sported silks an<l other un- washal)les looked acid and uncomfortable. Cake Mew about at a great rate, and the milk-and- water which ought to have quietly gone down sinidry juvenile throats was spii-ted without mercy into sundiy wry faces. l>ul we got tin-ough. The astringent refreshment produced its usual crisping effect upon the vivacity of the company. Talk ran high upon all Montacutian themes : —
'• Do you raise any butter now ? " — " When ar<' you going to raise your barn? " — '• Is your man a-going to kill this week?" — "1 ha'n'tseen a bit of meat these six weeks." — '' AVas you to meetin' last Sabbath?" — "Has Miss White got any wool to sell ? " — " Do tell if you've been to Ditioit ?" — "Are you out ofcandles?" — " Well, J sliotild think Sarah Teals wanted a new gown ! " — " I hope we shall have milk in a week or two." And so on; for, be it known tiiat in a state of society like ours the bare necessaries of life are subjects of sufficient interest for a good deal of conversation.
'•Is your daughter Isabella well?" asked Mr>. Xippers of me, solemnly, pointing to little Tx-ll. who sat munching her bread-and-l)utter, half asleep at the fragmentious table.
'■ Yes, I believe so; look at her cheeks."
'• Ah, yes ! it was her cheeks I was looking at. 'J'hey are so very losy. I have a little niece who is the very image of her. I never see Isabella without thinking of Jerusha ; and Jerusha is most dreadfullv scrofulous."
SatisH«Hl at having made me uncomfortable, Mrs. Xippers turned to Mrs. Doubleday, who 187
CAROLINE MATILDA KIRKLAXD.— 7
WHS trotting her pretty babe with her usual proiul fondness.
"Don't yon think your baby breathes rather strangely?" said the tormentor.
" Breathes ! how ! " said the poor thing, off her guard in an instant.
" Why, rather croupish, I think, if /am any judge. I have never had any children of my own, to be sure; but I was with Miss Gi'een's baby wlien it died, and "
"Come, we'll, be off," said Mr. Doubleday, who had come for his spouse. "■ Don't mind that envious vixen " — aside to iiis Polly. Just thiMi somebody on the opposite side of the room happened to say, speaking of some cloth affair. "Mrs. Nippers says it ought, to be sponged." " Well, sponge it then by all means," said Mr. Dcjul^leday ; " nobody else knows half as mucli about sponging." And with wife and baby in tow, off set the laughing Philo, leaving the widow absolutely transfixed.
" AVhat could INIr. Doubleday mean by that! " was at length her indignant exclamation. No- body spoke. •' I am sure," continued the crest- fallen widow, with an attempt at a scornful gig- gle, "I am sure, if anybody understood him, I would be glad to know what he did mean."
" Well now, I can tell you," said the same simple old lady in the corner, who had let out tlie secret of Mrs. Nipper's morning walks ; " Some folks call that sponging when you go about getting your dinner here, and your tea there, and sich-like — as you know you and Meesy there does. That was wdiat he meant, I guess."
And the old lady quietly put up her knitting and prepared to go home. Mrs. Nipper's claret vXork and green bonnet, and Miss Clinch's ditto, ditto, were in earnest requisition ; and 1 do not think that either of them spent an out that week. ■ — A New Home.
13S
JOHN KITTO.— 1
IvITTO, JoHX, an English soliohir, l.oni lit Plvuiouth in 1804; died at Canstad I, Ger- many, in 185-i. At the age of twelve he was rendered incnrably deaf in consequence of a fall from the roof of a house. He was placed in the work- house, and subsequently apprenticed to a shoemaker who treated him so cruelly that his indentures were can- celled, and he went back to the \\ork-house. His ionduess for study, procured for him admission to the Dissenting College at Islington, soon after which he published by subscription a small volume of miscel- laneous writings. After three or four years he went to Bagdad as a private tutor, re- maining there three years, during which time he acquired an intimate acquaintance with Oriental life. Returning to England, he was engaged by Charles Knight who employed him in the compilation of various books for the "Library of Useful Knowl- edge." In 1854 he was seized with paral- ysis, and went to Germany, where he died. Among his numerous compilations are : The. Pictorial Bible (1835-38), U72cle Oliver's Travels (1838), Pictorical History of Pales- tine (1839-40), Cijcloi:)sedia of Biblical Liter- attire (1839-40), Physical Gi:oiiraphy of the Holy Land (1848), Daily Bible llhistrations (8 vols., 1849-53.) In 1848 he estabhshed the Journal of Sacred Literature^ which he edited until 1853. In 1845 he published The Lost Senses: Deafness and Blindness^ in which he gives a touching account of his own deprivation of hearing.
ORIGIN OF HIS DEAFNESS.
I bfcanie deaf on my father's birthdiiy, early in the year 1817, wlien I liad lately eoinpleted the twelftli year of niv agt\ The eoinmence- 139 -'
JOHN KITTO.— 2
merit of tliis condition is too clearly connected with my circumstances in life to allow me to re- fi-ain from relating some particulars wliicli I should have been otherwise willing to withhold.
My father, at the expiration of his apprentice- ship, was enabled by the support of his elder brother, an engineer, to commence life as a master-builder, with advantageous connections and the most favorable prospects. But V)Oth brothers seem to have belonged to that class of men whom prosperity ruins ; for after some years they became neglectful of their business, and were eventually reduced to great distress. At the time I have speciHed, my father had be- come a jo'bbing mason, of precarious employ- ment, and in such circumstances that it had for some time been necessary that I should lend my small assistance to his labors. This early de- mand upon my services, joined to much previous inability or reluctance to stand the cost of my schooling, and to frequent headache, which kept me much from school, even when in nominal at- . tendance, made my education very Ijackward. I could read well, but was an inditferent writer and worse cipherer, when the day arrived which was to alter so materially my condition and hopes in life.
The circumstances of that day — the last of twelve years of hearing, and the first (as I write) of twenty-eight years of deafness — have left a more distinct impression upon my mind than those of any previous, or almost of any subsequent day of my life. It was a day to be remembered. Tlie last day on which any cus- tomary labor ceases the last day on which any customary privilege is enjoyed — the last day on which we do tlie things we have done daily — are always marked days in the calendar of life. How much more, therefore must the mind linger on the memories of a day which was the last of many blessed things, and in which one stioke of action and sutferintr — one moment of time —
140
JOHN KITTO.— 3
wroujilit :i greater change of ooiiilition than any sudden lot^s of wealth or honors cvci- mjuh' in til" slate of man.
Oil the day in question my father and anolher man, attended by myself, were engaged in new- slating the roof of a house, the ladder ascending to which was fixed in a small court paved with Ihig-stones. The access to this court from the street was hy a paved passage through which ran a gutter whereby waste water was roiiducted from the yard into the street.
Three tidngs occupied my mind that day. One was that the town-crier, who occupied part of the house m which we lived, had licen the previous evening prevailed upon to intrust me with a book for which I had long been worrying him, and with the contents of wiiich I was most eager to become acquainted. 1 think it was " A7?-iy's Wonderful Magazinv''' — and I now dwell tlie rather upon this circumstance as, with other facts of the same kind, it helps to satisfy me that I was already a most voracious reader, and that the calamity which befell me did not create in me the literary appetite, but only threw me more entirely upon the resources which it offered.
The second circumstance was that my grand- mother had finished^all but the buttons — a new smock-frock which I had hoped to have assumed that very day, but which w^as faithfully promised for the morrow. As this was the first time I siiould have worn that article of attire, the event was contemplated with something of that inter- est and solicitude with which the assumption of the tof/n virilis may be supposed to have been conliMTiplated by the Roman youth.
The last circumstance — and the one, i)erhaps, which had some effect u|>on what ensued— was this : In one of the apartments of the house upon which we were at work, a young sailor, of whom I had some knowledge, had diecl after a lingering illness which had been attended witli
141
JOHN KITTO.— 4
oirciimstuiices which the doctors could not well understand. It was therefore concluded that the body should be opened to ascertain the cause of" liis death. 1 knew^ that this was to be done, but not the time appointed for the operation. But in passing from the sti'eet into the yard, with a load of slate which I was to take to the house- to[», my attention was drawn to a stream of blood — or rather, I suppose — bloody water — flowing through the gutter by which the passage was traversed.
The idea that this was the blood of the dead youth whom I had so lately seen alive, and that the doctors were then at work cutting liim up and groping at his insides, made me shuddei', and gave what I should now call a shock to my nerves — although I was very innocent of all knowledge about nerves at that time. I cannot but tiiink that it was owing to this that I lost much of the presence of mind and collectedness so important to me at that moment ; for wlien I had ascended to the toj) of the ladder, and was in the critical act of stepping from it on to the roof, I lost my footing, and fell backward, fiom a height of about thirty -five feet, into the pa\ed court below.
Of what followed 1 know nothing ; and as this is the record of my own sensations, I can here I'eport nothing but that which I myself know. For one moment, indeed, I awoke from that death-like state, and then found that my father, attended by a crowd of people, was bear- ing me homeward in his arms ; but I had then no recollection of what had happened, and at once relapsed into a state of unconsciousness.
In this state I remained for a fortnight, as I afterwards learned. These days were a blank in my life ; I could never bring any recollections to bear upon them ; and when I awoke one morning to consciousness, it was as from a night of sleep. I saw that it was at least two hours later than my usual time of rising, and marveled
142
JOHN KITTO.— 5
llu.t I liad been suffered to sleep so late. I at- tempted to spring up in bed, and was astoni.<hed to find that I could not even move. The utter [)rostration of my strength subdued all curiosity within me. I experienced no pain, but felt that I was weak. I saw that I was treated as an invalid, and acquiesced in my condition, though some time passed before I could piece together mv broken recollections so as to comprehend it.
1 was very slow in learning that my hearing >vas eutiiely gone. The unusual stillness of all things was grateful to me in my utter exhaustion; and If, in this half-awakened state, a thought of the matter entered my mind, I ascribed it to the unusual care and success of my friends in i)re- serving silence around me. 1 saw them talking, indeed^ to one another, and thought that, out of regard to my feeble condition, they spoke in whispers, because I heard them not. The truth was revealed to me in consequence of my solici- tude about the book wliich liad so much inter- ested me on tlie day of my fall. It had, it seems, been reclaimed by the good old man who had lent it to me, and who doubtless concluded that I should have no more need of books in thir life. He was wrong ; for there has becTi notli- int^ in tliis life which I have needed more. I asked for this book with much earnestness, and was answered by signs which I could not com- prehend. "Why do you not .speak r " 1 cried. " Pray let me have the book."
Tins seemed to create much confusion, and at length sonic one, more clever than the rest, hit upon the hap|)y expedient of writing upon a slate that thi; book had been reclaimed by the owner, and that I could not in my weak state be allowed to read it. " But," I said in great astonishment, "why do you write tome? "Why not speak ? Speak, .speak !" Those who stood around the bed exchanged significant looks of concern, and the writer soon displayed upon his slate the awful words — " Von are Deaf! " 143
JOHN KITTO— 6
Did not this utterly crush me ? By no meaus. Ill my then weakened condition nothing like this could affect nie. Besides, I was a child, and to a child the full extent of such a calamity could not be at once apparent. However. I knew not the future — it was well 1 did not ; and there was nothing to show me that I suffered under more than a temporary deafness which in a lew days might pass away. It was left for time to show me the sad realities of the condition to which I was reduced. — TTie Lost Senses.
144
FKIEDKICH GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK.— 1
KLOPSTOCK, Feiedhk'h Gottlieb, a German poet, born at Quedlinburg in 1724; died at Hamburg in 1803. At an early age, while a student at the Seminary of Schulpforte, he conceived the idea of writ- ing an e[)ic poem upon the story of Henry the Fowler. He entered the University of Jena, where he studied until 1745, and his enthusiasm took a religious turn, and he chose " The Messiah " as the theme of his proposed epic. In 1746 he Avent to Leipsic, where a literary association had been gathered together, the aim of which was an entire renovation of the form and spirit of German poetry. This association estab- lished at Bremen a literary journal, the Lilerarische Zeituruj. The first tliree cantos of Klopstock's Messiah were published in this journal in 1748 ; the remainder of the poem appeared at intervals, the last })art as late as 1773. From the outset Klopstock was recognized in certain circles of Germany as a great epic poet, worthy to rank with Dante and Milton. Later generations have failed to accord to him any such place.
The external life of Klopstock Avas a for- tunate one. After the publication of the first three cantos of The Messiah he acted as a private tutor for a couple of years. In 1750 the Danish Prime Minister invited him to Copenhagen, offering him a pension of $300, so that he might be able to devote himself wholly to the composition of his epic. He was received at Copenhagen with marked distinction; became a favorite of the King, by whom he was employed in honorable official posts, ending in 1771 with that of Councillor of the Danish Lega- tion at Hamburg, which thereafter became
10 '" 145
FKIEDKICH GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK.— 2
his residence. Another pension was granted him by the Prince of Baden, and the French Revolutionary Government nijide him an honorary citizen of the Republic. He died at the age of nearly four-scoi'e, and his funeral was celebrated with a pomp almost regal.
Klopstock's works cover a great variety of topics. Among them are grammatical and philological treatises; several ])atri()lic dramas in commemoration of the national hero Hermann, or Arminius; and numer- ous odes. Most of his works, however, are dramatic poems based upon Scriptural themes. The most important of these are The Messiah^ The Death of Adam, tSohmori, and David. Of his works, taken in mass, Novalis says that " they reseml)le transla- tions from some unknown poet, prepared by a skillful but unpoetical philologist." Some of his odes, however, are worthy of less guarded commendation. Perhaps the best of them is the Ode to God, which we give in the translation contained in the Foreiyn Review.
ODE TO GOD.
Thou Jehovah
Art named, but I am dust of dust Dust, yet eternal : for the iiumortal .Soul Thou gaved'st me, gaved'st Thou foreteruity;
Breathed'st into her, to form tliy maze,
Sublime desires for peace and bliss, A tlironging host ! but one, more beautiful Than all the rest, is as the Queen of all,
Of Thee the last divinest image,
The fairest, most attractive — Love! Thou feelest it, thougli as the Eternal One : It feel, rejoicing, the high angels whom
Thou mad'st celestial — Thy last image,
The fairest and divinest Love ! 146
FRIEDRICH GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK — 3
I)-.)) wiihin Adam's ln'art Tlioii iilantid'st it, 111 Ills idea of pertVotion made.
For him create, to him thou broiightest The Mother of the Hmiiaii Raee. Deep also in my heart tliou planted'st it : In my ith'a of perfection made.
For me create, from me Thou leadest Her wliom my soul entirely loves. Towards her my soul is all outshed in tears — ]My full soul weeps, to stream itself away "NVlioUy in tears ! From me Thou leadest Her whom I love, 0 God ! from ine — For so Thy destiny, invisibly, Ever in darkness works — far, far away From my fond arms in vain extended — l)Ut not away from my sad heart ! And yet Thou knowest why Thon didst con- ceive, And to reality creating, call Souls so susceptible of feeling, And for each other fitted so. Thou knowest, Creator ! But Thy destiny Those souls — thus born for each other — parts: High destiny impenetrable — How dark, yet how adorable ! Bnt Life, when with Eternity compared, Is like tlie swift breath by the dying breathed. The last l)reath, wherewith flees the spirit That age to endless life aspired. "What once was labyrinth in glory melts Awav — luid destiny is then no more. All, then, with rapturous re-beholding, Thou givest soul to soul again ! Thought of the Soul and of Eternity, Wortliy and meet to soothe the saddest pain : My soul conceives it in its greatness ; But. Oh, I feel too much the life That here I live ! Like immortality, "What seemed a breath fearfully wide extends ! I .see, I see my bosom's anguish In boundless darkness magnified. God ! let this life pass like a fleeting breath ! 147
FRIEDRICH GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK.— 4
Ah, no ! But her, who seems designed for me, Give — easy for Thee to accord me — Give to my trembling, tearful heart ! The pleasing awe that thrills me, meeting her ! The suppressed stammer of the dying soul, That has no words to say its feelings And save by tears is wholly mute ! Give her unto my arms, which, innocent In childhood, oft to Thee in heaven, When with the fervor of devotion I prayed of Thee eternal peace ! With the same effort dost Thou grant and take From the poor worm, whose hours are centuries. This brief felicity — the worm, man. Who blooms his season, droops and dies ! By her beloved, I beautiful and blest Will Virtue call, and on her heavenly form AVith fixed will gaze, and only Own that for peace and happiness Which she prescribes for me. But, Holier One, Thee too, who dwell'st afar in higher state Than human virture — Thee I'll honor, Only by God observed, more pure. By her beloved, will I more zealously, Rejoicing, meet before Thee, and i)our forth My fuller heart, Eternal Father. Inliallelujas ferventer. Then, when she with me, she Thine exalted
praise Weeps up to heaven in prayer, with eyes that swim In ecstacy, shall I already With her that higher life enjoy. The song of the Messiah, in her arms Quaffing enjoyment pure, 1 nobler may , Sing to the Good, who love as deeply And, being Christians, feel as we !
148
FRANCIS KNArP— 1
KXAPP, Fraxcis, an Anglo-American ])oet, bom in Berkshire, England, in 1672 , died at Watertuwn, Mass., abont 1712. He matriculated at St. Joim's College, Oxford, and came it) New England to take posses- sion of some land, which had been acquired l)V his -grandfather at Watertown, near Boston, where he passed the remainder of his life in the quiet pursuits of a scholar. A poem relating to " Fresh Pond," in Wa- tertown, which appeared in the Neiv Eruj- land Weeldy Journal^ in 1731, has a dis- tinctively New England character.
A NEW ENGLAND POND.
Of ancient streams presume no more to tell — The famed Castalian or Pierian well. Fresh Pond superior must these rolls confess, As much as Cambridge yields to Rome or
Greece. More limpid water can no fountain show, A fairer bottom or a smoother brow. On this side willowg hem the basin round ; There gracefid trees the promontory crown. No noxious snake disperses poison here, Nor screams of night-bird rend the twilight air, Excepting him wlio, when the groves ai'e still, Hums ninoious tunes, and whisjjers whip-poor- will. Hither, ye bards, for ins[)iration come; Let every other fount but this be dumb. Which way soe'er your airy genius leads, Receive your model from tht:se vocal shades. Would you in homely pastoral excel, Take i)attern from the merry piping quail ; ()l)serve the blue-bird for a roundelay. The chattering pye or ever-babbling jay ; The plaintive dove the soft love-verse can teach, Ami mimic thrush to imitators preach ; In Pindar's sirain the lark salutes the dawn, The lyric robin chirps the evening on. For poignant satire maik the mavis well,
149
FRANCIS KNAPP.— 2
And hear the sparrow for a madrigal For every sense a pattern here you have From strains heroic down to humble stave. Not Phoebus's self, although the God of Verse, Could hit sucli fiue and entertainiug#lirs ; Nor the fair maids who round the fountain sate, Such artless heavenly music modulate. Each thicket seems a Paradise renewed ; The soft vibrations tire the moving blood. Each sense its part of sweet delusion siiares, The scenes bewitch the eye, the song the ears. Pregnant with scent, each wind regjdes the smell. Like cooling sheets the enwrapping breezes feel.
During the dark, if poets eyes we tru>-t. These lawns are haunted by some swarthy ghost. Some Indian prince who, fond of former joys, With bow and quiver through the shadow plies; He can't in death his native grove forget. But leaves Elysium for his native seat. O happy pond ! had'st thou in Grecia flowed, The bounteous blessing of some watery god, Or ha<l some Ovid sung this liquid rise, Distilled perhaps from slighted Virgil's eyes!.
Well is thy worth in Indian story known. Thy living lymph and fertile border strown ; Thy various Hocks the covered shore can shun, Drove by the fowler and the fatal gun ; The sliining roach and yellow bristly bream ; The pick'rel, rav'nous monarch of the stream ; The perch, whose back a ring of colors shows; The horny pout, who courts the slimy ooze ; The eel serpentine, some of dubious race ; The tortoise with his golden-spotted case ; The hjury muskrat, whose peifume defies The balmy odor of Arabian skies. The throngs of Harvard know thy pleasures well- — Joys too extravagant, perhaps, to tell ; Hither oftimes the learned tribe repair. When Sol returning warms the glowing year.
150
HEINEICH KNAUST.— 1
KNAUST, Heixrich, a German poet, born in 1541 ; died in 1557. Among the best of hiri quaint verses are tlie following :
DIGNITY OK TllK CLERKS.
Paper doth make a rustio, and it can rustle
well ; To lind it is no puzzle, sitli aye it rustle will.
In every place 'twill rustle, where'er 's a little
bit; So too the Scholars rustle withf)uteii all deceit.
Ot" tag and rag they make the noble writer's
stuff; One might with laughter shake, I tell you true
enough.
Old tatters, cleanly worked, thereto they do pre- pare ;
Lift m;uiy from the ashen, that erst sore want did bear.
'I'lir ))eu beliiud the ear, all pointed for to write, Dotli hidden anger stir. Forevermore the ("leik doth sit.
Before all other wights; since him a Cleik I hey
call ; The princes he delights — they love liiu) most Of
all.
The Clerk full well they name a ti'easure of
much cost ; Thou he's begrudged the same, nathless he
keeps his post.
Before the Clerk must bend oft many .-i warrior
grim, And to the corner wend, although it pleased not
him.
Transl. of C. C. Felton. 151
KARL LUDWIG VON KNEBEL.— 1
KNEBEL, Karl Ludwig von, a Ger- man poet, born in Bavaria in 1744 : died at Jena in 1834. His progenitors were Protestant refugees from the Nether- lands, lie became an officer in tlie regi- ment of the Crown Prince of Prussia, and at the age of thirty was appointed tutor to Prince Constantine of Wiemar. At the court of Wiemar he lived for mauy years in close intimacy with Goethe, Herder, and Wieland. He wrote much original })oetry, and made various translations from other languages into German. Among these translations are the De Reruvi Nalurd ol Lucretius, the Eleyies of Propertius, and the /S«/<^of Al- bieri.
AURASTEA.
Ween ye that Law and Right and the Rule of Life are uncertain —
Wild as the wandering wind, louse as the drift of sand?
Fools ! look round and perceive an order and a measure, in all things I
Look at the hcirh as it grows, look at the life of the brute :
Everything lives by a law, a central balance sus- tains all ;
Water, and fire, and air, wavy and wild as they be,
Own an iidiercnt power that binds their rage, and without it
Earth would burst every bond, ocean would yawn into hell.
Life and breath, what are they? The system of laws that sustains thee
Ceases : and, mortal, say whither thy being hatli fled !
What thou art in thyself is a type of the com- mon creation ;
For in the Universe, Life, Order, Existence are
one,
152
KARI. LUDWia VON KXEBEI. — 9
Look to the world of Miiul : Hath soul no law
that coiitfols it? Elements may in one build up the temple ot
Thou_i>lit ; And when the building is just, the feeling of
Truth is the oflspring : Truth, how great is thy might, e'en in the breast
of the child ! Constant swayeth within us a living balance
tliat weighs all. Truth, order and right measures and ponders,
and feels Pas»ions arouse the breast ; the tongue, swift- seized by the impidse. Wisely (if wisdom there be) follows the laws of
the soul ; Thus, too, ruleth a Law — a sure Law, deep in
the bosom. Blessing us when we obey, punishing when we
offend.
Far by the sacred stream where goddess Ganga
is worshipped. Dwell a race of mankind pure in heart and in
life : From the stars of the welkin they have their
birth ; and the ancient Karth — more ancient than they — knoweth no
older people that lives. Simple and sweet is their food ; they eat no
flesh of the living, And from the blood of the brute shrinks the
pure spirit away ; For in the shape of another it sees itself meta- morphosed, And in the kindred of form owneth a natuic
the same.
Children of happier climes, of suns and moons that benignly
Shine, hath ilew from above watered your sensi- tive souls ?
To till' delicate flowers, gentle and lovelv as they >
153
KARL LUDWIG VON KNEBEL.— 3
Say, what power of gods Imtli joined your
spirits in wedlock Under blooming groves, and sweet and pregnant
with ambra, Gaugeth the Spirit Divine purer the measure of
Right ? Pure is tlie being of God they teach, His nature
is goodness : Passions and stormy wrath stir not the bosom
of Brahm. But by the fate of the wrecked the wicked are
punislied unfading ; Sorrow and anguish of soul follow the doers of
sin ; In their bosom is hell, the sleepless voice of
accusing Speaks ; and gnaweth a worm, never, oh ! never
to die !
154
CHARLES KNIGHT.— 1
KNIGIIT, Charles, an English publisher and author, bom in 1791; died in 1873. In 1828 he commenced the publication of Kni (jilt's Quarterly Mayazine in Avhich ap- peared Macaulay's earliest writings; tlie title was changed in 1827 to The London Mayazine^ and in it appeared Carlyle's Life of Schiller and De Quincey's Confessions of an EiKjlish Opium-Eater. About 1830 he became connected with the Societ}' for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, as publisher and agent. Among the works, issued mainly at his own risk, were the Penny Majazine^ which at one time had a circulation of 200,000 copies. In 1856-1862 was pub- lished The Popular History of Enyland^ written mainly by himself. Among his numerous compilations are Half Hours uritli the Best Authors (1848), and Half Hours ivith the Best Letter- Writers (1866.) His Life of Caxton^ published in 1844, was in 1854 greatly enlarged, and issued under the title, The Old Printer and the Modern Press. Mr. Knight's publishing enterprises were not ultimately successful ; but about 1860 he received from the Government the ap- pointment of publi slier of the I^ondon Ga- zette.^ the duties being merely nominal, and the salary £1,200 a year. Soon after his death a statue of him was erected at Wind- sor, where he was born, and where he first entered upon business as a bookseller and publisher.
A FROl'HEOY OF PRINTING.
It was evensonj^ time when, after a day of listlessiiess, the priiUers in tlie Almoniy of West- minster prepared to close the doors of their workshop. This was a tolerably spacious loom, 155
CHARLES KNIGHT.— 2
with a carved oaken roof. The setting sun shone brightly into the chamber, and lighted up such furniture as no other room in London could then exhibit. Between the columns which sup- ported the I'oof stood two presses — ponderous machines. A " form " of types lay unread upon the "tabh'" of one of these presses; the other was empty. There w^ere " cases " ranged be- tween the opposite columns ; but there was no " copy " suspended ready for tlie compositors to proceed with in the morning. No ]iea[t of wet paper was piled upon the floor. The " balls," removed from the presses, were rotting in a cor- ner. The " ink-blocks " were dusty, and a thin film had formed over the oily pigment. William Caxton, he who had set tliese machines in mo- tion and tilled the whole space with the activity of his mind, was dead. His daily w^ork w:is ended.
Three grave-looking men, decently clothed in black, were girding on their swords. Tiieir caps were in their hands. The door opened, and the chief of the workmen came in. It was Wynkyn de Worde. With short speech, but looks of deep significance, he called a " Chapel " — the printers' Pai'liament — a conclave as solemn and as omnipotent as the Saxons' Wittenagemut. Wynkyn was the " Father of the Ciiapel."
The four drew their higli stools round the "imposing-stone." Upon the stone lay two un- corrected folio pages — a portion of tlie JJves of the Fnt/iers. The "proof" was not returned. He that they had followed a few days before to his grave in Saint Margaret's Church, had lifted it once to his failing eyes— and then they closed in night.
'' Companions," said Wynkyn — surely tluit word " companion " tells of the antiquity of printing, and of the old love and fellowsiiip that subsisted amongst its craft^ — " Com[)anions, the good work will not stop." 156
CHAKLKS KNIGHT.— 3
• Wynkyii," saiil Richard Pyiison, "who is to carrv on the work ? "
'• I am ready," answered Wynkyn.
A faint, expression of joy arose to the lips of these honest men ; but it was dampened by the remembrance of him they had lost.
•• He died," said Wynkyn, "as he lived. The Lices of the Holy Fathers is finished, as far as the translator's labor. Tiiere is the rest of the the copy. Read the words of the last page which / have written : ' Tims endeth thv most rirtnoxis hlttforji of the devout and n'c/ht-re/iou'tted /ires of the Hnly Fathers living in the desert, worthy <f renwinhrance to all well-disposed persuns. icliich has been translated out of French into Enylish by William Caxton, of Westminster, late dead, and finished at the last day of his life.'"
Tlie tears were in all their eyes ; and " God rest his soul ! " was whispered around.
"Companion," said William Machlinia, "is not this a hazardous enterprise ? "
"I have encouragements," replied Wynkyn ; "the Lady Margaret, his Highness's mother, gives me aid. So droop not, fear not. We will carry on the work briskly in our good master's house. — So fill the case."
A shout almost mounted to the roof.
" But why should we fear? You, IMachlinia, you, Letton, and you, dear Richard Pynson, if you choose not to abide with youi- old companion here, there is work for you all in these good towns of Westminster, London, and Southwark. You have money ; you know where to buy types. Printing inust go forward."
"Always full of heart," said Pynson. "But have you foi-got the statute of King Richard ? We cannot say, ' God rest his soul ! ' for oui- old master scarcely ever forgave him putting T^oi-d Rivers to death. Yon forget the statute. "\A'e ought to know it, for we printed it. J can turn to the file in a moment. It is the Act touching tlie merchants of Italy, which forbids them sell- 157
CHARLES KNIGHT.— 4
ing tlit'ir whits in this realm. Here it is — 'Pro- vided filways tliat this Act, or any part thereof, in no wise extend or be prejudicial of any let, hurt, or impediment to any artiticer or merchant stranger, of what nation or country he be or shall be of, for bringing into this realm, or selling by retail or otherwise, of any manner of books written or imprinted.' — Can we stand up against that, if we have more presses than the old press of the Abbey of Westminster ? "
"Aye, truly, we can, good friend," briskly answered Wynkyn. " Have we any books in our store? Could we ever print books fast enough ? Are there not readers rising up on ail sides? Do we depend upon the Court? The mercers and the drapers, the grocers and the spicers of the city crowd here for our books. The rude uplandish men even take our books — they tiiat our master rather vilipended. The tapsters and taverners have our books. The whole country-side cries out for our ballads and our Robin Hood stories ; and, to say the truth, the citizen's wife is as much taken with our King Arthurs and King Blanchardines as the most noble knight that Master Caxton ever desired to look upon in his green days of jousts in Burgundy. So fill the case ! "
'• But if foreigners bring books into Eng- land," said the cautious William Machlinia, " there will be more books than readers."
"Books make readers," rejoined Wynkyn. "Do you not remember how timidly our bold master went on before he was safe in his sell ? Do you forget how he asked this lord to take a copy, and that knight to give him something in fee ; and how he bargained for his summer veni- son and his winter venison as an encouragement in his ventures? But he found a larger market than he ever counted upon ; and so shall Ave all. Go ye forth, my brave fellows. Stay not to work for me, if you can work better for your- selves. I fear no rivals." 158
CHARLES KNIGHT- 0
'*"\Vhy, AVynkyii," iiitrr|>osed Pyiisoii ; ••you talk as it" printing were as necessary as air; books as toud, clothing, or tire."
•'And so they will be some day. "What is to stop the wish for books? Will one man liave the command of books, and another man desire them not? Tlie time may come when every man shall require books,"
" Perhaps." said Letton, who had an eye to printing tiie Statutes, "the time may come when every man shall want to read an Act of Parlia- ment, instead of the few hnvyers who buy our Acts now,"
"Hardly so," grunted AVynkyn,
"Or perchance you think that Avhen our Sovereign Liege meets his Peers and Commons in Parliament, it were well to print a book, some month or two after, to tell w^iat the Par- liament said, as well as ordained."
" Xay, nay, you run me hard," said Wynkvn.
"And if within a month, why not witiiin a day? Why shouldn't we print the words as fast as spokc.Mi? We only want fairys fingers to ])i(k up our types, and presses that Dortor Fatistus and his <levils may some day make, to tt'll all London to-morrow morning what is (h)iic this morning in the palace at "Westminster."
"■Prithee, be serious," ejaculated Wynkyn, " I was speaking of possible things ; and I rcallv think the day may come when one person in a thousand may read books and buy books, and we shall have a trade almost as good as tJiat of armorers and tlelehers."
" Tiie Bil)lc ! " exchiimed Pynson ; "Oh that we might print tlie Jiible ! I know of a (■oi)y of Wicklitfc's liibh'. That wci-c indeed a book to print I "
"I iiav(i no doubt, Richard, that the happy time may come wlum a Bible shall be chaiiu'd in every church, for every Christian man to look up(jn. Von remember when oui- brothci' lluntc showed us the chained books in the Library at 159
CHARLES KNIGHT.— 6
Oxford. So, a century or two hence, a Bible may be found in every paiisli. Twelve thou- sand parishes in England! \Ve should want more paper in that good day, Master Richard." .
"You had better fancy," said Letton, " tliat every housekeeper will want a Bible! Heaven save the mark, how some men's imaginations run away with them ! "
"I cannot see," interposed Machlinia, "how we can venture upon more presses in London. Here are two. They have been worked well since the day when they were shipped at C()- logne. Here are live founts of type — as nuich as a tliousand weiglit. They have been well worked ; they are pretty nigh worn out. What man would risk sucli an adventure after our good old master? He was a favorite at court and in cloister. He was w'ell patronized. AVho is to patronize us ? "
" The people, I tell you," exclaimed Wyn- kyn. " The babe in the cradle wants an Absey- book ; the maid at her distaff a Ballad ; the priest wants his Pie ; the young lover wants a Romance of Chivalry to read to his mistress; the lawyer wants his Statutes ; the scholar wants his Virgil and Cicero. They will all want more, the more they are su[)plied. How many in England have a book at all, think you? Let us make books cheaper by printing more of them at a time. The church-wardens of Saint Margaret's School asked me six-and-eight pence yesterday for the volume that our master left the parish ; for not a copy can I get, if we should want to print again. Six-and-eight- pence ! That was exactly what he charged his customers for the volume. Print five hundred instead of two hundred, and we could sell it foi- t h ree-and-fourpe n ce. "
" And ruin ourselves," said Machlinia. " Master Wynkyn, I shall fear to work for you if you go on so madly. What has turned your head?" — WiUium. Guxton, a Bioyraphy.
160
HERBERT KKOWJ-ES.— 1
KXOWLES, Herbert, an English })oet, born at Cantevbury in 1798; died in 1817, at the age of nineteen. There are in our lanouage few poems by one who died so young equal to the following, wh'ich was written in the Churchyard of Richmond, Yorkshire.
BUILDING OUR TABEUN.\CLES.
"Lord, it is good for us to he hn-e ; if thou ^viU, let us make here three tabernacles ; one for Thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias.^'
Methiiiks it is good to be here. If thou wilt, let us build — but for whom?
Nor Elias nor Moses appear ; But the shadows of eve that encompass with
gloom The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.
Shall we build to Ambition ? Ah no ! Affrighted, he shrinketh away ;
For see, they would pin him below In a small narrow cave; and, begirt with cold
clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.
To Beauty ? Ah no ! she forgets The charms which she wielded before ;
Nor knows the foul worm that he frets Tiie skin which but yesterday fools could adore. For the smoothness it held or the tint which it wore.
vShall we build to the purple of Pride, The trappings which dizen the proud?
Alas, they are all laid aside. And here's neither dress nor adornments allowed, But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud.
161
HERBERT KNOWLES.— 2
To Riches ? Alas ! 'tis in vain ; Who hid, in their turns have been hid ;
The treasures are squandered again ; And here in the grave are all metals forbid But the*tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid.
To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?
Ah ! here is a plentiful board ! But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, And none but the worm is a reveller here.
Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah no ! they have withered and died,
Or fled with the spirit above. Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by
side, Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.
Unto Sorrow ? — the dead cannot grieve ; Not a sob, not a sigli meets mine ear.
Which Compassion itself could relieve. Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear Peace ! peace is the watchword, the only one here.
Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah no ! for his empire is known,
And here there are trophies enow! Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark
stone, Are the signs of a sceptre that none may dis- own.
The first tabernacle to Hope we will build. And look for the sleepers around us to rise!
The second to Faith, which insures it ful- filled ; And the third to the Lamb of the great Sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to
the skies.
162
JAMES SHERIDAN KXOWLES.— 1
KNCWLES, James Sheridan, a British dramatist, born at Cork, Ireland, in 1784 ; died at Torquay, Devonshire, in 1862. He was removed to Loudon, in 1793,^ and not long after produced a play and a popular ballad. In 1806 lie appeared on the stage at Dublin, and for some years joined to the labors of an actor those of dramatic author and teacher. His first important success was attained at Belfast by Caius Gracchus in 1815. F?V(7i?n'?/s, produced in 1820, established his reputation. William Tell followed in 1825. His other plays are The B€'j(iars DaiKjhter of Bethnal Green (1828), Alfred the Great (1831.) The Hunch- back (1832), The .m7e(1833), The Dav<jh- ter (1836), The Love Chase (1837), Woman's Wit{m2,d>\The MaidofMariendorpt (1838), Love (1839) John of Pmcida (1840), Old Maids (1841), TV/e Rose of Arayon (1842), and The Secretary (1843.) These were gathered into three volumes as his Dramatic Works (1843:) revised edition in two volumes, 1856.) Knowles abandoned the stage from conscientious scruples in 1845, wrote two novels, Fortescue and Georcje Lovell (1847), received a pension of £200 in 1849, be- came a Baptist preacher in 1852, and pub- lished The Rock of Rome (1849) and The Idol demolished by its own Priests (1851.)
DEATH OF VIRGINIA.
Apjyius Virginias,
I ft'<4 for yon ; l)ut thougli you were my father, Tin; majesty of justice should be sacred — Claudius nuist take Virginia home with him!
Viryinius. — And if he must, I should advise him, Appius, To take her home in time, before his guardian Complete the violation which his eyes
163
JAMES SHElilDAN KNOWLES.— 2
Already liave begun. — Friends! fellow-eili/cns : Look not on Claudius — look on your Decemvir! He is the master claims Virginia! The tongues that told him she was not my child Are these : — the costly charms he cannot [)ur-
chase, Except by making her the slave of Claudius, His client, his purveyor, that caters for His pleasure — markets for him, picks and scents. And tastes, that he may banquet — sei'ves him
»P His sensual feast, and is not now ashamed. In the open, common street, before your eyes — Frighting your daughters' and your matrons'
cheeks With blushes they ne'er thought to meet — to
help him To tlie honor of a Roman maid ! my child ! Who now clings to me, as you see, as if This second Tarquin had already coiled His arms around her. Look upon her, Romans! Befriend her! succor her! see her not polluted Before her father's eyes ! — He is but one. Tear her from Appius and his lictors while She is unstained ! — Your hands ! your hands !
your hands ! Citizens. — They are yours, Virginius. App. — Keep the people back ! Support my lictors, soldiers ! Seize the girl. And drive the people back.
Icilias. — Down with the slaves !
[The people make a show of resistance; but, upon the advance of the soldiers, retreat, and leave IciL- lus, Virginius, and his daughter in the hands of Appius and his party.]
Deserted ! Cowards ! traitors ! — Let me free But for a moment ! — I relied on you : Had I relied upon myself alone,
I had kept them still at bay I kneel to you :
Let me but loose a moment, if 'tis only To rush upon your swords. Vir. — Icilius, peace !
164
JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.— 3
You see how 'tis: we are deserted, left Alone by our friends, surrounded by our ene- mies, Nerveless and helpless.
App. — Separate them, lictors !
Vir. — Let them forbear awhile, I pray you,
Appius : It is not very easy. Though her arms Are tender, yet the hold is strong by which She grasps me, Appius — forcing them will luirt
them : They'll soon unclasp themselves. Wait but a
little ; You know you're sure of her.
App. — I have not time To idle with thee : give her to my lictors.
Vir — Appius, I pray you wait ! If she is
not My child, she hath been like a child to me For fifteen years. If I am not her father, I have been like a father to her, Appius, For even such a time. They that have lived So long a time together, in so near And dear society, may be allowed A little time for parting. Let me take The maid aside, I pray you, and confer A moment with her nurse; perhaps she'll give
me Sonu! token will unloose a tie so twined And knotted round my heart, that, if you break
it, My lieart breaks with it.
App. — Have your wish. Be brief! — Lictors, look to them.
Virginia. — Do you go from me? Do you leave me? Father! Father!
Vir. — No, my child. No, my Virginia. Come along with me.
Virginia — Will you not leave me? Will you
take me with you? Will you take me home again ? 0, bless you,
bless you !
165
JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.— 4
IMv ftitlier ! my dear father ! Art thou not My father?
[Virgin lus, perfectly at a loss what to do, looks anxiously around the Forum : at length his eye falls on a butcher's stall, with a knife upon it.]
FiV. — This way, my child. — No, no ; I'm not going
To leave thee, my Virginia! I'll not leave thee.
App. — Keep back the people, soldiers! Let them not
Approach Virginius ! Keep the people back ! —
[ViKGlNius secures the knife.]
Well, have you done ?
Vir Short time for converse, Appius,
But I have.
App. — I hope you are satisfied.
Vir I am —
I am — that she is my daughter !
App. — Take her, lictors !
[Virginia shrieks, and falls half-dead upon her father's shoulder.]
Vir Another moment, pray you. Bear
with me A little : 'tis my last embrace. 'Twon't try Your patience beyond bearing, if you're a man ! Lengthen it as I may, I cannot make it
Long My dear child ! My dear Virginia !
[Kissing her.] There is one only way to save thine honor — 'Tis this.
[Virginius stabs her, and draws out the knife. IciLius breaks from the soldiers that held him, and catches her.]
Lo, Appius, with this innocent blood I do devote thee to the infernal gods ! Make way there !
App Stop him ! seize him !
Vir If they dare
To tempt the desperate weapon that is maddened
166
James smeridan k:nowles.— 5
With drinking of my daugliter's blood, why, let
them : thus It nislu's in amongst them. Way there ! way!
Virginius. TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.
Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again !
I hold to you the hands you tirst beheld,
To show "they still are free ! Methinks I hear
A spirit in your echoes answer me,
And bid your tenant welcome to his home
Again ! O sacred forms, how proud you look !
How high you lift your lieads into the sky!
How huge you are! how mighty and how free I
How do you look, for all your bai-ed brows,
More gorgeously majestical than kings
Whose loaded coronets exhaust the mine!
Ye are the things that tower, that shine, whose
smile Makes glad, whose frown is terrible ; whose forms, Rolled or unrobed, do all the impress wear Of awe divine ; whosQ subject never kneels In mockery, because it is your boast To keep him free ! Ye guards of liberty, I'm with you once again ! — I call to you. With all my voice ! I hold my hands to you To show they still are free ! I rush to you As though 1 could embrace you !
WiUiam Tell. 167
THOMAS WALLACE KNOX— 1
KNOX, Thomas Wallace, an American traveller and author, born at Pembroke, N. H., in 1835. He studied at neighboring academies, and opened one of his own at Kingston, N. IT. His work as anews}iaper correspondent began in Colorado in 1860, was transferred to the U. S. Army in the south-west 1860-61, and continued in a jour- ney round the world in 1866-67, and another in 1877-78. The intervals have been usually spent in New York city, in labors of journal- ism and authorship. He has invented a system of topographical telegraphy, which was adopted by the U. S. government for the transmission of weather maps. In 1880 he received the order of the White Elephant from the King of Siam. He has published Carap-fire and Cotton-field (1865), Overland tliroiKjh Asia (1870), Under qrourul Life (1873), Backsheesh (1875), Hoiv to Travel (1880), Pochet-Guide for Europe (1881), Arotind the World (1882), Voya(ie of the " Vivian " to the North Pole (1884), Lives of Blaine and Logan (1884), Marco Polo for Boys and Girls (1885), Robert Fulton and Steam Navigation (1886), Life of Henry Ward Beecher (1887), Decisive Battles since Waterloo (1887), and Dog Stories and Dog Lore (1887). He is perhaps best known by his series of Boy Travellers, who since 1878 have been conducted through China and Japan, Siam and Java, Ceylon and India, Egypt and the Holy Land, Africa, South America, and On the Congo. Of similar character are The Young Nimrods in North America and in Europe, Asia, and Africa.
FUTURE MODES OF TRAVEL.
We may yet come to the speed of a railway train on the water, and more than one inventor
168
THOMAS WALLACE KNOX.— 2
believes that he can do so. The prediction tliat we will yet cross the Atlantic in three days is no wilder than would have been the prediction, at the beginning of this century, that we could travel on land or sea at our present rate, and that intelligence could be flashed along a wire in a few seconds of time from one end of the world to the other. The railway, the ocean steamer, the telegraph, the telephone, and many other things that seem almost commonplace to us, would have been regarded as the emanations of a crazy brain a hundred years ago. We, or our descendants, may be able to go through the air at will, and show the birds that we can do as much as they can. Not long ago, I was reading a sketch supposed to be written a thousand years hence. Tlie writer describes his travels, and gives a i)icture of the public highway. An om- nibus supported by balloons, and drawn by a [lair of them'^harnessed as we would harness horses — is represented on its way thi-ough the air. The driver is on his box, and the conductor at the door, while the passengers are looking out of the windows. A bird, who has doubtless be- come thoroughly familiar with the aerial craft, lias seized the hat of a passenger and flies away with it, and the victim of the theft is vainly stretching his hands towards his pioperty. Balloons are sailing through the air, and in one a man is seated, who is evidently out for a day's sport. He has a rod and line, and is industri- ously occupied in birding, just as one might en- gage in fishing from the side of a boat. A string of birds hangs from the seat of his con- veyance, and he is in the act of taking a fresii prize at the end of his line. There is another picture representing the ferry of the future. It consists of an enormous mortar, from which a couple of bombs have been fired ; they are con- nected by a chain, and each bomb is laige
enough to contain several persons The Boy
Travellers in the Far East. 169
WILLIAM KNOX— 1
KNOX, William, a Scottish poet, born in 1789; died in 1825. The following pc^em, of which only a part is here given, was a special favorite of Abraham Lincoln.
WHY SHOULD THE Sl'IRIT OF MORTAL Bli PROLD?
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying eloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passes from life to his rest in' the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Be scattered around, and together be laid ; And the young and the old, and the low and the
high, Siiall moulder to dust, and together shall lie.
The infant a mother attended and loved, The mother that infant's affection who proved, The husband that mother and infant who blest, Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest.
The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne, The brow of the priest that the mitre luith worn, The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave. Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in
whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure — her triumphs are by; And the memory of those that beloved her and
praised Are alike from the minds of the living erased.
Tlie saint who enjoyed the communion of
heaven, The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven, The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.
So the multitude goes, like the flower and the
weed That wither away to let others succeed ; vSo the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that hath often been told. ^ -^ 170 ■
WILLIAM KNOX.— 2
For we are the same that our fathers have been ; We see the same sights, our fathers have seen ; We drink the same stream, and we feel the same
sun, And run the same course that our fathers have
run.
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers wouhl
think ; From the death we are shrinking our fathers
would shrink ; To tlie life we are clinging they also would
cling ; But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the
wing.
Yea ! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, Are mingled together like sunshine and rain ; And the smile and the tear, the song and the
dirge Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.
'Tis the twink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a
breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of
death. From the gilded saloon to the bier and the
shroud : — Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ?
171
CHAKLKS i)E KOCK.— 1
KOCK, Charles Paul de, a French novelist, born at Passyin 1794; died at Paris in 1871. His father, a banker of Dutch family, perished during the Reign of Terror. The son's life was wholly uneventful, and was passed chiefly in Paris. His first novel, published at eighteen, was not suc- cessful. He then, with much assistance from others, produced a quantity of melo- dramas, comic operas, and vaudevilles, wliicli brought him reputation and money, but are of small literary value. His prose fictions, which number about 100, had for some time a wide though somewhat unsav- ory popularity, though rather abroad than in France. They had little of style, seriousness, or elevation ; but they were amusing, and as pictures of middle class Parisian life in the eighteenth century some historical value is claimed for them. De Kock was " the Charles de Bernard of low life," and no less the favorite novelist of Thackeray's Major Pendennis. His most famous story is Le Barhier de Paris, and the purest and most meritorious of them is Andre le Savoyard.
CHILDREN OF NATURE.
Usages, customs, hvnguage, fashions change, but the world remains ever the same ; for I mean by " worhl " not only the brilliant ciicles of a capital, but also the inhabitants of the smallest liamlet, the savages of Florida or tlic native, of Java. You affirm that in society one is neither frank nor loyal. But is the country- man very frank, who, with liis simple language, his naive air, tries to sell you a bad piece of land, to dupe you in all the markets he visits with you, to set you astray even when you in- quire vour way of him? Is that Javanese very
172
CHAKLES i)E KOCK.— 2
lo'val, wlio, hidden in the environs of Batavia waits in tiic thirkness ibr the passing of a trav- eller, to let tiy an arrow at him. whicli he has taken care to dip in a poison that renders the wound mortal ? Nevertheless these people are the children of nature. (Society has not cor- rupted them, but you see that nature has not caused them to be born free of vice. Believe me, my brother, there is something of human nature everywhere, and we are not born any better on the banks of the Ganges than on those of the Seine. What renders us better is in- struction, for this enlightens us. — U Homme de la Nature et V Homme Police.
173
JOHANN GEORG KOHL.— 1
KOHL, JoHANN Geoeg, a German traveler and author, born in Bremen in 1808 ; died there in 1878. He studied at Guttin<ien, Heidelberg, and Munich, and for six years was a tutor in Courland. His Russian travels were described in volumes whose success determined his vocation. Journeys throughout Europe and America were taken, and similarly utilized in works on Austria (1842), the British Islands (1844), Denmark, etc. (1846-47), the Alps (1849-51), the Netherlands (1850), Istria, etc. (1851), South-eastern Germany (1852), the Danube (1854), Canada and New Eng- land (1857), and tlie North- west (1859). The years 1854-58 were spent in the United States and Canada. In 1858 he returned te Bremen, and became city librarian 1863. Some of his books appeared in English versions, as Kitchi-Gam,i^ Wanderinys round Lake Sujierior (1857), Travels in Can- ada and through New York and Pennsyl- vania (1861), and a Popular History of the Discovery of America (1862.)
OJIBBEWAY MARRIAGES.
A well-known writer on the Indians is of opinion that it is not considered exactly honoi'able and respectable among the Ojibbeways to have several wives. This view my people here con- tradict point-blank. They assert that, on the contrary, it is considered highly honorable to be in a position to su|iport several wives. The cleverer and more fortunate a hunter is, the more wives does he have. A distinguished hunter has no occasion to look after wives — he can scarcely keep them at bay. A man who can support several squaws gains influence ; he is regarded as a man of great gifts and jwwcrful character, and parents offer him their daugliters. 174
.TOHANN GEORG KOHL.— 2
Usually tliey take their wives from one family — frequently a whole row of sisters. The first wife, however, always remains at tlie head of art'airs. Her place in the lodge is usually by her husband's side. The hunter also entrusts tlie
game he has killed to her for distribution
Kitchi-Gami, Transl. o/'Wraxall.
NATIVE HELP TO EXPLORERS.
Down to the latest times all the successors of Columbus have acted as he did. In almost every instance the first intimations of new countries and of their natural capabilities have been derived from natives. The i('})orts of the Cuban Indians of land in the west led the Spanish colonists of that island to Mexico. The inhabitants of the Isthmus of Darien spread the first news of the great ocean in the south. The road through the valleys of the Andes had been prepared for the Spaniards by the old Incas of Peru. Pizarro and Almagro, tiie conquerors of that realm, in all their enterprises marched in the same directions as the generals of the Incas had marciied before them. Even the fi-avellers and discoverers of modern times, when they have come to a new ])art of America, have above all things made incpurieri of the natives, and got them to draw with a [)iece of chalk or cliarcoal on paper, on the bark of trees, or on tlie skins of bntfaloes, the form of the land, an outline of the coast, or the course of tlie livers, and they have shaped their plans and directed their counses ac- cording to the information thus obtained. — Dis- covery of Ainerica^ IransL of R. R. Noel. 175
THE KORAN.— 1
KORAN, The (Arab, al Quran, -'the Reading,") the sacred book of the Moham- medans. For Islam the Koran is all, and more than all, that the Bible is for Chris- tianity. It is not only the ultimate author- ity in all matters of faith, but is the basis of all jurisprudence, and tlie foundation of all right civil and domestic life. It is, moreover, in the estimation of the Moslems a model of composition so absolutely perfect that it could have only a divine origin. If the Caliph Omar, as is said, ordered all the books in the library at Alexandria to be burned, because if they contained only what was in the Koran they were useless, and if they contained anything not in the Koran they were false, he only gave voice to what has ever been the current belief of Islam. Tlie Koran everywhere claims to be a direct revelation from the Most Pligh to Mohammed his Prophet. The mode of this revelation is over and over again declared. In heaven, we are told, is " the mother of the book, a concealed book, a well-guarded tablet." The revelation was made piecemeal, as occasion required. The mediator was an angel, who is sometimes called simply "the spirit," sometimes " the holv spirit," and sometimes "Gabriel," that is, "the Mighty one of God." This angel dictated the revelations to Mohammed, who repeated them aloud to amanuenses, who wrote down the words as they fell from the lips of the Prophet. Thg period during which these revelations were vouchsafed may be approximately placed as covering the last twentj^'-three years of Mohammed's life, beginning when he was about forty
years old.
•^ 176
THE KORAN.— 2
According to legeuds, which may be ac- cepted as trustworthy, no collection of these revelations was made until a. d. 633, the year after the death of Mohammed. Abubekr, his immediate successor, deputed a young man named Zaid, who had acted as the amanuensis of the Prophet to collect these revelations from co[)ies written on flat stones, on bits of leather, on the ribs of palm-leaves, but chiefly from his own memory. He wrote out a fair copy and presented it to Abubekr, who gave it to Omar wlio succeeded him, who bequeathed it to Ilassa, one of the widow^s of the Prophet. This original copy was somehow lost. Some seventeen years later (about A.D. 650), the Caliph Othman perceived the necessity of an authorized text of the Koran. The task of preparing this was confided to Zaid, with whom three other learned men were associated. They col- lected all the codices which they could find, collated them, and prepared a text, and then burned all the previous codices. Four copies of this Koran were made, one of which was deposited at Medina, and one was sent to each of the great metropolitan cities, Cufa, Basra, and Damascus. It is admitted that these four copies were essen- tially identical, and that all later manu- scripts are derived from this original, and fairly represent it.
The Koran contains somewhat less mat- ter than the New Testament. It is divided into 114 Swas, or sections, of very une- qual length ; and there is no apparent prin- ci])le regulating the order of the arrange- ment, except that the longer Suras are placed at tlie beginning of the volume. To
12 177
THE KOKAN— ;5
this, however, there is one notable excep- tion. The first Sura is one of the shortest of all. It forms at once the Cr&lo and the Pater Nosier of Islam, and is recited on all solemn occasions. It is commonly desig- nated as the Fatihat, or " Exordium,'" but is also called " The Mother of the Koran," " The Pearl," and " The All-sufficient." It runs thus :
SURA I. "AL-FATIHAT," OR THE EXORDIUM.
In the name of God, the compassionate Com- passion er : Praise be to God, the Lord of the Avorlds, the compassionate Compassioner, the Sovereign of the day of judgment. Thee do we worship, and of Thee do we beg assistance. Direct us in the right way ; in the way of tliose to whom Thou hast been gracious, on whom there is no wrath, and wlio go not astray.
The second Sui-a, the longest of all, con- tains, in the English version, about 12,000 words ; there are some half dozen of half that length ; many with about 1,000 words, and several with less than 100, The car- dinal idea pervading the entire Koran is the being of one God — the Most High — the Creator of all things, the Ruler of the Universe, and its final Judge, to the abso- lute exclusion of any other divinity. It is written in a sort of rhythmical prose. Not infrequently the sentences run into long- continued rhyming passages. These graces of style, so pleasing to an Oriental ear, can hardly be reproduced in any version. In reciting the Koran the sentences are in- variably intoned or chanted, as we may presume was the case with the Greek and probably the Hebrew poems. No small part of the Koran is a paraphrastic repro- duction of portions of the Pentateuch, with
178
THE KOKAN.— 4
which Mohammed must have been fairly couverriaut. Other passages eviuce some acquaintance, if not with the New Testa- ment itself, with several of what are desig- nated as " the Apocryphal Gospels."
There are few things more strongly in- sisted upon in the Koran than the duty of almsgiving, the abstaining from usury, and the performance of the strictest justice between man and man. The following pas- sages are from near the close of the second Sura as translated by Sale :
CONCERNING ALMSGIVING.
If ye make your alms to appear, it is well; but if ye conceal them, and give to the poor, this will be better for you, and will atone for your sins ; and God is well-informed of that which ye do. The direction of them belongetli not unto thee ; but, God difecteth whom he pleaseth. The good that ye shall give in alms shall redound unto yourselves; and ye t^hall not give unless out of desire of seeing the face of (4od. And what good things ye shall give in alms, it shall be repaid you. They who distribute alms of their substance night and day, in private and in public, shall have their reward witli their Lord ; on them shall no fear come, neither shall they be grieved.
CONCERNING USURY.
They who devour usury shall not arise from the dead, but as he ariseth whom Satan hath in- fected by a touch. This shall happen to them because they say, " Truly selling is but as usury;" and yet God hath permitted selling and forbidden usury. He therefore who when tlierc cometh unto him an admonition from his Lord abstaineth from usury for the future shall have what is past forgiven iiim ; and jiis affair belong- eth unto God. But whoever returneth to usury 179
THE KORAN.— 5
they shall be the companions of hell-tire, they shall continue therein for ever.
CONCERNING CONTRACTS.
Deal not unjustly with others, and ye shall not be dealt witli unjustly. H there be any debtor under a difficulty of paying his debt, let his creditor wait till it be easy for him to do it; l)ut if ye remit it as alms, it will be bettei- for you, if ye knew it. And fear the day Avhen ye shall return unto God ; then shall every soul be paid what it hath gained, and they shall not be treated unjustly.
O true believers, when ye bind yourselves one to the other in a debt for a certain time, write it down ; and let a writer write between you ac- cording to justice ; and let not the writer refuse writing according to what God hatli taught him; but let him write, and let him who oweth the debt dictate, and let him fear God liis Lord, and not diminish aught thereof. But if he who oweth the debt be foolish or weak, or be not able to dictate himself, let his agent dictate ac- cording to equity; and call to witness two wit- nesses of your neighboring men ; but if there be not two men, let there be a man and two women of those wdiom ye shall choose for witnesses ; if one of these women should mistake, the other of them sliall cause her to recollect. And the wit- nesses shall not refuse, whensoever they shall be called. And disdain not to write it down, be it a large debt, or be it a small one, until its time of payment. This will be more just in the sight of God, and more right for bearing witness, and more easy, that ye may not doubt. And take witnesses when ye sell one to the other, and let no harm be done to the writer nor to the witness, which if ye do it will surely be injustice in you ; and fear God, and God will instruct you, for God knoweth all things.
This long Sura whicli was revealed at different times and places, concludes with the following praj^er: —
180
THE KORAN.— 6 A GENERAL SUPPLICATION,
We implore Thy mercy, O Lord, for unto Thee must we return. God will not force any soul beyond its capacity. It shall have the good which it gaineth, and it shall suffer the evil which it gaineth. O Lord, punish us not, if we forget, or act sinfully. O Lord, lay not on us a burthen like that which Thou hast laid on those who have gone before us.* Neither make us, O Lord, to bear what we have not strength to bear; but be favorable unto us, and spare us, and be merciful unto us. Thou art our Patron : help us therefore against the unbelieving na- tions.
One of the most striking of the Suras is the thirty-second, which we quote entire. It is entitled " Adoration," simply because that word occurs near the middle of it.
SURA XXXII. ENTITLED ADORATION.-
The revelation of this book — there is no doubt thereof — is from the Lord of all creatures. Will they say, " Mohammed hath forged it?" Nay, it is the truth from thy Lord, that thou mayest preach to a people unto whom no preacher hath come before thee; peradventure they will be directed. It is God who hath created the heav- ens and the earth, and whatever is between them, in six days; and then ascended his throne. Ye have no Patron or Intercessor besides Him. Will ye not therefore consider ? He governeth all things from heaven even to the earth. Here- after shall they return unto him, on the day whose length shall be a thousand years of those whicli ye compute.
This is He who knoweth the future and the present: the Mighty, the Merciful. It is He who made everything which He hath created
* Referring, according to the commentators, to various observances and prohibitions in the Mosaic law.
181
THE KORAN.— 7
expei'fling good; and first created man of clay, and afterwards made his posterity of an extract of despicable water; and formed him into proper shape, and breathed of His spirit into liim ; and hath given you the senses of hearing and seeing, and hearts to understand. How small thanks do ye return !
And they say, " Wlien we shall lie hidden in the earth, shall we be raised thence a new crea- ture ? " Yea, they deny the meeting of their Lord at the resurrection. Say : The Angel of Death, who is set over you, shall cause you to die: then shall ye be brought back unto your Lord. If thou couldest see, when the wicked siiall bow down their lieads before their Lord, saying, " O Lord, we have seen and heard: suffer us therefore to return into the world, and we will work that which is right, since we are now certain of the truth of what hath been preached unto us," thou wouldest see an amaz- ing sight. If we had pleased, we had certainly given unto every soul its direction ; but the word which hath proceeded from Me must necessarily be fulfilled, when I said, " Newly |[ will fill hell with genii and men altogether. Taste, therefore, the torments prepared for you ; because ye have forgotten the coming of this your day, we also have forgotten you. Taste tlierefore a punishment of eternal duration for that which ye have wrought.
Verily they only believe in our signs who, when they are warned thereby, fall down in adoration and celebrate the praises of their Lord, and are not elated with pride. Their sides are raised from their beds, calling on tlie Lord with fear and with hope, and they distribute alms out of what We have bestowed on them. No soul knoweth the complete satisfaction which is secretly prepared for them as a reward for that which they have wrought. Shall he, theretbre, who is a true believer be as he who is an im- 182
THE KORAN.— 8
pioiKs iraiisgressor? They shall not be held eijual.
Afi to those who believe and do what is riglit. they shall have gardens of perpetual abode, an ample recompense for that which they shall have wrought. I>ut as for those who impiously trans- gress, their abode shall be hell-iirc ; so often as they shall endeavor to get thereout they shall be dragged back into the same, and it shall be said unto them, " Taste ye the torment of hell-fire, which ye rejected as a falsehood. And We will cause them to taste the neai*er punishment of tliis world, besides the more grievous punish- ment of the next. Peradventure they will repent. AVho is more unjust than he who is warned by the signs of his Lord, and then turneth aside from the same? We will surely take vengeance upon the wicked.
We heretofore delivered the Book of the Law unto Moses : wherefore be not thou in doubt as to the revelation thereof. And we ordained the same to be a direction unto the children of Is- rael ; and we appointed teachers from among tlieni, who should direct the people at Our com- mand, when they had persevered with patience, and had tiiinly believed in Our signs. Verily the Lord will judge between them, on the day of the resurrection, concerning that wherein they have disagreed. Is it not known unto tiiem how many generations we have destroyed before tiiem. through whose dwellings they walk ? Verily herein are signs : Will they not therefore hearken ? Do they not see that We drive rain into a land bare of grass and parched up, and tiiereby produce corn, of which theii- cattle eat, and themselves also ? Will they not therefore regard ?
The infidels say to the true believers, " When will this decision be made between us, if ye speak the truth ? " Answer : " On the day of that decision the faith of those who shall have disbelitived shall not avail them ; neither shall
183
THE KORAN.— 0
they be rt;si)ite(l any longer. Wliereibrc, avoid tlK'Ui, and expect the issue. Verily they expect to obtain some advantage over thee.
The teacliings of the Koran are often coached in the form of an apologue. One of the most neatly turned of these is the following, which constitutes a portion of the eighteenth Sura : —
MOSES AND THE DIVINE MESSENGER.
Moses and Joshua, the son of Nun, found one of Our servants unto whom We liad granted mercy from Us, and whom We had taught wis- dom before Us. And Moses said unto him, " Shall I follow thee that thou mayest teach me part of that which thou hast taught, for a dii-ec- tion unto me ? " He answered, " Verily thou canst not bear with me ; for how canst thou pa- tiently suffer those things the knowledge whereof thou dost not comprehend?" Moses replied, " Thou shalt find me patient, if God please ; neither will I be disobedient unto thee in any- thing." He said, "If thou follow me therefore ask me not concerning anything until I shall de- clare tiie meaning thereof unto thee."
So they both went on unto the sea shore until they went up into a ship ; and he made a hole therein. And Moses said unto him, " Hast thou made a hole therein that thou might est drown those wdio are on board? now hast thou done a strange thing." He answered, " Did I not tell thee that thou couldest not bear with me ? " Moses said, " Rebuke me not, because I did fui- get ; and impose on me not a difficulty in wliicli I am commanded."
Wherefore they left the ship, and proceeded until they met with a youth ; and he slew him. Moses said, " Hast thou slain an innocent per- son, without his liaving killed another? Now hast thou committed an unjust action." He answered, " Did I not tell thee that thou couldest
184
THE KOKAN'.— 10
not bear with me ? " Moses said, " II" I ask thee concerning anything hereafter, sutt'er nic; not to accompany thee. Now thou hast received an excuse from me."
They went forward therefore until they came to the inhabitants of a certain city. And they asked food of the inhabitants thereof; but they refused to receive them. And they found there a wall which was ready to fall down, and he set it upright. AVhereupon Moses said unto him, "If thou wouldest thou mightest doubtless have re- ceived a reward for it." He answered, " This shall be a separation between me and thee; but I will first declare unto thee the signification of that which thou couldest not bear with patience : —
" The vessel belonged to certain poor men, who did their business in the sea ; and I was minded to render it unserviceable, because there was a king behind them who took every sound ship by force. As to the youth, his parents were true believers, and we feared lest he, being an unbeliever, should oblige them to suffer his perverseness and ingratitude ; wdierefore we de- sired that their Lord might give them a more rigliteous cliild in exchange for him, and one more affectionate towards them. And the wall belonged to two orphan youths in the city, and under it was a treasure hidden which belonged to them ; and their father was a righteous man ; and thy Lord was pleased that they should attain their full age, and take forth their treasure through the mercy of thy Lord. And I did not what thou hast seen of mine own will, but by God's direction. This is the interpretation of that which thou couldest not bear with patience."
The closing twenty Suras are very brief, consisting usually of but a single sentence. The place and time of the delivery of most of them is not stated. It may be pre- sumed that they are among those which Zeid wrote down from memory after ihc death of the Prophet.
185
THE KORAN.-ll
SURA CXII ENTITLED "THE DECLARATION
OF god's UNITY."
Say : " God is one God ; the eternal God. He begetteth not, neither is he begotten ; and there is not any one like unto Him."
SURA CXIII ENTITLED "THE DAYBREAK."
Say: "I fly for refuge unto the Lord of the daybreak, that he may deliver me from the mis- cliief of those things which He hath created ; and from the mischief of the niglit when it cometh on ; and from the mischief of women blowing on knots ; and from the mischief of the envious when he envieth.''
SURA CXIV. THE CONCLUSION.
Say : " I tiy for refuge unto the Lord of men, the King of men, the God of men, that He may deliver me from the mischief of the whisperer wlio slily withdrawetb, wlio whispereth evil sug- gestions into the breasts of men ; from genii and men."
186
KAKL THEODOR KORNER — 1
KORNER. Karl Theodor, a German patriot and poet, born at Dresden in 1791 ; killed in a skirmish at Wobbelin in 1813. He published a volume of poems in 1810, wrote several plays at Vienna, of which Zriny is the best, and was appointed poet to the City Theatre, but is chiefly remem- bered for his passionate war- songs. Full of ardor for German freedom, he joined the Black Huntsmen of Liitzow in March, 1813, and marched with them into Saxony. While waiting in a wood to attack the French on the night (Aug. 25) before his death, he wrote his famous Sclncertlit^d. j.\n iron monument marks the spot where he fell. His father published some of his lyrics as Leier und Schwert (1814). His complete Works appeared in 183-1, and his Life by his father in an English version in 18-45. Our extracts are taken from an Edinburgh translation. Lyre und Strord, (1841), and from Professor John Stuart Blackie'sTFa?- Songs of the Germa?is {1870.)
ON THE SOLEMN BENEDICTION OF THE PRUS- SIAN FREE-CORPS IN THE CHURCH OF ROGAU IN SILESIA.
Nigh to God's altars while we draw,
Bent on a pious aim, Our duty summons us to war,
Our hearts are kindling flame. For Fight and Victoiy we fire: 'Twas God who gave the fierce desire —
To God alone be glory !
Yes, God is our unfailing trust, Dread though the fight be found.
For Right and Duty strive we must, And for our holy ground.
We'll rise and rescue Fatherland;
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KARL THEODOR KORNER— 2
God will achieve it by our hand. To God alone be glory.
The plot of Pride and Tyranny
Explodes with demon start ; Thy hallowed torches, Liberty,
Shall blaze in every heart! Then sweep to the battle-flurry grim ! God is with us, and we with Him !
To God alone be glory !
He cheers us now to victory's goal,
For truth, for justice's sake; He whispei'ed in our inmost soul,
" Wake ! Gei-man People, wake ! " He'll land us, death and doom despite. Where Freedom's day is dawning bright : —
To God alone be glory !
PKAYER DURING THE FIGHT.
Father, I call on Thee ! Clouds from the thunder-voiced cannon enveil
me. Lightnings are flashing, death's thick darts as- sail me : Ruler of battles, I call on Thee ! Father, 0 lead Thou me !
Father, O lead Thou me ! Lead me to victory, or to death lead me ; With joy I accept what Tiiou hast decreed me. God, as Thou wilt, so lead Thou me !
God, I acknowledge Thee!
God, I acknowledge Thee ! Where, in still autumn, the sear leaf is falling, Where peals the battle, its thunder appalling ; Fount of all grace, 1 acknowledge Thee!
Father, O bless Thou me !
Father, O bless Thou me ! Into Thy hand my soul I resign, Lord ; Deal as Thou wilt with the life that is Thine, Lord.
188
KARL THEODOR KORNER.— 3
Living or dying, 0 bless Tliou me ! Father, I praise Thy name !
P'ather, I praise Thy name ! Not for Earth's wealth or dominion contend
we ; The holiest rights of the freeman defend we. Victor or vanquished, praise I Thee ! God, in Thy name I trust!
God, in Tliy name I trust ! When in loud thunder my death-note is knell-
When from my veins the red blood is welling, God, in Thy holy name I trust ! Father, I call on Thee !
Transl. of J. S. Blackie.
A PRAYER.
Hear us. Almighty One !
Hear us, All-gracious One ! Lord God of battles, give ear !
Father, we praise Thee !
Father, we thank Thee ! The dawn of our freedom is here.
'Spite all the rage of hell,
God, Thy strong hand shall quell Devils who falter and juggle.
Lead, Lord of Sabaoth !
Lead us, O triune God ! Onward to victory's struggle.
Lead ! though our lot should hap In the grave's bloody lap : " Laus Deo " sit nostrum carmen ! Kingdom, power, and glory Are Thine ! we adore Thee ! Lead us, Almighty One ! Amen. 189
KARL THEODOR KORNER.— 4
ADTEl' TO LIFE.
[Wiittcn when I lay sore wounded and liolpless, and tlioiight
to die.]
Tlie parched wour.tl burns ! the lips all bloodless
quiver : The laboring heart, and pulse which feebly
plays, They warn me it is here, my last of days. God, as Thou wilt ! or slay me, or deliver ! Briglit forms swept by on Fancy's flowing i-iver; >«ow the dull death-dirge quells those dreamy
lays. Yet, cheeidy ! One heart-anchored treasure
stays, Will live with me in yonder skies forever ! And what could here my holiest raptures move, AVhat still I prized all youthful joys above — Or name it Liberty, or call it Love — It stands before me now, a seraph bi'ight, And ere these faltering senses fail me quite. Wafts me on gentle breath to heaven's own rosy
light.
SWORD-SONG.
Thou sword so cheerly shining. What are thy gleams divining? Look'st like a fi'iend on me ; Triumphs my soul in thee. Hurrah ! Inirrah ! luirrah !
'' I love my brave knight dearly. Therefore 1 shine so clearly. Borne by a gallant knight. Triumphs the sword so bright."
Yes, trusty sword, 1 love thee ; A true knight thou shalt prove me. Thee, my beloved, my bride, I'll lead thee forth in pride.
" My iron-life, clear-raying, I give it to thy swaying. O come and fetch thy bride ! Lead, lead me forth in pride ! "
190
KAEL THEODOR KOKN^EIi— 3
The festal trump is blaring. The bridal dance preparino-. Wlien cannon shakes the glen, I'll come and fetch thee then.
" O blest embrace that frees me ! My hope impatient sees thee. Come, bridegroom, fetch tliou me ; Waits the bright wreath for thee ! "
Why in thy sheath art ringing, Thou iron-soul, fire-flinging ? So wild with battle's glee. Why ray'st thou eagerly ?
" I in my sheath am ringing; I from my sheath am springino-: Wild, wild with battle's glee, Ray I so eagerly."
Remain, remain within, love ; Why court tlie dust and din, love ? Wait in tliy chamber small. Wait till thy true knight call.
" Then speed thee, true knight, speed thee ! To love's fair garden lead me. Show me the roses red. Death's crimson-blooming bed."
Then, from thy sheath come free thee ! Come, feed mine eye to see thee ! Come, come, my sword, my bride ; I lead thee forth in pride !
" How glorious is the free air ! How whirls the dance with glee there ! Glorious, in sun arrayed. Gleams, bridal-bright, the blade."
Then up, true Ritter German, Ye gallant sons of Herman ! Beats the knight's heart so warm, With 's true love in In's arm.
191
KARL THEODOR KORNER.— 6
"With stolen looks divining, Those on my left wert shining. Now on my right, my bride, God leads thee forth in pride.
Then press a kiss of fire on The bridal mouth of iron. Woe now or weal betide. Curst whoso leaves his bride !
Tlu'n break thou fortli in singing, Tliou iron-bride, fire-flinging ! Walk forth in Joy and pride ! Hurrah, tliou iron-bride !
Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 192
LUDWIG THEOBUL KOSEGARTEN.— 1
KOSEGARTEN, Ludwig Theobul, a German ecclesiastic and poet, born in 1758 ; died in 1818. From 1792 to 1807 he was preacher in the island of Eugeii, and in the latter year became Professor of His- tory at Griefswald. He wrote dramas, novels, and poems, and published several translations from the English. His son, JOHAXX (ioTTFRIED KoSEGARTEN (1792-
1860) was an accomplished Oriental scholar ; and published translations from Arabic, Persian, and Sanskrit, holding the l^rofessorship of Oriental Literatnre at Jena and Griefswald from 1817 to his death.
THE AMEN OF THE STONES.
Blind witli old age, the Venerable Bede Ceased not, for that, to preach and publish
forth The news from Heaven — -the tidings of great
joy-
From town to town — through all the villages — "With trusty guidance roamed the aged Saint, And preached the word with all tlie fire of
youth. One day his boy had led him to a vale That lay all thickly sown with rugged rocks : In mischief more than malice, spake the boy : — " Most reverend father, there are many men Assembled liere, who wait to hear thy voice." The blind old man, so bowed, straightway rose up. Chose him his text, expounded, then applied ; Exhorted, wai-ned, rebuked, and comforted, So fervently that soon the gushing tears Streamed thick and fast down to his hoary
beard. Wlien, at the close, as seemeth always nn^e), He prayed, "Our Father," and pronoiniced
aloud.
193
LUDWIG THEOBUL KOSEGARTEN.— 2
" Thine is the kingdom and the power ; Thine
The glory now, and through eternity ! "
At once there rang through all that echoing
vale A sound of many voices crying " Amen ! most reverend Sire, Amen ! Amen ! "
Trembling with terror and remorse, the boy Knelt down before tlie Saint, and owned his sin. " Son," said the old man, '• hast thou ne'er
read, ' When men are dumb, the stones shall crv
aloud ? ' Henceforward mock not, son ; the word of God Living it is, and mighty, cutting sharp. Like a two-edged sword. And when the heart Of flesh grows hard and stubborn as the stone, A heart of flesh shall stir in stones themselves." Traiisl. of Chakles T. Brooks.
194
CHAKLLS POKTEKFJEI.I) KRAUTH.— 1
KRAUTll, Charles Porterfiei.d, an American theologian, born at Martinsburg, Va., in 1823; died in Philadelphia in 1883. He graduated at the College and Seminary at Gettysburg, Pa., entered the Lutheran ministrv, and was pastor at Baltimore 1841—1:7, Shepherdstown, Va., 1847-48, Winchester, Va., 1848-55, Pittsburgh, 1855-59, and of St. Mark's in Philadelphia 1859-61. He edited the Lutheran and Mis- sionary 18(U-67, was Professor oC System- atic Theology in the Lnthern Seminary at Philadelphia from its organization in 1864, and of Mental and Moral Science in tl.c University of Peun. fj'om 1868, holding also the vice provostship from 1873. He was chairman of the Old 'JVstament Company of the American Bible Revision Commit- tee, and President of the Lutheran General Council for ten years. He wrote exten- sively for reviews, translated Tholuck's Commentary on John (1850), and Ulrici's Review of Strauss (1874), and edited Berke- ley's Principles of Human Knowledge (1874), and Fleming's Vocabulary of PlrilosopJty (1860), which he greatly enlarged in 1877. His most important work is The Conserva- tive Reformalion and its TJieoloijy (1872.)
TllK WOISI) AM) SACltAMENTS.
If Christ iiiiist (lie to make our redemption, II<' iiiiist live (() apply it. If the Lord's Supper is a sacrament of the redemption made hy,His deatli, it is afso a sacrament of the sa.me redemp- tion applied I)y His life. If it tells us that His hody ;ind Mood wen^ necessary to make om- re- demption. i( tells us also that they are still necessary to apply the redemption they then made. He made the sacrifice once for all — He applies it constantly, we live hy Him, we must 195
CHARLES P0KTP:KF1EL1) KKAUTH,— 2
hang oil Him — the vine does not send up one gush of its noble stij) and then remain inert. It receives the totality of life, once for all, but tin; sap which sustains it must flow on — its one un- changing and abiding life puts itself fortli into the new offshoots, and by constant application of itself maintains the old branches. If the sap-life ceases, the seed-life cannot save. C;i( the branch off, and the memory of the life will not keep it from withering; it must have the life itself — and this it must derive successively from the vine. It could not exist without the original life of the vine, nor can it exist without the present life of the vine, be its past what it may. Faith cannot feed on itself, as many seem to imagine it can — it must have its object. The ordinances, the Word, and the sacraments give to it that by which it lives. Faith in the nutri- tious power of bread does not nourish — the bread itself is necessary." — Tlie Conservative Reformation.
MARTIN LLTHER.
The greatness of some men only makes us feel that, though they did well, others in their place might have done just as they did. Luther liad that exceptional greatness which convinces the world that he alone could have done the work. He was not a mere mountain-top, catch- ing a little earlier the beams which, by th^ir own course, would soon have found the valleys ; but rather, by the divine ordination under which he rose, like the sun itself, without which the light on mountain and valley would have been but a starlight or moonlight. He was not a secondary orb, reflecting the light of another orb, as was Melanchthon, and even Calvin ; still less like the moon of a plaiiet, as Bucer or Brentius ; but the centre of undulations which filled a system with glory. — llie Con- servative Reformation .
196
FRIEDRICH ADOr.F KKTMMACHEK — 1
KHUMMACIIEK, Kkikdhich Adolf, a (ierinau author, born at Tecklenburg, Wesphalia, iu 1768 ; died at Bremen in 1845. He studied theology at Lingeu and Halle, and was Rector of tlie Grammar School at Mors, Professor of Theology at Duisburg, Reformed pastor at Krefeld and Kettwich, Superintendent at Bernberg, and lastly pastor at Bremen. He wrote Cor- nelius the Centurion^ a Life of St. John^ (both published in an English translation in 1840), and many other books, of which the Para behi (1805) is the most popular: this ap- peared in an English version in 1858. His life was written by Moller (2 vols., 1849.)
uavid's harp.
One day David the King of Israel sat on Mount Sion. His harp was before him, and he leaned his head u])on it. Then the prophet Gad came to him, and said, " Whereon muses my lord the king? "
David answered : '' On the continual changes of my destiny. How many songs of gratitude and joy have I sung to tliis liarp ! hut how many songs also of mourning and sorrow ! "
" Be thou like unto the harp," said the prophet.
'' What meanest thou ? " askeil the king.
'• Behold," answered the man of God, " both thy sorrow and thy joy drew heavenly sounds from the harp, and animated its stiings. Thus let joy and sorrow form tliy heart and life to a celestial harp."
Then David arose and touched the strings.
rnii SHEEP-SIIEAKIN<;.
A mother once took her little daughter Ida to see the shearing of the sheej). Then the little girl comphiined, and said. "Ah, how cruel meii an- to toi-nient the poor .'niinials !"
IVT
FRIEDRICH ADOLF KRUMMACHER— 2
"O no," answered the mother; "God lias ordered it so, that men might elotlie themselves, for they are born naked."
"But," said Ida, "now the poor sheep will be so cold."
" O no," answered the mother. " He gives the warm raiment to man, and tempers tlie wind to the shorn lamb." 198
FlM!:DRICir WILIIKT.M KRUMMACHER.— 1
KRUMMACHER, Fbiedrich Wilhelm, :i German religious writer, sou of Friedricb Adolpli Krumniacber, boru at Mors in 179H ; died at Potsdam in 18(38. He studied at llalle and Jena, and was pastor at Rulirort and Genlarke. In 1843 he was called to a chair at Mercersburg, Pa., but declined, lie was appointed chaplain of the Russian court at Potsdam in 1853. He was an elo- quent preacher. Of his numerous books Elijah the Tishhite (1828), Elisha (1837), Solomon and the Shulamite, David the King o/'/srac/ (1868), and others have appeared in English versions, as w^ell as an Autohi- o<jraphy (1869.) The first-named is his most popular book.
THE PSALMS.
^Vho that is somewhat intimately acquainted witli the Psalms is not forced, as lie I'eadsthem, to pause and consider whether it be true that be- tween him, the reader, and the birthdays of these songs, almost three thousand years inter- vene ? Do they not all breathe the same fresh- ness of life as if they had been composed but yestei'day? It seems to us with them as if we dwelt in our own houses and beside our own altars, and this thought rests on no delusion. How strange the songs of other nations sound to us, while in the Psalms of Israel we every- wliere meet with our own God, and with tlie whole range of our own personal feelings and experiences. Is it not clear from this that it was lie who knows the hearts, whose thione is in tlie heavens, who himself loosed the tongue <»t' the sacred singer that he miglit sing his songs for all iujes, and give expression to all the di- verse moods of feeling which move ever and anon in ihe world of hallowed human thought? — David, the Kiitij o/" Israel.
199
i
KRYLOFF.-^l '765^1^ 4 yi
KRYLOFF,orKRiLOFF, Ivan Andrevitch; a Russian fabulist, born at Moscow in 1768; died at St. Petersburg in 1844. In boy- hood he held a post under government, and wrote Philomela^ Cleopatra., and other plays. He was engaged in journalism at the capi- tal for some years, and from 1797 to 1801 lived as tutor at the country seat of Prince Galitzin, whom he then accompanied to Livonia as secretary. A passion for cards led him for a time into a wandering life. His first fables, numbering twenty-three, ap- peared in 1809 ; their success was so ra})id that he gave his mind to this species of composition. Beginning with translations and imitations of La Fontaine, he soon became original and national : before his death. 77,000 copies had been sold in Eus- sia, and his fame had reached other lands. He became a member of the Academy of Sciences in 1811, held a post in the impe- rial library 1812-41, and was made council- lor 1840 : in 1838 a festival was held in his honor. His works were collected at St. Petersburg in 1844, and his statue erected in the summer garden. His life was writ- ten by three different Russians. His Fables^ which are the first of their kind in modern literature, have been translated into Eng- lish by W. R. S. Ralston (1868), into French by Einerling (1845) and others, and into German by Lowe (1874.) A version in French and Italian was published by Count OrloH:' as early as 1825.
THK KLEPIIANT AND THE PITG-DOO.
An Elephant was beinj:^ taken tliroiigli flie streets, ])robal)ly as a sijjlit. It is well known that Eleiihaiits are a wonder aiiioiig us; so crowds
20U
KRYLOFF.— 2
of giiping idli'is followed the Elephant. Fiom some cause or other, ;i Puji-dog comes to meet him. It looks at the Elephant, and then begins lo run at it, to bark, to squeal, to try to get at it, just as if it wanted to tight it.
'' Neighbor, cease to bring shame on yourself," says another Dog. " Are you capable of fight- ing an Elephant ? Just see now, you are al- ready hoarse ; but it kee})s straight on, and pay.> you not the slightest attention."
"Aye, aye," replies the Pug-dug, "that's just what gives me courage. In this way, you see, without lighting at all, I may get reckoned among the greatest bullies. Just let the dogs say, ' Ah, look at Puggy ! He must be .•-tiong, indeed, that's clear, or he would never bark at an Elephant."
THE HOUSE AND THE DOC.
A Dog and a Horse, which served the same ]>easant, began to discuss each other's merits one day.
'• How grand we are, to be sure," says the Dog. "I shouldn't be sorry if they were lo turn you out of the farmyar<l. A noble ser- vice, indeed, to jdough or draw a cart ! And I've never heard of any other proof of your merit. How can you possibly compare yourself with me? I rest neither l)y day or by night. In the daytime I watch the cattle in the mead- ows ; by night I guard the house."
"Quite true," replied the Horse. " What you say is perfectly correct. Only remember that, if it weren't for my ploughing, you \\ouldn't have anything at all to guard hei'e."
201
EDOUARD l^ENE LABOULAYE.— 1
LABOULAYE, fiDOUARi) Rene Le- FEBORE DE, a French publicist and author, born in 1811 ; died in 1883. He began hfe as a type-founder, then studied Liw, and in 1839 published a Hislory of Landnl Properly in Europe. This was followed b\- an Essay on tlie Life and Doctrines of De Saviyny (18-10), Researches ■i)do the Civil and Political Condition of M^omen (1843), and an Essay on the Criminal Laics of the Romans^ co)icernin(j the Responsihility of Magistrates (1815.)
In 1849 lie was appointed to tlie Chair of Comparative Legislation in the College of France.
During the Second Empire he took an active part in tlie eftbrts of the Liberal party, and was consequently regarded with disfavor by the government. He was an admirer of American institutions, and both before and during the war of se- cession, threw his influences on the side of the Union, to which he rendered good service by his work entitled The United /States and France (1862.) Among his works not already mentioned are, Gontem- porary Studies on Germany and the Slavic States (1855), Reliyious Liberty (1856), Studies upon Literary Prop>erty in France and Enyland (1858), Ahdallah, cm Arabian Romance (1859), Moral and Political Studies (1862), The State and its Limits (1863), Paris in America (1863), Prince Canicie (1868.)
THE DEPARTURE OF THE VOLUNTEERS.
The roll of a drum, followed by the flourish fif vpsonnding trumpets, drowned my voice. Tvv'j LI.) i;;v(.« entered the sclioo] : ojie of ihem
202
EDOUAKD KENE LABOULAYE.— 2
— it was Alfred — nin to Susnniiji, and teiuk-rlv took her hand. The other, my son Henry, threw himself upon my neck. " Father," said he, " the Southerners have crossed the Potomac ; Washington is threatened. There is a call for volunteers, and we set out to-night. Come • luickly. ^Mother is waiting."
Fo1Iow(m1 by my children, I left the peaceful retreat wher(% at last, I had surprised the secret' of Ameri(uui greatness. Tiie aspect of the city had changed ; houses were decorated with fiao-s, from every window the Federal standard, tossed by the wind, displayed its stripes of crimson and azure, and its thirty-four stars, a mute pro- test in favor of the Union. Large handbills an- nounced the disaster to the Federal army, and summoned the citizens to their country's aid. Armed battalions were marching to the sound of trumpets and drums. The churches were crowded with volunte(?rs invoking the God of their fathers before they marched to battle. War-songs and religious hymns came mingled to the ear ; fathers, mothers, sisters, accompanied tlie young recruits, encouraging them, shaking liands, weeping, embracing, lifting their hands to heaven. It was the fervor of a crusade.
I reached home greatly agitated. A Parisian, I had grown up in the midst of disturbances and of civil war ; the remembrance of these things saddened me. But in this departure for the frontier, in this enthusiasm impelling a whole nation to arms, there was something so noble, so grand, that I felt myself lifted up. Even the perils that lay before Henry and Alfred did not affriglit me ; I felt a secret impulse to accompany tliem. Had not I a fireside, a ftimily to de- fend? AVas not America, where I possessed these treasures, my country also ?
At my door I found a whole regiment of Zouaves, volunteers from that ward, the aged Colonel St. John mounted on a white horse. Foi-getful of his rheumatism and his woimds, the
2f)?,
EDOUAia) RENE LABOF LAYE.— 3
gallant veteran was eager to lead tlie young men to court iet. lieside the Colonel niarehed Rose in a captain's uniform, accompanied by liis eight sons, and four other line young men, Green's sons. Fox, turned into a lieutenant, and the centre of a group, was liolding forth, gesticulat- ing and breatliing blood and slaughtei*. His false collar and his snufl-box did not accord vei-y will with his uniform, and might have made me laugh at another time, but he spoke with so nuich tire that he had to me a martial air. He was ditterent from a professional soldier : he was a man resolved to die for his country.
" Neighbor," said Rose to me, " we count on you ; tiie old sliould set an example. We need a surgeon for our regiment of Zouaves ; you have been unanimously chosen ; nothing is want- ing but your consent."
"You have it," cried I; "yes, my good fri<Mids, I will go w'ith you. We shall be there to watch over the boys, and, if need be, to (iiva shot with tiienio Hurrah for tln^ Fnio)i I Our country for ever ! "
The ci'y was repeated through all the ranks, mingled with that of " Hurrah for Daniel ! Hurrah for the Major ! " I felt the very depths of my heart stirred by the acclamations of these brave young fellows. I entered the house with head erect and sparkling eyes. A new life was awakening in my soul. I was happy I
A few hours sufficed to ])rocure me a surgeon's uniform. Rose presented me with a fine case of instruments ; I bought revolvers, a sabre, a horse ; in thi-ee hours I was ready ; we were to set out on the same evciuing.
Up to this time I had not reflected on what I was doing; my French ardor iiad cariied me away. But at the moment of quitting the house in which I had passed so many happy and use- ful days, I felt an indescribable sadness, as if once gone, I should never return. And if I did return, would it be with my son and Alfred
204
EDOUARD RENE LABOULAYE.— 4
wlioiii I had begun to love ns if he weic my .sou ?
T -fiook ort" these sad thoughts which iicver- thihss returned ceaselessly to the assault, wlien I lie old Coloni'l entered my house. The sight (if him did me good. He was one of those brave soldiers prodigal of their blood, sparing of the l)lood of others. We could not have had a more honorable and trustworthy leader.
" Colonel," said I, when his congratulations were ended, " we are alone and I can sjxak freely. Between ourselves, what do you make of these new recruits ? Enthusiasm is a gotid thing, but what is it beside military diill and dis- cipline? Notwithstanding the courage of these well-meaning young men, there are battalions that break up at the first fire."
'■ Patiencp, Major," replied the veteran. " I am less severe than you ; and. besides, I have been a soldier all my life. Two months behind the retloubts at Washington will turn these vol- unteers into soldiers. Discipline is much, it is ti-ue, but it is an attainment within reach of the most ignorant. What cannot be given is courage, faith, i)atriotism. There is the final spring, if we talk of swordsmen ; to handle the bayonet a ijuick and rigorous arm is needed ; but it is the soul that gives strength to the arm. A few yciir- (if war and endurance suffice to educate a nation and make two enemies equal. There remains, then, moral Ibrce ; that always has the last word ; and this is why the best armies are those composed of citizens."
"Excuse me, Colonel, I think nothing equals experienced troops."
" You are mistaken," said St. John. " In a revicAV, or a pai'ade, that is possible ; war is another thing. Good officers, young soldiers, old generals, are necessary. There is nothing like youth for marching without complaint, olx-y- ing without murmur, meeting danger fearlessly, and deatli unmoved and smiling. The more in- 205
•EDOUARD RENE LAP.OUEAYE— 5
(cHl^ciit, pious, and patriotic it is, the more it call be depended ii[)oii. They have other ideas in tlie Ohl AVorld : there precedent and the worship of brute force still reign. Here civiliza- tion has opened our eyes. No doubt, victory always belongs to the general who at the critical moment can throw against a given point the greatest number of battalions. But other condi- tions being equal, the young and patriotic soldier is worth more than an old one who follows war as a trade."
" You have no generals," said I. " ITp to the present time yours has been a peaceful country, begetting farmers and merchants rather than Cajsars."
"Be tranquil," replied the Colonel. "You will have generals, and more than enough of them. War is like the chase, a profession in which certain men excel from the first. Such an one — to-day a blacksmith, an engineer, a lawyer, perhaps a doctor — will awake to-morrow a general. History shows that tliei-e are stei-ile epochs when letters, art, and industry are dead, but in none of them have soldiers been wanting. Man has the hunter's sanguinary instinct ; peace may restrain, but cannot destroy it. With the coming of war you will have heroes. Heaven grant that the people may esteem them arighf, and not sacrifice liberty to them ! " . . . .
The sound of bugles announced the time of departure. I went down holding the hands of Henry and Alfred. Jenny embraced us all with the courage of a woman and a Christian mother. Susanna, silent and agitated, gave us each a Bible to carry with us everywhere. Martha had prepared a prophetic sermon, but at the tirst word the poor girl gave a terrible sob, and tak- ing Henry in her arms, as if he had been a child, covered him with tears and kisses. I wrung her hand ; she threw herself on my neck, and half- strangled me before I could mount my horse.
At the same instant Sambo came lunning out, 20(;
EDOUAKD R1:NE LABOULAYE.— 6
liiilicroiisly accoutrril, witli ;i red and blue sasli, •M pliiiULMl hat, and a .sabic that dnijrged on the uromid. •• Massa," cried he, " take nie with yon ; I am brave. If my i-kin is black, my Moo 1 is led. li" they don't kill me first 1 will beat them all." 1 could hardly get rid of the uour boy, thougli I gave the sagest reasons to eouviiiee him that his courage was ridiculous.
As long as 1 was near the house 1 dared not look back ; there were tears in my eyes, and I leaied they would overflow ; but at a turn in the street I looked back. The three women were waving their handkerchiefs and following us with their eyes. My heart beat tumultuously. " O God ! " cried I, " to tliee I confide my loved ones ! " For the first time I wept, I prayed, and was comforted.
At four o'clock we were drawn up in battle array before the Mayor's office. Green reviewed us, and spoke to us of the country with au emotion that bordered on eloquence. His voice was drowned l)y our cheers. Then all became silent, self-controlled. Perhaps I alone of the whole regiment was restless. Strange thing ! I longed to be under lire. In a moment of rest I passed before my companions, laughing, talking, gesticulating, with a word for everyone, rallying those who were moved, encouraging those who tried to smile, promising my aid in time of danger. I had already the war-fever. . . ,
The night was fine : the early-risen moon shone far and wide on fields bordered with ])o!)lars and divided by willows. On the horizon a river rolled its silvered waters. There was a (•ertain charm in letting myself be carried by my horse ; and in giving myself up to reverie in the miilst of tiiat beautiful country. It is the soldier's good-fortune that he can enjoy the present hour without disquieting himself about the morrow.
The camping-place was not far distant. At eight o'clock we halted. The Colonel had wished us to learn to march. The lesson was not need- 207
E[)o^ Aja) i;ene J.AHOULAYE.— 7
less; the regiment had tlie aii' of a flock of sheep in disorder. But the brave St. John conjrratu- hited all the reeruits, accustoming them little l>y little to look n]»on him as a father, and put con- fidence in him.
••' Major," said he to me, "do not laugh. In a mouth we shall he worth as much as the Prus- sians. When Ji man believes himself a soldier, he is half one already; you shall see what an army of citizens can be."
Tiie bivouac was in the midst of the fields. The fires lighted and the horses picketed, we supped cheerfully on the pi'ovisions that each one had brought with him. P"'or the conscripts this first repast in the oi)en air was a feast : war had not yet made them regret the comfort and afiection of the fireside.
When supper was over, and it did not last long, the soldiers, instead of laughing and shout- ing, seated themselves in silence upon their blankets to listen to the ministers. The officers formed the circle. Truth advanced in the midst of us, and opening the Bible, read with inspired voice the song of David when God had delivered him from the hand of his enemies.
While Truth recited this lofty poem, I looked about me. All the oificers listened, praying, their eyes Hashing with ardor and faith. The last flames of our dying fires illuminated their noble faces and cast upon them an indescribable, mysterious brightness. I could almost have be- lieved myself carried back into the middle of the seventeenth century, and set down in a camp of Round-heads. " And these," thought 1, "are the men to whom our Parisian news- papers deny all patriotism and all religion ! No; military despotism can never obtain a foot-hold in this generous land. The soil upturned and made fruitful by the Puritans can bring forth only liberty."
The reading over, 1 wrung the hand of Truth, and taking advantage of my privilege, I in-
14 208
EDOUAED KENE LABOULAYE.— 8
spectcd all the companiei?, in search of my son aiul Alfred. I found them both lyinj; on the giouiul, wrapped in their blankets, and talking in low tones, I well knew of whom.
'• Boys," said I, " a soldier must husband his jtrength; the lirst requisite is sleep. INIake a phu-e for me between you, and dream with your eves shut."
So saying I embraced my two sons, wrapped my cloak carefully about me, drew the hood (i\er my face, and went to sleep with a heart as liiilit as if I were at home." — Paris in America.
'^ 209
MAKIE K. LACOaTE.— 1
LxiCOSTE, Marie K., au American pcjet, of whose life we know nothing beyond a brief sketch in Epes Sargent's Gycloiydedia of Br 'dish and American Poetry. This bio- graphical sketch reads thus : " Miss Lacoste was born about the year 18'12, was a resi- dent of Savannah, Georgia, at the time (i8t>o) she wrote the poem, fSo7nebod/i/s Dar- liwj. Without her consent it was pub- lished, with her name nttached, in the Southern (Viarcliman. Her residence in 1886 was Baltimore, and her occupation that of a teacher. In a letter of that year she writes : ' I am thoroughly French, and desire always to be identified with France ; to be known and considered ever as a Frenchwoman. I cannot be considered an authoress at all, and resign all claim to tlie title.'" But, comments Mr. Sargent, "if she did not wish to be regarded as an authoress, and a much esteemed one, she ought never to have written Sornehody's Darliiuj. The marvel is that the vein from which came the felicitous little jioem has not been more productively worked."
somebody's dakmno. Into a ward of the whitewashed walls,
Where the dead and dying lay, Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody's Darling was borne one day : — Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave,
Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face, Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.
Matted and dani]> are the curls of gold.
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow; Fale are the lips of delicate mould : —
Somebody's Darling is dying now.
210
MARIE R. LACOSTE— 2
Back from his beautirul lilue-veined brow liiiish all the \vaH(UMin«i waves of gold.
Cross his hands on his bosom now: — Somebody's Darling is still and cold.
Kiss him onoe more for somebody's sake ;
■Murmur a prayer soft and low ; One bright curl from its fair mates take —
They were somebody's pride, you know ; Somebody's hand had rested there :--
Was it a mother's soft and white ? And have the lips of a sister fair
Been baptized in those waves of light?
God knows best. He has somebody's love ;
Somebody's heart enshrined him there ; Somebody wafted his name above.
Night and morn, on the wings of prayer ; Somebody wept \vhen he marched away.
Looking so handsome, brave, and grand ; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay ;
Somebody clung to his parting hand.
Somebody's waiting aiul watching for him.
Yearning to hold him again to the heart ; And there 1ie lies, with his blue eyes dim,
And the smiling childlike lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead.
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear ; Carve on the wooden slal) at his head,
" Somebody's Darling slumbers here."
211
ALBERT LAIGHTON. —1
LAIGHTON, Albert, an American poet, bom in Portsmouth, N. H., in 1829; died there in 1887. He was for many years connected with a banking institution in_ his native town. His poems, which originally appeared in various periodicals, were published collectively in 1859, and subsequently in 1878. In connection with Mr. A. M. Payson he compiled a volume of Poets of Portsmouth (1865.)
UNDER THE LEAVES.
Oft have I walked these woodland paths,
AVithout the blest foreknowing That underneath the Avithered leaves
The faintest buds were groAvinff.
To-day the south-wind sweeps away The types of Autumn's splendor,
And shows the sweet arbutus flowers — Spring's children, |)ure and tender.
0 prophet flowers ! witli lips of bloom. Outvying you in beauty,
The pearly tints of ocean shells. Ye teach me faith and duly.
Walk life's dark ways, ye seem to say, With Love's divine foreknowing,
Tliat where man sees but withered leaves, God sees the sweet flowers growing:.
THE DEAD.
1 cannot tell you if the dead,
That loved us fondly when on earth, Walk by our side, sit at our hearth, By ties of old affection led : —
Or, looking earnestly within,
Know all our joys, hear all our sighs. And watch us with their holy eyes
Whene'er we tread tlie paths of sin : —
212
ALl'.F.KT LAICiHTON— 2
Of if, with iiiyjitii- lovi' and sign,
Tlicv jspeak to us, or press our hand. And strive to make us understand
Tlie nearness of tlieir forms divine.
I^ut this I know : — In many dreams Tlii'v come to us from realms afar, Ami leave the golden gates ajar,
Through which immortal glorv streams.
TO :my soul.
Guests from a holier world. Oh, tell me where the peaceful valleys lie! Dove in the ark of life, when thou shalt fly,
Wliere will thy wings be furled?
AVhere is thy native nest? ■\Vher»' the green pastures that the blessed roam ? Impatient dweller in thy clay-built home.
Where is thy heavenly rest?
On some immortal shore. Some realm away from earth and time, I know, A land of bloom where living waters How,
And grief comes never more.
Faith turns my eyes above; Day fills with floods of light the boundless skies ; Night watches calmly with her starry eyes,
All tremulous with love.
And, as (Mitranced I gaze, Sweet music floats to me from distant lyres ; I see a temple round whose golden spires
I'nearlhly glory plays.
Beyond those azure deeps I fix tliy home — a mansion kept for thee Within the Father's house, whose noiseless key
Kind Death, tlie warder keeps. 213
LAMARTINE— 1
LAMARTINE, Alphonse Marie Louis DE, a French poet, historian, and statesman, born near Macon, in 1790 ; died at Paris in 1869. He was educated chiefly by his mother, and was sent to the College at Belley, where he remained until his nine- teenth year. In 1811 he went to Italy, where he spent two years. His family had suffered for their adherence to the Royalist cause, and when Napoleon was sent to Elba, Lamartine returned to France and entered the service of Louis XVIII. On the return of Napoleon he took I'efuge in Switzerland. In 1818-19 he traveled in Savoy, Switzerland, and Italy, writing ))oetrv, of which his first volume, Medi/a- lions Poetiques was published in 1820. He now entered the diplomatic service. In 1823 he married an English lady of fortune, and the same year published Nouvi4les Meditations.
After the accession of Louis Philippe he travelled with his family in Turke}^ Egypt, and Syria. During his absence he was elected to the Chamber of Deputies, and took his place about the beginning of 1834. He was re-elected in 1837. In 18-11 he opposed Thiers's project of fortifying the capital. In 1843 he advocated the exten- sion of the franchise, and the foundation of a constitutional monarchy.
The Revolution of February, 1848, gave him a foremost place among the men of France. He was made Minister of Foreign Affairs, was elected for the Constitu- tional Assembly in ten departments, and was chosen one of the five members of the Executive Committee. For four months he held the reins of government. But in
214
LAMAirriNE.— 2
June liis influence .succumbed thnt of Ca- vaiguac.
The remainder of his life was spent in literary labor. His private fortune was gone, and the Government in 1867 granted him $100,000. In 1860 he supervised an edi- tion of his works in forty-one volumes. Among them are, Harmonies PoUtiques ct Reliijieuse (1830), Souvenirs, Impressions. Pensees et Paysafjes pendant lut Yoyaije en Orient (1835), Jocelyn, Journal trouve chez an Cure de Village (1836), La Chute d'un A7i'/e (1838), Kbcueillements Poetiqucs (1839), Histoire des Girondms (1847), His- tory of (he Revolution of 1848, and Histories of Turkey and Russia. The entire list of his writings, in prose and verses, is very- long.
THE CEDARS OE LEBANON.
Eagles, tliat wheel above our crests, 8ay to tlie storms that round us blow, Tliey cannot liarm our gnarled breasts, Firm-rooted as we are below. Their utmost eftbrts we defy. Tliey lift the sea-wuves to th<'. sky ; But when they wrestle with our arms, Nervous and gaunt, or lift our hair, Balanced within its cradle fair The tiniest bird has no alarms.
Sons of the rock, no mortal hand Here planted us: God-sown we grew. We are the diadem green and grand On Eden's summit that He threw. Wlien watei-s in a deluge rose, Our hollow flanks could vvell enclose Awhile the whole of Adam's race ; And children of the Patriai'ch Within our forest built the Ark Of Covenant, foreshadowing Grace.
215
LAMARTINE.— 3
We saw the Tribes as captives led,
AVe saw them buck return anon ;
As rafters have our branches dead
Covered the porch of 8oh)nion ;
And later, when the Word, made man,
Came down in God's salvation-plan
To pay for sin the ransom-price.
The beams that form'd tlie Cross we "ave :
These, red in blood of power to save,
Were altars of that Sacrifice.
In memory of such great events.
Men come to worship our remains ;
Kneel down in prayer within our tents,
And kiss our old trunks' weather-stains,
The saint, the poet, and the sage.
Hear and shall hear from age to age
Sounds in our foliage like the voice
or many waters ; in these shades
Their burning words are forged like blades,
While their uplifted souls rejoice.
Transl. of ToKU Dutt.
THE GULF OK BAYA.
Mark you how the peaceful wave Gently dies upon the shore ! — Breezes sweet with pilfered store
Fan, and dip, and splash and lave The hiughing waters e\ ermore !
Sit we in this faery skiff. Lazily adown we'll row
Kound the Gulf and past the cliff, Winding with the river's flow.
Now far behind us glides the river
And on we go as if for ever ;
And brushing o'er the creamy foam
With trembling hands our oars we ply, While in the distance seems to die
The silvery track that tells of home.
What freshness in a dying day !
Plunged into Thetis's bosom white
•JIG
LAMARTINE.— 4
Tin- Sim luis yielded up his sway- To the jKile Queen of Night. Tlie bosoms oi' the lialf-closed Howers Open, to give their choicest dowers Of love, to Zephyr's balmy kisses — Ne'er a tiny plant he misses. But carries, and spreads, tor my mirth. Over the waves the scents of earth.
"What sweet songs! and what sweet laughter!
On the waves and on the sea. While we hear a moment after
Kcho hailing them with glee. Mistrustful of the rising moon, And whistling some old Ronian tune,
The lisher takes his angle home ; While tender youths, and dark-eyed maids, By babbling rills, and myrtle glades.
Gather life's blisses as they roam.
But already darkness falls.
Black and fearsome grows the sea, Gone are all those merry calls.
Dread silence where those calls should be ! Now croaks the frog ; the night-owl flits, And deep-brow'd Melancholy sits
Brooding o'er the ruin'd scene. For every stone and statue fair, Each half-wall'd Temple crumbling there,
Can tell of what has been. For crush'd beneath the weight of some fell des- pot's sway. Naught is there left of freedom — naught ot the olden time. Where, in Italia's borders, can we find to-day Men t(j hail as heroes, and deeds to term sublime ? Each grass-grown stone — each ruin hoary Should call up burning thoughts of libtM'ty and
glory ; Just as in some ohl temple, tho' of its charms, berel't,
217
LAMARTINE.— 5
We feel the influence still the former god has
left- Yet Brutus's shade and Cato's, still fondly call
in vain For manly hearts to build the old world up
again — Go ask these ruin'd walls, and cruml)ling as they
are, They'll give you happier thoughts, and mem'ries
sweeter far !
Here Horace had his country seat ; And here in solitude he wi-ought ; Here quiet ease, and graceful thought. And leisure found a last retreat ; Propertius met his Cynthia here. And to his Delia's glances clear TibuUus breathed in tuneful notes his tender
strain ; And further down behold where hapless Tasso
sung — The glorious thoughts that flashed across a poet's
brain. Could not shield from penury — could not save
from pain. But drove him forth an exile reviled by every
tongue !
And back to these same borders at last he came
— to die, He came, when glory call'd him, and perish 'd in
her womb, The boys he madly yearned for again appeared
to fly— The tardy laurel ripened but to darken o'er liis
tomb ! O Hill of Baya ! — Home of bards sublime ! Beneath thy greensward, and thy scented
thyme, All that is noblest in us lies ! Por Love and Glory now are thine no more. Thy only answers to my cries 218
LAMAKTINE.— 6
Are tlie dull ocean's sullen sighs, And my own voice re-echoed from the shore !
Thus nil is changed, and all is past,
Thus we ourselves must pass away ! For nothing in this world can last, '- But Life and Love are gone as fast As the bright track that marked our way !
Transl. of Hahky Cukwen.
THE TEMPLE.
We left Louis XVL at the threshold of the Temple, where Petion had conducted him, with- out his being able to know as yet whether he entered there as suspended from the throne or as a prisoner. This uncertainty lasted some days.
The Temple was an ancient and dismal fort- ress, built by the monastic Order of Templars, at the time when sacerdotal and military theocra- cies, uniting in revolt against princes with tyr- anny towards the people, constructed for them- selves forts for monasteries, and marched to dominion by the double power of the cross and the sword. After their fall their fortified dwell- ing had remained standing, as a wreck of past times neglected by the present. The chateau of the Temple was situated near tlie faubourg St. Antoine, not far from tlie Bastile ; it enclosed with its buildings, its palace, its towers, and its •wardens, a vast space of solitude and silence, in the centre of a most densely populated quarter. The buildings were composed of a ■primre^ or palace of the Order, the apartments of wiiich served as an occasional dwelling for the Comte d'Artois, when that prince came from Versailles to Paris. This dilapidated palace contained apartments furnished with ancient movables, beds, and linen for the suite of the prince. A porter and his family were its only hosts. A garden surrounded it, as empty and neglected as I lie palace. At some steps from this dwelling
210
LAMARTINE.— 7
was the iloiijoii of the chateau, once the Ibiliti- catioii of the Temple. Its abrupt dark mass rose on a simple spot of ground towards the sky ; two square towers, the one larger, the other smaller, were united to each other like a mass of walls, each one having at its flank othei- small suspended towers, in former days crowned with battlements at their extremity, and these formed the principal group of tliis construction. Some low and more mod(?rn buildings abutted upon it, and served, by disa])pearingin its shade, to raise its height. This donjon and tower were constructed of large stones, cut in Paris, the ex- coriations and cicatrices of which marbled the walls with yellow livid spots, upon the black ground which the rain and snow incrust upon the large buildings of the north of France. The large tower, almost as high as the towers of a cathedral, w^as not less than sixty feet from tlie base to the top. It enclosed within its four walls a space of thirty square feet. An enor- mous pile of masonry occupied the centre of the tower, and rose almost to tlie point of the edi- fice. This [>ile, larger and wider at each story, leaned its arches upon the exterior walls, and formed four successive arched roofs, which con- tained four guard-rooms. These halls communi- cated with other hidden and more narrow places cut in the towers. The walls of the edifice were nine feet thick. The embrasures of the few windows wdiich lighted it, very large at the entrance of the hall, sunk, as they became nar- row, even to the crosswork of stone, and left only a feeble and remote light to penetrate into the interior. Bars of iron darkened these apart- ments still further. Two doors, the one of doubled oak-wood very thick, and studded with lai'ge diamond-headed nails ; the other plated with iron, and fortified with bars of the same metal, divided each hall from the stair by which one ascended to it.
This staircase rose in a spiral to the platform
220
LAMARTINE.— 8
of the edifice. Seven successive wickets, or seven solid doors, shut by bolt and key, were ranjied from binding to hindinsr, from the base to the terrace. At each one of these wickets a sentinel and a key-bearer were on guard. An exterior gallery crowned the summit of tlie don- jon. One made here ten steps at each turn. Tlie least breath of air howled there like a tem- pest. The noises of Paris mounted there, weak- ening as they came. Thence the eye ranged freely over the low roofs of the quarter Saint Antoine, or tiie streets of the Temple, upon the dome of the Pantheon, upon the towers of the cathedral, upon the roofs of the pavilions of the Tuileries. or upon the green hills of Issy, or of Choisy-le-Roi, descending with their villages, their parks, and their meadows towards the course of the Seine.
The small tower stood with its back to the large one. It had also two little towers upon each of its flanks. It was equally square, and divided into four stories. No interior commimi- cation existed between these two contiguous edifices ; each had its separate staircase ; an open platform crowned this tower in place of a roof, as on the donjon. The first story enclosed an antechamber, an eating-hall, and a library of old books collected by the ancient priors of the Temple, or seiving as a depot for the refuse of the libraries of the Comte d'Artois ; the second, third, and fointh stories offered to the eye the same disposition of apartments, the same nakedness of wall, and the same dilapida- tion of furniture. The wind whistled there, the rain fell across the broken panes, the swallow flew in there at pleasure ; no beds, sofas, or hangings were there. One or two couches for the assistant jailers, some broken straw-bottom chairs, and earthen vessels in an abandoned kitchen, formed the whole of the furnitiwe. Two low arched doors, whose freestone mouldings represented a bundle of [)illars, surmounted by
LAMARTINE.— 9
broken escutcheons of the Temple, led to the vestibule of these two towers.
Large alleys paved with flagstones surrounded the building ; these were separated by barriers of planks. The garden was overgrown with vege- tation— thick with coarse herbs, and choked by lieaps of stones and gravel, the relics of de- molished buildings. A high and dull wall, like that of a cloister, made the place still more gloomy. Tliis wall liad only one outlet, at the extremity of a long alley on the Vieille Rue du Temple.
Such were the exterior aspect and interior dis- position of this abode, when the owners of the Tuileries, Versailles, and Fontainebleau arrived at nightfall. These deserted halls no longer ex- pected tenants since the Templars had left them, 10 go to the i'uneral pile of Jacques Molay. These pyramidal towers, empty, cold, and mute for so many ages, more resembled the chambers of a pyramid in the sepulchre of a Pharaoh of the West than a residence. — History of the Giron- dists Transl. o/"H. T. Ryde.
222
CHARLT^:3 lamp.— 1
LAMB, Charles, i\\\ English ;int!u)r. bora at London in 1775 ; died at Ediiu^i- t'Mi, a suburb of London, in 1834. He was educated at Christ's Hospital, Coleridge being one of his schoolfellows. At the age of fourteen he was employed as a clerk in the South Sea House ; and three years later lie received an appointment in the account- ant's office of the East India Company, a position which he held for more than thirty years, until 1825, when he was suffered to retire with a life annuity of £450. His sister Mary Ann Lamb (born in 1765, died in 1847) was most intimately connected with the entire life of her brother. In 1796, in a sudden paroxysm of insanit}'-, she stabbed her mother to the heart, killing her in- stantly, and for the remaining half-century of her life she underwent not unfrequent attacks of her mental malady. Charles Lamb, then barely one-and-twenty, devoted himself to the care of his afflicted sister ; and in the intervals of her mental malady she shared in his literary tastes and labors. She wrote Mrs. Leicester's School, a collec- tion of juvenile tales, and was joint-author with him of Tales from Shal-espeare, and of a small volume of Poetry for Children.
diaries Lamb commenced his literary career by putting forth, in conjunction wilh Coleridge and Lloyd, a volume of poems (1797) ; the next year he wi'ole Rosamond Gray, a prose tale, and still later John Woodville, a drama. In 1808 he published Speci/inens of JiJn(jIish Dramatic Poets^ who flourished nearly contemporary with Shakespeare. But by far the most notable of his writings are the Essays rf Elia, begun ill 1820, and continued until 1838. His
•22.?,
CHARLES LAMB.— 2
sister survived him for tliirteeii veai\s and the annuity which tlie East India Coinpaiiv had settled upon him was continued to her during the remainder of herlilie, which was passed in retirement.
A QI'AKEIW' iMEETINO.
Reader, would'st thou know Avhat true pciicc and quiet mean; would'st tliou find a refuge from the noises and chimorsof tlie niuhitude ; woidd'st thou enjoy at once sohtude and society ; would'st thou possess the de[)th of thine own spirit in stillness, without heing sinit out from the con- solatory faces of thy species ; would'st thou lie alone, and yet accompanied ; solitary, yet not desolate ; singular, yet not without some to keep thee in countenance ; a unit in aggregate : a simple in composite: — Come with me into a Quakers' Meeting. Dost thou love silence deep as that " before the vvinds were made?" Go not out into the walderness ; descend not into the profundities of the earth ; shut not up thy case- ments ; nor pour wax into the little cells of thy ears, with little-faithed self-mistrusting llysses. Retire with me into a Quakers' Meeting.
For a man to refrain even from good words, and to hold his peace, it is commendable ; but for a multitude it is a great mastery. Wliat is the stillness of the desert compared with this peace? what the uncommnnicating muteness of tiie fishes? Here the goddess reigns and revels. "Boreas and Cesias and Argestes loud," do not with their inter-confounding uproars more aug- ment the brawl, nor the waves of the blown Baltic with their clubbed sounds, than theii- opposite (Silence, her sacred self) is multiplied and rendered more intense by nimibers and li\ sympathy. Siie too hath her deeps that call unto deeps. Negation itself hath a positive nioic and less ; and closed eyes would seem to obscu li- the great obscurity of midnight.
There are wonnds wliich an imperfect soli-
CHARLES LAMB— 3
tiule cannot heal. By imperfect I mean that wliich a man enjoyeth by himself. Tlie perfect is that whicli he can sometimes attain in crowds, hnt nowliere so absohitely as in a Quakers' meeting;. These first hermits did certainly nii- derstaiul this principle when they retired into Esyptian solitudes, not singly, but in shoals, to enjoy one another's want of conversation. The Carthusian is bound to his brethren by tliis agreeing spirit of incommunicativeness. In secular occasions what's so pleasant as to be reading a book through a long winter evening, with a friend sitting by — say a wife — he or she too (if that be probable) reading another, with- out interruption or oral communication ? — can tliere be no sympathy without the gabble of words? Away with this inhuman, shy, single, sliade-and-cavern-haunting solitariness. Give me, Master Zimmermann, a sympathetic soli- tude.
To pace alone by the cloister, or side-aisles of some cathedral, time-stricken ; '' or under hang- ing mountains, or by the fall of fountains," is l)ut a vulgar luxury compared with that which those enjoy who come together for the purposes of more complete abstracted solitude. This is tlie loneliness " to be felt." The Abbey Church <if Westminster hath nothing so solemn, so s[)irit-soothing, as the naked -whIIs and benches of a Quakers' Meeting. There are no tombs, no iuscri[)tions — '"Sands, ignoble things, dropped from the ruined sides of Kings ; " but here is something which throws Antiquity lierself into the foreground — Silence — eldest of things — languageof old Night — primitive Discourse — to \\ liich the insolent decays of mouldering grandeur have but arrived by a violent, and, as we may say, unnatural jirogression.
"How reverend is the view of these hushed heads, looking tranquillity." Nothing-plotting, nouglit-caballing, uiimischievous Synod ! Con- vocation without intriirue ! Parliiiment without 15 '225
CHARLES LAMB— 4
debate ! AVhat a lesson dost thou read to Conn-- cil and to Consistory ! If" my pen tieat you liglitly — as haply it will wander — yet my spirit hath gravely i'elt the wisdom of your custom, when sitting with you in deepest peace, which some out-welling tears would rather contine than disturb.
More frequently the Meeting is broken upi without a word having been spoken. But the mind has been fed. You go away with a sermon not made with hands. You have been in the milder caverns of Trophonius ; or as in some den where that fiercest and savagest of all wild creatures — the Tongue — that unruly member — has strangely lain tied up and captive. You have bathed with stillness. Oh, when the spirit is sore-fretted, even tired to sickness of the janglings and nonsense-noises of the world, what a balm and a solace it is to go and seat yourself for a quiet half-hour upon some undis- puted corner of a bench, among the gentle Quakers.
Their garb and stillness conjoined, present a uniformity and stillness conjoined, present a uniformity, tranquil and herd-like — as in the pasture — " forty feeding like one." The very garments of a (Quaker seem incapable of receiv- ing a soil ; and cleanliness in them to be some- thing more than the absence of its contrary- Every Quakeress is a lily ; and when they come up in bands to tlieir Whitsun-conferences, whitening the easterly streets of the metropolis, from all parts of the United Kingdom, tliey show like troops of the Shining Ones. — EUa.
MODERN GALLANTRY.
In comparing modern with ancient manners, we are pleased to compliment ourselves upon the point of gallantry : a certain obsequiousness, or deferential respect, which we are supposed to pay to females, as females. I shall believe that this pi'inciple actuates our conduct when 1 can 22G
CHARLES LAMix— 5
forget that in the nineteenth centuiy of the era from which we date our civility, we are just he- ginning to leave off the very frequent practice of wiiipping females in public in common with the coarsest male ofi'enders. 1 shall believe it when Dorimont hands a tisliwife across the kennel, or assists the apple-woman to pick up her wan- dering fruit which some unlucky dray has just dissipated. Until that day conies I shall never believe this boasted point to be anything more than a conventional liction ; a pageant got uji between the sexes, in a certain rank, and at a certain time of life, in which both find llieir a<- count equally.
I sliall be even disposed to rank it among Car salutary fictions of life, when in polite cii'cles I shall see the same attentions paid to age as lo youth, to homely features as to handsome, to coai'se complexions as to clear — to the woman, us she is a woman, not as she is a beauty, a fortune, or a title. I shall believe it to be some- thing more than a name, when a well-dressed gentleman, in a well-dressed company, can advert to the topic of female old age without ex- citing, and intending to excite a sneer ; wlien the phrases " antiquated virginity," and such a one has •• overstood her market," pronounced in good company, shall raise immediate oft'ense in man or woman tliat shall iiear them spoken.
Joseph Paice, of Bread-Street Hill, Merchant, and one of the Directors of tiie South-Sea Com- pany, was the oidy pattei-n of consistent gallantry that I have ever met with. He took me under his shelter at an early age, and bestowed some pains upon me. I owe to his precepts and ex- ample whatever there is of the man of business (and that is not much) in nn' composition. It was not his fault that I did not proiit more.
Though bred a Presbyterian, and brought up a merchant, he was the finest gentleman of his time. He had not one system of attention to feniah^s in tlie di-awing-room and another in the
227
CHARLES LAMB.— 6
sliop or in the stall. I do not mean that he made no distinction. But he never lost sight of sex, or overlooked it in the casualties of a disadvan- tagcious situation. I have seen him stand bare headed — smile if you please — to a poor servant- girl while she has been inquiring of him the way to some street — in such a posture of unforced civility as neither to embarrass her ni the ac- ceptance nor himself in the offer of it. He was no dangler in the common acceptation of the word ; but he reverenced and uplield, in every form in which it came before him, womanhood. I have seen him — nay, smile not — tenderly es- corting a market-woman, whom he had en- countered in a shower, exalting his umbrella over her poor basket of fruit, that it might re- ceive no damage, with as much carefulness as though she had been a countess.
He was never married, but in his youth he had paid his addresses to the beautiful Susan AVinstanley, who dying in the early days of their courtsliip, confirmed him in the resolution of perpetual bachelorship. It was during their courtship, he told me, that he had been treating his mistress with a profusion of civil speeches — the common gallantries — to which kind of tiling she had hitherto manifested no repugnance ; but in this instance with no efiect. She rather seemed to resent his compliments. He could not set it down to caprice, for the lady had al- ways sliown herself above that littleness. When lie ventured on the following day — finding her a little better humored — to expostulate with her on her coldness of yesterday, she confessed, with her usual frankness, that she had no sort of dis- like to his attentions ; that she could even en- dure some high-flown compliments; that a young woman placed in her situation had a right to ex- pect all sort of civil things to be said to her; that she lioped siie could digest a dose of adula- tion, short of insincerity, with as little injury to her iiuniility as most young women. But that,
CHAKLEti LAMB.— 7
;i little before he liad commenced his eompli- luents, she had overheard him by accident, in rather rough language, rating a young woman, who had not brought home his cravats ((uite to the appointed time; and she thouizlit to her- self:
" As I am Miss Susan Winstanley, and a young lady — a reputed beauty, and known to be a fortune — I ca;n have my choice of the finest speeches from the mouth of this very tine gentle- man who is courting me ; but if I had been poor Mary Sucli-a-one, and had failed in bringing home the cravats to the appointed hour — though per- haps I had sat up half the night toforwai'd them — what sort of compliments should I have re- ceived tlien ? And my woman's pride came to my assistance ; and I thought that if it were only to do nie honor, a female, like myself, miglit have received handsomer usage. And I was de- termined not to accept any fine speeches to the compromise of that sex, the belonging to which was after all my strongest claim ;uid title to them."
I think the lady discovered both generosity and a just way of thinking in this rebuke which she gave her lover ; and I have sometimes im- agined that the uncommon strain of courtesy which through life regulated the actions and be- havior of my friend towards all of womankind owed its happy origin to this seasonable lesson from the lips of iiis lamented mistress. I wish the whole female world would enteitain the same notion of these things that ]\liss AVinstanley showed. Then w<' should see something of the spirit of consistent gallantry, and no longer wit- ness of the anomaly of the same man — a pattein of true [)oliteness to a wife, of cold contem])t or rudeness to a sister; the idolater of his female mistress ; the (les])iser of his no less female aunt or unfortunate — still female — maiden cousin. Just so much respect as a woman derogates from her own sex, in whatever condition placed — her 33?
CHARLES LAMB— 8
handmaid or dependent — she deserves to have derogated from herself on that score.
AVhat a woman should demand of a man in courtship, or after it, is first, respect for her as she is a woman ; and next to that, to be re- spected by him above all other women. Bnt let her stand upon her female character as upon a foundation ; and let the attentions incident to individual preference be so many pretty addita- ments and ornaments — as many and as fanciful as you please — to the main structure. Let her first lesson be, with sweet Susan Winstanley, to rev- erence her sex Elia.
DISTANT CORRESPONDENTS.
{In a Letter to B. F., Esq., at Sydney, Neio South Wales. )
My Dear F — When 1 think how welcome the sight of a letter from the world where you were born must be to you in that strange one to wliich you are transplanted, I feel some com- punctions visitings at my long silence. But in- deed it is no easy effort to set about a corre- spondence at our distance. The weaiy world of waters between us oppresses the imagination. It is difficult to conceive how a scrawl of mine should ever stretch across it. It is a soit of jue- sumption to expect that one's thouglits should live so far. It is like writing for posterity ; and reminds me of one of IMrs. Rowe's superscrip- tions, " Alexander to Stre[)hon in tlie Shades."
Epistolary matter usually conipriseth three topics : News, Sentiment, and Puns. In the latter I include all non-serious subjects; or sub- jects serious in themselves, but treated after my fashion, non-seriously. And first for News. In tliem the most desirable circumstance, I suji- pose, is that they shall be true. But what security can I have that what I send you for truth shall not before you get it unaccountcibly turn into a lie ? For instance, our mutujil friend F — is at this present writing — my Noiv — in good 230
CHAELES LAMB— 9
liealtli. and eiijuys a fair share of worklly irjmta- tion. You are glad to hear of it. This is natural and friendly. But at this pres- ent reading — your Now — he may possibly be in the Bench, or going to be hanged, which in reason ought to abate something of your trans- port (/. e. at hearing he was well, etc.,) or at least considerably to modify it.
Not only does truth, in these long intervals, unessence Iierself, but (what is harder) one can- not venture a crude fiction for fear that it may ripen into a truth upon tlie voyage. What a wild, improbable banter I put upon you some three years since — of Will Weatherall having married a servant-maid ! I remember gravely consulting you how we were to receive her (for Will's wife was in no case to be rejected) ; and your no less serious replication in the matter ; how tenderly you advised an abstemious intro- duction of literary topics before the lady, with a caution not to be too forward in bringing on the carpet matters more within the sphere of her intelligence ; your deliberate judgment — a rather wise suspension of sentence — how far jacks and spits and mops could be introduced as subjects ; whether the conscious avoiding of all such mat- ters in discourse would not have a worse look than the taking them casually in our way ; and in wliat manner we should carry ourselves to oui- Maid Becky — Mrs. William Weatherall be- ing by : whether we should show more delicacy and truer sense for Will's wife by treating Becky with our customary chiding before her, or by an unusual deferential civility paid to Becky as to a person of great worth, but thrown by the caprice of fate into a humble situation.
There were difficulties, 1 remember, on both sides, which you did me the favor to state with the precision of a lawyer, vmited to the tender- ness of a friend. I laughed in mv sleeve at your solemn pleadings, when lo ! while I was valuing mvs<'lf upon this flam put upoti vou in
•J31
CHARLES LAMB.— 10
New Soutli Wales, the devil in England — ^jcal- oiH of" any lie-children not his own, or working after my copy — has actually instigated our triend (not three days since) to the commission of a niatrimony which I had oidy conjured up for your diversion. William Weatherall has mar- ried Mrs. Cotterel's maid. But to take it in its truest sense, you will see, my dear F — , that News from me must become History to you ; which I neither profess to write, nor indeed care much for reading. No person, unless adivinei-, can with any prospect of veracity conduct a cor- respondence at such an arm's length.
Then as to Sentiment. It fjires little better with that. Tiiis kind of dish above all requires to be served u[) hot, or sent off in water-plates, that your friend may have it almost as warm as yourself. If it have time to cool, it is the most tasteless of all cold meats. I have often smiled at a conceit of the late Lord C — . It seems that travelling somewhere about Geneva, lie came to some pretty green spot or nook, where a willow or something hung so fantastically and invitingly over a stream — was it? or a rock ? — no matter : but tlie stillness or the repose, after a weary journey, 'tis likely in a languid mo- ment in his Lordship's not i-estless life, so took his fancy that he could imagine no place so proper, in the event of his death, to lay his bones in. This was all very natural and excus- able as a sentiment, and shows his character in a very pleasing light. But when from a passing sentiment it came to be an act; and when by a positive testamentary disposal, his remains were actually cari-ied all that way from England, who was there — some desperate sentimentalists ex- cepted— that did not ask the question, AVhy could not his Lordship have found a spot as sol- itary, a nook as romantic, a tree as green and pendent, in Surrey, in Dorset, or in Devon ? Conceive the sentiment boarded up, freighted, entered at the Custom House (startling the tide-
232
CHAl^LKS I. ami;.— 11
■\v;iitt.*is witli the novelty), lioisted into a ship. Conceive it passed about and handhnl between the rude jests of tarpaulin ruffians — a thing of its delicate texture — tlie salt bilge wetting it till it became as vapid as a damaged lustring. Trace it then to its lucky landing at Lyons, shall we say — I have not the map before me — jostled upon four men's shoulders — baiting at this town
stopping to refresh at t'other village — waiting
a passport here, a license there — the sanction of tiie magistracy in this district — the conounence of the ecclesiastics in that canton ; till at length it arrives at its destination, tired out and jaded, from a brisk Sentiment into a feature of silly Pride or tawdry senseless Aflf'ectation. How few Sentim nits, my dear F — , I am afraid we can set down, in the sailors' phrase, as quite sea- worthy.
Lastlv. as to the agreeable levities which thoug!) contemptible in bulk, are the twinkling corpuscula which should irradiate a right friendly epistle — your Puns and small Jests are, I appre- liiMid, extremely circumscribed in their sphere of action. They are so far from a capacity of being packed u|) and sent beyond sea, that they will scarce endure to be transported by hand from tliis room to the next. Their vigor is at The instant of their birth. Their nutriment for their brief existence is the intellectual atmos- phere of the by-standers. A Pun hath a hearty kind of present ear-kissing smack with it ; you can no more transmit it in its pristine flavor than you can send a kiss. Have you not tried in some instances to palm off a yesterday's pun u|)oM a gentleman, and lias it answered ? Not but it was new to his hearing, but it did not seem to come new from you. It did not seem to hitch in. It was like picking up at a village aleliouse a two-days'-old newspaper. You have not seen it l)efore, but you resent the stale thing a-: an affront. This sort of merchandise above all re*p]ires a (juick return. A pun and its . • 233
CHARLE^^ LAMB.— 12
co;^iiitory laugh must be co-instautaneous. The one is the brisk lightning, the other the tieroe thunder. A moment's interval, and the link is snapped. A pun is reflected from a friend's face as from a mirror. Who would consult his sweet visnomy were it two or three minutes (not to speak of twelve months) in giving back its copy ?
1 am insensibly chatting to you as familiarly as when we used to exchange good-morrow out of our old contiguous windows in pump-famed Ilare-Court in the Temple. My heart is as dry as that spring sometimes turns in a thirsty Au- gust, when I revert to the space that is between us ; a length of passage enough to render obso- lete the phrases of our P^nglisli letters before they can reach you. But while I talk, I think you hear me — thoughts dallying with vain sur- mise—
" Aye rae ! while thee the seas and sonuding shores Hold far away."
Come back before I am grown into a very old man, so as you shall hardly know me. Come before Bridget walks on crutches. Girls whom you left as children have become sage matrons while you are tarrying there. The blooming Miss W — r (you remember Sally. W — r) called upon us yesterday, an aged crone. Folks whom you knew die off every year. If you do not make haste to return, there will be little left to greet you of me or mine. — Elia.
HESTER.
When maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try, With vain endeavor.
A month or more hath she been dead ; Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed And lier, together. 234
CHARLES LAMB.— 13
A springing motion in her gait A rising step, did indicate Of pi'ide and joy no common rate, That flushed her spirit.
1 know not by what name beside I shall it call : — if 'twas not pride, It was a joy to that allied. She did inherit.
Her parents held the Quaker rule, Wiiicli doth the human feeling cool; But she was trained in nature's school- Nature had blest her.
A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ; A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind — Ye could not Hester.
My si)rightly neighbor, gone before To that unknown and silent shore ! Shall we not meet, as heretofore, Some summer morning,
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day A bliss tliat would not go away — A sweet forewarning?
Charles Lamb.
lines writtex in my own album. Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white A young probationer of light Thou wert, my soul, an album bright,
A spotless leaf; but thought and care, And friend and foe, in foul and fair. Have written "strange defeatures" there*
And Time, with heaviest hand of all. Like tliat fierce writing on the wall, Hath stamped sad dates, he can't recall. 235
CHARLES La. Ml!. -14
And error, gilding worse designs —
Like speckled snake that slays and shines —
Betrays his path by crooked lines.
And vice hath left his ugly blot ; And good resolves, a moment hot, Fairly begun — but finished not
And fruitless late remorse doth trace — Like Hebrew lore a backward pace — Her irrecoverable race.
Disjointed numbers ; sense unknit ; Huge reams of folly ; shreds of wit ; Compose the mingled mass of it.
My scalding eyes no longer brook Upon this ink-blurred thing too look : — Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.
Charles Lamb.
choosing a name. I have got a new-born sister ; I was nigh the first that kissed her. When the nursing-woman l)rought her To papa, his inftint daughter, How papa's dear eyes did glisten ! She will shortly be to christen ; And papa has made the ofler I shall have the naming of her.
Now I wonder what would please her — Charlotte, .Julia, or Louisa? Aim and Mary — they're too common; Joan's too formal for a woman ; Jane's a prettier name beside ; But we had a Jane that died. They would say if 'twas Rebecca, That she was a little Quaker. Judith's pretty, but tliat looks Better in old English books; Ellen's left off long ago; Blanche is out of fashion now. None that i have named as yet Are as good as Margai'et.
236
CHAKLES LAMB.— 15
Kmily is neat and tine ;
Wliat do you think of Caroline?
I!n\v I'm puzzled and perplexed, Wh.tt to choose or tliink of next! I am in a little fever I.e.-t the name that I should give her Should disgrace her or defame her : — 1 will leave papa to name her.
Mary Lamb.
pakextal recollections.
A child's a plaything for an hour ; its pretty
tricks we try For tiiat or for a longer space, th(>n tire and lay
it by.
But I know one that to itself all seasons could
control ; That would have mocked the sense of pain oi;:
of a grieved soul.
Thou straggler into loving arms, young climber
up of knees, When I forget thy thousand ways, then life and
all shall cease.
Mary Lamb
237
MARTHA J. LAMB.— 1
LAMB, Martha Joanna Keade (Nash), :n) American author, born at Plainfield. Massachusetts, in 1829. In 1852 she nuir- ried Mr, Charles A. Lamb, of Ohio. For several years she lived in Chicago, whei'e she was instrumental in founding a Home for the Friendless and a Half-Orphan Asylum. Since 1866 she has lived in New Yoi-k. In 1883 she became the editor of the Magazine of Americau History. Among her works are several books for children (1869-70), S'picy, a novel (1872), The Tombs of Old Trinity (1876), State and Society in Washraqton (1878), 2%e Coast Survey (1879), The Life-Saving Service (1881), The Christmas Otvl (1881), History of the City of New York (1866-81), Snoio and Sim- shine (1882), and Wall Street in History (^1883.) She has also written numerous short stories, and has contributed more than one hundred historical and other papers to magazines. In 1879 she edited American Homes, and in 1883 wrote the Historical Sketch of Neio York, for the tenth census.
M.A^NHATTAN ISLAND.
Two hundred and sixty -five years ago the site of the city of New York was a rocky, wooded, canoe-shaped, thirteen-mile-long island, bounded by two salt rivers and a bay, and peopled by dusky skin-clad savages. A half-dozen porta- ble wigwam villages, some patches of tobacco and corn, and a tew bark canoes drawn up on the shore, gave little promise of our present four hundred and fifty miles of streets, vast property interests, and the encircling forest of shipping. . . .
To the right, the majestic North River, a mile wide, unbroken hy an island ; to the left, the deep East River, a third of ;i mile wide,
2:;8
MARTHA J. LAMB.— 2
with a cliain of slender islands abreast ; ahead, a Iti-autit'ul l)Hy tit'teen miles in circnmt'ereiice, at the foot uf wliieh the waters were c-niinped into a narrow strait with bold steeps on either side ; and astern, a small channel dividing the island t'lom the mainland to the north, and connecting tlie two salt rivers. Nature wore a hardy ■•uiintena\ice, as wild and untamed as the savage landliolders. Manhattan's twenty-two thousand acres of rock, lake, and lolling table-land, rising ill places to an altitude of one hundred and thirty-eight feet, were covered with sombre for- ests, grassy knolls, and dismal swamps. The ti-ees were lofty : and old, decayed, and w^ithered limbs conti-asted with the younger growth of brandies, and wild-flowers wasted their sweet- ness among the dead leaves and uncut herbage at their roots. The wanton grape-vine swung carelessly from the topmost l)oughs of the oak and sycamore, and l>lackberiy and raspberry bnshes, like a picket guard, presented a bold front in all the possible avenues of approach. Strawberries struggled for a feeble existence in various places, sometimes under foliage through wiiich no sunshine could penetrate, and wild rose-bushes and wild currant-bushes hobnobbed, and were often found clinging to frail footholds among the ledges and cliffs, while apple-trees pitifully beckoned with their dwarfed fruit, as if to be relieved from too intimate an association with the giant progeny of the crowded groves. The entire surface of the isl;in<l Avas bold and granitic, and in profile resembled the carlilagi- nons back of the sturgeon. Where the Tombs piison now casts its gnm shadow in Centre Street, was a fresli-water lake, supplied by springs from the high grounds about it, so deep that the largest shi[)S might have floated upon its surface, and pure as the Croton which now flows through the reservoirs of the city. It had two outlets — small streams, one emptying into
239
MARTHA J. I.AMB— ;}
the North, the otlier into the East River His- tory of the City of New York.
OEOUGE WASHINGTON IN NEW YORK.
Tlic winter of 1790 opened Jiuspieionsly. New York City was in promising healtli and pictnresque attire. The weather until February was remai-kably mihl and lovely. " I see the President has returned fragrant witli the odor of incense," wrote Trumbull to Wolcott in December. " This tour has answered a good political pur()Ose, and in a great measure stilled those who were clamoring about the wages of Congress." The community at large was full of pleasing anticipations. People flocked into the metropolis from all quarters, and the pres- ence of so much dignity of character, statesman- ship, legal learning, culture, and social elegance produced new sensations, aspirations, and ambi- tions.
Washington was the observed of all observers. His wonderful figure, which it has pleased the present age to clothe in cold and mythicnl dis- guises, was neither unreal nor marble. He stood six feet three inches in his slippers, well-propor- tioned, evenly developed, and straight as an airow. He had a long muscular arm, and probably the largest hands of any man in New York. He was fifty-eight, with a character so firm and true, kindly and sweet, kingly and grand, as to remain unshaken as the air when a boy wings his arrow into it, through all subse- quent history. His great will-power and gravity seem to have most attracted the attention of mankind. His abilities as a business man, the accuracy of his accounts, which through much of his life he kept with his own hand, and his boundless generosity should also be remembered. Pie took care of his money ; at the same time he cast a fortune worth at least three quarters of a million into the scale — to be forfeited should the Revolution fail. But the greatest of
240
MARTHA J. LAMB.— 4
all his traits was a manly self-poise founded upon tiie most perfect self-control. He was withal es- sentially human, full of feeling, emotional, sym- pathetic, and sometimes passionate; He was fond of society, conversed well, enjoyed humor in a (piiet way, and was sensible to the beauty and open to the appeal of a good story.
Wliile loyal to every duty, and closeted with Jay, Hamilton, and Knox for hours eacli day in shaping the conduct of the departments, he found time for healthful recreation. The citizens of New York grew accustomed to his appearance upon the streets in one or another of his numerous equipages, or on horseback, and on foot. His diary throws many a domestic and private light upon the pleasing picture. He tells us, for instance, how after visiting the Vice- President and his wife one afteriToon, at Rich- mond Hill, with Mrs. Washington, in the post- cliaise, he walked to Rufus King's to make a social call, "and neither ]Mr. King nor his lady was at home to be seen." On another occasion he sent tickets to Mrs. Adams. Mrs. Greene, Gen- eral Philip and Mrs. Schuyler, Secretary and Mrs. Hamilton, and Mr. and Mrs. Rufus King, iiuiting them to seats in his box at the little John Street theatre. Music commenced, and the audience rose the moment Wasliihgton and his iri('i\ds entered the building. The play was J)(irbifs Return, written by William Duidap. Darby, an Irish lad, proceeded to recount his adventures in New York and elsewhere, to his friends in Ireland. Washington smiled at the humorous allusion to the change in the govern- ment : —
"Here, too, I saw some mighty pretty shows — A revolution without blood or blows; For, as I understood, the cunning elves, The people, all revolted from themselves."
lint at the lines : —
" A man who fought to free the land from woe, Like me, had kit his farm a soldiering to go, 1(3 241
MARTHA J. LAMB.— 5
Then, having gained his point, he had, like me,
Returned, his own potato-ground to see.
But there he tould not rest. With one accord
He is called to he kind of — not a lord —
I don't know what ; lie's not a ffreat man, sure,
For poor men love him just as he were poor ; "
the eyes of the aiulience were fixed cnriously upon the President, who elianged color sli<^htly and looked sei'ious, when Kathleen asked,
"How looked he, Darby? AVas he short or tall ? " and Darby replied that he did not see him because he had mistaken a man " all hire and glitter, bothernm and shine," for him, until (lie show was out of f'ight, Washington's features relaxed and he indulged in a rare and hearty
laugh History of tJie City of New York.
242
LAMENNAIS.— 1
LAMENNAIS, HucxUEs Felicitk Eob- KHT DE, a French ecclesiastic and author, boiMi at St. Malo in 1782 ; died in Paris in 185-i. He received the tonsure in 1811, and entered Holy Orders 1817. His first book, R('fi€xions sur VEtatde VEglise (1808), was destroyed by the police. Tradition de VEijUse sur V Institution des Eveqnes (1814) took Ultramontane ground against the Gal- lican position. The first volume o'i Esi^ai sur r Indifference en Mature de Religion (1817) asserted the absolutism of faith ; — but the author valued the State chiefly as au ad- jimct to the Church. The second volume (1820) gave less satisfaction, and the third and fourth (1821) were denounced by the Sorbonne and the bishops. He presented a defence to Pope Leo XII., who said that he would give trouble. De la Religion consideree dans ses Rapports avec T Ordre Civil et Oatholique (1825-26) claimed entire spir- itual supremacy for the Pope; for it he was prosecuted in France. Des Progrh de la Re- volution et de la Guerre contre T Eglise (1829) gave the first signs of his leaning toward political liberty. In 1830 he founded EAvenir^ with the motto ^^Dieuet Liberte — le Pape et le Pewple^^ and was assisted by La- cordaire, Montalembert, and others. They sought the paj)al approbation in vain, and were condemned by a rescript of Aug. 15, 1832. Tliey yielded, and EAvemr was suspended ; but Lamennais's greatest book. Paroles d\m Croyant (1831) made a breach with all authority, alike ecclesiastical and civil. This prose poem won instant fame, ran rapidly through a hundred editions, and was translated into nearly every Euro- pean language ; the Pope condemned it as
243
LAMENNAIS.— 2
"'small in size, but immense in its pervers- ity." Affaires de Rome (1836), Le Livre <l>i Periple (1837), Esquisse dhme Philoso- phie (18-10-4:6), De La Religion {IMl), and Du Passe el de VAvenir du Peuple (1842), maintained tlie- position of pure theocratic democracy. For Le Pays et le Gouvernement (18-10) he was imprisoned a year. In 18-48 he was sent to the Assembly, and offered a Constitution, which was rejected as too rad- ical. His last years were occupied in trans- lating Dante, At his own direction, he was buried in Pere la Chaise among the un- known poor.
JUSTICE AND LIBERTY.
He who asketh himself how much justice is worth, profaueth justice in his heart ; and he who stops to calculate what liberty will cost, hath renounced liberty in his heart. Liberty and justice will weigh you in the same balance in wliich you have weighed tlit-m. Learn, then, to know their value.
There have been nations who have not known that value, and never misery equalled theirs.
If there be upon eartli anylliing truly great, it is the resolute firmness of a people who march on, under the eye of God, to the conquest of those rights which they hold from him. without flagging for a moment ; who think not of their wounds, their days of toil and sleepless nights, and say, " What are all these ? Justice and liberty are well worthy of severer labors." Such a people may be tried by misfortunes, by reverses, by treachery ; nay, may even be sold by some Judas: but let nothing discourage them. For in truth I say unto you that when, like the Sa\iour of the world, they shall go down into the tomb, like Him tliey shall come fortli again, conquerors over death, and over tlie prince of this world and his servants.
244
I.A.MKXXAI.S.— 3
Tlii' laborer beareth tlic l)urth(Mi of" tbr day. cx.Ktsed to tlie ram ami sun tuid winds, that ii ■ may by his labor prepare tliat harvest wliirli sliall enrich his granaries in autumn.
Justice is the harvest of nations.
Tiie workman rises before the dawn, he lights his litth' lamp, and endures ceaseless fatigue, tliat lie may gain a little bread with which to feed himself and his children.
Justice is the bread of nations.
The merchant shrinks from no labor, com- plains of no trouble, exhausts Jiis body, and for- gets repose, tiiat he may amass wealth.
Liberty is tiie wealth ot nations.
The mariner traverses seas, trusts himself to wave and tempest, risks his body amid the rocks, and endures heat and cold, that he may secure repose in his old age.
Liberty is the repose of nations.
The soldier submits to many hard privations, lie watches, fights, and sheds his blood, for what he calls glory.
Liberty is the glory of nations.
If there be on earth a people who tliiiik less of justice and liberty than tiie laborer does of his harvest, or the workman of his daily bread, or the merchant of his wealth, or the mariner of his ri'pose, or the soldier of his glory : — build ai-ound that people a high wall, that their breath may not infect the rest of the world.
When the great day of judgment for nations shall come, it will be said to that people, "AVhat hast thou done with thy soul ? There is neither sign nor trace of it to be seen. The enjoyments of the brute have been everything to thee. Tiiou hast loved the mire — go, wallow in the mire."
And that people who, rising above mere ma- terial good, have placed their afti'Ctions on the true good ; who, to obtain that true good, have s|)ared no labor, no fatigue, no sacrili(« ; shall hear this word : "• For thos(^ who have a soul. 2J5
LAMENNAIS.— 4
there is the recompense of souls. Because tlion luisl loved justice and liberty before all tliin;j;s, come and possess forever liberty and justice." — Words of a Believer.
" LOYALTY."
The rulers of this world have opposed to the wisdom of God, which men understand not, (he wisdom of the prince of this world, even of Satan.
Satan, who is the king of the oppressors of nations, suggested to them an infernal stratagem, by which to confirm their tyranny.
He said to them : "• This is what ye should do. Take in each family the strongest of the young men, put arms in their hands and teach them to use them and they wmII fight for you against their fathers and their brethren ; for I will persuade them that the action will be glorious. I will make for them two idols, whi(di tliey shall call Honor and Loyalty, and a law which they shall call Passive Obedience ; and they will worship these idols, and blindly .«ubmit themselves to that law, because I will seduce their understand- ings; and ye will then have nothing more to fear."
And the oppressors of nations did as Satan had advised them, and Satan accomplished what he had promised them.
Then might be seen the children of a nation raising their hands against that nation, to mur- der their brothers and to chain their fathers, forgetting even the mothers who bore them.
And when you showed them the altars of that God who made man, of that Christ who saved him, they would say, "This is the God of the country ; but, as for us, we have no gods l)i;t those of our masters, Honor and Loyalty."
Since the seduction of the first woman by the serpent, there hath been no seduction more dread- ful than this. But it approacheth its end
Words of a Believer.
246
I
LETITIA ELIZABETH LAMDOX— 1
LAXDOX, Letitia Elizabeth, nn Imi-- lish author born at Brompton, a sul)urb of Loiuloii, ill 1802 ; died at Cape Coast Castle in \Vestern Africa, in 1838. At the age of eighteen she began to contribute to the Litrrary Gazette^ with the editorship of wliich she soon became connected. In the summer of 1838 she married Mr. Maclean the Governor of Cape Coast Castle, and ac- companied him to Africa. She had been accustomed to take minute doses of prussic acid for a nervous aft'ection. Soon after iier arrival at the Castle she was found dead in lier chamber ; as was sup[)osed from an ac- cidental overdose of the poison. She pub- lished several volumes of prose and verse. Iler Literary Reniains^ with a Life bj Laman Blanchard, were published in 1841. The following verses — the last which she ever wrote — were composed on the voyage to Africa, during which she had been wont to watch the Pole-star, as it nightly sunk below the horizon.
TUK SETTING OF TlIK I'Ol.E-STAR.
A Star has left the kiiulHiig sky —
A lovely northern light : How many planets are on high,
But that has left the night.
I miss its bright familiar face ;
It was a friend to me — Associate with my native place,
And those beyond the sea.
It rose upon our English sky,
Shone o'er our J^nglish land, And brought l)ack many a loving eye,
And many a gentle hand.
It seemed to answer to my thought, It called the past to mind
247
LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON.— 2
And with its welcoiiR' presence bruuglit All I had loft behind.
The voyage it lights no longer, ends
Soon on a foreign shore; How can I but recall the friends
That I may see no more ?
Fresh from the pain it was to part — How could I bear the pain ? —
Yet strong the omen in my heart That says — We meet again.
Meet, with a deeper, dearer love :
For absence shows the worth Of all from which we then remove —
Friends, home, and native earth.
Thou lovely Polar-Star, mine eyes
Still turned the lirst on thee. Till I have felt a sad surprise.
That none looked up with me.
But thou hast sunk u])on the wave,
Thy radiant place unknown ; I seem to stand l)eside a grave,
And stand by it alone.
Farewell ! Ah, would to me were given
A power upon thy light ! What words upon our English heaven
Thy loving rays should write !
Kind messiiges of love and hop(;
Upon thy rays should be ; Thy shining orbit should have scope
Scarcely enough for me.
Oh, fancy vain, as it is fond,
And little needed too ; My friends ! I need not look beyond
My heart to look for you.
248
WALTER RAVAGE LAXDOR— 1
I.AXlKJH, Walter Savage, an English author bom at Warwick iu 1775 ; died at Florence, Italy, in 186-i. His i'ather was a practising physician, though a man of large private estate. The son was educated at Rugby, and afterwards entered the Univer- sitv of Oxford, but having been rusticated for a trifling breach ol' discipline, he did not return, and so never took his degree. He early manifested an uncontrollable temper, which at times bordered upon insanity. At the death of his father he succeeded to the family estates, and purchased Llanthony Abbey, a w'ild property in Wales, upon which he spent much money, and com- menced the building of a mansion, npon wliich he laid out £8,000. Pie soon quar- relled with his tenants and neighbors, and abandoned Llanthon\^, ordering his unfin ished mansion to be demolished. In 18 lo he went to the Continent, and after spend- ing some time in France proceeded to Italy, wdiere he resided in several places until 1821, when he took up his abode at Floi'- ence, in the neighborhood of which he pur- chased the fine Gherardesca villa.
As early as 1811 lie had married Julia IMiuillier, a young woman of French extrac- tion. Disagreements and quarrels arose, which culminated in 1835, when he finallv broke with his family, and went back to England, settling himself- at Bath, wliich was his residence until 1858. In that year he put forth a metrical miscellany, entitled Dry Sticks fa'joted hy W. S. Landor ; this brochure contained some attacks u])on a lady who had become obnoxious to him. A suit for libel was instituted, and Landoi- — now past fourscore — was cast in large dam-
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ages. He at once put his remaining prop- erty out of his hands, and went back to Florence, where the remaining eight years of his life were passed. His property had all gone from him, and his last days would have been passed in poverty had not some of his friends settled upon him a moderate annuity.
Landor's English works were finally edited and arranged by John Forster(1869, second edition 1874.) They till seven vol- umes, to which is preiixed a Life of Lan- dor, in one volume. The principal of his prose works are : Imcujinary Conversa- tions^ of which several series appeared (1824-46), The Citation and Examination of William Shakes'peare (1834), Pericles and Aspasia (1834), The Peutameron (1837.) His poetical works fill something more than one volume. Gebir, is a narrative poem, as wild and fanciful as the Arabian JS'ifjhts or Beckford's Vathek (1798), of which he put forth in 1803 a Latin version, which, says Swinburne, "for might and melody of line, for power and perfection of language, must always tlispute the palm of precedence with the English version." There are several dramatic pieces, among which is Coimt JvXian (1812), of which Swinburne says, " No comparable work is to be found in English poetry between the date of j\Iilton\s Samson A(jonistes and the date of Shelley's Prometheus Unbound. The style, if some- what deficient in dramatic ease, has such might and purity and majesty of speech, as elsewhere we find in Milton alone." IHie Hellenics (1847) contain some of the very noblest of Landor's poetrv- The LaM Fritif of an Olil Tree (1853)' "contains," says
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Swiiibarne, "poems of various kinds and merit, closing with Five Scenes on the mar- t3n'dora of Beatrice Cenci, unsurpassed, even by the author himself for noble and heroic pathos, for subtle and genial, tragic and profound, ardent and compassionate insiglit into charactei', with consummate mastery of dramatic and spiritual truth."
The Imayinary Conversations, of which there are about 125, form about Ijalf the works of Landor, as tiiey a})pear in the col- lection edited by John Forster. The inter- locutors are men and women of all ages and countries. In most of them one of the speakers — and sometimes both — are repre- sented as saying precisely what Landor woaldhave said had he been in their place; in some of them, indeed, he presents him- self by name as one of the colloquists.
ROGKR ASOHAM AND LADV .JANE (iRAY.
Ascham. — Tlioii art going, my dear young lailv into a most awful state ; thou art passing into matrimony and great wealth. God hath willed it ; submit in thankfulness. Thy atfec- tions are rigiitly placed and well distributed. Love is a secondaiy passion in those who love most ; a primary in those who love least. He who is inspired by it in a high degree, is in- spired by honor in a higher ; it never reaches its plenitude of growth and perfection but in the most exalted minds. Alas! alas!
Lady Jane. — What aileth my virtuous As- cham ? AVhat is amiss ? Why do I tremble ?
Ascham I remember a sort of prophecy,
made three years ago. It is a prophecy of thy condition and of my feelings upon it. Recol- lectest thou who wrote, sitting upon the sea-beach, the evening after an excursion to the Isle of Wight, these verses ? — 251
WALTER SAVACiE LANDOR.— 4
" Invisibly bright water 1 so like air, Ou looking down I fear'd tliDU couldst not bear My little bark, of all lij^ht barks most light, And look'd again, and drew me from the sight, And hanging back, breathed each fresh gale aghast, And held the bench, not to go on 30 fast.
Lady Jane. — I was very childish when 1 com- posed them ; and if I had thought any more about the matter, I should have hoped you had been too generous to keep them in youi- memory as witnesses against me,
Aschain. — Nay, they are not so much amiss for so young a girl ; and tliere being so few ot them, I did not reprove thee. Half an hour, I thought, might have been spent more unprofita- bly ; and I now shall believe it firmly, if thou wilt but be led by them to meditate a little on the similarity of the situation in which thou wert to what thou art now in.
Lady Jane. — I will do it and w'hatever else you command ; for I am weak by nature, and veiy timorous unless where a strong sense of duty holdeth and supporteth me : there God acteth, and not liis creature. Those were with me at sea who would have been attentive to me if I had seemed to be afraid, even though wor- shipful men and women were in the company ; so that something more powerful threw my fear overboard. Yet I never will go again upon the water.
Ascham. — Exercise that beauteous couple — that mind and body — much and variously; but at Iiome, at home, .Jane ! indoors, and about tilings indoors; for God is there too. AVe have rocks and([uicksandson the banks of our Thames, 0 lady, such as ocean never lieard of; and many (who knows how soon !) may be ingulfed iu the current under their garden walls.
Lady Jane Thoroughly do I now understand
you. Yes, indeed, I have read evil things of
courts ; but I think nobody can go out bad who
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iitereth good, if timely and true warning !?hall iiave been given.
Ascham. — I see perils on perils which thou lost not see, albeit thou art wiser than thy poor
Id master. And it is not l)eeause Love hath lilinded thee, for that surpasseth his supposed omnipotence ; but it is because thy tender heart, having always leaned affectionately upon good, hath felt and known nothing of evil. I once persuaded thee to reflect much : let me now persuade thee to avoid the habitude ofreflection ; to lay aside books, and to gaze carefully and steadfastly on wiiat is under and before thee.
Ladt/ Jane. — I have well bethought me of my duties. Oh, how extensive they are ! what a ixoodly and fair inheritance ! • But tell me, would \ou command me never more to read Cicero, and Epictetus, and Plutarch, and Polybius? Tlu- others I do resign : they are good for the arbor and for the gravel-walk ; yet leave unto me, I beseech you, my friend and father, leave unto me for my fireside and for my pillow, truth, elo- ([uence, courage, constancy.
Ascham. — Read them on thy marriage-bed, on thv cliild-bed, on thy death-bed. Thou spotless, undrooping lily, they have fenced thee riglit well.
Tlierie are the men for men ; these are to fashion tlie bright and blessed creatures whom God one ilav shall smile upon in thy chaste bosom.
Mind tliou thy husband.
Ladj/ Jane I sincerely love the youth who
haili espoused me : I love him with tlie fondest, the most solicitous affection. I pray to the Al- miudHy for his goodness and happiness ; and do
Ibrgct at times — unworthy supplicant I — the pray- ers I should have offered for myself. Never fear that I will disparage my kind religious
ii'aclu'r by disobedience to my husband in tlie
ino-t trying duties.
Ascham Genthi is he, geiith- and virtuous ;
but time will harden him; time must harden even 253
WALTER SAVAGE LAXDOR.— 6
tliee, sweet Jane I Do tliou, complacently and indirectly, lead him from ambition.
Lady Jane. — He is contented with me, and with home.
Aschain — Ah, Jane ! Jane ! men of high es- tate grow tired of contentedness.
Lady Jane. — He told me he never liked books niiless I read them to him. I will read them tij him every evening ; I will open new worlds to Iiim richer tlian those discovered by the Span- iards ; I will conduct him to treasures — Oh, v.hat treasures! — on which he may sleep in in- nocence and |)eace.
Asckam — Rather do thou walk with liin), ride with him, play with liim ; be his fairy, his page, his everything that love and poetry have in- vented. But watch him well ; sport with his fancies, turn them about like the ringlets upon Ills cheek ; and if he ever meditate upon power, go toss thy baby to his brow, and bring back his thoughts into his heart by the music of tliy dis- course. Teach him to live unto God and unto thee ; and he will discover that women, like tbe plants in woods, derive their softness and tender- ness from the shade Lnaginary Conversations.
T\\Q Penktmeron (•' Five Days") purjiorts to be " Interviews of Messer Giovanni Boc- caoio and Messer Francesco Petrarca, when iVIesser Giovanni lay infirm at his villetta hard by Certaldo ; after which they saw not ^ach other any more on our side of Paradise : Showing how they discoursed upon that famous theologian, Messer Dante Aligliieri, and sundry other matters." The subjoined is apart of one of these colloquies:
THE GERMANS AND THE FRENCH.
Boccacio — The Germans, altliongh as igno- rant as the French, are less cruel, less insolent and rapacious. The French have a. separate claw for every object of appetite or passion, and
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walti:r savage landor-I'
;i s[)riiig tliut eiial)l('s tlitiii io scizo il. Tlic dc- sir.'s of the Gerniiin are overlaid witli food, and .xtiiijiuislied with drink, Avliich to others are >timuiaiits and incentives. The German loves to see everything abont him orderly and entire, however coarse and common. The nature of tlie Frenehman is to derange and destroy every- tliiiig. Sometimes when he has done so, he will eonstruct and retitit in his own manner, slenderly and fiintastically ; ot'tener leaving it in the mid- dle, and proposing to lay the foundation when he has pointed the pinnacles and gilt the weather- cock.
Petrarca. — There is no danger that the French will have a durable footing in our Italy or any other country. Their levity is more in- tolerable than German pressure, their falsehood than German rudeness, and their vexation than German exaction.
Boccacio. — If I must be devoured, I have lit- tle choice between the bear and panther. May we always see the creatures at a distance and across the grating. The French will fondle us, to show how vastly it is our interest to fondle t!iem ; watching all the while their opportunity ; seemingly mild and half asleep ; making a dash at last, and laying l)are and fleshless the arm we extend to them, from shoulder-blade to elbow.
Petrarca. — No nation grasping so much ever held so little, or lost so soon, what it had in- veigled. Yet France is surrounded by smaller and apparently weaker states, which she never ceases to molest and invade. Whatever she has won, and whatever she has lost, has been alike won and lost by her perfidy — the characteristic of the people from the earliest ages, and recorded i>y a series of historians, Greek and Roman.
Boccacio My father spent many years
among them, where also my education was com- pleteil ; yet whatever I have seen, I must ac- kmiwledge, corresponds with whatever 1 have read, anil corroborates in my mind the testi- 255
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR -8
mony of tradition. Their Mncient Iiistory is only Ji preface to liieir later. Deplorable as is the coiulitioii of Italy, I am more contented to share in her sutferings than in the frothy festivities of her frisky neighboi-.^7%e Peatameron.
We are iiiolined to regard Pericles and Aspasfa, written at the age of fifty-eight, as the best of Landor\s worlcs. It consists of a series of letters written mainly by Aspa- sia, an Ionian girl who had just come to Athens, to her friend Cleone, who remained at her Asiatic home. In her first letter Aspasia tells of her witnessing a representa- tion on the stage of the Promelheus Bound of ^schylus.
THE PROMETHEUS OF ^SCHYLUS.
How fortunate ! To have arrived at Athens at dawn on the twelfth day of Elaphobolio. On this day began the festivals of Bacchus, and the theatre was thrown open at sunrise. What a theatre! What an elevation ! what a prospect of city and port, of land and water, of porticoes and temples, oi' men and heroes, of demigods and gods ! It was indeed my wish and inten- tion when I left Ionia, to be present at the first of the Dionysiacs ; but how rarely are wishes and intentions so accomplished, even when winds and waters do not interfere.
I will now tell you all. No tinae was to be lost ; so I hastened on shore in the dress of an Athenian boy who came over with his mother from Lenuios. In the giddiness of youth he forgot to tell me that, not being eighteen years old he could not be admitted; and he left me on the steps. My heart sank within me; so many young men stared and whispered ; yet never wns stranger treated with more civility. Crowded as the theatre was (for the tragedy had begun ) every one made room for me.
When thev were seated, and I too, I looked
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toward the stage ; and behold, there lay before me, but afar otf, boinul u[)on a rock, a more ma- jestic- form, and bearing a countenance more
heroir I should rather say more divine — than
ever my imagination had conceived I I know not how long it was before I discovered tliat as many eyes were directed toward me as toward the competitor of the gods.
Evei-y wish, hope, sigh, sensation, was succes- sively with the champion of the human race, with this antagonist of Zeus, and his creator, yEschylus. How often, O Cleone, have we tlnobbed with his injuries! how often has his vulture torn our breasts ! how often have we thrown our arms round each other's neck, and half-renounced the religion of our fathers!
Even your image, inseparable at other times, came not across me then : Prometheus stood between us. He had resisted in silence and dis- dain the crudest torments that Almightiness could inflict ; and now arose the Nymphs of the Ocean, which heaved its vast waves before us ; and now they descended with open arms and sweet benign countenances, and spake with pity; and the insurgent heart was mollified andciuelled. I soljljed, I dropped. There is much to be told when Aspasia faints in a theatre — and Aspasia in disguise ! Everything appeared to me an il- lusion l)ut the tragedy. Wliat w^as divine seemed human, and what was human seemed divine — Pericles and Aspasia.
This fainting of Aspasia discloses her sex, and brings her into connection with Pericles, to whom she soon came to be just what Marian Evans was to George Lewes. Landor was perhaps more thor- oughly permeated with the Homeric spirit than any other man of modern times, and running through Pericles and Aspasia are remarks upon Homer and his poems. These are put into the mouth of Pericles.
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WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.— 10
THE HOMKR OF THE ODYSSEY.
The Ulysses of the Iliad and Odyssey is not tlit^ same, but the Homer is. JMiglit not the poet liave conected in his earlier voyajjes many won- derful tales about the chieftain of Ithaca ; about Ills wanderings and return ; about his wife and her suitors? Might not afterward the son or grandson liave solicited his guest and iViend to place the sagacious, the courageous, the enduring man among the others whom he was celebi'ating, in detached poems, as leaders against Troy ? He describes with precision everything in Ithaca ; it is evident he must have been on the spot. Of all other countries — of Sicily, of Italy, of Phrygia — he quite as un- doubtedly writes from tradition and representa- tion Pericles and Aspasia.
THE HOMER OF THE ILIAD.
Needless is it to remark that the Iliad is a work of much reflection and various knowledge ; the Odyssey is the marvelous result of a vivid and wild imagination. Homei-, in the nearly thirty years which I conceive to have intervened between the fanciful work and the graver, had totally lost his pleasantries. Polyphemus could amuse him no longer ; Circe lighted up in vain her fires of cedar-wood ; Calypso had lost her charms ; her maidens were mute around her ; the Lasstrigons lay asleep ; the Sirens sang, " Come hither, O passer by ! Come hither, O glory of the Achaians! " and the smooth waves quivered with the sound, but the harp of the oM man had no chord that vibrated. In the Odyssey he invokes tlie Muse ; in the Iliad he invokes her as a goddess he had invoked before. He begins the Odyssey as the tale of a family, to which he would listen as she rehearsed it ; the Iliad as a song of warriors and divinities, worthy of the goddess herself to sing before the world Pellicles and Aspasia.
WALTER SAVACiE LANDUK.— 11 HOMER AN ASIATIC.
We claim Homer, but he is yours. Observe with whtit partiality he always dwells upon Asia. How infinitely more civilized are Glautus and Sarpedon. than any of the Grecians he was called upon to celebrate. Priam, Paris, Hec- tor, what polished men. Civilization has never made a step in advance, and never will, on those countries : she had gone so far in the days of Homer. He keeps Helen pretty vigorously out of sight, but he opens his heart to the virtues of Andromache. What a barbarian is Achilles, the son of a goddess ! Pallas must seize him by the hair to arrest the murder of his leader ; l)ut at the eloquence of the Phi-ygian king the storm of the intractable honucide bursts in tears.
I cannot but think that Homer took from Sesostris the shield that he has given to Achilles. The Greeks never worked gold so skillfully as in this shield, until our own Phidias taught them ; and even he possesses not the art of giv- ing all the various colors to the metal which are represented as designating the fruitage and other things included in this stupendous work, and which the Egyptians in his time, and long •■arlier undi^-stood. How happened it that the Trojans had (ireek names, and the leader of the Greeks an PLgyptian one? — Pericles and Aspasia.
One passage at least in Gebir has become a liouseliold word. The Sea-nymph, Ta- iiiar. thus describes the chief treasures oC her ocean home:
landor's sea-shell.
I>iit I have sinuous shells of pearly hue Within, and they that lustre have imbibed I 'I the Sun's ])alace-porch wdiere, when unyoked. His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave: Shake one, and it awakens, then apply 25i)
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.— 12
Its polished lips to your attentive ear,
And it remembers its august abodes,
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there.
Wordsworth in The Excursion^ used the Sea-SlielL — Landor will have it, filched it from him, and spoiled it: an opinion in wliich we think no one will agree. It is worth while to compare the two Shells.
avordswokth's sea-shell.
" I have seen A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract Of inland ground, applying to his ear The convolutions of a smootli-lipped shell; To which, in silence hushed, his very soul Listened intensely ; and his countenance soon Brightened with joy ; for from within were
heard Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed Mysterious union with its native sea. Even such a shell the universe itself Is to tiie ear of Faith ; and there are times, I doubt not, when to you it doth impart Authentic tidings of invisible things ; Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power, And central peace, subsisting at the heart Of endless agitation."
Touching this alleged appropriation and
deformation, Landor says :
THE TWO SEA-SHELLS.
Within these few months a wholesale dealer in the brittle crockery-ware of market criticism has picked up some shards of my Gebir, and stuck tbem on his shelves. Among them is my " Sea- Shell," which Wordsworth clapped in his pouch. There it became incrusted with a com- post of mucus and shingle : there it lost its " pearly hue within," and its memory of where
it had abided.
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WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.— 13 EFFICACY OF TRAYEKS.
Ye men of Gades, armed Avitli brazen shields, And ye of near Tartessus, where the shore Stoops to receive tlie tribute which all owe, To B«tis and his banks for their attire, Ye too whom Durius bore on level meads. Inherent in your hearts is bravery : For earth contains no nation where abounds The generous horse and not the warlike man. But neither soldier now nor steed avails ; Nor steed nor soldier can oppose the gods ; Nor is their aught above like Jove himself. Nor weighs against his purpose wlien once fixed. Aught but the supplicating knee, the Prayers. Swifter than light are they, and every face, Though different, glows with beauty ; at the
throne Of mercy, when clouds shut it from mankind, Tiiey fall bare-bosomed, and indignant Jove Drops, at the soothing sweetness of their voice, The thunder from his hand. Let us arise On tliese high places daily, beat our breast. Prostrate ourselves, and deprecate his wrath.
Gebir.
SPARING FLOWERS.
And 'tis and ever was ray wish and way To let all flowers live freely, and all die. Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart. Among their kindred in their native place. I never pluck the rose ; the violet's head Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank, And not reproached me ; the ever-sacred cup Of the pure lily hath between my hands Felt safe, unsoiled, nor lost one grain of gold.
Fcesidan Idyl.
IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON.
Iphigeneia, when she heard her doom At Aulis, and when all beside the King Had gone away, took his right hand, and said : "0 father ! I am young and very happy.
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WALTER SAVAGE LAXDOU— 14
I do not think the pious Calchas lieanl Distinctly what the Goddess spake. Old-age Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew :My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood, Wliile I was resting on her knee both arms, An 1 hitting it to make her mind my words, And looking in her face, and she in mine, Might not he also hear one word amiss, Si)oken from so far off, even from Olympus?" The father placed his cheek upon her head. And tears dropped down it, but the King of men Replied not. Then the maiden spake once more : '■Ofatlier! say'st tliou nothing ? Hear'st thou
not Me whom thou ever hast, until this hour, Listened to fondly, and awakened me To hear my voice amid the voice of birds, When it was inarticulate as theirs, And the down deadened it within the nest."
He moved her gently from him, silent still ; And this, and this alone brought tears from her, Although she saw fate nearer. Then with sighs: " I thought to have laid down my hair before Benignant Artemis, and not have dimmed Her polished altar with my virgin blood ; I thought to have selected the white flowers To please the Nymphs, and to have asked of
each By name, and with no sorrowful regret. Whether, since both my parents willed the
change, I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipped brow ; Andl^ after those who mind us girls the most) Adore our own Athena, that she would Regard me mildly with her azure eyes — But, father! to see you no more, and see Your love, O father ! go ere I am gone—"
Gently he moved her off, and drew her back, Bending his lofty head far over hers, And the dark deptlis of nature heaved and burst. He turned away ; not fiir, but silent still. She now first shuddered ; for in liim, so nigh, 262
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.— 15
So long a silence seemed the approach of death, And like it. Once again she raised her voice : " O father I if the ships are now detained. And all your vows move not the Gods al)ove. When the knife strikes me there will be one
prayer The less to them : and purer can there be Any, or more fervent than the daughter's prayer For her dear father's safety and success ? "
A groan that shook him shook not his resolve. An aged man now entered, and without One word, stepped slowly on, and took the wrist Of tiie pale maiden. She looked up, and saw Tlie fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes. Then turned she whei'e her parent stood, and
cried " 0 father ! grieve no more : the ships can sail ! "
Hdlenics.
ROSE AYLMER.
Ah ! what avails the sceptred race !
Ah ! what the form divine ! What every virtue, every grace !
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakefu* eyes
May weep, but never see, A night of memories and sighs
I consecrate to thee.
ON SOUTHEY's death, 1843.
Friends, hear the words my wandering thoughts
would say. And cast them into shape .some other day : Southey, my friend of forty years, is gone, And, shattered by the fall, I stand alone.
AN OLD POET TO SLEEP.
No god to mortals oftener descends Than thou, O Sleep ! yet thee the sad alone Invoke, and gratefully tliy gift receive. Some thou invitest to explore the sands Left by Pactolus ; some to climb up higher, 263
WALTER RAVAGE LANDOK.— iG
Wliei-c points ambition to the pomps oi' war; Others thou watchest wliile they tighten robes Which law throws round them loose, and they
meanwhile Wink at the judge, and he the wink returns. Apart sit fewer, whom thou lovest more, And leadest where unruffled waters flow. Or azure lakes 'neath azure skies expand. These have no wider wishes, and no fears, Unless a fear, in turning, to molest The silent, solitary, stately swan. Disdaining the garrulity of groves, Nor seeking shelter there from sun or storm. Me also hast thou led among such scenes. Gentlest of gods ! and age appeared far off, While tiiou wast standing close above the couch, And whisperd'st, in whisper not unheard, " I now depart from thee, but leave behind My own twin-brother, friendly as myself Who soon shall take my place : men call him
Death. Thou hearest me, nor tremblest, as most do. In sooth, why should'st thou ? What man hast
thou wronged By deed or word. Few dare ask this within." There was a pause ; then suddenly said Sleep : " He whom I named approacheth : so farewell ! " Last Fruits of an Old Tree.
A^■DREW LANG.— 1
LANG, Andrew, a British author, bom at Selkirk, Scotlaud, in 1844. He was educated at St. Andrews University and at Balliol College, Oxford. In 1868 he was elected a Fellow of Merton College, Oxford. He is a frequent contributor to periodical literature, writing sometimes light papers on current topics, and sometimes masterly essays on French literature, on scientific sub- jects, and on comparative mythology. He has published: Ballads in BlueCJmia {ISSl), Helen of Troy (1882), Bhymes a la Mode (1883), Custom and Myth (1884), and The Mark of Cain, a novel (1886). He has translated the Idyls of Theocritus, and has, in conjunction with others, put forth a prose version of the Iliad and the Odyssey.
EGYPTIAN DIVINE MYTHS.
All fort-es, all powers, were finally recognized in Osiris. He was Sun and Moon, and the Maker of all things; he was the Tinth and the Life ; in him all men were justified. His func- tions as king over death and the dead find their scientific place among other myths of the homes of the departed. M. Lefehure recognizes in the name " Osiris " the meaning of " tlie infernal abode," or "the nocturnal residence of the sacred eye ; " for in the duel of Set and Horus he sees a mythical account of the daily setting of the sun. " Osiris himself — the sun at his set- ting— became a centre round which the otiier incidents of the war of the gods gradually crys- tallized." Osiris is also the Earth. It would be difiicnlt either to prove or disprove this con- tention, and the usual divergency of opinion as to the meaning and etymology of the woid "Osiris" has always prevailed. Plutarch iden- tifies Osiris with Hades; "both," says M. Lefe- bure, "originally meant tiie dwelling — and came to mean the god — of the dead."
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ANDREW LANc;.-2
In the same spirit Aiiubi.s, tiie jackal (a beast still degraded as a ghost by the Egy[)tiaiis), is e.v[)laiiied as " the circle of the lioii/oii,"' or >■' the portal of the land of darkness," tiie gate kept — as Homer would say — by Hades, the mighty warden. Whether it is more natural that men should represent the circle of tiie hori- zon as a jackal, or that a jackal totem should survive; as a god, mythologists will decide for themselves. The jackal, by a myth which can- not be called pious, was said to have eaten his father Osiris. Thus, throughout the whole realm of Egyptian myths, when we find beasts- gods, blasphemous fables, apparent nature- myths, such as are familiar in Australia, iSouth Africa, or among the Eskimo, we may imagine that they are the symbols of noble ideas, deemed appropriate by priestly fancy. Thus the hiero- glyphic name of Ptali, for example, shows a lit- tle figure carrying something on his head ; and this denotes " Him who raised the heaven above the earth." But is this image derived from v,n point de vue philosophique, or is it borrowed from a tale like that of the Maori Tutenganahan, who Hrst severed heaven and earth? The most enthusiastic anthx'opologist must admit that, among a race which constantly used a kind of picture-writing, symbols of noble ideas )Hlght be represented in tlie coarsest concrete forms — as of animals and monsters. The most devoted believer in symbolism, on the other hand, ou^ht to lie aware that most of the phenomena which he explains as symbolic are plain matters of fact, or supposed fact, among hundreds of the lower peoples. However, Egyptologists are seldom students of the lower races and tlieir religions. The hypothesis maintained here is that most of the Egptian gods (theriomorphic in their earliest shapes), and that certain of the myths about these gods, are a heritage derived from the sa\age condition.
266
SIDNEY EANIER— 1
LANIER, Sidney, an American author, born at Macon, Georgia, in 1842 ; died at Lynn, N. C, in 188 L He studied at Ogle- thorpe College, Georgia ; and at the break- ing out of the civil war entered the Confed- erate service ; took command of a block- ade-runner; was captured, and held a pris- oner for five months. After the conclusion of the war he was engaged in various pur- suits. In 1873 he took up his residence at Baltimore, devoting himself to literature and music. In 1876 he was engaged to compose the Cantata for the Centennial Exposition at Philadelphia, and in 1877 was appointed Lecturer on English Litera- ture at the Johns Hopkins University. He had for many years suffered from a pulmon- ary affection, which rendered him a con- firmed invalid. His works are : Tiger Lilies^ a novel (1867), Florida ; Its Scenery, Climate^ and History (1876), Poems (1877), The Boys' Froissart (1878), The Science of Enylish Verse and The Boys'' King Arthur (1880), The Boys' Mabinogion (1881.) After his death were published The Boys' Percy ^ and The English Novel and the Principles of its Development. An edition of his Poems, prepared by his wife, with a brief Memorial by W. H. Ward, was pub- lished in 1844.
THE MARSHES OF GLYNN.
Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and
woven "With intricate shades of the vines that myriad- cloven Clamber the forks of the multiform boughs, Emerald twilights, — Virginal skv lights, 267
SIDNEY LANIER.— 2
Wrought of the leaves to allure to the whisper
of vows, When lovers pace timidly down through the
green colonnades Of the dim sweet woods, of the dear dark
woods, Of the heavenly woods and glades, Tliat run to the radiant marginal sand-beach
within The wide sea-marshes of Glynn ; —
Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noon-day
fire- Wild wood privacies, closets of lone desire. Chamber from chamber parted with wavering
arras of leaves — Cells for tlie passionate pleasure of prayer to
tlie soul that grieves. Pure with a sense of the passing of saints
through the wood. Cool for the dutiful weighing of ill with good ; —
O braided dusks of the oak and woven shades
of the vine, While the riotous noon-day sun of the June-day
long did shine Ye lield me fast in your heart and I held you
fast in mine ; But now w^hen the noon is no more, and riot is
rest. And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of
the West, And the slant yellow beam down the wood-aisle
doth seem Like a lane into heaven that leads from a
dream — Ay, now, when my soul all day hath drunken
the soul of the oak, And my soul is at ease from men, and the weari- some sound of the stroke Of the scythe of time and the travel of trade is
low,
268
SIDNEY LANIER —3
Ami l)elief o'erniiisters doubt, and I know thai I
know. And my spirit is grown to a lordly great compass
within, That the length and the breadtli and the sweep
of the marshes of Glynn Will work me no fear like the fear they ha^ c
wrought me of yore When length was fatigue, and when breadth was
but bitterness sore, And when terror and shrinking and dreary un-
namable pain. Drew over me out of the merciless miles of the
plain —
Oh, now unafraid, I am fain to face
The vast sweet visage of space. To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I am drawn Where the gray beach glimmering runs, as a belt of the dawn.
For a mete and a mark To the forest-dark : — 80: Affable live-oak, leaning low — Thus — with your favor — soft, with a reverent
hand, ( Xot lightly touching your person. Lord of the
land! ) I'xiiding your b(;auty aside, with a step I stand On the firm -packed sand. Free By a world of marsh that borders a world of sea. .Sinuous soutliward and siimous northward the
shimmering band Of tlie sand-beach fastens the fringe of the
marsh to the folds of the land. Inward and outward to northward and south- ward the beach-lines linger and curl, As a silver-wrought garment that clings to and follows the firm sweet limbs of a girl. Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again into .sight,
269
SIDNEY LANIER.- 4
Softly tlie sand-beach wavers ;i\vav to a dim
gray looping of light. And what if behind me to westward the wall of
the woods stands liigh 't The world lies east: how ample the marsh and
the sea and the sky ! A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high,
broad in the blade, (rieen, and all of a height, and unfleck('<l with a
light or a shade, Stietch leisurely off in a pleasant plain, To the terminal blue of the main.
Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea? Somehow my soul seems suddenly free
From tlie weighing of fate and the sad discus- sion of sin,
By the length and the breadth and the sw^eep ol the marshes of Glynn.
Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing withholding and free
Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer your- selves to the sea !
Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun.
Ye spread and span like the cathoiie man who hath mightily won
God out of knowledge, and good out out of infi- nite pain
And sight out of blindness, and purity out of a stain.
As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery
sod, Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness
of God : I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh -
hen flies In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the
marsh and the skies : 270
SIDNEY LANIER.— 5
By so many roots as tlie marsh-grass sends in
the sod I will heartily lay me a-liold on the u;realness of
God : Oil, like to the greatness of God is the greatness
within The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of
Glynn.
And the sea bends large as the marsh ; Lo. o.it
of his plenty the sea i'ours fast: full soon the time of the Hood-tide
must be : Look how the grace of the sea doth go About and about through the intricate channels
that flow Here and there,
Everywhere, Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks
and the low-lying lanes, And tlie marsh is meshed with a million veins, That like <is with rosy and silvery essences flow In tlie rose-and-silver evening glow.
Farewell, my lord Sun ! Tlie creeks o'erflow ^ a thousand rivulets run 'Twixt the roots of the rod ; the l)lades of the
marsh-grass stir ; Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that west- ward whir ; Passeth, and all is still ; and the currents cease
to lun ; And the sea and the marsh are one. How still the plains of the waters be ! The tide is in his ecstasy. The tide is at his highest height : And it is night.
And now from the Vast of the Lord will the
waters of sleep Roll in on the souls of men, But who will reveal to our waking ken The forms that swim and the waves that creep
271
SIDNEY LANIER.— 6
Under the waters of sleep? And I would I could know what swimmeth
below wlien the tide comes in On tlie length and the breadth of the marvelous
marshes of Glynn.
A ROSE-MORAL.
Soul, get thee to the heart
Of yonder tuberose ; hide thee there, There breathe the meditations of thine art Suffused with prayer.
Of spirit grave yet light
How fervent fragrances uprise, Pure-born from these most rich and pet most white A irginities !
Mulched with unsavory death,
Reach soul ! yon rose's white estate : Give off thine art as she doth issue breath, And wait — and wait.
272
ClIAlvLEtJ LANMAN.— 1
LANMAN, Charles, an American author, born at Monroe, Micliigan, in 1819. For about ten years he was engaged in mercantile business in New York, after AV'hich he engaged in journahsm, first in Micliigan, and subsequently in New York. He studied Art, and though only an ama- teur, was in 1849 elected an Associate of the National Acadeni}- of Design, and lias from time to time exhibited several credit- able paintings. In 1849 he was made Li- brarian of the War Department at Wash- ington ; in 1850 he became Private Secre- tary to Daniel Webster, whose Private Life he afterwards wrote (1852.) In 1853 he was made Examiner of Depositories for the Southern States: in 1855 Head of the Return Office in the Department of the In- terior: and in 1866 Librarian of the ILmse of Representati ves. From 1871 till 1 882 he was Secretary to the Japanese Legation.
He prepared the Diclionary of Congress which originally appeared in 1858, and, being published by order of Congress, was continued in successive editions until 1869. For many years he made excursions in vari- ous parts of North America, of which ac- counts were written for periodicals, and afterwards published in book form. Many of these were in 1856 brought together in two volumes, entitled Adventures in the Wilds of the United States and the British American Provinces. He has also written several works relating to Japan and the Jap- anese, the latest of which is Leading Men of Japan (1883.) Among his later works are Farthest North (1885), and Haphazard Per- sonalities (1886.)
273
CHARLES LANMAN.— 2
THE ACADIANS.
At the junction of tlie rivers Madawaska and St. John is a settlement of about 300 Acadians. How this people came by the name which they bear, 1 do not exactly understand ; but of tiieir history I remember the following particulars : —
In the year 1755, during the existence of the colonial difficulties between England and France, tliere existed in a remote section of Nova Scotia about 15,000 Acadians. Aristocratic French blood flowed in their veins, and they were a peaceful and industrious race of husbandmen. Even after the government of England had be- come established in Canada, they cherished a secret attachment for the laws of their native country ; but this was only a feeling, and they Continued in the peaceful cultivation of their lands.
In the process of time, however, three Eng- lishmen, named Lawrence, Boscawen, and Moysten, held a council, and formed the hard- hearted determination of driving this people from their homes, and scattering them to tlie four quarters of the globe. Playing the part of friends, this brotherhood of conquerors and heroes sent word to the Acadians that they must all meet at a certain place, on business which deeply concerned their welfare. Not dreaming of their impending fate, the poor Acadians met at the appointed place, and were informed of the fact that their houses and lands were foi'feited, and that they must leave the country to become wanderers in strange and distant lands. They sued for mercy ; but the iron yoke of a Chris- tian nation was laid more heavily upon their necks in answer to that prayer, and they were driven from home and country. As they sailed from shore, or entered the wilderness, they saw in the distance, ascending to heaven, the smoke of all they had loved and lost. Those who sur- vived found an asylum in the United States and in the remote portions of the British empire ;
274
CHARLES LAN MAN— 3
and when after the war thcv were invited to re- turn to their early homes only 1.300 were known to be in existence.
It is a remnant of this very people who, with their descendants, are now the owners of the Madawaska settlement ; and it is in an Acadian dwelling that 1 am now [1847] penning tliis cliapler. But through many misfortunes ( ! would speak it in charity), the Acadians h:i\ < degenerated into a more ignorant and miserable class than are the Canadian French, whom they idosely resemble in their appearance and cus- toms.
Thev believe the people of Canada to be a nation of knaves ; and the people of Canada know tJiem to be a half-savage community. Worshipping a miserable priesthood is their prin- (•i])al i)usirtess; drinking and cheating their neigh- liors tlieir principal fimusement. They live by tilling the soil, and are content if they can barely make the provision of one year take them to the entrance of another. They are at the same time l)assionate lovers of money, and have brought the science of fleecing strangers to perfection. Some of them, by a life of meanness, have suc- ceeded in accumulating a respectable property ; but all the money they obtain is systematically hoarded. It is reported of the principal man of this place that he has in his house at the present moment the sum of 10,000 dollars in silver and gold ; and yet this man's children are as igno- rant of the alphabet as the cattle upon the hills. lint wnth all their ignorance, the Acadians area iiappy people, though the happiness is of a mere
animal nature In the Wilds of America.
27!>
LUCY LA ROOM.— 1
LARCOM, Lucy, an American poet, born at Beverly, Mass., in 1826. Wbile engaged as an operative in a cotton factory at Low- ell, she began to write for tbe Loivell Offer- iny. She has afterwards became a teacher in Massachusetts and Illinois, and from 1865 to 1874 was editor of Our Young Folks at Boston. She published ^^hips in the Mist (1859), Poems (1868), An Idyl of VVorl: (1875), Childhood Songs (1877), Wild Roses of Cape Ann (1880), and has edited several volumes of collections of poetry,
HANNAH BINDING SHOES.
Poor lone Hannah, Sitting at the window binding slioes,_
Faded, wrinkled
Stiching, stitching in a mournful muse,
Bright-eyed beauty once was she,
When the bloom was on the tree !
Spring and winter,
Hannah's at the window binding shoes.
Not a neighbor Passing nod or answer will refuse To her whisper, " Is there from the fishers any news?" Oh, her heart's adrift with one On an endless voyage gone ! Night and morning, Hannah's at the window binding shoes.
Fair young Hannah, Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly wooes; Hale and clever. For a willing heart and hand he sues. May -day skies are all aglow And the waves are laughing so ! For her wedding Hannah leaves her window and her shoes. 276
LUCY LARCOM— 2
May is passing ; Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos.
Hannah shudders, For tlie mild south-wester mischief brews. Round the rocks of Marblehead, Outward bound a schooner sped! Silent, lonesome, Hannah's at the window binding shoes.
'Tis November ; Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews
From Newfoundland Not a sail returning will she lose, Whispering hoarsely ; " Fisher men Have you, have you heard of Ben ? " Old with watching, Hannah's at the window binding shoes.
Twenty winters Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views
Twenty seasons ! Never one has brought her any news ; Still her dim eyes silently Chase the white sails o'er the sea ! Hopeless, faithful, Hannah's at the window binding shoes 277
DIONV-^IUS I. A UDNER.— 1
LARDNKH, Dionysius, a British scien- tist, born at Dublin in 1793; died at Paris in 1859. He entered Trinity College, Dub- lin, in 1812, graduated in 1817, and was a resident member of the University until 1827. He took Orders, and was for some time chaplain of his college. It was during this period that he became the "guardian " of Dion Boucicaut. In 1828 he took uj) his residence in London; and in 1880 began to edit the Cabinet Cyclojysedm^ which was continued until 1844, making iti all 132 volumes. His own writings upon physical and mathematical science were very numer- ous. In 1840 he eloped with the wife of a British officer (who recovered £8,000 damages), and came to the United States, where lie i'emained about five years, and delivered sevei'al courses of lectures in the principal cities. The following extract is from one of these lectures :
THE STEAM-ENGINE PROPER.
In tlie Atmospheric Engine the piston was maintained steam-tight in the cylinder by sup- plying a stream of cold water above it, by whicli the small interstice between the piston and th«' cylinder would be stopped. It is evident that the effect of this wall, as the piston descended, would be to cool the cylinder; besides wliicli, any portion of it which might pass below tlie piston would boil the moment it would fall into the cylinder, which itself would be maintained at the boiling-point. This water, therefore, would produce steam, the pressure of which would resist the descent of the piston.
Watt perceived that, even though this incon- venience were removed by the use of oil or tal- low upon the piston, still that as the piston would descend in the cylinder, the cold atmos-
278
DI0KY8IUS LAKDNEK.— 2
phere would follow it, and would to a rcrtain extent lower the temperature ot" the eylinder. On the next ascent of tlie piston thit; tempera- ture wouhl have to be again raised to 212° by the steam coming from the boiler, and would en- tail upon tlie machine a proportionate waste of power. If the atmosphere ol' the engine-house oouhl be kept heated to the tempeiature of boil- ing water, this inconvenience wouki be removed. The piston would then be pressed down by air {IS hot as the steam to be subsequently intro- duced into it.
On further consideration, however, it occurred to Watt that it would be still more advantageous if the cylinder itself could be worked in an at- mosphere of steam, having only the same pres- sure as the atmosphere. Sucii steam would press the piston down as efl'ectually as the air would, and it would have the further advantage over air that if any portion of it leaked through between the piston and the cylinder, it would be condensed — which would not be the case with atmospheric aix-.
He therefore determininl on suriounding the cylinder by an external casing, the space between which and the cylinder he proposed to be filled with steam supplied from the boiler. The cyl- inder would thus be enclosed in an atmosphei-c of its own, independent of the external air ; and the vessel so enclosing it would only require to be a little larger than the cylinder, and to have a close cover at the top, the centre of which might be perforated with a hole to admit the rod of the piston to pass through — the rod being smooth, and so fitted to the perforation that no steam could escape between them. This method would be attended also with the advantage of keeping the cylinder and piston always heated, not only inside but outside. And Watt saw that it would be further advantageous to employ the pressure of steam to drive the piston in its descent, instead of the atmosphere, as its in- 279
DIONYSIUS LAHDNEK.— 3
leiisity, or force, would be niucli more niaiiage- iible ; for by increasing or diminishing the heat of the steam in whicli the cylinder was enclosed, its pressure might be regulated at pleasure, and might be made to urge the piston with any force that might required. The power of the engine would therefore be completely undercontrol, and independent of all variations in the pressure of I lie atmosphere.
Tliis was a step which totally idianged the character of the machine, and which rendered it a Steam Engine instead of an Atmospheric Engine. Not only was the vacuum below the piston now produced by the property of steam in virtue of which it is re-converted into water by cold, but the pressure which urged the piston iuto this vacuum was due to the elasticity of steam. The external cylinder within which the working cylinder was enclosed was called the "Jacket," and is still in general use. — Lectures on the Steam Engine.
280
NATHANIEL LARDXER.— 1
LARDNER, Nathaniel, an English di- vine, a dissenter from the Established Church, boru in 1684 ; died in 1768. He was a voluminous writer, his works in the latest edition (1828) lilliug ten octavo vol- umes. The most important of these is Tlie CredibUlty of the Gospel History, which is still regarded as a work of standard value.
CREDIBILITY OF THE EVANGELISTS.
The history of the New Testament hath in an eminent degree all the marks and characters of credil)ility. The writers appear honest and impartial. They seem to have set down very fairly tlie exceptions and reflection of enemies, and to have recorded without reserve the weak- ness, mistakes, or even greater faults, wliicli they themselves, or any of their own number, en- gaged in the same design with them, were guilty of There is between the four evangelists an harmony hitherto unparalleled between so many persons who have all written of the same times or events. The lesser differences, or st'eming contradictions, which are to be found in them, only demonstrate that they did not write in con- cert. The other parts of the New Testament concur with them in the same facts and princi- ples. These things are obvious to all who read the books of the New Testament with attention ; and the more they are read, the more conspic- uous will the tokens of credibility appear.
But it must be an additional satisfaction to find tliat these writers are supported in their narra- tion by other approved authors, of diffei-ent characters, who lived at or near the time in which the facts related by the evangelists are said to have happened. . . .
If it appear from other writers that our sacred
historians have mistaken the peoples and affairs
of the time in which, according to their own ac-
•ount, the things which they relate happened, it
281
NATHANIEL LARDNKR— 2
will be an argument that they did not wHIl' until some considerable time athnuiuds. But if upon inquiry there be found an agreement between them and othei" writers, of undoubted authority — not in some few but in many — in all the par- ticulars of this kind whicii tln-y have mentioned, it will be a very strong presumption that they wrote at or very near the time in which the things which tliey relal<! are said to have lutp- pened.
This will give credit to the other — the main parts of their narration; as history written and published near the time of any event is credi- ble, unless there appear some particular views of interest — of which thei-e is no evidence, but (piite the contrary. . . .
I propose to give a long enumeration of pai- ticulars occasionally mentioned by the writers o1' the New Testament, in which they are supported by autliors of the best note ; and then, in answer to diverse objections, I shall endeavor to show that they are not contradicted in the rest. If I succeed in this attempt, here will be a gocid argument for the genuineness of these writings, and for the truth of the principal facts contained in them, distinct from the express and positive testimonies of the Christian writers, and the concessions of many others — llie CredihUify of the Gospel History.
282
GEORGE PARSONS LATHROF.— 1
LATHROP, George Parsons, an x4Lmerican journalist and author, born at Honolulu, Hawaiian Islands, in 1851. He was educated at Dresden, Germany, and at New York. In 1871 he married Rose, the second daughter of Nathaniel Hawthorne, who has written several clever magazine stories. From 1875 he was assistant editor of the Atlantic Monthly. In 1879 he purchased the house at Concord, Mass., formerly the home of Hawthorne, where he resided until 1883, when he removed to New York. His principal works are : Rose and Roof tree., a volume of poems (1875), A Study of Hawthonie and After- ghiv, a novel (1876), An Echo of Passion and In the Distance (1882), Spanish Vistas (1883), Newport and True (1884.)
MUSIC OF GROAVTH.
Music is in all growing things ;
And underneath the silky wings Of smallest insects there is stirred A pulse of air that must be heard ;
Earth's silence lives, and throbs, and sings.
If poet from the vibrant strings
Of his poor heart a measure flings, Laugh not that he no trumpet blows : It may be that Heaven hears and knows
His language of low listenings.
THE SUNSHINE OK THINE EYES.
The sunshine of thine eyes (Oh still celcstiiil
beam !) Wliatever it touches it fills with the life ol' it-
lambent gleam.
Th.- sunshine of thine eyes, Oh let it fall on
me ! Tlinugh I be but a mote of the air, I could turn
to sold for thee ! 2k:{
GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.— 2
THE lover's year.
Thou art my Morning, Twilight, Noon, and Eve,
My Summer and my Winter, Sjiring and Fall ;
For Nature left on thee a touch of all Th(! moods that come to gladden or to grieve The heart of Time, with purpose to relieve
From lagging sameness. So do these fore- stall
In thee such o'erheaped sweetnesses as pall Too swiftly, and the taster tasteless leave.
Scenes that I love, to me always remain Beautiful, whether under summer's sun
Beheld, or, storm-dark, stricken across with rain. So, through all humors thou 'rt the same, sweet one :
Doubt not I love thee well in each, who see
Thy constant change is changeful constancy.
284
HUGH LATIMER— 1
LATIMER, Hugh, an Enulish ecclesias- tic, born about 1485 ; burned at the stake at Oxford, October 16, 1555. He was the sou of a small faimer ; was sent to the University of Cambridge at fourteen years of age; received the degree of M. A. in 1514, and, the baccalaureateship of theology in consequence of a sharp disputation with Melanchthon. In about 1520 he embraced the doctrines of Protestantism, and was summoned before Cardinal Wolsey, the Archbishop of York, wlio, however, dis- missed him with a mild admonition. He took some part in furthing the divorce of Henry VIII. from Catherine of Anigon. In 1585 he was consecrated Bishop of Wor- cester, but resigned his see in 1589, on the adoption of the Six Articles making it a penal offence to impugn the dogmas of transubstantiation, communion in one kind, celibacy of the clergy, monastic vows, pri- vate masses, and auricular confession. He lived in great privacy until 1541, Avhen he was arrested and imprisoned until 1547. Shortly after the accession of Edward VI., in 1547, he received an offer of restoration to his bishopric, which he declined, but con- tinued to be a popular preacher. Queen Mary ascended the throne in July, 1553, and in the next year Latimer was arrested, in company with Cranmer and Ridle\'-, and conveyed to Oxford, whe^i-e he was impris- oned for more than a year in the common jail ; and upon his final refusal to recant, was brought to the stake. To Ridley, who was executed with him, Latimer said, while bound to the stake, " Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, and play the man ; we shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace.
285
HUGH LATIMER.— S
in England, as 1 trust shall never be put out." Many of Latimer's discourses were printed during his lifetime. A complete edition of his WorJcs^ in eight volumes, was put forth in 1845 ; and his Bioyrapliy^ by Rev. R. Demaus, was published in 1869.
The following is an extract from a ser- mon— Latimer's third preached before king Edward VI., March 22, 1549. The young king was then in his twelfth year. The orthography of the age has been carefully retained. If one will merely correct the spelling of many words so as to correspond to modern usage this sermon would j)ass as a good specimen of the English of our own day.
ON COVETOUSNESS.
Syr, what forme of preacliinge woulde you have me for to preache before a kynge. Wold you have me to preache nothynge as concern- ynge a kynge in the kynge's sermon ? Have you any commission to apoynt me what I shall preach ? Besydes thys, I asked hym dyvers otlier questions and he wolde no answere to none of them .all. He had nothynge to say. Then I turned me to the kynge, and sul)niitted my selfe to his Grace, and sayed, •! never thoughte my selfe worthy, nor I never sued to be a preacher before youre Grace, but I was called to it, would be wyllyng (if you mislyke me) to geve place to my betters. For I graunt therbe a gret many more worthy of the roume than I am. And if it be your Grace's jHeasure so to allowe them for preachers, I could be content to here ther bokes after theym. But if you Grace allowe me for a preacher I would desyri your Grace to geve me leve to discharge my conscience. Geve me leve to frame my doc- trine accordyng to my audience. I had byne « very dolt to have preached so at the borders of 286
HUGH LATIMER.— 3
your realm as I preaeli before your Graec. And I tlianke Alniyghty God, wliyeh hath ahvayes bvne remedy, tliat my sayinges were wt^ll ac- ce(^)ted of the kynge, for like a uraeioiis Lord he turned unto a nother conimunicaeyon. It is even as the Scripture sayeth Co;- Regis in tnanu Domini. The Lorde dyrecteth the kynge's hart. . . .
In the vii of John the Priestes sent out cer- tayne of the Jewes to bring in Christ unto them vyolentlye. Wlien they came into the Temple and liarde hym preache, they were so moved wytli his preachynge that they returned home agayne, and sayed to them that sente them, " Nunquani sic locutus est homo ut hie homo — There was never man spake lyke thys man." Then answered the Pharysees, Nnm et vos se- dncti estis? What, ye braynesyeke fooles, ye hoddy peckes, ye doddye poules, ye huddes, do ye beleve hym ? Are ye seduced also ? N'n7i- cjnis ex Principibus credidit in enin ? Did ye se any great man or any great offycer take hys parte? doo ye se any boddy follow hym but beggerlye fyshers, and such as her nothyng to take to ? N'lmquis ex Phariseis ? Do ye se any holy man ? any perfect man ? any learned man take hys parte? Tiirba qui ignorat legem execrahilis est. This laye people is accursed ; it is they that kuowe not the lawe.
So here the Pharises had nothynge to choke the people wytli al but ignoraunce. They d}d as oure byshoppes of Englande, who upbiayded the people ahvayes with ignoraunce, where they were the cause of it them selves. There were, sayeth St. John, Multi ex principibus qui credide- runt in eum ; Manye of the chyefe menne b('- hned in liym, and tliat was contrarye to the Pharisyes saying. Oh then by lyke they belyed iiim, he was not alone.
So, thoughte I, there be more of myne opin- ion tlum I ; I thought I was not alone I have nowe gotten one felowe more, a companyon of 287
HUGH LATIMER.— 4
sedytyon, and wot ye who is my t"elow<' '■: Esayc the prophete. I spake but of a lytic pieaty shyllyiige ; but he speaketh to Hienisalcin after an otlier sorte, and was so bold to meddle with theyi" coine. Thou proude, thou covetouse, thou hautye cytye of Hierusalem, Argentum tunm rer- sns est in scoriam. Thy silver is turned into what ? into testyons. Scoriam, into drosse. Ah ^ 'diciouse wretch, what had he to do wyth the niynte? Why should not have lefte tiiat matter to some master of policy to reprove ? Thy sil- ver is drosse, it is not fyne, it is counterfaite, thy silver is turned, thou haddest good sylver. What pertained that to Esay? Mnrry he es- pyed a pece of divinity in that polici, he threat- ened them God's vengeance for it. He went to the rote of the matter, which was covetousnes. He espyed two poyntes in it, that eythere it came of covetousnesse whych became hym to reprove, or els that it tended to the liuite of the pore people, for the naughty nes of the sylver was the occasion of dearth of all thynges in the realme. He imputeth it to them as a great cryme. He may be called a mayster of sedi- cion in dede. Was not this a sedyciouse harlot to tell them thys to theyr beardes ? to theyr face?
In the following extract from Latimer's sermon on "The Ploughers," the orthogra- phy is modernized.
SATAN A DILIGENT PRELATE AND PREACHEI?.
And now I would ask a strange question : Who is the most diligent bishop and prelate in all England, that passetli all the rest in doing his office? I can tell, for I know him who it is ; I know him well. But now I tliink I see you listening and hearkening that I should name him. There is one that passeth all the others, and is the most diligent prelate and preacher in all England. And will ye know wlio it is? I will tell you : it is the devil. He is the most 288
HUGH LATIMKR— 5
diligent preacher of all others ; he is never out of liis dioeese ; he is never from his cure; ye shall never find him unoceupied ; he is ever in liis parish ; he keepeth residence at all times ; ve shall never find him out of the wny ; call for iiim when you will, he is ever at home; the dil- igentest preacher in all the realm. He is ever at his plough ; no lording or loitering can hinder iiini ; he is ever applying his business; ye shall never find liim idle, I wariant you.
And his oth'-e is to hinder religion, to main- tain superstition, to set up idolatry, to teach all kind of popery. He is ready as can be avIsIk il tor to set forth his plough, to devise as many ways as can be to deface and obscure God's glory. Where the devil is resident, and hath his plough going, there away with books, and up with candles ; away wirh liibles, and up with l)eads ; away with the light of the gospel, and up with the light of candles, yea. at noondays. Where the devil is resident, that he nuiy prevail, up with all superstition and idolatiy ; censing, painting of images, candles, palms, ashes, holy water, and new service of men's inventing — as though man coidd invent a better way to honor ItoiI with than God himself hath appointed. Down with Christ's cross ; up with purgatory pick-purse, up with him — the popish purgatory I iniian. Away with clothing the naked, the poor, and nnpotent ; up with decking of images, and ifav garnishing of stocks and stones. Up with man's traditions and his laws ; down with God's traditions and His most holy Word. Down with the old honor due to God; and up with the new ( iod's honor.
Let all things be done in Latin ; there must \i". nothing but Latin, not so much as — Memento, Ihhiid. (/itod cinis es, et in cinem revcrteris — Re- member, man, that thou art ashes, and unto ashes shalt thou return : which be the words that the minister speaketh unto the ignorant peo- [de. wlien he <riveth them ashes upon Ash Wed- la ' 289
HUGH LATIMER.— 6
nesday — but it must bespoken in Latin. God's Word may in no wise be translated into English. Oh that our prelates would be as diligent to sow the corn of good doctrine, as Satan is to sow cockle and darnel ! But some man will say to me. What, sir, are ye so privy of the devil's counsel that ye know all this to be true? Truly, I know him to well, and hiive obeyed him a lit- tle too much in condescending to some follies ; and I know him as other men do, yea, that he is ever occupied, and every busy in following his plougli, I know by St. Peter, Aviiich saithof him : " He goeth about like a roaring lion, seeking" whom he may devour." There never was such a preacher in England as lie is. Who is able to tell his diligent preaching which every day and every hour laboreth to sow cockle and darnel?
290
LAVATEIi.— 1
LAVATEK, JoHANN Caspar, a Swiss writer on physiognomy, born at Zurich in 1741 ; died in 1801. After studying the- ology at home and in Berlin, he became pastor at Zurich in 1764. His mystical views and enthusiastic but benevolent and amiable character attracted much friendly attention. Among his publications are Schweilzerlieder (1767), Aussiditen in die Ewigkeit (1768-73), and Pontius Pilatvs (1785). The last was the means of break- ing Goethe's friendship with the author. The most important of his books is Phy- sioyaomisclie Fraymente zur Beforderun</ der Mensclienkenntniss und Menschenliche (1775-78), which first attempted to reduce ])hysiognomy to a science, as some claim, though others say he regarded its practice as dependent on individual talent, and valued rules merely as a convenience. La- vater at first welcomed the French Eevo- lution, but soon repudiated its barbarities with disgust. He was banished to Basel in 1796, and shot when Massena tookZuricli in 1799; this wound caused his death fif- teen months later. His Life was written by Gessner, 1802-3. A selection from liis works, in 8 vols., appeared 1841-44. His book on physiognomy has been translated into many languages, and into English bv II. Hunter (5 vols., 1789-98), bv T. Hol- cn^ft (3 vols., 1789-93), bv Morton (3 vols., 1793) and Moore (4 vols., 1797). His Aphorisms on Man were translated by Fuseli (1788). Shortly after his decease, his Life was written by his son-in-law, George Gessner. It has also been written bv Boderain, from a ])urely religious point oC view.
29}
LAVATPJK.— 2
MAXIMS.
Maxims are as n«'cessary ("or the Aveak, as ruli'.s tor a beginner : the master wants neither rule nor principle — he possesses both without tliinking of them.
Wiio pursues means of enjoyment contradict- ory, irreconcilable, and self-destructive, is a fool, or what is called a sinner — sin and destruction of order are the same.
He knows not how to speak who cannot be silent; still less how to act with vigor and de- cision. Who hastens to the end is silent : loud- ness is impotence.
Wishes run over in lo(pia(;ious impotence. Will presses on with laconic energy.
All affectation is the vain and ridiculous at- tempt of poverty to ap})ear rich.
There are offences against individuals, to all ap[)earance trifling, which are capital offences against the human race : — fly him who can com- mit them.
Who will sacnfice nothing, and enjoy all, is a fool.
Call him wise whose actions, words, and steps, are all a clear because to a clear why.
Say not you know- another entirely till you have divided an inheritance with him.
Wlio, without call or office, industriously re- calls the remembrance of past errors to con- found liim who has repented of them, is a vil- lain.
Too much gravity argues a shallow mind.
Who makes too much or too little of himself has a false measure for everything.
Tlie more honesty a man has, the less he affects the air of a saint — the affectation of sanctity is a blotch on the face of piety.
Kiss the hand of him who can renounce what he has publicly taught, 'when convicted of his error, and who with heartfelt joy embraces truth, thouirh with the sacrifice of favorite opinions.
LAVATER.— 3
TIr' iViend of order has made half his way to virtue.
Whom mediocrity attracts, taste has :iban- doned.
The art to love your enemy consists in never losing sight of man in him. Humanity has power over all that is human : the most inhuman still remains man, and never can throw ofl' all taste for what becomes a man — but you must learn to wait.
The merely just can generally bear great virtues as little as great vices.
He has not a little of the devil in him who prays and bites.
Be not the fourth friend of him who had three before, and lost them.
She neglects her heart who always studies her glass.
AVho comes from the kitchen smells of its smoke ; who adheres to a sect has something of Its cant ; the college air pursues the student, and dry inhumanity him who herds wnth literary pe- dants.
He knows little of the Epicurism of reason and religion who examines the dinner in the kitchen.
Let none turn over books or scan the stars in quest of God who sees Him not in man.
He knows nothing of men who expects to con- vince a determined party man ; and he nothing of the world who despairs of the final impar- tiality of the public.
He who stands on a height sees faither than those beneath; but let him not fancy that he shall make them believe all he sees.
Pretend not to self-knowledge if you find nothing worse within you than what enmity or calumny dares loudly lay to your charge. Yet you are not very good if you are not better than Vuur best friends imagine you to be. 293
LAVATER.— 4
He who wants witnesses in order to be good, has neither virtue nor religion.
He submits to be seen through a microscope, who suffers himself to be caught in a fit of pas- sion.
Receive no satisfaction for premeditated im- pertinence. Forget it, forgive it — but keep him inexorably at a distance wdio offered it.
The public seldom forgive twice.
He sui'ely is most in want of another's patience who has none of his own.
Aphorisms on Man.
294
li
AUSTEN HENRY LAYARD.— 1
LAYARD, Sir Austen Henry, an English diplomat and archgeologist, born at Paris in 1817. He began the study of law, but in 1839 set out upon a series of travels which took him through European Turkey and various parts of the East, during which lie mastered the Arabic and Persian languages. Of these early travels he pub- lirfhed an account in 1887. In 1845, and subsequently, he set on foot explorations in the region of ancient Nineveh and Babylon. The results of his remarkable discoveries are embodied in two sumptu- ously illustrated works, Nineveh and its Remains (18-19), and Discoveries among the Ruins of Nineveh and Babylon (1858.) As early as 18-19 he entered upon political life in a diplomatic or semi-diplomatic capacity. In 1852 he was returned to Parliament for Ailesbury, was an unsuccessful candidate for York in 1859, but was returned as a '• Liberal " for South wark at the close of 1850. In 18(38 he was made a member of the Privy Council ; but near the close of 1869 he was appointed Envoy Plenipoten- tiary at Madrid. In 1877 he was sent as Ambassador to Constantinople; but in 1880 when Mr. Gladstone returned to power. Sir Henry Layard " received leave of ab- sence " from his post at Constantinople, and iiis place was soon afterwards filled by Mr. Goschen, who went out as Ambassador Ex- traordinary.
THK RUINS IN ASSYRIA AND BABYLONIA.
These ruins, chiefly large mounds, apparently of mere earth and rubbish, had long excited curiosity from their size and evident anticjuity. Tiicy were the only remains of an unknown
AUSTEN HENRY LAYARD.— 2
period — of a period antecedent to the Macedo- nian conquest. Consequently they alone could he identified with Nineveh and Babylon, and could afford a clue to the site and nature of those cities. There is at the same time a va^ue mystery attaching to remains like these, whicli induces travellers to examine them with more tlian ordinary interest, and even with some degree of awe. A great vitrified mass of brick- work, surrounded by the accumulated rubbish of ages, was believed to represent the identical tower which called down the divine vengeance, and was overthrown, according to an universal tradition, by the fires of heaven. The mystery and dread which attached to the place were kej)t up l)y exaggerated accounts of wild beasts who haunted the subterraneous passages, and of the no less savage tribes who wandered among the ruins. Other mounds in the vicinity were iden- tified with the Hanging Gardens, and those mar- velous structures which tradition has attributed to two queens — Semiramis and Notocris. The diliiculty of reaching the site of these remains increased the curiosity and interest with which they were regarded ; and a fragment fiom I>al)ylon was esteemed a precious relic, not altogether devoid of a sacred character.
The ruins which might be presumed to occupy the site of the Assyrian capital were even less known and less visited than those in Babylonia. Several travellers had noticed the great mounds of earth opposite the modern city of Mosul ; and when the inhabitants of the neighborhood pointed out the tomb of Jonah upon the summit of oije of them, it was of course natural to conclude at once that it marked the site of the great Nineveh. Macdonald Kinneir — no mean anti- quarian and geographer — who examined these mounds, was inclined to believe that they marked the site of a Roman camp of the time of Hadrian ; and yet a very superficial knowledge of the subject would have shown at once that
296
AUSTEN HENRY LAYAKD.— 3
fliey were of a very different period Nineveh
(tad its Reitiaitis. Introduction.
LAYAUO'S FIRST DAY'S EXCAVATION AT NIM- KOUD.
1 had sl(;pt little during tlie night. The liovel in which we had taken shelter and its in- mates, did not invite slumber. I was at length sinking into sleep, when, liearing the voice of Awad, I arose from my carpet and joined him outside the hovel. The day had already dawneil ; lie had returned witli six Arabs, who agreed for ;i small sum to work under my direction. The lofty cone and broad mound of Nimroud broke like a distant mountain on the morning sky. No sign of habitation, not even the black tent of an Arab, was seen upon the plain. The eye Wiiudered over a parched and barr(Mi waste, across which occasionally swept the whirlwind, dragging with it a cloud of sand. About a mile from us was the small village of Nimroud — like Naifa, a Iieap of ruins.
Ten minutes' walk brought us to tiie principal mound. The absence of all vegetation enabled me to examine the remains with which it was covered. Broken pottery and fragments of l»ricks, both inscribed with cuneiform characters, were strewed on all sides. The Arabs watched my motioiis as I wandered to and fro, and ob- served with surprise the objects I had collected. They joined, however, in the search, and brouglit me handfuls of rubbish, amongst which I found with joy the fragment of a bas-relief. The material on which it was carved had been ex- posed to fire, and reseml)led in every respect the Inirnt gypsum of Khorsabad.
Convinced from this discovery that sculptured leniains must still exist in some part of the mound, I sought for a place where excavations might be commenced with a prospect of success. A wad led me to a piece of alaljaster which ap- pi'aied above the soil. AVe could not icni"^ c
AUSTEN HENRY LAYARD.— 4
it, and on digging downward, it proved to be the upper part of a large slab. I ordered all the men to work around it, and they shortly un- covered a second slab to wliich it had been united Continuing in the same line, we came upon a third ; and in the course of the morning laid bare ten more — tlie whole forming a square, with one stone missing at the northwest corner. It was evident that the top of a chamber had been discovered, and that the gap was its entrance.
I now dug down the face of the stones, and an inscription in the cuneiform character was soon exposed to view. Similar inscriptions occupied the centre of all the slabs, which were in the best preservation, but plain with the exception of the writing. Leaving half of the workmen to un- cover as much of the chamber as possible, I led the rest to the southwest corner of the mound where I had observed many fragments of cal- cined alabaster, I dug at once into the side ot the mound, which was here very steep, and thus avoided the necessity of removing much earth. We came almost immediately to a wall bearing inscriptions in the same character as those already described ; but the slabs had evidently been exposed to intense heat, were cracked in every part, and, reduced to lime, threatened to fall to pieces as soon as uncovered.
Night interrupted our labors. I returned to the village well satisfied with the re suit. It was now evident that buildings of considerable extent existed in the mound ; and that although some had been destroyed by fire, others had escaped tlie conflagration. As there were inscriptions, and as a fragment of a bas- relief had been found, it was natural to conclude that sculptures were still buried under the soil. I determined to follow the search at the nortli- west corner, and to empty the chamber partly
I'ncovercd during the day Nineveh and its Re-
ma-iJis, Cli;i|). II.
298
AlTrtTFA' TTEXRY LAYARD.— 5 THK DISCOVKKY OF " XIMK()1)."
I rode to tlie encainpnient of Sheikh Abd-ur- rahniuii, and was returning to tlie mound when I saw two Ai-abs of his tribe urging their mares to the top of their speed. On approach- ing me they stopped. '• Hasten, O Bey," ex- c-hiimed one of them ; " hasten to the diggers, for they have found Nimrod himself! AVallah, it is wonderful, but it is true ! we have seen him witli our eyes. There is no God but God ! " And both joining in this pious exclamation, they galloped off, without further words, in the direction of their tents.
On reaching the ruins I descended into the new trench, and found the workmen, who had already seen me as I approached, standing near a heap of baskets and cloaks. Whilst Awad advanced and asked for a present to celebrate the occasion, tlie Arabs withdrew the screen they had liastily constructed, and disclosed an enormous head sculptured in full out of the ala- baster of the country. They had uncovered the upper part of a figure, the remainder of wliich was still buried in the earth. I saw at once that the head must belong to a winged lion or bull, similar to those of Khorsabad and Persepolis. It was in admirable preservation. The expression was calm yet majestic ; and the outline of the features sliowed a freedom and knowledge of art scarcely to be looked for in the works of so remote a period. The cap had three born-, and, unlike that of the human-headed bulls hitherto found in Assyria, was rounded and without ornamentation at the top.
AVhilst I was superintending the removal of the earth which still clung to the sculpture, and giving directions for the continuation of the work, a noise of horsemen was lieard, and pres- ently Abd-ur-rahman, followed by half of his tribe, apjieared on the edge of the trench. As soon as the two Arabs had reached the tents and j)ni)lished tlie wonders they had seen, every one
299
AUSTEN TIEXRY J-AVARD— 6
mounted liis mare and rod(> to the ground to satisfy himself of the truth of these inconceiv- al)le reports. When they behehl the head they all cried together, "There is no God but (iod. and Mohammed is his Prophet ! " It was some- time before the Sheikh eould be prevailed upon to descend into the pit, and convince himself that the image he saw was of stone. " This is not the work of men's hands," exclaimed he, '' but of those infidel giants of whom the Prophet — peace be with him ! — has said that they were higher than the tallest date-tree ; this is one of tlie idols which Noah — peace be with himi — cursed be- fore the flood." In this opinion, tlie result of a careful examination, all the bystanders con- curred Nineveh and its Remains, Chap. III.
THE PALACE OF SENNACHERIB.
Shortly before my departure for Europe in 1848, the forepart of a human -headed bull of colossal dimensions had been uncovered on the east side of the Kouyunjik Palace. This scul[>- ture then appeared to form one side of an en- trance or doorway ; and it is so placed on tlie plan of the ruins accompanying my former work, Nineveh and its Remains. I'he exoa\a- tioiis had, however, been abandoned before any attempt could be made to ascertain the fact. On my return I directed the workmen to uncover the bull, which was still partly buried in the rub- bish ; and it was found that adjoining it were other sculptures, and that it formed part of an exterior faQade. The fagade opened into a wide portal, guarded by a pair of winged bulls, twenty feet long, and probably when entire more than twenty feet high. Forming the angle between them and the outer bulls were gigantic winged figures in low relief, and flanking them were two smaller figures, one above the other. Beyond tiiis entrance was a group similar to and corre- sponding with that on the opposite side, also lead- ing to a smaller entrance into the palace, and to
3fX)
AUSTEN HEXRY LAYARD.— 7
;i wall of sculptural slabs; but here all Iniccsot' ItiiiUliiig and sculpture ceased, and we found oiii- Ives near the edge of" a water-worn ra\ fm'.
I'lius a tayade of the south-east side of the palace, forming apparently the grand entrance to the edifice, had been discovered. Ten colos. sal bulls, with six human figures of gigantic pro- portions were here gi'ouped together, and the length of the whole, without including the sculp- tured walls continued beyond the smaller en- trances, was 180 feet. Although the bas-reliefs to the right of the northern gateway had appar- ently been purposely destroyed with a sharp in- strument, enough remained to allow me to trace their subject. They had represented the con- (pit'st of a district — probably a part of Babylonia — watered by a broad river and wooded with palms; spearmen on foot in combat with Assy- rian horsemen ; castles besieged ; long lines of prisoners, and beasts of burden carrying away the spoils. There were no remains whatever of the supersti-ucture which once rose above the coUossi guarding the magnificent entrance. . . .
The bulls were all more or less injured. The same convulsion of nature — for I can scarcely attribute to any human violence the overthrow of these great masses — had shattered some of them into pieces, and scattered the fragments amongst the ruins. Fortunately, however, the lower parts of all, and consequently the inscrip- tions, had been mere or less preserved. To this fact we owe the recovery of some of the most precious records with which the monuments of tiie ancient world have rewarded the labors of the antiquary.
()ii the great bulls forming the central porta) of the grand entrance Avas one continuous in- scription, injured in parts, but still so far pre- served as to be legible almost throughout. It contained 152 lines. On thf four bulls of the facade were two inscriptions, one inscription car- ried over each pair, and the two being of pre- 301
AUSTEN HENRY LAYARD— 8
ciscly the same import. These two distinct re- cords contain the annals of six years of the reign of Sennecharib, besides numerons particuhus connected with the religion of the Assyrians, their gods, their temples, and the erection of their palaces — all of the highest interest and im- portance.— Discoveries at Nineveh and Babylon, Chap. VI.
THE ASSYRIAN RECORDS.
The historical records and public documents of the Assyrians were kept on tablets and cylin- ders of baked clay. Many specimens have been brought to Great Britain. On a large hexago- nal cylinder, presented by me to the British Mu- seum, are the chronicles of Essarliaddon ; on a similar cylinder discovered in the mound of Nebbi Yunus, opposite Mosul, are eight years of the annals of Sennacherib ; and on a barrel- shaped cylinder long since placed in the British Museum, and known as Bellino's, we have part of the records of the same king. The import- ance of such records will be readily understood. They present in a small compass an abridge- ment or recapitulation of the inscriptions on the great monuments and palace walls, giving in a chronological series the events of each monarch's reign. The writing is so minute, and the let- ters are so close one to another, that it requires considerable experience to separate and trans- cribe them.
The chambers I am describing appear to have been a depository in the palace of Nineveh for such documents. To the height of a foot or more from the floor they were entirely tilled with them ; some entire, but the greater part broken into many fragments — probably by the falling in of the upper part of the building. They were of diflTerent sizes : the largest tablets were flat, and measured about 9 inches by Q>^ inches ; the smaller were slightly convex, and some were not more than an inch long, with but
302
AUSTEX HENRY LAYARD.— 9
one or two lines of writing. The cuneiform characters on most of them were singuhirly sharp and well defined, but so minute in some instances as to be almost illegible without a magnifying glass. These documents appear to be of various kinds. Many are historical records of Avars and dis- tant expeditions undertaken by the Assyrians; s:)me seem to be royal decrees ; others contain lists of the gods, and probably a register of offerings made in the temples. On one Dr. Hincks has iletected a table of the value of certain cunei- form letters, expn'ssing by different alphabetical signs, according to various modes of using them — a most important discovery. It is highly [)robable that a record of astronomical obser\a- tions may exist amongst them, for we know from ancient writers that the Babylonians inscribed such things upon burned bricks. The charac- ters appear to have been formed by a very deli- icate instrument before the clay was iiardened l)y fire, and the process of accurately making h'tters so minute and complicated must have re-
(juired considerable ingenuity and experience
Discoveries at Nineveh and Babylon, Chap. XVI. 303
EMMA LAZARUS.— 1
LAZARUS, Emma, an American })oet. l)orri in 1849 ; died in 1887. Her first vol- ume, Poeras and Translations^ was published in 1867, her second, Admetus and Other Poems, in 1871. A prose romance, Alidc, appeai'ed in 1874, and a transhition of the Poems and Ballads of Heine in 1881. The persecution of tlie Jews in Russia and Ger- many led her to study the history and lit- erature of her race, and to write upon these subjects. In 1882 she published a volume of poems entitled Songs of a Semite. Her Later Poems were published in 1887, and all of her poetical work in two volumes were issued "in 1888, under the title. The Poems of Emma Lazarus.
THE BANNER OF THE JEW.
\Yake, Israel, wake? Recall to-day
The glorious Maccabean rage, The sire heroic, hoary-gray.
His five-fold lion lineage. The Wise, the Elect, the Help-of-God, Tlie Burst of Spring, the Avenging Rod.
From Mizpeh's mountain-ridge they saw Jerusalem's empty streets, her shrine
Laid waste where Greeks i)rofaned the Law, With idol and with pagan sign.
Mourners in tattered black were there.
With ashes sprinkled on their hair.
Then from the stony peak there rang A blast to ope the graves : down poured
The Maccabean clan, who sang Tlieir battle-anthem to the Lord.
Five heroes lead, and following, see,
Ten thousand rush to victory!
Oh for Jerusalem's trumpet now. To blow a blast of shattering power,
To wake the sleepers high and low. And rouse them to the urgent hour!
304
EMMA LAZAKUS.— 2
No hand ior vengeance — but to save, A million nakeil swords should wave.
Oh deem not dead that martial fire, Say not the mystic flame is spent !
AVith Moses's law and David's lyre. Your ancient strength remains unbent.
Let but an Ezra rise anew,
To lift the Banner of the Jew !
A rag, a mock at first — erelong.
When ni(;n have bled and women wept,
To guard its precious folds from wrong.
Even they who shrunk, even they who slept,
Shall leap lo bless it and to save.
Strike ! foi- the brave revere the brave !
THE NEW COLOSSUS.
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame. With conquering limbs astride from land to land ; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome ; her mild eyes com- mand The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp !"
cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your
poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Srntl these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
YODTH AND DEATH.
What hast thou done to this dear friend of mine,
Thou cold, wliite, silent Stranger ? From my hand
Her clasped hand slips to meet the grasp of thine ;
Her eyes that flamed with love, at thy com- mand
2(J 305
EMMA LAZARUS.— 3
Stare stone-blank on blank air ; her frozen
heart Forgets my presence. Teach me who thou art, Vague shadow sliding 'twixt my friend and me. I never saw thee till this sudden hour, What secret door gave entrance unto thee? Wliat power is thine, o'ermastering Love's own
power?
AGE AND DEATH.
Come closer, kind, white, long-familiar friend, Embrace me, fold me to thy broad, soft breast. Life has grown strange and cold, but tliou dost
bend Mild eyes of blessing wooing to my rest. 80 often hast thou come, and from my side So many hast thou lured, I only bide Thy beck, to follow glad thy steps divine. Thy world is peopled for me; this world 's bare. Through all these years my coucii thou did'st
prepare. Thou art supreme Love — kiss me — I am thine.
A JUNE NIGHT.
Ten o'clock : the broken moon Hangs not yet a half hour high, Yellow as a shield of brass, In the dewy air of June,
Paused between the vaulted sky And the ocean's liquid glass.
?]arth lies in the shadow still ;
Low black bushes, trees, and lawn ■ Night's ambrosial dews absorb ; Through the foliage creeps a thrill. Whispering of yon spectral dawn And the hidden climbing orb.
Higher, higher, gathering ligiit, Veiling, with a golden gauze All the trembling atmosphere, See, the rayless disk grows white ! Hark, the glittering billows pause ! Faint, far sounds j)ossess the ear. 306
EMMA LAZARUS— 4
Elves on siK'li a night as this Spin their rings upon the grass ; On tlie beach the water-fay Greets her lover with a kiss ;
Through the air swift spirits pass, Laugli, caress, and float away.
Shut thy lids and thou shalt see Angel faces wreathed with light, Mystic forms long vanished hence, Ah, too fine, too rare they be For the grosser mortal sight, And they foil our waking sense.
Yet we feel them floating near, Know that we are not alone, Though our open eyes behold Notiiing save the moon's bright sphere, In tlie vacant heavens shown. And the ocean's path of gold.
307
HENRY CHARLES LEA.— 1
LEA, Henry Charles, an American pLiblisher and author, born at Philadelphia in 1825. At the age of seventeen he en- tered the publishing house of his father, of which he in time became tlie head. Since about 1857 he lias devoted himself espe- cially to the study of European ecclesiastical history, and has written: Superstition and Force (1866), Historical Sketch of Sacerdotal Celibacy (1867), Studies in Church History (1869), and History of the Inqidsiiio7i of the Middle Ages (1888.)
THE INQUISITION AS AN INSTITUTION.
The liistory of the Inquisition naturally di- vides itself into two portions, each of which may be considered as a whole. The Reformation is the boundary-line between them, except in Spain, where the new Inquisition was founded by Ferdinand and Isabella. The Inquisition was not an organization arbitrarily devised and imposed upon the judicial system of Christen- dom by the ambition or fanaticism of the Cinirch. It was rather a natural — one might almost say an inevitable — evolution of the forces at work in the thirteenth century ; and no one can rightly appreciate the process of its dev<do|)- ment and the results of its activity, witliout a somewhat minute consideration of the factors controlling the minds and souls of men duiing the ages which laid the foundations of modern civilization.
No serious historical work is wortli the writ- ing or the reading unless it conveys a moial ; but to be useful, the moral must develop itself in the mind of the reader without being obtruded upon him. Especially must this be the case in a history treating of a subject which has called forth the fiercest passions of man, arousing aUernately his highest and his basest impulses. I have not paused to moralize, but I have missed
308
HENRY CHARLES LEA.— 2
my aim if the events uarrated arc not so |)re-
scutcHl as to teacli their appropriate lesson
History of the Liquisition, Preface.
IMiLK V or THE CHURCH TOWARDS HERESY.
The Church admitted that it had brought upon itself the dangers which threatened it at the close of tlie eleventh century; that the alarming progress of heresy was caused and fostered by clerical negligence and corruption. In his open- ing address to the great Lateran Council (121^) Innocent III. had no scruple in declaring to the assembled fathers : " The corruption of the people has its chief sources in the clergy. Fron this arise the evils of Christendom : faith per ishes. religion is defaced, liberty is restiicted. justice is trodden under foot, the heretics multi ply, the schismatics are emboldened, the faithless grow strong, the Saracens are victorious." And after the futile attempt of the Council to strike at the root of the evil, Honorius III., in admit- ting its failure, repeated the assertion. In fact, this was an axiom which none were so hardy as to deny ; yet wiien, in 1204, the legates whom Innocent liad sent to o[)pose the Albigenses ap- pealed to him for aid against prelates whom they had foiled to coerce, and whose infamy of life gave scandal to the faithful and an irresistible argument to the heretic. Innocent curtly bade them attend to the object of their mission, and not to allow themselves to be diverted to less impoi-taut matters. The reply fairly indicates the policy of the Church. Thoroughly to cleanse the Augean stable was a task from which even Iiuiocent's fearless spirit might well shrink. It seemed an easier and more hopeful plan to
erush i-evolt with fire and sword Hhtory of
ihi' Inquisition, Vol. I., Chap. IV.
THE ORGANIZATION OF THE IN(,tUISITION.
The Church had found persuasion powerless to arrest tlie spread of iiei'esy. St. Bernard,
:;ii9
HENRY CHARLES LEA— 3
Foulques de NeuiUy, Duran de Huesea, St. Do- niiinc, St. Francis, had successively tried the rarest eloquence to convince, and the example of the sublimest self-abnegation to convert ■ Only force remained, and it had been pitile^^h eniployed. It had subjugated the population^ only to render heresy hidden in place of public • and m order to reap the fruits of victory it be- came apparent that organized, ceaseless persecu- tion, contniued to perpetuity, was the only hoix- of preserving Catholic unity, and of prevcntino- the garment of the Lord from being permanently rent. To this end the Inquisition was devel- oped into a settled Institution manned by the Mendicant Orders, which had been formed to persuade by argument and example, and which now were utilized to suppress by force.
The organization of the Inquisition Avas simple yet effective. It did not care to impress tiie minds of men with magnificence, but rather to paralyze _ them with terror. To the secular prelacy it left the gorgeous vestments and the miposing splendors of worship, the picturesque processions and the showy retinues of retainers. The inquisitor wore the simple habits of his Order. When he appeared abroad he was at most accompanied by a few armed familiars, partly as a guard, partly to execute his orders.' His principal scene of activity was in the re- cesses of the dreaded Holy Office, whence he issued his commands and decided the fate of whole populations in a silence and secrecy which impressed upon the people a mysterious awe a thousand times more potent than the external magnificence of the bishop. p:very detail in the Incpiisition was intended for work and not for show. It was built up by resolute, earnest men of one idea, who knew what they wanted, who rendered everything subservient to the one object and who sternly rejected all that might em- barrass with superfluities the unerring and ruth- less justice which it Avas their missioirto enforce "
310
►
HENKY CHARLES LEA.— 4 ^History of the Inquisition, Vol. I., Chai)- Till.
THE FITNCTIONS OF THE INQUISITOR. ■ The duty of the inquisitor was distingmshed from that of the ordinary judge by the fact t^^t the task assigned to him was the nnpossible one of ascertaining the secret thoughts and opnnons of tCpr onen External acts were to hn« only ot value as indications of belief, to be accepted o re ected as he might deem them conclusne or illusory. The crime sought to suppress by "d^uuL was purely a mental one ; a.- ., however criminal, were beyond h,s junsdictum. Thl murderers of St. Peter Martyr were pu.v ished not as assassins but as fautors^of heresy and impeders of the Inquisition Ihe usuiu e me X\nn his purview when he asserted or s owed by his acts that he considered usury no sn the sorcerer when his incantations proved thit he preferred to rely on the powers of tno.' rllther than those of God, or tl.t u. entertained wron-ful notions upon the bac a ^" ', Zanghino tells us that he witnessed he
"ndemnation of a concubinary pnes by tl^e In,, nisi lion who was punished not toi his licen- : "^ but because while thus polluted he "lebrated daily mass, and urged m excuse tha he considered himself purified by putting on the sMcred vestments. ,.
Then, too, even doubt was heresy ; the believer must have fixed and unwavering ^^^th, and t was the duty of the inquisitor to ascertain he Condition of his mind. External acts and verba CO r/e sions were as naught. The accused migh he re<rular in his attendance at mass ; he might he liberal in his oblations, punctual in confession ,a communion, and yet be a heretic at heax . Wh-n brought before the tribunal he might pio- f.ss the most unbounde<l submission to the deci- sions of the Holy See, the strictest adherence to ortl.odox doctrine, the freest readiness to sub-
HENRY CHARLES LEA.— 5
scribe to whatever was demanded of liiin, and yet be secretly a Catharan or a Vaiidois, fit otily for the stake.
Few, indeed, were there who courageously admitted their heresy when brought before the tribunal; and to the conscientious judge, eager to destroy the foxes which ravaged the vineyard of the Lord, the task of exploring the secret heart of man was no easy one. We cannot wonder that he speedily emancipated himself from the trammels of recognized judicial pro- cedure which, in preventing him from commit- ting injustice, would have rendered his labors futile. Still less can we be surprised that fan- atic zeal, arbitrary cruelty, and insatiable cupid- ity rivalled each other in building up a system unspeakably atrocious. Omniscience alone was capable of solving with justice the problems which were the daily routine of the inquisitor ; human frailty — resolved to accomplish a i)re- determined end — inevitably reached the prac- tical conclusion that the sacrifice of a hundred innocent men were better than the escape of one guilty. — History of the Inquisition, Vol. L, Chap. IX.
THE INQUISITION AND LUTHER.
Had the Inquisition existed in Germany in good working order, Luther's career would have been cut short. When, October 31, 1517, he nailed his propositions concerning indulgences on the cliurch-door of Wittenburg, and publicly defended them, an inquisitor such as Bernard Gui would have speedily silenced him, either destroying his influence by forcing him to a public recantation, or handing him over to be burned if he proved obstinate. Hundreds of hardy thinkers had been tlius served, and the few who had been found stout enough to withstand the methods of the Holy Office had perished. Fortunately the Jjiquisition had never struck Mi
HENRY CHARLES LEA.— 6
root ill (Teiiaan soil, and now it was thoroughly (lisL'i-editt'd and useless.
In France the University had taken the place of the almost forgotten Inquisition, repressing all aberrations of faith, while a centralized mon- archy had rendered — at least until the Concor- dat of Francis I. — the national Church in a irn-at degree independent of the Papacy. In Germany, there was no national Church. There was subjection to Rome which was growing un- endurable for financial reasons ; but there was nothing to take the place of the Inquisition, and a latitude of speech had become customary, whicii was tolerated so long as the revenues of St. Peter were not interfered with. This per- haps explains why the significance of Luther's revolt was better appreciated at Rome than on the spot.
After he had been foi-mally declared a heretic by the Auditor-general of the Apostolic Chamber, at the instance of the promoter-fiscal, the legale. Cardinal Caietano, wrote that he could term- inate the matter himself, and it was rather a trifling afliiir to be brought before the Pope. He did not fulfill his instructions to arrest Luther and tell him that if he would appear before the 1 loly See to excuse himself, he would be treal- ri\ with undeserved clemency. After the scan- dal had been growing for a twelvemonth. Ltc* again wrote to Caietano to summon Dr. Martin iicfore him, and, after diligent examination, to condemn or absolve him as might prove requi- site. It was now too late. Insubordination had spread, and rebellion was organizing itself. Be- fore these last instructions reached Caietano, Luther came in answer to a previous summons ; but, though he professed himself in all things an oi;edient sou of the Church, he practically man- ifested an ominous independence, and was con- veyed away unharmed. The legate trusted lo his powers as a disputant rather than to fr)r(e ; and hud he attempted the latter, he had no
HENRY CHARLES LEA.— 7
machinery at liand to frustrate the instructions given by the Augsburg magistrates for Luther's [)rotection. In this paralysis of persecution the
inevitable revolution went forward History of
the Inquisition, Vol. II., Chap. VI.
THE MIDDLE AGES AND THE PRESENT AGE.
The review which we have made of the follies and crimes of our ancestors has reveajed to us a scene of almost unrelieved blackness. Yet such a review, rightly estimated, is full of hope and en- couragement. Human development is slow and irregular. To the observer at a given point it appears stationary or retrogressive ; audit is only by comparing periods removed by a considerable interval of time that the movement can be ap- preciated. Such a retrospect as we have wear- ily accomplished has sliown us how, but a few centuries since, the infliction of gratuitous evil was deemed the highest duty of man ; and we learn how much has been gained to the empire of Christian love and charity. We have seen how the administration of law — both spiritual and secular — was little other than organized wrong and injustice. We have seen how low were the moral standards, and how debased the mental condition of the populations of Christen- dom. We have seen that the "Ages of Faith," to which romantic dreamers regretfully look back, were ages of force and fraud, where evil seemed to reign almost unchecked, justifying tlie current opinion, so constantly reappearing, that the reign of Antichi-ist had already begun. Im- perfect as are human institutions to-day, a com- parison with tlie past shows how marvellous has been the improvement ; and the fact tliat this gain has been made almost wholly within the last two centuries, and that it is advancing with accelerated momentum, affords to tlie sociologist the most cheering encouragement. Pnnciples have been established which, if allowed to de- velope themselves naturally and liealthfully, will
314
HENRY CHARLES LEA.— 8
render the future ot" mankind very diHerent from aught that the workl has yet seen His- tory of the Inquisition, Vol. III., Chap. IX.
SUMMARY OF THE INQUISITION.
A few words will suffice to summarize tlie career of the mediieval Inquisition. It intro- duced a system of jurisprudence which infected the criminal law of all the lands subjected to its influence, and rendered the administration of penal justice a cruel mockery for centuries. It furnished the Holy See with a powerful weapon in aid of political aggrandizement ; it tempted secular sovereigns to imitate the example ; and it prostituted the name of religion to the vilest temporal ends. It stimulated the morljid sensi- tiveness to doctrinal aberrations until the UKist trifling dissidence was capable of fti'ousing in- sane fury, and of convulsing Europe from end to end. On the other hand, wlien atheism became fashionable in high places, its thunders were mute. Energetic only in evil, when its powers might have been used on the side of virtue, it held its hand, and gave tlie people to under- stand that the only sins demanding repression were doubts as to the accuracy of the Church's knowledge of the unknown, and attendance on the Sabbat. In its long career of blood and fire, the only credit which it can claim is the suppression of the pernicious dogmas of the Cathari ; and in this its agency "was superfluous, for these dogmas carried in themselves the seeds of self-destruction, and might more wisely have been left to self-destruction. Thus the judgment of im[)artial history must be that the Inquisition was the monstrous offspring of mistaken zeal, utilized by selfish greed and lust of power to smotlier the higher aspirations of humanity, and stimulate its l)aser appetites — History of the In- quisition, Conclusion.
315
WILLIAM E. H. LECKY.— 1
LKCKY, William Edward Hartpole, a British author, born near Dublin, in 1888. lie graduated at Trinity College, Dublin, in 1859, and in 1861 published anony- mously Leaders of Public Opinion in Ire- land^ of which a new edition withliis name appeared in 1872. After some time spent in travel, he settled in London, and gave himself to historical and philosophical studies. His History of the Rise arid Influ- ence of the Sjyirit of Rationalism in Europe (1865), attracted great attention, and won for its author reputation as a deep scholar, acute thinker, and graceful and eftective writer. His History of European Morals from Augustus to Charlemayne (1869), was (_)f equal merit ; and A History of England i)i the Eighteenth Century (1878-82), has probably been more widely read than its predecessors. A lecture on The Influence of the Imagination in History was subsequently delivered before the Eoyal Institution.
THE MIDDLE AGES.
Every doubt, every impulse of rebellion against ecclesiastical authority, above all, every heretical opinion, was regarded as the direct in- stigation of Satan, and their increase as the measure of his triumph. Yet these things were now gatiiering darkly all around. Europe was beginning to enter into that inexpressibly painful period in which men have learned to doubt, but have not yet learned to regard doubt as innocent ; in which the new mental activity |)roduces a variety of opinions, while tiie old creduHty persuades them that all but one class of opinions are the suggestions of the devil. The spirit of rationalism was yet unborn ; or if some faint traces of it may be discovered in the writ- ings of Abelard, it was at least far too weak to
31fi
WILLIAM E. H. LECKY.— 2
allay the panic. There was no inde[)endent in- iliiiry; no confidence in an honest research ; no <lis|)osition to rise above dogmatic systems or iiaditional teaching, no capacity for enduring the sufll'rings of a suspended judgment. The Church had cursed the human intellect by curs- ing the doubts that are the necessary conse- (jutMice of its exercise. She had cursed even the moral faculty by asserting the guilt of hon- est error. — Rationalism in Europe,
K.VTIOXALISM.
Its central conception is the elevation of con- science into a position of supreme authority as the religious organ, a verifying faculty discrim- inating between truth and error. It regards Christianity as designed to preside over the moral development of mankind, as a conception which was to become more and more sublimated and spiritualized as the human mind passed into new phases, and was able to bear the splendor of a more unclouded light. Religion it believes to be no exception to the general law of pro- gress, but rather the highest form of its mani- festation, and its earlier systems but the neces- sary steps of an imperfect development. In its eyes the moral element of Christianity is as the sun in heaven, and dogmatic systems are as the clouds that intercept and temper the exceeding brightness of its ray. The insect whose exist- ence is but for a moment might well imagine that these were indeed eternal, that their majes- tic columns could never fail, and that their luminous folds were the very source and centre of light. And yet they shift and vary with each changing breeze ; they blend and separati; ; they assume new forms and exhibit new dimensions; as the sun that is above them waxes more glorious in its power, they are permeated and at last absorbed by its increasing splendor ; they recede, and wither, and disaj)pear, and the eye ranges far beyond the sphere they had occupied 317
WILLIAM E. H. LECKY.— 3
into the infinity of glory tliat is above them. — Rationalism in Europe.
ITALIAN SKEPTICS AND REFORMERS.
Padua and Bologna were then the great cen- tres of free thought. A series of professors, of whom Poniponatius appears to have been the most eminent, had pursued in these universities speculations as daring as those of the eighteenth century, and had habituated a small but able circle of scholars to examine theological ques- tions with tl)e most fearless scrutiny. They maintained that there were two spheres of thought, the sphere of reason and the sphere of faith, and that these spheres were entii'ely dis- tinct. As philosophers, and under tlie guidance of reason, they elaborated theories of the bold- est and most unflinching ske[)ticism ; as Catho- lics, and under the impulse of faith, they acquiesced in all the doctrines of their Church. The fact of their accepting certain doctrines as a matter of faith did not at all prevent them from repudiating them on the ground of reason ; and the complete sepai'ation of the two orders of ideas enabled them to pursue their intellectual speculations by a metliod which Avas purely secular, and with a courage that was elsewliere unknown. Even in Catholicism a dualism ot this kind could not long continue, but it was manifestly incompatible with Protestantism, wliich at least professed to make private judg- ment the foundation of belief. Faith, considered as an unreasoning acquiescence, disappeared from theology, and the order of ideas which reason had established remained alone. As a consequence of all this, the Reformation in Italy was almost confined to a small gi-oup of scholars who preached its principles to their exti'eme limits, with an unflincliing logic, with a disre- gard for both tradition and consequences, and above all with a secular spirit that was else-: where unequalled. — Rationalism in Europe.
318
William e. h. lecky.— 4
PERSECUTIOX.
Tf men believe with an intense and realizing iatli that their own view of a disputed question is true beyond all possibility of mistake, if they further believe that those who adopt other views will be doomed by the Almighty to an eternity of misery, which, with the same moral disposi- tion but with a different belief, they would have escaped, these men will sooner or later persecute to tlie full extent of their power. If you speak to them of the physical and mental suffering which persecution produces, or of the sincerity and unselfish heroism of the victims, they will reply that such arguments rest altogether on th<' inadequacy of your realization of the doctrine they believe. What suffering that man can inflict can be comparable to the eternal misery of all "who embrace tiie doctrine of the heretic? What claim can human virtues have to our for- bearance, if the Almighty punishes the mere profession of error as a crime of the deepest tur- pitude? .... How'ever strongly the Homoon- sians and Homoiousians were opposed to each other on otiier points, they were at least per- fectly agreed that the adherents of the wrong vowel could not possibly get to heaven, and that the highest conceivable virtues were futile
when associated with error
The avowed object of the persecutor is to sup- press one portion of the elements of discussion ; it is to determine the judgment by an influence other than reason ; it is to prevent that freedom of inquiry which is the sole method we possess of 'arriving at truth. The persecutor never can ])e certain that he is not persecuting truth rather tiian error, but he may be quite certain that he is suppressing the spirit of truth — Rationalism in Europe.
MARCUS AURELIUS.
lie had embraced the fortifying philosophy of Ziiio in its l)est form, and that philosophy made
:',19
WILLIAM E. H. LECKY.— 5
him perhaps as nearly a perfectly virluoiis inaii as lias appeared upon our world. Tiied by the chequered events of a reign of nineteen yeai's, presiding over a society that was pio- foundly corrupt, and over a city that was nolo- rious for its licence, the perfection of his char- acter awed even calumny to silence, and the spontaneous sentiment of Ids people proclahned him rather a god than a man. . . . Never, per- haps, had such active and unrelaxing virtue been united witli so little enthusiasm, and been cheered by so little illusion of success. "There is but one thing," he wrote, "of real value — to cultivate truth and justice, and to live without anger in the midst of lying and unjust men." . . . Shortly before his death he dismissed his at- tendants, and, after one last interview, his son and he died, as he long luul lived, alone. Tlius sunk to rest in clouds and darkness the purest and gentlest spirit of all the pagan world, the most perfect model of the later Stoics. In him the hardness, asperity, and arrogance of the sect had altogether disappeared, while the affectation its paradoxes tended to produce was greatly mitigated. Without fanaticism, superstition, or illusion, his whole life was I'egulated by a simple and unwavering sense of duty. The contem- plative and emotional virtues which Stoicism had long depressed, had regained their place, but the active virtues had not yet declined. The virtues of the hero were still deeply honored, but gentleness and tenderness had acquired a
nev/ prominence in the ideal type History of
European Morals.
HEATHEN CONFORMITY.
The love of truth in many forms was exhib- ited among the Pagan philosophers to a degree which has never been surpassed; but there was one form in wliich it was absolutely unknown. The l)elief that it is wrong for a man in relig- ious ma!t<"rs to act a lie, to sanction by his
.S'20
WILLIAM E. H. LFXKY.-6
presence and by his example what he regards as baseless superstitions, had no place in the ethics of antit[uity. The religious tiexibility which Polytheism had originally generated, the strong political feeling that pervaded 'all chisses, and also the manifest im[)OSsibility of making phil- osophy the creed of the ignorant, had rendered nearly universal among philosophers, a state of feeling which is -often exhibited, but rarely openly professed among ourselves. The relig- ious opinions of men had but little influence on their religious practices, and the skeptic consid- ered it not merely lawful, but a duty to attend the observances of his country. No one did more to scatter the ancient superstitions than Cicero, who was himself an augur, and who strongly asserted the duty of complying with the national rites. Seneca, having recounted in the most derisive terms the absurdities of the popular worship, concludes his enumeration by declaring that "the sage will observe all these things, not as pleasing to the Divinities, but as commanded by the law," and that he should re- member "that his worship is due to custom, not to belief." Epictetus, whose austere creed rises to the purest monotheism, teaches it as a funda- mental religious maxim that every man in his devotions should " conform to the customs of his country." The Jews and Christians, who alone refused to do so, were the representatives of a moral principle that was unknown to the Pagan world. — European Morals.
TRUTH versus DOGMA.
There is one, and but one, adequate reason that can always justify men in ci'itieally review- ing what they have been taught. It is the con- viction that opinions should not be regarded as mere mental luxuries, that truth should be deemed an end distinct from and superior to utility, and that it is a moral duty to pursue it, whether it leads to pleasure or to pain. Among 21 321
WILLIAM E. H. LECKY — 7
the many wise sayings which antiquity ascribed to Pythagoras, few are more remarkable than his division of virtue into two distinct brandies —to seek truth and to do good ....
An age whir-h has ceased to vahie impartial- ity of judgment will soon cease to value accu- racy of statement, and when credulity is incul- cated as a virtue, falsehood will not long be stigmatized as a vice. When, too, men are (irmly convinced that salvation can only be found within tlieir Church, and that their Cliurch can absolve from all guilt, they will speedily conclude that nothing can possibly be wrong which is beneficial to it. They exchange the love of truth for what they call the love of the truth. Tliey regard morals as derived from and subordinate to theology, and they regulate all their statements, not by the standard of vera- city; but by the interests of their creed. — Euro- pean Morals.
322
JOHN LEDYAKD.— 1
LEDYARD. John, an American trav- eller, born at Groton, Conn., in 1751 ; died at Cairo, Egypt, in 1789. He entered Dartmouth College in 1772, with a view of fitting himself to be a missionary among the Indians ; but abandoning this idea, he paddled in a canoe down the Connecticut, and went to New London, where he shipued as common sailor on a vessel bound to the Mediterranean. Afterwards he went to London, where he enlisted as corporal of marines in Captain Cook's last expedition to the Pacific. He remained in the British naval service until 1782. The vessel to which he was attached happening to be ofi:" the coast of Long Island, he left it, and went back to his friends, having been absent eight years. Wiiile with Cook's expedition he kept a private jour- nal of the voyage. The British Govern- ment took possession of this ; but Ledyard wrote out from memory an account of the expedition, which was published at Hart- ford, Conn., in 1783. He now formed the project of an expedition to the then almost uaknowii Northwest coast of America, and went to Europe, hoping to find furtheranee in his ])lan. Baffled in his efforts he deter- mined to make the journey overland through Northern Europe and Asia to Beliring Strait. Reaching Sweden, he at- tempted to cross the Gulf of Bothnia on the ice; but finding the Gulf not entirely frozen over, he went back, and walked clear around it to St. Petersburg. The foot-journey of 1,400 miles was performed ill .seven weeks. He reached St. Peters- ~ burg in March, 1787, " without money, shoes, or stockings," as he says. The
323
JOHN LEDYARD.— 2
Empress Catharine II. oraated him per- mission to go with Dr. Brown, a Scotch- man in the Russian service, to Barnaul, in Soutliern Siberia, a distance of 3,000 miles ; thence he sailed in a small boat down the Eiver Lena, 1,400 miles, to Yakutsk, but was not allowed to go further. Soon af- ter, he was arrested by the order of the Empress, conveyed to Poland, and sent out of the country, under penalty of death if he should return. He made his way back to London, where he arrived, as he says, "disappointed, ragged and penniless, but with a whole iieart." An association had been formed for the exploration of the interior of Africa, and Ledyard eagerly accepted an offer to take part in this expe- dition. He was asked how soon he could be ready to set out. " To-morrow morn- ing," was the prompt reply. He left Eng- land late in June, 1788; but on reaching Cairo was attacked by a bilious disorder from which he died, at the age of thirty- eio-ht. The Memoirs of Ledyard, by Jared Sparks, were published in 1828, and sub- sequently in Sparks's "American Biogra- phy."
THE TARTARS AND THE RUSSIANS.
The nice gradations by which I pass from civ- ilization to in civilization appears in everything— in manners, dress, language ; and particularly in that remarkable and important circumstance, color, which I am now fully convinced originates from natural causes, and is the effect of external and local circumstances. I think the same of feature. I see here among the Tarters the large mouth, the thick lip, the broad, flat nose, as well as in Africa. I see also in the same villao-e as great a diflfei-ence of complexion — 334
JOHN LEDYARD.— 3
from the fair hair, fair skin, and gray eyes, to the olive, the black jetty hair and eyes ; and all these are of the same language, same dress, and, 1 suppose, same tribe.
I have frequently observed in Russian til- lages, obscure and dirty, mean and poor, that the women of the peasantry paint their faces both red and white. I have had occasion, from this and many other circumstances, to suppose that the Russians are a people wlio have been early attached to luxury. Tlie contour of their manners is Asiatic, and not European. The Tartars are universally neater than the Rus- sians, particularly in their houses. The Tartar, however situated, is a voluptuary ; and it is an original and striking trait in their character — from the Grand Seignior, to him who pitches his tent on the wild frontiers of Russia and China — that they are more addicted to sensual pleasure than any other people.
PHYSIOGNOMr OF THE TARTARS.
The Tartar face, in the first impression it gives, approaches nearer to the African than the European. And this impressioji is strengthened on a more deliberate examination of the indi vidua! features and the whole compages of the countenance ; yet it is very different from an AiVican face. The nose forms a strong feature in the human face. I have seen instances among the Kalmucks where the nose, between the eyes, lias been much flatter and broader than I have witnessed among the Negroes, and some few in- stances where it has been as broad over the nostrils quite to the end, but the nostrils, in any case, are much smaller than in Negroes. Where I -have seen those noses, they were ac- companied with a large mouth and thick lips ; and these people were genuin*; Kalmuck Tartars. The nose protuberates but little from the face, and is sliorter than that of the Enropfaii. Tlie eyes universally are at a great distance from 325
JOHN LEDYARD.— 4
each other, and very small. At each corner of the eye the skin projects over the ball ; the part appears swelled ; the eyelids go in nearly a straight line from corner to corner. When open, the eye appears as in a square frame. The mouth generally, however, is of a middling size, and the lips thin. The next remarkable features are the cheek-bones. These, like the eyes, are very remote from each otlier, high, broad, and withal project a little forward. The face is Hat. When I look at a Tartar e)i profile, I can hardly see tlie nose between tlie eyes ; and if he blow a coal of fire, I cannot see the nose at all. Tlie face is than like an inflated bladder. The fore- head is narrow and low. The face has a fresh color, and on the cheek-bones there is commonly a good ruddy hue.
ORIGIN OP TARTAR PECULIARITIES.
The Tartars from a time immemorial (I mean the Asiatic Tartars), have been a people of a wandering disposition. Their converse has been more among the beasts of the forests than among men ; and when among men it has only been those of their own nation. They have ever been savages, averse to civilization ; and have never until very lately mingled with other nations. Whatever cause may have originated their peculiarities of features, the reason why they still continue is their secluded way of life, which has preserved them from mixing with other people. 1 am ignorant how far a constant society with beasts may operate in changing the features ; but I am persuaded that this circum- stance, together with an uncultivated state of mind — if we consider a long and uninterrupted succession of ages — must account in some de- gree for this remarkable singularity.
CHARACTERISTICS OF WOMAN.
I have observed among all nations that women ornament themselves more than men ; tliat,
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JOHN LEDYARi).— 5
wherever found, they are the same kind, civil, and obliging, humane, tender beings ; that they are ever inclined to be gay and cheerful, timo- rous and modest. They do not hesitate, like man, to perform a hospitable or generous action ; are not haughty, nor arrogant, nor supercilious, but full of courtesy and fond of society; in- dustrious, economical, ingenuous; more liable in general to err than man ; but in general, also, more virtuous, and performing more good actions than he. I never addressed myself in the language of decency and friendship to a woman,^ whether civilized or savage, without re- ceiving a decent and friendly answer. With man it has often been otherwise. In wandering over the barren plains of inhospitable Denmark, through honest Sweden, frozen Lapland, rude and churlish Finland, unprincipled Russia, and the wide- spread region of the wandering Tartar — if hungry, thirsty, cold, wet, or sick, woman has ever been friendly to me, and uniformly so. And to add to this virtue, so worthy of the ap- pellation of benevolence, these actions have been performed in so free and so kind a manner that, if I was thirsty I drank the sweet draught, and if hungry ate the coarse morsel, with a double relish.
327
HUGH S. LEGARE.— 1
LEGARfi, Hugh Swinton, an American publicist and author, born at Charleston, S. 0., in 1789 ; died at Boston in 1843. He graduated at the College of South Carolina in 1814, studied law, travelled in Europe, and upon his return became a cotton-planter. In 1830 he was elected Attorney -general of South Carolina, and took an earnest part in opposition to nul- lification. In 1832 he was made Charge d' Affaires at Brussels. In 1837 he was elected to Congress as a Union Democrat , but his opposition to the Sub-treasury scheme occasioned his defeat in 1839. In 1841 he was appointed by President Tyler as Attorney-general of the United States, and after the retirement of Daniel Webster he was for some time acting Secretary of State. He died suddenly while attending, with President Tyler, the inauguration of the Bunker Hill monument..
The writings of Mr. Legare were mainly contributions to the Southeru. Review^ of Avhich he was in 1830, one of the founders, and subsequently to the New York Review A Memoir of him, with selections from his various writings, was in 1848 put forth by his sister, Mary Swinton Legare Bullen, who soon after removed to West Point, Iowa, where she founded and endowed the Legare College for Women.
CHARACTERISTICS OF LORD BYRON.
Lord Byron's life was not a literary or clois- tered and scholastic life. He had lived generally in the world, and always and entirely for the world. If he sought seclusion it was not for the retired leisure or the sweet and innocent tran- (inillity of a country life. His retreats were rather like those of Tiberius at Capreae — the
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gloomy solitude of misanthropy and itinorse, hiding its despair in darkness, or seeking to sti4)efy and drown it in \nce and debauchery. But even when he fled from the sight of men, it was only to be sought after the more; and ni the depth of his hiding-places — iis was long ago re- marked of Timon of Athens — he could not live without vomiting forth the gall ot his bitterness, and sending abroad most elaborate curses in good verse, to be admired by the very wretches whom he affected to despise. He lived in the world, and for the world ; nor is it often that a career so brief affords to biography so much im- pressive incident, or that the toll}' of an undis ciplined and reckless spirit has assumed such a motley wear, and played off, before God imd man, so many extravagant and fantastic antics.
On the other hand, there was, amidst -tdi its irregularities, something strangely interesting, sometliing, occasionally grand, and even impos ing, in Lord Byron's character and mode of life His whole being was, indeed, to a remarkable degree extraordinary, fanciful, and fascinating. All that drew upon inm the eyes of men, whether for good or evil — his passions and his genius, his enthusiasm and his woe, his tnnmphs and his downfall — sprang from the same source: a feverish temperament, a burning, distempered, insatiable imagination ; and these, in their turn, acted most powerfully upon the imagination and tlie sensibility of others. We well remember a time — it is not more than two or three lustres ago — when we could never think of him our- .selves but as an ideal being , a creature — to use his own words — "of loneliness and mystery,' moving about the earth like a troubled spirit, and even when in the midst of men, not o/them. The enchanter's robe which he wore seemed to disguise his person ; and, like another famous sorcerer and sensualist — 329
HUGH S. LEG ARE.— 3
" he hurled His dazzling spells into the spungy air, Of power to cheat the eye with blear illusiou, And give it false presentments."
It has often occurred to us, as we have seen Sir Walter Scott diligently liobbling up to his daily task in the Parliament House at Edinburgh, and still more when we have gazed upon him for hours seated down at his clerk's desk, with a countenance of most demure and business-like formality, to contrast him, in that situation, with the only man who had not been at the time totally overshadowed and eclipsed by Byron's genius.
It was, indeed, a wonderful contrast. Never did two such men — competitors in the highest walks of creative imagination and deep pathos — present such a strange antithesis of moral character and domestic habits and pursuits as Walter Scott at home and Lord Byron abroad. It was the difference between prose and poetry; between the dullest realities of existence, and an incoherent, though powerful and agitating ro- mance ; between a falcon trained to the uses of a domestic bird, and instead of " towering in lier pride of place," brought to stoop at the smallest quarry, and to wait upon a rude sportsman's bidding like a menial servant — and some sa\ age, untamed eagle who, after struggling with the bars of his cage until his breast was bare and bleeding with the agony, had flung himself forth once more upon the gale, and was again chasing before him the whole herd of timorous and flocking birds, and making his native Alps, through all their solitudes, ring to his boding and wild scream.
Byron's pilgrimages to distant and famous lands — especially his first — heightened this effect of his genius and of his very peculiar mode of existence. Madame de Stael ascribes it to his good fortune or the deep policy of Napoleon. that he had succeeded in associating his name with some of those objects which have through Jill time most strongly impressed the imaginations
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of men — with the Pyramids, the Alps, and the Holy Land. Byron had the same advantage. His poems are, in a manner, the journals and common-place-books of the wandering Childe. Thus it is stated, or hinted, that a horrible in- cident, like that upon which the Giaour turns, had nearly taken place within Byron's own obser vation while in the East. His sketches of the sublime and beautiful in nature seem to be mere images, or, so to express it, shadows thrown down upon his pages from the objects which he visited, only colored and illumined with such feelings, reflections, and associations as they naturally awaken in contemplative and sus- ceptable minds.
His early visit to Greece, and the heartfelt enthusiasm with which he dwelt upon her love- liness even " in her age of woe " — upon the glory which once adorned, and that which might still await her — have identified him with her name in a manner which subsequent events have made quite remarkable. His poetry, when we read it over again, seems to breathe of " the sanctified phrensy of prophecy and ins|)iration." He now appears to have been the herald of her resuscitation. The voice of lamentation Avhicli he sent forth over Christendom was as if it had issued from her caves, fraught with the woe and wrongs of ages, and the deep vengeance which at length woke — and not in vain.
In expressing ourselves as we have done upon this subject, it is to us a melancholy reflection that our language is far more suitable to what we have felt tiian to what we rtoio feel, in refer- ence to the life and character of Byron. The last years of that life — the wanton, gross, and often dull and feeble ribaldry of some of his latest productions — broke the spell which he had laid upon our souls ; and we are by no means sure tliat we have not since yielded too mncii to the disgust and aversion whicli follow
disencliantment like its shadow. 331
WILLIAM LEGGETT,— 1
LEGGETT, William, an American journalist and author, born at New York m 1802 ; died at New Rochelle, near New York, in 1839. He entered the navy as midshipman in 1822, but resigned in 1826, and engaged in literary occupations in New York. In 1829 he went upon the editor- ial staff of the New York Evening Posf, to which journal he was attached until 1836. In 1839 he was appointed by President Van Buren diplomatic agent to Guatemala, but died the day before he was to have sailed. He wrote Leisure Hours at Sea, (1825), Tales of a Country Schoolmaster, and Naoal Stories, (1835.) A voUime made up from his Political Writings, with a Memoir by Theodore Sedgwick was pub- lished in 18-10.
JACK CADE.
Have those who use the name of Cade as a word of scorn looked into the liistory of that heroic man ? Have they sifted out, from the mass of pi'ejudice, bigotry, and serA'ility, which load the pages of the old chroniclers, the facts in relation to his extraordinary career ? Have they acquainted themselves with the oppres- sions of the times, the lawless violence of the nobles, the folly and rapacity of the monarch, the extortion and cruelty of his ministers, and the general contempt which was manifested for the plainest and dearest rights of humanity. Have they consulted tlie pages of Stow and Hall and Hollingshed, who — parasites of loy- alty as they were, and careful to exclude from their chronicles whatever might grate harshly on the delicate ears of the privileged ordeis — have yet not been able to conceal the justice of the cause for wliich Cade contended, the mod- eration of his demands, or the extraordinaiy forbearance of his conduct ? Or have they been
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eoiitent to learn his character from the scenes of a play, or the pages of that king-worshipper, that pimp and pander to aristocracy, the Tory Hume, wlio was ever ready to lick absurd pomp and give a name of infamy to any valiant spirit that had the courage and true nobleness to stand forward in defence of the rights of his fellow-men ?
Let tliose who use the name of Cade as a term of reproach, remember that the obloquy which blackens his memory liowed from the same slamlerous pens that denounced as rebels and traitors, and with terms of equal bitterness, though not of equal contumely, the Ilampdens and Sydneys of England — glorious aj)Ostles and martyrs in the cause of equal liberty ! Let them remember, too, that as the pliilosophic Mackin- tosh observes, all we know of Cade is througli his enemies — a fact which of itself would im- press a just and inquiring mind with the neces- sity of examination for itself, before adopting the current slang of the aristocracy of Great Britain . .
If Cade was the wretched fanatic which it has pleased tlie greatest dramatic genius of the world (borrowing his idea of tiiat noble rebel from old Hollingshed) to represent him, how <lid it happen that twenty thousand men flocked to his standard the moment it was unfurled "r* IIow did it happen that his statement of griev- ances was so true, and his demands for redress so moderate, that, even according to Hume him- self, " the Council, observing that nobody was willing to fight against men so reasonable in their pretensions, carried the King for safety to Kenilworth?" How did it happen, as related l)y F.ibian, that the Duke of Buckingham and the Archbishop of Canterbury, being sent to ne- gotiate with him, were obliged to acknowledge tliat they found him " right discrete in his answers ; howbeit they could not cause him to
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lay down his pt'ople, and to submit liini (uncon- ditionally) unto the King's grace." ....
Follow Cade to the close of his career ; see him deserted by his followers, under a deceitful promise of pardon from the Government, trace him afterwards, a fugitive through the country, with a reward set upon his head, in violation of the edict which but a few days before had dis- solved liim of the crime of rebellion on con- dition of laying down his arms ; behold him at last enti-apped by a wretch and basely murdered ; weigh his whole character as exhibited by all the prominent traits of his life and fortune — re- membering, too, that all you know of him is from those who dipped their pens in ink only to blacken his name — and you will at last be forced to acknowledge that instead of the scoi-n of mankind, he deserves to be ranked among those gloi-ious men who have sacrificed their lives in defense of the rights of man. Cade was defeated, and his very name lies buiied under the rubbish of ages. But his example did not die :
For freedom's battle, once begun, Bequeathed from bleeding sire to son, Though often lost is ever won."
Shakespeare's Beatrice.
We have seen Beatrice — we will not call her Shakespeare's Beatrice, nor Miss Tree's Beatrice, but Beatrice herself. We have seen the ident- ical Sicilian lady — the high-born, beautiful, witty, gay-hearted and volatile yet loving and constant woman of Messina, whom Shakespeare imagined but whom Miss Tree is. Other act- resses have given us particular traits of her character with liveliness and effect ; but Miss Tree infuses life and soul into them all, and combines them into one with inimitable harmony and grace.
What wonderful individuality there is in the characters of Shakespeare ! No two of them
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WILLIAM LEUGETT.— 4
are alike. Tlicy may belong to the same class, but the shades of difference are not less obvious than the features of resemblance they possess in common. It is not merely that they are placed in different circumstances, but they are essent- ially different. Other dramatists have some- times copied from themselves, but Shakespeare always copied from nature, and his woi-ks are distinguished by the same endless diversity. " Custom could not stale his infinite variety." If this remark is true of his characters generally, it is more strikingly so of his females. From Miranda to Lady Macbeth, from Ophelia to Constance, there is a whole world of interval, tilled up with women of every gradation and combination of moral and intellectual qualities. Wlio, for example, is like Beatrice?
The character of Beatrice we do not think has usually been correctly appreciated on the stage. She is spirited, witty, and talkative; and the mere words of her railleiy, if we con- sider separate phrases by themselves, have some- times a sharpness not altogether consistent with the general idea of amiableness in woman. But if we examine her character more thoroughly, we shall find that her keenest strokes of satire, her sharpest repartees, and liveliest jests, are but tiie artillery with which a proud woman guards the secret of unrequited love.
It seems to us the clue to Beatrice's character is that she is conscious of a secret attachment to Benedick, and believing her passion unreturned by the determined bachelor, she makes him the object of her constant raillery, that .'-he may thus more effectually hide hei- true feelings from observation. She talks of Benedick, and to Benedick, because Benedick fills her hf>art, and "out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh ;" but she talks miithfully and scorn- fully, that none — and least of all himself — may suspect the sentiment which is hid beneath her sparkling repartees. Tlie Hrst words Beatrice
WILLIAM LEGGETT.— 5
utters iU'e un inquiry concernitig Benedick ; yet with the ready tact of a woman she asks after him by a name that implies a taunt, that the real anxiety which prompted the (jucstion mii>;ht not be seen. The same feeling, directly after, urges her to inquire who is his companion, and the motive of concealment induces lier lightly to add, ''He hath every month a new sworn brother."
The reader of the play is prepared, in the very first scene, to set down Benedick and Beatrice as intended for each other. Leonato informs us that they are perpetually waging a kind of merry war, and that " they never meet but there is a skirmish of wit between them." We soon perceive this very skirmishing is the result of mutual attachment, but with a difference: for Benedick is unconscious of the nature of his feelings for Beatrice, and really supposes him- self proof against all the shafts of blind Cupid ; while Beatrice is aware of her love, but resolves, in the true spirit of maidenly propriety, to hide it deep in her heart until it shall be called forth in requital for the proifered love of Benedick. She is not of the disposition, however, to "let concealment, like a worm i'th'bud, feed on her damask cheek." She is too proud, too gay, too volatile by nature to be easily dejected. She is of tlie sanguine, not the melancholic tempera- ment, and looks on men and things in their, sun- niest aspects. Leonato tells us, " there is little of the melancholy element in her ; " and she her- self says, she " was born to speak all mirth and no matter." Beatrice is not a creature of imag- ination, but of strong intellect and strong feeling. Her volatility relates only to her spirits, not to her affections ; she is distinguished by gayety and airiness of tamper, not fickleness of heart.
That she is constant in friendship, her fidelity to her cousin Hero proves ; for when the breath of slander blackens her character, and all — even her own father — believe the tale of guilt, Beatrice alone stands up the asserter of Hero's innocence,
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ami indignantly exclaims. " Oh, on my soul, my I'ousinis belied ! " But the firmness of lier jil- tachnient does not show itself only in words. Her lover had just been led to a discovery of the true cluiracter of his feelings towards her. and had declared his attachment ; and she demands from him, as the first proof of his love, that he should challenge his friend Claudio, who had renounced Hero at the altar, and traduced hei-, •> with public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancor."
It is no proof of a want of love for Benedick that she is thus willing to risk his life to avenge the wrong done to her cousin ; but it only proves that her sense of female honor, and what is due to it, outweiglis love. She sets Benedick to do only what she herself would have done, could she have exchanged sexes with him. " Oh, God! that I were a man !" she exclaims in the intenseness of her indignation ; "I would eat his heart in the market-place ! " The thought that Beneilick could be foiled in the enterprise, and that he might fall beneath the sword of Claudio, never once entered her mind. The spirit of the age and the spirit of the woman alike repelled the idea. Right and might were deemed to go hand in hand together in such contests. 8he could think only of the slanderer being punished, and her cousin avenged. Her imagination presented her lover returning triumphant, tlic champion of injured innocence ; it refused to paint him lying prostrate and bleeding beneath tlie sword of the calumniator.
That Beatrice loves Benedick, and levels her i-aillery at him only to turn attention from her secret, is borne out by the effect of the pleasant stratagem played off upon her, when she is decoyed into " the pleached bower," that she ■may overhear the discourse of Ursula concern- ing the pretended love of Benedick. Her ex- clamation, as she emerges from her hiding-place, is, ■' Contempt farewell, and maiden pride adieu!"
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WILLIAM LEGGETT.— 7
These are the disguises she has worn hitherto : but she now casts them otF, on finding that she is beloved by Benedick. She at once fully ac- knowledges his worth :
" Others say thou dost deserve — and I Believe it better than reportingly. " Her Iieart had long before felt the truth of such commendations, and now that those feelings are returned, she permits her tongue to join in the praise of Benedick.
Mucli of Beatrice's share in the brilliant dialogues between herself and Benedick depends for its character on the style of the speaker. It is modest if modestly spoken, and the reverse if uttered only with a view to give it the greatest possible degree of point. As spoken by Miss Tree, the softness of woman's tenderest tone, and the witchery of woman's kindest and most feminine smile, qualify the meaning of her words. Tlie arrows of her voluble wit are siiot off with a playful air that shows they are aimed only in sport ; and her most scornful jests are delivered in a voice silvery and gentle, and ac- companied by such a mirthful glance of the eye, that we see there is no league between her heart and her tongue. It is all "mirth and no matter.'' We ?njoy the encounterof her nimble wit with that of Benedick, because his character as a professed contemner of the power of love renders him a fair mark for such shafts as siie aims at him ; and we are pleased to see him foded by so fair an antagonist m a contest which he had himself provoked. We accompany them to the altar with a sense of gratification tbat two such congenial spirits are to be united in wed lock ; and when the curtain falls upon the drama, our imagination completes the story by allotting such happiness to the married pair, as young persons of mutual intelligence and good- humor, with mutual attachment founded on the basis of esteem, may reasonably count upon
enjoying.
338
ROBERT LEIGH rON.—l
LEIGLLTON, Hobert, a Scottish eccles- iastic, bom at Edinburgh in 1611; died at London in 16S-1. He was educated at tlie Universitv of Edinburgh, became a Pres- byterian minister, and in 1653 Principal of the University of Edinburgh, Upon the restoration of Charles II., an attempt was made to establish Episcopacy in Seot- hmd, and Leighton accepted the po.siti(ni of Bishop of Dumblanc, and in 1670 was made Archbishop of Glasgow; but in 1674 he resigned the dignity and retired to England. His works, none of whicli were published during his lifetime, comprise Sermoiis^ Theological Lectures, Sjfiriluai Exercises, and a Commentary on St. Peter. Coleridge (whose Aids to Reflection consists mainly of extracts from Leighton, with comments) styles him, the " one best de- serving, among all our learned theologians, the title of a spiritual divine."
THE HAPPINESS OF THE LIFE TO CMtE,
The first thing that necessarily occui-s in the constitution of happiness is a full and complete deliverance from every evil and every giicvance ; which we may as certainly expect to meet in that heavenly life, as it is impossible to be at- tained while we sojourn here below. All tears shall be wiped away from our eyes, and every cause and occasion of tears for ever lemoved from our sight. There are no tumults tliere, no wars, no poverty, no death, nor disease. There is neither mourning, nor fear; nor sin — which is the source and fountain of all other evils. There is neither violence within doors nor without, nor any complaint on the streets of that blessed city. There no friend goes out, nor enemy comes in. Full vigor of body and
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ROBERT LE1GHT0N.-2
mind; healtli, beauty, purity, and perfect tran- quillity are there.
There is the most delightful society of angels, prophets, apostles and martyrs, and all the saints; among whom there are no reproaches, contentions, controversies, nor party-spirit, be- cause there are there none of the sources whence they can spring, nor anything to encoui-age their growth. Hence there is among them a kind of infinite reflection and multiplication of happiness, like that of a spacious hall, adorned with gold and precious stones, dignified with a full assembly of kings and potentates, and hav- ing its walls quite covered with the brightest looking-glasses.
But what infinitely exceeds and quito eclipses all the rest is the boundless ocean of liappiness which results from the beatific vision of the ever-blessed God, without which neither the tranquillity which they enjoy, nor the society of saints, nor the possession of any finite good — • nor indeed of all such taken together — can sat- isfy the soul or make it completely happy. The manner of this enjoyment we can only expect to understand w^hen we enter upon the full pos- session of it. Till then, to dispute and raise many questions about it is nothing but vain and ibolish talking, and fighting with phantoms of our own brain. Nor is it any objection to this doctrine that the whole of tliis felicity is com- monly comprehended in Scripture under the name of vision , for the mental vision, or con- templation of the primary and infinite good most properly signifies — or at least includes in it — the full enjoyment of that good.
AVe must therefore by all means conclude tliat this beatific vision includes not only dis- tinct and intuitive knowledge of God, but, so to speak, such a knowledge as gives us the enjoy- ment of that most perfect Being, and, in some sense unites us to Him ; for such a vision it must of necessity be that converts that love of
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the infinite God wliich blazes in the souls of saints, into full possession ; that crowns all their \\ishes, and tills them with an abundant and overflowing fulness of joy that vents itself in everlasting blessings and songs of praise. — TJie- ological Lectures.
THE COURSE OF HUMAN LIFE.
Every man walketh in a vain show. His walk is nothing but an on-going in continual vanity and misery, in which man is naturally and industriously involved, adding a new stock of vanity, of his own weaving, to what he litis already within him, and vexation of spirit woven all along in with it. He " walks in an image," as the Hebrew word is ; converses with things of no reality, and which have no solidity in them, and he himself has as little. He himself is a walking image in the. midst of these images. They who are taken with the conceit of pictures and statues are an emblem of their own life, and of all other men's also. Life is generally nothing else to all men but a doting on images and pictures. Every man's fancy is to himself a gallery of pictures, and there he walks up and down, and considers not how vain these are, and how vain a thing he himself is.
341
CHARLES GODPHEY LELAND — 1
LELAND, Charles Godfrey, an Amer- ican author, born in Philadelphia, in 1824 He graduated at Princeton in 1846, and studied for two years at Heidelberg, Mu- nich, and Paris, where he witnessed the revolution of 1848. Admitted to the bar in 1851, he soon relinquished law for liter ature. His works, M^hich combine erudite research, often in uncommon fields, with quaint, sometimes brilliant humor, include Meister Karl's Sketch Bool- (1855), The Poetry and Mystery of Dreams (1855), Pic- tures of IVavel, a translation of Heine's Reisebilder (1856), anotlier of Heine's Book of Songs (1863), Sunshine in Thought (1862), Legends of Birds (1864), Hans Breitman''s Ballads, in five parts (1867-70), The Music Lesson 'of Coyifucius, and Other Poems (1870), Oaudeamus, a translation of humorous poems, by Scheffel and others, (1871), Egyptian Sketch Book (1873), The English Gypsies and their Language (1873), Fu Sang, or the Discovery of America hy Chinese Buddhist Priests in the Fifth Cen tury (1875), English Gipsy Songs (witli the aid of two friends, 1875), Johnnykin and the Goblins (1876), Pidgin, English Sing- Song (1876), Abraham Lincoln (1879), The Minor Arts (1880), The Gypsies (1882), and The Algonquin Legends of Neiv England (1884). He also edited a series of Art Work Manuals (1885.)
A THOUSAND YEARS AGO
Thou and I in spirit-land,
A thousand years ago, Watched the waves beat on the strand,
Ceaseless ebb and flow ; Vowed to love and ever love —
A thousand years ago.
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CHAKLE.S GODFREY ICELAND.— 2
Thou and I ill givemvoud shade.
Nine huiidi-rd years ago, Heard the wild dove in the glade,
Murmuring soft and low; Vowed to love for evermore —
Nine hundred years ago.
Thou and I in yonder star,
Eight hundred years ago, Saw strange forms of light afar
In wild beauty glow. All things change, but love endures
Now as long ago !
Thou and I in Norman alls,
Seven hundred years ago, Heard the warder on tlie walls
Loud his trumpet blow, — " Ton amors sera tojors" —
Seven hundred years ago
Thou and I in Germany,
Six himdred years ago — Then I bound the red cross on
" True love, I must go, I^ut we part to meet again
In the endless flow!"
Thou and I in Syrian plains,
Five hundred years ago, Felt the wild fire in our veins
To a fever glow. All things die, but love lives on
Now as long ago !
Thou and I in shadow-land,
Four hundred years ago, Saw strange flowers bloom on the strand,
Heard strange breezes blow. In the ideal love is real,
This alone I know.
CHAKLES GODFKEY LELAND — 3
Thou and I in Italy.
Three hundred years ago. Lived in failli and died for God,
Felt the faggots glow ; Ever new and ever true,
Three hundred years ago.
Thou and I on Southern seas,
Two hundred years ago. Felt the perfumed even-breeze. Spoke in Spanish by the trees,
Had no care or woe : Life went dreamily in song ■ Two hundred years ago.
Thou and I 'mid Nortliern snows,
One hundred years ago, Led our iron, silent life.
And were glad to flow Onwards into changing death,
One hundred years ago.
Thou and I but yesterday
Met in Fashion's show. Love, did you remember me,
Love of long ago ? Yes ; we keep the fond oath sworn
A thousand years ago !
THE TWO FRIENDS.
I have two friends, two glorious friends — two
better could not be ; And every night when midnight tolls they meet
to laugh with me.
The first was shot by Carlist thieves, ten years
ago in Spain, The second drowned near Alicante — while I
alive remain.
I love to see their dim white lorms come float- ing through the night.
And grieve to see them fade away in early morning light.
344
CHARLES GODFREY ICELAND— 4
The first with gnomes in the ruder Laml, is
leading a lordly lite ; The second has married a mermaiden, a beauti-
lul water-wife.
And since I have friends in the Earth and Sea — with a few, I trust, on high,
'Tis a matter of small account to me, the way that I may die.
For whether I sink in the foaming flood, or
swing on the triple tree, Or die in my bed, as a Cliristian should, it is
all the same with me.
SCHNITZERL's PHILOSOPEDE.
Herr Schnitzerl make a philosopede
Von of de newest kind; It vent mitout a vheel in fi'ont,
And hadn't none pehind. Von vheel was in de mittel, dough,
And it went as sure as ecks. For he shtraddled on de axel dree
Mit der vheel petween his leeks.
Und ven he vant to shtart id off
He paddlet mit his feet, Und soon he cot to go so vast
Dat avery dings he peat. He run her out on Broader shtreet,
He shkeeted like de vind, Hei ! how he bassed de vancy craps,
And lef dem all pehind !
De vellers mit de trotting nags
Pooled oop to see him bass ; De Deutchers all erstaunislied saidt :
" Potztausend ! Was ist das ? " Boot vaster shtill der Schnitzerl flewed
On — mit a gashtly smile: He tidn't tooch de dirt, py shings!
Not vonce in half a mile.
345
CHARLES GODFREY LELAND.— 5
Oil, vot ish all dis eartly pliss ?
Oh, vot ish mail's soocksess ? Oh, vot ish various kinds of dings?
Und vot ish liobbiiiess ? Vc find a pank note in de shtreet,
Next dings der pank ish preak ; Ve foils und knocks our outsides in,
Ven ve a ten shtrike make.
So vas it mit der Schnitzerlein
On his philosopede ; His feet both shlipped outsideward shoost
Vhen at his extra shpede. He felled oopon der vheel of coorse ;
De vheel like blitzen Hew ; Und Schnitzerl he vas schnitz in vact,
For id shlislied him grod in two.
Und as for his philosopede,
Id cot so shkared, men say, It pounded onward till it vent
Ganz teufelwards afay. Boot vhere ish now der Schnitzel I's soul ?
Vhere does his shpirit pide? In Himmel, troo de endless plue,
It takes a medeor ride.
346
ALAIN RENE Le SAGE.— 1
LE SAGE, Alain Eene, a French nov- elist, bora at Sarzeau, Brittany, in 1668 ; died at Boulogne in 1747. He was edu- cated at the Jesuits' College at Vannes, held an office in the revenue, went to Paris in 1692, married in 1694, and adopted literature as his profession in preference to law, and was pensioned by the Abbe de Lyoune, who turned his attention toward Spanish books and subjects. His earlier works at- tracted little attention. In 1707 he won his first successes by a play, Crisimi Rival de son Ma'itre^ and a romance, Le Diablc Boiteux^ known in English translations as The Devil on Two Sticks, and Asmoderis. \\\ another play, Turcaret, he attacked the tanners of the revenue, who delayed its production a year, after vainly trying to bribe the author to suppress it. Vols. I. and 11. of the famous Gil Bias de Santillane appeared in 1715, Vol. III. in 1724, Vol. IV. not till 1735 ; it has been translated by Sinollett and several others. The later works of Le Sage (besides over 100 comic operas) are Roland V amoureux (1717-21,) an imitation of Boiardo ; an abridged trans- lation of Aleman's Guzman de Al/arache] Aventures de Robert, dit le Clievalier de Beauchesne (1732) ; Histoire d'' Estevanille Gonzales (1734), from the Spanish; Une Journee des Parques (1735); Le Bachelier Salamanque (1736); and Melanye amusant (1743.) Ilis works were reprinted in twelve volumes, Paris, 1828,
THEORY AND PRACTICE OF MEDICIXE.
"Child," said Dr. Sangrado, "I love thee, and will make thy fortune. I will discover to thee the whole mystery of the salutary art which I 347
ALAIN RENE Le SAGE.— 2
have so many years professed. Other doctors make it consist in a thousand difficult sciences ; but I will shorten the way, and spare thee the pains of studying physics, phai'macy, botany, and anatomy. Know, friend, all that is necessary is bleeding and making them drink hot water. This is the secret for curing all the distempers in the world ; yes, this w^onderful secret which I reveal to thee, and which Nature, impenetrable to my brethren, has not been able to keep from my observations, is all included in these two points, frequent bleeding and drinking water. I have nothing more to teach thee : thou knowest the very bottom of physic, and reaping the fruit of my long experience, thou wilt at once become as skilful as I am.
" Thou mayst also be assistant to me : thou shalt keep the register in the morning, and in the afternoon visit some of my patients. While I take care of the nobility and clergy, thou shalt attend the third order for me ; and when thou hast done so for some time, I will get thee admit- ted into the Faculty. Thou wert learned, Gil Bias, before thou wert a physician, whereas others are a long time physicians, and most of them all their lives, before they become learned." ....
So far from wanting business, it happened luckily, as my master foretold, to be a sickly time, and he had his hands full of patients : not a day but each of us visited eight or ten. Of consequence there was a great deal of water drank, and much blood let. But I cannot tell how it happened, they all died. We rarely vis- ited the same sick man thrice : at the second, we either were informed that he was about to be buried, or found him at tlie point of death. Being young in the profession, my heart was not sufficiently hardened for murders ; I was grieved at so many fatal events, which might be im~ parted to me.
'■^ Sir, said I one evening to Dr. Sangrado, " I
348
ALAIN RENE Le SAGE.— 3
call Heaven to witness, I follow your method exactly, yet all my patients go to the other world. One would think they died on purpose to bring our practice into discredit. I met two being carried to the grave this afternoon."
" Child," said he, ''I might tell thee tlie same of myself. I seldom have the satisfaction to cure tliose who fall into my hands; and if I were not certain of the principles I follow, I should take my remedies to be contrary to almost all the dis- eases I have in charge."
'' If you will be ruled by me. Sir, I replied, we will change our method, and out of curiosity, give our patients some drugs. The worst that can happen, is that they may produce the same effects as our hot water and bleeding."
" I would willingly make the experiment," said lie, '-if it would not have an ill result. I have published a book in vindication of frequent bleeding and hot water drinking. Would you have me decry my own w^ork ? "
"■You are right," I replied; "you must not give your enemies occasion to triumph over you. They will say you have suifered yourself to be undeceived; you will lose your reputation. Rjither letthe people, the nobility, and the clergy perish. Let us continue our accustomed prac- tice."
We went on in our old course, and in such a manner that in less than six weeks we made as many widows and orphans as the siege of Troy. One would have tliought the plague was in Valladolid, there were so many funerals. Fatlu-rs came every day to our house, to de- mand an account of the sons we had robbed them of; or uncles, to reproach us for the death of their nephews. As for the nephews and sons whose fathers and uncles fared the worse for our medicines, they came not. Tlie husbands whose wives we made away with were also very discreet, and did not scold us on that score. The afflicted persons, whose reproaches it was 349
ALAIN KENE Le SAGi:.— 4
necessary for us to wipe off, were sometimes outrageoLis in their grief, and called us block heads and murderers. They kept no bounds ; I was enraged at tlieir epithets ; but my master who iiad been long used to it, was not at all concerned Gil Bias, Book II.
PERILS OF A CRITIC.
" My dear Gil Bias," the Arelibishop con- tinued, " I require one tlung of your zeal. Whenever yon find my pen savors of old age, when you find nie flag, do not fail to apprise me of it. I do not trust myself in that respect ; self-love might deceive me. This observation reqiiires a disinterested judgment, and I lely on yours, which I know to be good '
"Thank Heaven, my Lord," I re|)lied, 'that time is yet far from you, and you will always be the same I look on you as another Cardinal Ximenes, whose superior genius, instead of decay- ing with years, seemed to gain new strength
" iVo flnttery, friend," said he. "1 know I may sink all at once. People at my age begin to feel infirmities, and those of the body impair the mind. I repeat it, Gil Bias, wiienever you think mu to be failing, give me notice at once do not fear to be too free and sincere. I shall receive this admonition as a mark of your affection for me. Besides, your interest is concerned " if, unluckily for you, I should hear in the city that my discourses have no longer their wonted energy, and that I ought to retire. I tell you fairly that jou will both lose my friendship and the fortune I have promised you."
Some time after we had an alarm at the palace. His Grace was seized with an apoplexy. He was relieved speedily; but he had rec<'ived a terrible shock. I observed it the next sermon he composed, but the difference was not very great; I waited for another, to know better wlmt I was to think. That put the matter beyond doubt. At one time, the good prelate was tau- 350
ALAIN RENE Le SAGE. -5
toloifii-al, at another he soared too high or sank too low. It was a long-windetl t)iation, the ihetoric of a worn-ont schoohnaster, a mere capneinade.
I was not the only one who noticed the fact. Most of the audience (as if tliey too had been retained to criticise it) whispered to each other, as he was delivering it, " This serm«n smells of the apoplexy." Hereupon I said to myself, '• Come, Mr Arbiter ot the Homilies, prepare to discharge your office. You see my Lord llags ; you ouglit to apprise lum of .it, not only as being his confidant, but also ibr tear .some of his friends should be trank enough to speak be- fore you. If that should happen, you know your fate ; you will lose the promised legacy."
After these reflections, I niade others quite contrary. The part I was to act seemed to me very ticklish I judged that an author in love with his own works might receive such an information but coldly; but rejecting this thought. I repre- sented to myself that it was impossible he should take it ill, after having exacted the olRce of me in so pressing a manner Besides thi.s, I relied on speaking to him with tact and address, and thought to gild the pill so well as to make him swallow it. In short, concluduig that I ran a greater risk in keeping silence than in breaking it, I resolved on the latter
I was now perplexed about only one thing — how to break the4ce. Hap|)ily for me the orator himself assisted me to the plunge, by asking me what the world said of him, and if people were pleased with his last discourse I replied that they always admired his homilies, but that I thought that the hearers were not so much affected by the last as by some earlier ones.
'• How, friend," said he with surprise, ''had they an Aristarchus among them ?"
"No, my Lord," I answered; "no; such works {IS yours are not to be criticised. There was nobody but was charmed with it. But since 351
ALAIN RENE Lk SAGE.— 6
you have charged me to be free and sincere, I take the liberty to tell you that your last dis- course does not seem to possess your usual energy. Are you not of the same opinion ?"
These words made my master turn pale. He said to nie with a forced smile, " Wh;it, Mr. Gil Bias, this piece then is not to your taste?"
■' I do not say so, Sii',". I replied in confusion. •■ I think it excellent, though a little inferior to your other works."
" I understand you," said he. " I seem o flag, do 1 ? . Speak the word out. You believe it is high time for me to think of retiring."
" I should not have taken the liberty to speak thus," 1 answered, "• if your Grace had not com- manded me. I do it only in obedience to you, and I humbly beg your Grace not to take my boldness amiss."
" God forbid," he interrupted, " that I should reproach you with it. I do not take it at all ill that you tell me your opinion ; I only think your opinion wrong. I have been prodigiously deceived in your narrow understanding."
Though I was confounded, I would have found some expedient to qualify matters ; but what way is there to pacify an exasperated anthoi-, and especially an author used to nothing but praise? "Speak no more, friend," said he; you are too young yet to distinguisli truth from falsehood. Know that I never wrote a finer sermon than that which yow do not approve. My mind, thank Heaven, has as yet lost noth- ing of its vigor. For the future I will choose my confidants better, and have such as are abler judges. Go," he went on, thrusting me out of the closet by the shoulders, "go tell my ti-eas- urer to pay you a hundred ducats, and may heaven direct you with the money. Farewell, Mr. Gil Bias ; I wish you all manner of pros- perity, with a little better taste."
I went out cursing the caprice, or rather weakness, of the Archbishop, being more en-
352
ALAIN RENE Lk SAGE.— 7
raged at him than vexed at losing his favor. I was even in doubt whether to take the luindred ducats ; but after thinking well upon it, I was not such a fool as to refuse them. I thougiit the money would not deprive me of the riglir to ridicule my Archbishop ; which I resolved not to miss doing, every time his homilies should be mentioned in my presence.
As I swore in my passion to make the prelate pay for it, and to divert the wliole city at his ex- pense, the wise Melchior said to me, " Be ruled by me, dear Oil Bias; rather stiHe your chagrin. Men of an inferior rank ought always to respect persons of (piality, whatever reason they may have to complain of them. I grant tliere are many weak noblemen, who deserve no respect ; but since it is in their power to hurt us, we ougiit to fear tiiem." — Gil Bias, Book VII. •23 353
GOTTHOLD KINIRAIM LK'^SING.—I
LESSING, GoTTFioLD Ephraim, a Ger- man author, born at Kamenz in 1729 ; died at Brunswick in 1781. His father, a Luth- eran clergyman, wished him to adopt the same profession, and at the age of seven- teen he was sent to the University of Lei])- sic to study theology. But he found the stage more attractive than the pulpit, con- sorted with actors, and wrote several dra- matic pieces. At twenty he went to Ber- lin, where he devoted himself to literary pursuits. He early conceived the project of freeing German literature from the pre- valent imitation of that of France, and giv- ing it a new and original character. In conjunction with Nicolai he founded the Li'.eraturhriefe, a periodical which was the first to call public attention to the genius of Kant, Hamann and Winckelmann. In 1772 he put forth the ir aged j Emilia Galof/i, in which the story of the Roman Virginia is presented in a modern aspect ; this still re- mains one of the best tragedies on the Ger- man stage. About 1763 he produced the admirable drama Mi^ina von Barnhelm. In 1776 he published Laocoon^ an elaborate treatise upon the lim.itations of Painting and Poetry. In 1779 he put forth the dra- matic poem, Nathan the Wise, which may be considered his profession of faith. The principal characters are a Jew, a Mohamme- dan, and a Christian, who rival each other in tolerance, charity, and regard for the principles of universal morality. His lat- est work, published in 1780, was The Edu- cation of the Human Race. All of the fore- going have been excellently translated into English. Lessing has been not unaptly styled "the Luther of German literature, of
354
GOTTITOLD EPHRALM LESSING.— 2
tlieGennau drama, and of German art." A complete edition of his Works, in oO vols., was published at Berlin in 1771-94; and an excellent one in 13 vols., edited by Lachmann, 1838-40.
NATHAX THE "WISE AND THE SULTAN SALADIN.
J^ath. — In days of yore dwelt in the East a man Wlio from a valued hand received a ring Of endless worth : tlie stone of it an opal, That shot an ever changing tint. Moreover, It had the hidden vntue liim to render Of God and man beloved, who, in this view, And this persuasion, wore it. Was it strange Tlie Eastern man ne'er drew it otf his finger, And studiously provided to secure it For ever to his house ? Thus he bequeathed it First to the most beloved of ids sons ; Ordained that he again slioidd leave the ring To the most dear among his children ; and, That without heeding birth, the favorite son, In virtue of the ring alone, should always Remain the lord o' tli' house — You hear me.
Sultan ? Sal. — I understand thee. On A^nfh. — From son to son.
At length the ring descended to a father "Wlio had tliree sons alike obedient to him, AVIiom therefore lie could not but love alike. At times seemed this — now that — at times the
third, ( Accordingly as each apart received The overflowing of his lieart,) most worthy To bear the ring, which witli good-natured
weakness, He privately to each in turn had promised. This went on for a while. But death approached, And the good father grew embarassed. So To disappoint two sons who tiust his promise He could not bear. What's to be done.'' He
sends In secret to a jeweller, of whom,
355
GOTTHOLD EPHUAIM LErfSlNU.— 3
Upon the model of the real ring,
He might bespeak two others ; and commanded
To spare nor cost nor pains to make them
like- Quite like, the true one. This the artist man- aged. The rings were brought, and e'en the father's eye Could not distinguish which had been the model. Quite overjoyed, he summoned all his sons, Takes leave of each apart, on each bestows His blessing and his ring, and dies — Thou hearest me ?
Sal. — I hear, I hear. Come, finish with thy tale : Is it soon ended ?
Nath. — It is ended, Sultan.
For all that follows may be guessed of course. Scarce is the father dead, each with his ring Appears, and claims to be the lord o' th' house. Comes question, strife, complaint ; all to no end, For the true ring could no more be distinguished Than now can — the true faith.
Sal. — How, how? Is that
To be the answer to my query ?
Nath. — No,
But it may serve as my apology If I can't venture to decide between Rings which the father got expressly made That they might not be known from one another.
Sal. — The rings — don't trifle with me ; I must think Tliat the religions which I named can be Distinguished, e'en to raiment, drink, and food.
Nath And only not as to their ground of
proof. Are not all built alike on history. Traditional or written ? History Must be received on trust : — is it not so ? In whom, now, are we likeliest to put trust ? In our own people, surely; in those men Whose blood we are ; in them who from our
childhood
356
GOTTHOLD EPHRAIM LESSING.— 4
Have given us proof of love; who iie'er de>
ceived us, Unless 'twere wholesome to be deceived. How can I less believe in my forefathers Than tliou in thine? How can I ask of thee To own that thy forefathers falsified, In order to yield mine all the praise of truth ? — The like of Christians.
Sal — By the living God,
The man is right, I must be silent. • Hath. — Now let us to our rings return once
more — As said, the sons complained. Each to the
Judge Swore from his father's Iiand immediately To have received the ring — as was the case — After he had long obtained the father's promise One day to have the ring — as also was The father, each asserted could to him Not have been false. Rather than so suspect Of such a father — willing as he might be With charity to judge his brethren — he Of treacherous forgery was bold to accuse them.
Sal. — Well, and the Judge I'm eager now to hear What thou wilt make him say. Go on, go on.
Natfi. — The Judge said : •' If ye summon not the father Before my seat, I cannot give a sentence. Am I to guess enigmas ? Or expect ye That the true ring shall here unseal its lips? But hold! You tell me that the real ring Enjoys the hidden power to make the wearer Of God and man beloved : let tliat decide — Wliich of the you do two brothers love the best? You're silent. Do these love-exciting rings Act inward only, not without ? Does each Love but himself, ye're all deceived deceivers ; None of your rings is true. Tlie real ring P<;rhaps is gone. To hide or to supply Its loss, your fatlier ordered three )br one."
Sal. — Oh, charming, fliarniing ! 357
GOTTHOLD EPHRAIM LESSING.— 5
Nath And the Judge continued :
" It" you will take tidvice in lieu of sentence,
This is my counsel to you ; To take up
The matter where it stands. If each of you
Has had a ring presented by his father,
Let each believe his own the real ring.
'Tis possible the father chose no longer
To tolerate the one ring's tyranny ;
And certainly, as he n^iich loved you all,
And loved you all alike, it could not please him,
By favoring one, to be of two the oppressor.
Let each feel honored by this free affection,
Unwarped of prejudice ; let each endeavor
To vie with both his brothers in displaying
The virtue of his ring , assist its might
With gentleness, benevolence, forbearance.
With inward resignation to the Godhead ;
And if the virtues of the ring continue
To show themselves among your children's
children, After a thousand years, appear Before this judgment-seat. A greater one Than I shall sit upon it, and decide." — 80 spake the modest Judge.
Traml. of William Taylor. 358
CHARLES JAMES LEVER.— 1
LEVER, Charles James, an Irish nov elist, born in Dublin in 1806 ; died near Trieste in 1872. Having studied medicine at home and Gottingen, he practiced for some years. In 1837 he was ap}>ointed physician to the British Embassy at Brus- sels, and completed The Confessions of Harry Lorrequer (1840), the first chapters of which had previousl}'^ appeared (1843), ill the DiihJin University Magazine. Its success turned him to literature as a jirofession. Charles C^'Malley^ the Irish Dragoon^ appeared in 1841. In 1842-45 he lived in Dublin, and edited the University Magazine ; then he retired to the Continent, residino- mostly in Florence. He was vice- cousul at Spezia 1858-67, and consul at Trieste from 1867. Among his later books are: Tom Burke of Ours (1844), The 0' Don- o^jhne (1845), The Knight of Oicynne {IS^I), Roland Cashel (1849), The Daltons (1852), The Nevilles of Garretstoivn (1854), The Dodd Family Abroad (1853), The Commis- sioner (1856), Con Cregan (1857), The Mar- tins of Gro' Martin (1857), The Mystic Heirs of Randolph Abbey (1858), Davey^port Dunn (1859), Gerald Fitzgerald (1860), A Day's Ride, A Life's Romance (1861), Barrington (1862), LiUtrell of Arran (1865), Sir Brooke Fosbrooke (1867), The Bramleighs of Blshopis Folly (1868), That Boy of NorcotCs (1869), .1 Rent in the Cloud (1870), Lord Kilgobbin (1872.)
LEGEND OF LUTTRELL AND THE
Tliero was one of the Luttrells once that was very rid), and a great man every way, but lie -pent all liis money trj'ing to be ^renter tlian liir King, for whatever the King did Luttrell
CHARLES JAMES LEVER.— 2
would do twice as grand, and for one great feast the King would give, Luttrell would give two, and he came at last to be ruined entirely ; and of all his fine houses and lands, nothing was left to him but a little cabin on Strathmere, where his herd used to live. And there he went and lived as poor as a laborin' man ; indeed, except that he'd maybe catch a few fish or shoot some- thing, he had nothing but potatoes all the year round. Well, one day as he was wanderin' about very low and sorrowful, he came to a great cave on the hillside, with a little well of clear water inside it; and he sat down for sake of the shelter, and began to think over old times, when he had houses, and horses, and fine clothes, and jewels. " Who'd ever have thought," says he, " that it would come to this with me ; that I'd be sittin' upon a rock, with nothing to diink but water?" And he took some up in the hollow of his hand and tasted it ; but when he finished, he saw there was some fine little grains, like dust, in his hand, and they were bright yel- low besides, because they were gold,
"If I had plenty of you, I'd be happy yet," says he, looking at the grains.
" And what's easier in life, Mr, Luttrell," says a voice ; and he starts and turns round, and there, in a cleft of the rock, was sittin' a little dark man, with the brightest eyes that ever was seen, smoking a pipe, " What's easier in life." says he, "Mr, Luttrell? "
" How do you know my name?" says he.
" Why wouldn't I ? " says the other. " Sure it isn't because one is a little down in the world that he wouldn't have the right to his own name ? I have had some troubles myself," says he, " but I don't forget my name for all that."
'' And what may that be, if it's pleasin' to you ?" says Luttrell.
"Maybe I'll tell it to you," says he, "when we're better acquainted."
" Maybe I could guess ii now," says Luttrell.
360
CHARLES JAMES LEVER.— 3
• "Come over and whisper it then,' «iys he, *> and I'll tell you if you're right." And Lut- trell did, and the other called out, " You guessed well ; that's just it.
" Well," says Luttrell, " there's many a change come over me, but the strangest of all is to think that here I am, sittin' up and talkin' to
the " The other lield up his hand to warn
him not to say it, and he went on: "And I'm no more afeard of him than if he was an old friend,"
" And why would you, Mr Luttrell? — and why wouldn't you think him an old friend ? Can you remember one pleasant day in all your life that I wasn't with you some part of it ?''
" I know what you mean well enough," says Luttrell. " I know the sort of bargain you make, but what would be the good of all my riches to me when Ld lose my soul?"
" Isn't it much trouble you take about your soul, Mr. Luttrell? " says he " Doesn't it keep you awake at night, thinkin' how you're to save it? Ain't you always correctin" and chastisin' yourself for the good of your sonl, not lettin' yourself drink this or eat that, and warnin' you besides, about many a thing I won't speak of, eh ? Tell me that."
" There's something in what you say, no doubt," says Luttrell ; " but after all," says he with a wink, " I'm not going to give it up as a bad job, foi- all that."
"And who asks you ?" says the other. " Do you think that a soul more or less signifies to me? It don't : I've lashins and lavinsof them." " Maybe you have," says Luttrell. "Have you any doubt of it, Mr. Luttrell?" says he. " Will you just mention the name of any one of your friends or family that I can't give you some particulars of? "
" I'd rather you'd not talk that way," says Luttrdl; " it makes me feel unpleasant."
" I'm sure," says the other, " nobody ever 361
CHARLES JAMES LEVER.— 4
said I wasn't polite, or that I ever talked of what was not pleasin' to the company."
" Well," says Luttrell, " supposin' that I wanted to be rich, and supposin' that I wouldn't agree to anything that would injure my soul, and supposin' that there was, maybe, sometliing that you'd like me to do, and that wouldn't hurt me for doin' it, what would that be ? "
" If you always was as cute about a bargain, Mr. Luttrell," says the other, "you'd not be the poor man you are to-day."
"That's true, perhaps," says he ; "but, you see, the fellows I made them with wasn't as
cute as the "
" Don't," says the other, holding up his hand to stop him; "it's never polite. I told you I didn't want your soul, for I'm never impatient about anything ; all I want is to give you a good lesson — something that your family will be long the better of— and you want it nnicli, for you have, all of you, one great sin."
" We're fond of drink ?" says Luttrell.
"No," says he; "I don't mean that."
" It's gamblin' ? "
" Nor that."
" It's a likin' for the ladies ?" says Luttrell,
slyly-
"I've nothing to say against that, for they're always well disposed to me," says he.
" If it's eatin', or spendin' money, or goin' in debt, or cursin', or swearin', or bein' fond of fightin' — "
" It is not," says he, " them is all natural. It's your pride," says he — " your upsettin' fam- ily pride, that won't let you do this, or say that. There's what's destroyin' you."
" It's pretty well out of me now," says Lut- trell, with a sigh.
" It is not," says the otlier. " If you had a good dinner of beef, and a tumbler of strong punch in von, you'd be as impudent this minute as ever you were."
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CHARLES JAMES LEVER.— S
•• Maybe you're right," says Luttrell.
" I know'l am, Mr. Luttrell. You're not the first of your family I was intimate with. You're an ouldstock, and 1 know ye well."
" And how are we to be cured ? " says Lut- trell.
'• Easy enough," says he. " AVhen three gen- erations of ye marry peasants, it will take the pride out of your bones, and you'll behave like otht'r people."
" We couldn't do it," says LuttreU.
" Try," says the other.
" Impossible ! '
" So you'd say about livin' on potatoes, and drinkin' well-water."
" That's true," says Luttrell.
'' 80 you'd say about ragged clothes and no shoes to your feet."
Luttrell nodded.
" So you'd say about settin' in a cave and talking over family matters to — to a stranger," says he, with a laugh.
'• I believe there's something in it," says Lut- trell ; '• but sure some of us might like to turn bachelors."
"Let them, and welcome," says he. "1 don't want them to do it one after the other. I'm in no hurry. Take a hundred years — take two. if you like, for it."
" Done," says Luttrell. "When a man shows a fair spirit, I'll always meet him in the .same. Give; me your hand ; it's a bargain."
>> I hurt my thumb," says he ; " but take my tail, 'twill do all the same."
And though Mr. Luttrell didn't like it, he shook it stoutly, and only let go when it began to burn his fingers. And from that day he was rich, even till he died : but after his death nobody ever knew where to find the gold, nor ever will till the devil tells them. — Luttrell of Arran.
CHARLES JAMES LEVEIi.-fi AVIDOW MALONK.
Bid you hear of the widow Malone,
Who lived in the town of Athlone
O, she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts ; So lovely the Widow Malone,
So lovely the widow Malone. Of lovers she had a full score,
And fortunes they all had galore
Ohone ! Alone !
Ohone !
Or more, In store :
From the minister down
To the clerk of the crown, All were courting the Widow Malone
Ohone ! All were courting the Widow Malone.
But so modest was Mistress Malone,
'Twas known. That no one could see her alone !
Ohone ! Let them ogle and sigh. They could ne'er catch her eye, So bashful the Widow Malone,
Ohone ! So bashful the Widow Malone.
Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare
(How quare ! It's little for blushing they care
Down there). Put his arm round her waist — Gave ten kisses at laste — " O," says he, " you're my Molly Malone,
My own ! " O," says he "you're my Molly Malone ! "
And the widow they all thought so shy,
My eye !
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CHARLES JAMES LEVER.— 7
Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh
Vov why ? But, "Lucius," says she, '• Since you've now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone,
Ohone ! Vou may marry your iNIary Malone."
There's a moral contained in my song,
Not wrong ; And one comfort, it's not very long
But strong — If for widows you die, Learn to kiss, not to sigh ; I'^or tliey're all like sweet Mistress Malone,
Ohone ! ( ), they're all like sw^eet Mistress Malone ! aG5
GEORGE HENRY LEWES.— 1
LEWES, George Henry, an English author, born in 1817; died in 1878." lie was educated at home and abroad, and be- gan active life as a merchant's clerk, but soon turned to medicine and then to litera- ture and philosophy, for which he prepared himself by studies in Germany in 1838-39. He contributed to the periodicals, won an early reputation as a thinker and a writer, was literary editor of the Leader 1849-54, founded the Fortnightly Review 1865, and conducted it for a year or two. His connection with "George Eliot" began m 1854 and lasted till his death ; they were in entire sympathy, and it was he who first suggested her attempting fiction. His own opinions were strongly Positivist, His works include a Biographical History of Pldlosophy (4 vols. 1845), several times re})rinted, and partly rewritten in 2 vols. 1871; two novels, Ranthorpe (1847), Rose^ Blanche^ and Violet (1848) ; The Spanish Drama : Lope de Vega and Calderon (1846); Life of Robespierre (1849); The Noble Hearty a Tragedy (1850) ; Comte''s Philosophy of the Sciences (1853) ; Life and Works of Goethe (1855), Seaside Studies (1857) ; Physiology of Common Life (1860); Studies in Animal Life (1861) ; Aristotle; a Chapter from the History -of Science (1864); Problems of Life and Mind (1878-75), of which the first volume was entitled. The Foundations of a Creed. His researches in anatomy and physiology bore fruit in papers On the Spinal Cord (1858), and On the Nervous System (1859), read before the British Association. He is best known by his earliest book and by his latest both in the domain of philosophy.
366
GEORGE HENEY LEWES— 2
PHILOSOPHY AND SCIENCK.
The nature of Philosophy condemns its fol- lowers to wander forever in the same labyrinth, and in tliis circumscribed space many will neces- >;irily fall into the track of their predecessors. In other words, coincidences of doctrine at epochs widely distant from each other are inevitable.
Positive Science is further distinguished from Philosopliy by the incontestible progress it rvi-rywliere makes. Its methods are stamped witli certainty, because they are daily extending our certain knowledge; because the immense experience of years and of myriads of intelligen- ces confirm their truth, without casting a shadow of suspicion on them. Science, then, ])rogresses, and must continue to progress. Phi- losophy only moves in the same endless circle. Its Hrst principles are as much a matter of dis- pute as they were two thousand years ago. It luis made no progress although in constant niovenient. Precisely the same questions are Ix'ing agitated in Germany at this moment as wi^e being discussed in ancient Greece, and wifh no better means of solving them, with no b'lter iiopes of success. The united force of thousands of intellects, some of them among the irreatest that have made the past illustrious, has l)eeii steadily concentrated on problems, su|)posed to l)e of vital importance, and believed to be perfectly susceptible of solution, without the least result. All this meditation and discussion lias not even established a few first principles. Centuries of labor have not produced any per- ceptible progress.
The history of Science, on the other hand, is the history of progress. So far from the same (juestions being discussed in the same way as they were in ancient Greece, they do not re- main the same for two generations. In some sciences — chemistry for example — ten years suffice to render a book so behind the state of knowledge as to be almost useless. EveryAvhere 367
GEORGE HENRY LEWES.— 3
we see progress, more or less rapid, according to the greater or less facility of investigation.
In this constant circular movement of Phil- osophy and constant linear progress of Positive Science, we see the condemnation of the formei-. It is in vain to argue that because no progress has yet been made, we are not therefore to con- clude none will be made; it is in vain to argue that the difficulty of Philosophy is much greater than that of any science, and therefore greater time is needed for its perfection. The difficulty is Impossibility, No progress is made because no certainty is possible. To aspire to the knowledge of more than phenomena, their re- semblances and successions, is to aspire to trans- cend the limitations of human faculties. To know more we must he more.
This is our conviction. It is also the convic- tion of tlie majority of thinking men. Con- siously or unconsciously, they condemn Philos- ophy. They discredit, or disregard it. The proof of this is in the general neglect into which Philosophy has fallen, and the greatei- assiduity bestowed on Positive Science.- Loud complaints of this neglect are heard. Great contempt is expressed by the Philosophers. They may rail, and they may sneer, but the world will go its way. The empire of Positive Science is established.
We trust that no one will suppose we think slightingly of Philosophy. Assuredly we do not, or else why this work ? . . . But we re- spect it as a great pow^r that has been, and no longer is. It was the impulse to all early spec- ulation: it was the parent of Positive Science. It nourished the infant mind of humanity ; gavt' it aliment, and directed its faculties, rescued the nobler part of man from the dominion oi' brutish ignorance ; stirred him with insatiable thirst for knowledge, to slake which he was content to undergo amazing toil. But its office has been fulfilled ; it is no longer necessary to
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GEORGE HENRY LEWES.— 4
liumanity, and should be set aside. The only iuterrst it can have is a historical interest — A Biographical History of Philosophy.
XENOPHANES.
One peculiarity of his philosophy is its dou- l)le-sidedness. All the other thinkers abided by I lie conclusions to which they were led. They were dogmatical; Xenophanes was skeptical. He was the first who confessed the impotence of reason to compass the wide, exalted aims of philosophy. He was a great earnest spirit struggling with Truth, and, as he obtained a gliinpse of her celestial countenance, he pro- claimed his discovery, however it might contra- dict what he had before announced. Long travel, various experience, examination of dif- ferent systems, new and contradictory glimpses of the problem he was desirous of solving — these, working together, produced in his mind a skepticism of a noble, somewhat touching sort, wholly unlike that of his successors. It was the combat of contradictory opinions in his mind, rather than disdain of knowledge. His faith was steady, his opinions vacillating. He had a profound conviction of the existence of an eternal, all-wise, intinite Being; but this belief he was unable to reduce to a consistent formula. There is deep sadness in these verses :
"Certainly no mortal yet knew, and ne'er shall
there be one Knowing both well, the Gods and the All, whose
nature we treat of. For when by chance he at times may utter the true
and the perfect, He wists not, unconscious ; for error is spread over
all things."
It is one of the greatest and commonest of critical errors to <'liarge the originator or sup- porter of a doctrine with consequences which he did not see, or would not accept. Because they may be contained in his principles, it by no
24 363
GEOKGE HENRY LEWES.— 5
means follows that he saw them. To give an mstance : Spinoza was a very religious man, al- though his do<'trine amounted to atheism, or little better; but his critics have been grently in the wrong in accusing him of atheism. Al- though Xenophanes was not a clear and system- atic tliinker, he exercised a very remarkable influence on the progi-ess of speculation — His- tory of Philosophy.
X PICTUUIC OF WIEMAR.
Wiemar is an ancient city on the Ilm, a small stream rising in the Thuiingian forests, and los- ing itself in the Saal at Jena, a stream on which the sole navigation seems to be that of ducks, and which meanders i)eacefully tln'ough pleasant valleys, except during the lainy season, when the mountain torrents swell its current and over- flow its banks. Tlie town is charmingly placed in the Ilm valley and stands some 800 feet above the level of the sea. " Wiemar," says the old topographer, Matthew Merian, "is Wienmar, because it was the wine-market for Jena and its environs. Others say it was be- cause some one here in ancient days began to plant the vine, who was hence called IVeinmaycr. But of this each reader may believe just what he pleases." — Life and Works of Goethe 370
CHARLTON THOMAS LEWIS.— 1
LEWIS, Charlton Thomas, an Amer- ican scliolar, born at West Chester, I'eun., Ill 1834. tie graduated at Yale in 1858; was Professor first of Mathematics and then of Greek in Troy Universit\- from 1859 to 1862 ; Deputy Commissioner ol' Infernal Revenue at Washington, 1863-64; Managing Editor of the New York Even- in 'j Post, 1870-71 ; Secretary of the Cham- ber of Life Insurance, 1871-74. He after- wards entered the ministry of the ]\lc!ho- dist Episcopal Cliurch, but left the clerical profession, and became a lawyer in Xew York. He is Chairman of the Prison As- s^ociation of New Yorlc, in the interest of which he has visited many European pr.s- ons. He has, in conjunction with Hev. ^[arvin R. Vincent, translated and edited Bpngel's Gnomon of the Nen^ Testament, (1861); written a History of tlie German Piople, (1870.) In conjunction with Prof. Charles Short, he prepared IJarjicrs Latin Dietio7iary, {1881); and' in 1889 was pre- paring A School Latin Dictionary.
THE OWNERSHIP OF IDEAS.
It is a superstition that there can be such a thing as property in ideas. AVe wlio live to-day an^ the heirs of all the ages. Enforce the the- ory of property in ideas, and there can be no advance. There are ideas which have been broiiglit into the woild within our own memory. One is Rieardo's idea of rent — the foundation of tin; entire modern system of political econ- omy; another is that o.f the conservation of force; aiiotlier is Darwin's •idea, wliich lias been seized and utilized l)y Herbert Spencer. A^'hat a tremendous loss to society tliere would have })een if these ideas liad not Ijecn free to all, to l)e built upon and devidope<i.
CHARLTON THOMAS LEWIS.— 2
It is also a superstition, tiiat authois believe in, that tlieyare a tivvored class, for whom lliere siiould be special legislation apart from the others of the state. Authors are not a class. We are simply those who express the opinions and give utterance to the developments of society. Legislation for a class is always pernicious ; and it would be a detriment to the many to enact hiws which would benefit simply a fcAv authoi-s. The (juestion should be, " What legislation on this subject will benefit the wliole community? " Let authors be the best and noblest of mankind ; but let them not expect special i)rivileges.
The utterances of Tennyson and Arnold and Huxley on this question ax"e founded on the false assumption that a man has an intrinsic and per- petual and eternal and infinite right in the pro- duct of his own mind. Here is the fundamental error in the whole discussion. If I write a book, it is mine. I can do with it as I please — burn it, lock it up, or publish it. Now, when I give it to the world, what is its commercial value tlien ? It is dependent on the action of society, which may create a monopoly of it in tlie hands of a publisher. Here comes in the question of deju'ivation. If it is a coat that I have made, I am entitled to a monopoly of that ; for while one man is wearing it, no other man could use it, and he is deprived of no benefit that he may complain of.
But with a book it is different. It is no de- privation to me if othei'S are reading it as well as I myself. The man who pens the pages of a book can justly have no monoply in fact. It is not his work alone. It is the product of society, of which he is but a part — society which has moulded and developed him ; and he is only the medium of expressing the growth of that society, and of putting into book shape tlie results of its teaching and influence. I think it is expedient only that the author should have copyright con- trol for a limited time.
372
TAYLER LEWIS— 1
LEWIS, Tayler, an American scholar, l)(^rn at Northumberland, Saratoga County, N. Y., in 1802 ; died at Sclienectady, in 1877. lie graduated at Union College, Schenec- tady, in 1820 ; studied law, which he prac- ticed for several years. But his attention was directed especially to the study of the Hebrew Bible and to the works of Plato. In 1833 he opened a classical school, at Waterford ; in 1838 became Professor of Greek in the University of the City of New York, and in 1849 was chosen to the same position in Union College, where he also lectured on ancient philosophy and poetry, and gave instruction in Hebrew. He con- tributed largely to periodicals, upon ethical and philological subjects. In 1845 he put forth, under the title, " Platonic Theologv, or Plato against the Atheists," an edition of the Tenth Book of The Laws of Plato, with an elaborate Introduction, and illustra- tive Dissertations. He translated Plato's Thesetelus, and Lange's Commentary on Ec- rlesiastes. His principal works are : The Six Days of Creation (1855), The Bible and Science (1856) ; The Divine Human in the Scriptures (1860) , State Bights ; a Photo- graph from t/ie Ruins of Ancient Greece (1864), Heroic Periods in a Nation'' s His- tory (1866) ; and in conjunction with E. W. Blyden and Theodore Dwight, The People of Africa ; their Character^ Condition^ and Future Prospects (1871 )
THE THEOLOGY OF PLATO
It is generally agreed among those who hold
The Laws to be a genuine production of Pluto,
that it was a treatise written in liis old age. If
so, It may be regarded as containing his most
373
TAYLER LEWIS.— 2
matured and best settled opinions on many of the great subjects discussed in his former Dialogues. Some have thought that they discovered many contradictions between this work and The Eepub- lic. One has even gone so far as to say that they are opposed on every page. In this opinion, however, we cannot conc-ur. . . .
The practice of contrasting these two works has arisen from a wrong view of the true title of the one generally styled The Republic. Its most appropriate designation i.s, "An Inquiry into the Nature of Right." The imaginary State is evi- dently made subservient to this ; or, as he ex- pressly tells us in the Second Book, intended only as a model of the Human Soul, so magni- fied that we might read therein, in large letters, what would not be distinct enough for the men- tal view when examined in the smaller charac- ters of the individual spirit. This comparison of the Soul to a Commonwealth has been a favorite not only with Plato, but with the most philosophic minds of the ages. In Tlie RepiihUc it is the great idea to which the construction of the fancied State is altogether secondary. Some- times, however, it must be admitted, the author seems so taken up with this imaginary Com- monwealth that lie — unconsciously, perhaps — brings it into the primary place. . . .
The treatise on Laws is undoubtedly intended for a really practicable, if not a really existing State. In discussing, however, the primary principles of legislation, the author takes a very wide range, occupying far more time in what he styles the "Preambles," or recommendatory reasonings about the laws, than in the la\\> themselves. Hence there are but few points in the Platonic philosophy and ethics, as exhibited in other Dialogues, but what have some repre- sentative here. We find the same questions started respecting the nature and origin of Vir- tue ; whether it is capable of being taught as a science or not ; whether it is One or Many — that
374
TAYLER LEWIS.— 3
is, whether the vii'tiies are all so essentially con- nected that one cannot exist without the otliers.
We find tlie same views in regard to the end and origin of Law — the importance of looking in all things to the Idea — " the One in IMany." Tliere is the same reverence for antiquity and ancient myths ; the same disposition to regard Religion as the beginning and foundation of every system of civil polity ; and the same method of representing the idea of a God — and his goodness, his j)rovidence, of a present and future retribution — as lying at the foundation of all morals and of all religion.
In a moral and practical, as well as in a specu- lative point of view, tiie particidar subject of this Dialogue has some claim to attention. He who thinks most deeply, and has the most inti- mate acfpiaintance with human nature, as exhib- ited in his own heart, will be the most apt to resolve all unbelief into Atheism. Theism, we admit, is everywhere the avowed creed ; but it wants life. Tliere are times when the bare thought that God is comes home to the soid with a power and a tiash of light which gives a new illumination, and a more vivid interest to every other moral truth. It is on such occasions that tlie conviction is felt that all unbelief is Atheism, or an acknowledgment of a mere nat- ural power, clothed with no moral attributes, and giving rise to no moral sanctions. We want vividness given to the great idea of God as a Judge, a moral Governor, a special Supeiintend- entof the world and all its movements; the head of a moral syst(.'m to which the machinery of nat- ural laws serves but as the temporary scattbld- ing, to be continued, changed, replaced, or fin- ally removed, when the great ends for which alone it was designed shall have been accom- plished.
Just as such an idea of God is strong and dear, so will be a conviction of sin. so will be a sense of the need of expiation; so will follow
375
TAYLER LEWIS.— 4
in its train an assurance of all the solemn veri- ties of the Christian faith, so strong and deep that no boastful pretension of that science which makes the natural the foundation of the moral, and no stumbling blocks in the letter of tlie Bible, will for a moment yield it any dis- quietude. There is a want of such a faith, as is shown by the feverish anxiety in regard to the discoveries of science, and the results of agita- tions of the social and political world. This timid unbelief, when called by it its true name, is Atheism.
The next great battle-gi-ound of Infidelity will not be the Scriptures. AVhat faith there will remain will be summoned to defend the very being of a God; the great truth involving every other moral and religious truth — that He IS, and that He is the rewarder of all who dili- gently seek Him — Introduction to Plato against the Atheists.
376
JOHN LF.YDEN- 1
LEYDEN, John, a Scottish Oriental scholar and poet, born in 1775, died in 1811. He studied at the University of Edinburgh, and was ordained to the min- istry ; but abandoned the clerical profes- sion for that of medicine. In 1802 he was made an assistant surgeon m the service of the East India Company. Upon arriving in India he devoted himself to the study of Oriental languages, and in 1806 was made i^rofessor of Hindustani at Calcutta, and soon after received a judicial appointment ]n 1811 he accompanied Lord Minto in an ex]iedition against the Dutch colony m Java, and died of a fever at Batavia. He wrote an Historical Account of Discoveries and Travels in Africa^ and an Essay on the Languages and Literature of the Indo-Chi nese Nations. A collection of his Poems and Ballads was published in 1819. The ibllowing poem was written after his ar- rival in India.
.TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN.
Slave of the dark and dirty mine !
What vanity bus brouglit thee here? How can I love to see tliee shine
So bright, whom I have bought so dear ?
The tent ropes flapping lone I bear. For twilight converse, arm ni arm ;
The jackal's shriek bursts on my ear When mirth and music wont to charm,
15y Cherical s dark wandering streams,
Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams
Of Teviot loved while still a child,
Of castled rocks stupendous piled By Esk or Eden's classic wavt
Where loves of youth and friendships smiled, UnciM'sed by thee, vile yellow slave !
377
JOHN r.EYDEN.— 2
l*\i(le (lay-dreains sweet, from memory fade !
The perished bliss of youth's first prime, That once so bright on fancy played,
Revives no more in after-time.
Far from my sacred, natal clime 1 haste to an untimely grave ;
The daring thoughts that soared sublime Aie sunk in ocean's southern wave.
Slave of the mine ! thy yellow light
Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear. A gentle vision comes by night
My lonely widowed heart to cheer;
Her eyes are dim w^itli many a tear. That once were guiding stars to mine ;
Her fond heart throbs w ith many a fear ! I cannot bear to see thee shine.
For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,
I left a heart that loved me true ! 1 crossed the tedious ocean-wave,
To roam in climes unkind and new.
The cold wind of the stranger blew Chill on my withered heart ; the grave,
Dark and untimely, met my view — And all for thee, vile yellow slave !
Ha ! com'st thou now so late to mock
A Avanderer's banished heart forlorn, Now that his frame tlie lightning shock
Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne ?
From love, from friendship, country, torn, To memory's fond regrets the prey ;
Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn ! Go mix thee with thy kindred clay ! 378
FRANCIS LIEBER.— 1
LIEBER, Francis, a German-American publicist, born at Berlin in 1800; died at Xew York in 1872. He had begun the study of medicine when, in 1815, he joined the Prussian army as a volunteer, and was severely wounded at the siege of Namur. After the close of the Waterloo campaign, he resumed his studies ; but his liberal sen- timents drew upon him the disfavor of the Government, and he found it expedient to leave Germany. After spending sometime at Rome and London, he came to the Unit- ed States in 1827, taking up his residence in Boston, where he gave lectures on histor}^ and politics, and edited the Encycloi:)sedia Americana^ based upon, and partly trans- lated from Brockhaus's Conversations- Lexi- koa (13 vols., 1829-33.) In 1832 he was appointed by the trustees of Girard College, Philadelphia, to draft a plan of education. In 1835 he accepted the professorship of History and Political Economy in the Uni- versity of South Carolina, lie held this position until 1856, when he was appointed to a similar one in Columbia College, New York, where he was subsequently made Professor of Political Science, a position which he retained until his death. His writing's were very numerous, and in manv departments. Notable among them are his Manual of Pulitical .Ethics (1838, second edition, 1875), and Civil Liberty and Self- Government (1852, second edition 1874.) Both of these works have been adopted as text-books at Yale.
vox I'OPULI vox DEI.
The poetic })oldnes8 of the maxim, Vox PopuU Vox De', its cpitrramniMiic fiiiisli. its Latin aiul
FRANCIS LIEBER.— 2
lapidary formulation, and its apparent connec- tion of a patriotic love of the people with relig- ious fervor, give it an air of authority and al- most of sacredness- Yet history, as well as our own times, shows us that everything depends upon the question, who are "the people?" and tliat even if we have fairly ascertained the legit- nnate sense of this great yet abused term, we frequently find that their voice is anything rather than the voice of God.
If the term "people " is used for a clamoring crowd, which is not even a constituted part of an organic whole, we would be still more fatally misled by taking the clamor for the voice of the deity. We shall arrive, then, at this conclusion, that in no case can we use the maxim as a test , for, even if we call the people's voice the voice of God in those cases in which the people de- mand what is right, we must first know that they do so before we call it the voice of God. ] t is no guiding authority ; it can sanction nothing. ...
There are, indeed, periods in history in which, centuries after, it would seem as if an impulse from on high had been given to whole masses, or to the leading minds of leading classes, in order to bring about some comprehensive changes. That remarkable age of maritime dis- covery which has influenced the whole succeed ing history of civilization, and the entire pro- gress of our kind, would seem, at first glance, and to many even after a careful study of its elements, to have received its motion and action from a breath not of human breathing. No person, however, living at that period, would have been authorized to call the wide-spread love of maritime adventure the voice of God, merely because it was widely diffused. Impul- sive movements of greater extent and intensity have been movements of error, passion, and ci-ime.^ It must bo observed that the thorough historian often acts in these cases as the natural philosopher who finds connection, causes and 380
FEANCIS LIEBER.— 3
rtrccts, where foi-raer ages thought they recog- nized direct and detached manifestations or in- terpositions of a superior power, and not the ri-eater attribute of variety under eternal laws liul unchanging principles. . . .
I am under tlie impression that the famous maxim lirst came into use in the Middle Ages, at a contested episcopal election, when the peo- l<k', by apparent acclamation, having elected one person, another aspirant believed he bad a l)etter right to the episcopate on different lii-ounds or a different popular acclamation. Tliat the maxim has a decidedly mediiv^val character no one familiar with that age will doubt. When a king was elected it was by conclamation ; the earliest bishops of Rome were elected or confirmed by conclamation of tile Roman people. Elections by conclamation always indicate a rude or deficiently organized state of tilings; and it is the same whether this want of organization be the effect of primitive rudeness or of relapse.
Now^ the maxim we are considering has a strongly conclamatory character : and to apply it to our modern affairs is degrading ratiier than elevating them. How shall we ascertain, in modern times, whether anything be " the voice of the people? " and next, whether that voice be "the voice of God," so that it may command respect? For unless we can do this, the whole maxim amounts to no more than a poi-tic sentence, expressing the opinion of an individual; but no rule — no canon.
Is it Unanimity that indicates the voice of the people? Unanimity, in this case, can mean only a very large majority. But even unanim- ity itself is far from indicating the voice of God. Unanimity is commanding only when it is the result of digested and organic public opinion ; and even then wa know perfectly well tliat it may be erroneous, and consequently not tile voice of God, but simply the best opinion at
384
FRANCIS LIEBER.— 4
which erring and sinful men at the time are able to arrive. . . -
But the difficulty of fixing the meaning of tliis saying is not restricted to tliat of ascertain ing what is -'the Voice of God," It is equally difficult to find out what is "the Voice of the People." If by the voice of the people ht meant the organically evolved opinion of a peo- l)le, we do not stand in need of the saying. We know we ought to obey the law of the land. If by the voice of the people be meant the result of universal suffrage without institutions — and especially in a large country with a powerful executive, not permitting even preparatory dis- cussion— it is an empty phrase. It is deception, or it may be the effect of vehement yet transi- tory excitement. The same is true when the clamoring expression of many is taken for the voice of the whole people. ...
Whatever meaning men may choose to give to Vox Popnli Vox Dei, in other spheres — or, if applied to the long tenor of the history of a peo- ple, in active politics and in the province of practical liberty — it either implies political lev- ity which is one of the most mordant corrosives
of liberty — or else it is a political heresy, as much as Vox Regis Vox Dei would be. If it be meant to convey the idea that the people can do no wi-ong, it is as grievous an untruth as would be conveyed by the maxim, "the king can do no wrong," if it really were meant to be taken literally Civil Liberty and Self -Govern- ment.
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A r. R A HAM r. I NCO LN — 1
l.IXCOLN. Abraham, sixteenth Presi- (leiil of the United States, born in what is now Larue County, Kentucky, February 12, 1809 ; died by assassination at Wasli iugton, April 15, 1865, six weeks after en tering upon his second term as President Althougli Mr. Lincoln would not be gener ally classed among men of letters, seveial of his state papers, viewed simply from a literary standpoint, are surpassed by noth- ing in our language, or indeed any other Among these are his Inaugural Address, March 4, 1861 ; the Emancipation Procla- mation, January 1, 1863 ; the Gettysburg speech, November 19, 1868 ; and the second Liaugural Address, March 4, 1865.
THE PERPETUITY OF THE UNION.
It is seventy-two years since the first iuaugu r:ition of a President under onr National Con- stitution. During that period fifteen different :iiid greatly distinguished citizens have in suc- cession administered the Executive branch of the Government, They have conducted it through many perils, and generally with gi-eat success. Yet with all this scojie for precedent. I now enter upon the same task for the brief constitutional term of four years, under great and peculiar difiiculty. A disruption of the Federal Union, heretofore only menaced, is now lininidably attempted.
I hold that, in contemplation of universal law, ;iiid of the Constitution, the Union of these States is perpetual. Perpetuity is implied, if not expressed, in the fundamental law of all iiaiional governments. It is safe to assert that net government proper ever had a provision in \\< organic law for its own termination. Con- tinue to execute all the express provisions of our national government, and the Union will I udure forever — it being impo.s.sible to destroy
.■J83
ABRAHAM LINCOLN— 2
it except by some action not provided for in the instrument itself. Again, if tlie United States l>e not a government proper, but an association of States in the nature of contract merely, can it, as a contract, be peaceably unmade by less than all the parties who made it ? One party to a contract may violate it — break it, so to speak, but does it not require all to lawfully rescind it?
But if destruction of the Union by one or bv a part only of the States be lawfully possii>l(% the Union is less perfect than before — the Con- stitution having lost the vital element of per petuity. It follows from these views that no State, upon its own motion, can lawfully get out of the Union ; that resolves and oidinanees to that eifect are legally void ; and that acts of violence within any State or States, against the authority of the United States, are insurrection- ary or revolutionary, according to circumstances,
I therefore consider that, in view of the Con- stitution and the laws, the Union is unbroken ; and to the extent of my ability I shall take care, as the Constitution expressly enjoins upon me, that the laws of the Union be faithfully executed in all the States. Doing this I deem to be only a simple duty on my part ; and I shall perform it, so far as practicable, unless my rightful masters, the American people, shall withold the requisite means, or in some authoritative manner direct the contrary. I trust that this will not be re- garded as a menace, but only as the declared purpose of the Union that it will constitutionally defend and maintain itself.
In your hands, my dissatisfied felloAv-country- men, and not in mine, are the momentous issues of civil war. The Government will not assail you. You can have no conflict without being yourselves the aggressors. You have no oath registered in heaven to destroy the government, whilst I shall have the most solemn one to " preserve, protect, and defend " it.
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1 am loth to dose. We are not enemies but tViLMids. We must not be enemies. Tliougb passion may have strained, it must not break our boiuls of affection. The mystic cord of memoi} , stretching from every battle-field and patriot trrave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as they sure- ly will be, by the better angels of our nature — From the First Inaugural.
THE KMAXCIFATIOX PROCLAMATION.
Now therefore I, Abraham Lincoln, Presi- dent of the United States, by virtue of the pow- er in me vested as Commander-in-Chief of the Army and Navy of the United States in time of actual armed rebellion against the authority and government of the United States, and as a tit and necessary war measure for suppressing said rebellion, do on this first day of January, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hun- dred and sixty-three, order and designate as States and parts of States wherein the people thereof respectively are this day in rebellion against the United States, the following to wit :
And by virtue of the power, and for the pur- pose aforesaid, I do order and declare that all persons held as slaves within such designated States and parts of States are, and hencefor- ward shall be free ; and the Executive Govern- ment of tlie United States including the mili- tary and naval authorities thereof, will recognize and maintain the freedom of said persons.. ..And upon this act, sincerely believed to be an act of justice, warranted by the Constitution upon military necessity, I invoke the considerate judgment of mankind, and the gracious favor of Almiglity God.
TIIK CONSECRATION SPEECH AT GETTYSBURG.
Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon the continent a new nation,
25 385
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.— 4
conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the prop- osition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting-place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But in a large sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot halt on this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little note nor long remember what we say here ; but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us — the living — rather, to be dedicnted here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far eo nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task rc- maining before us, that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devo- tion ; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that this na- tion, under God, shall have a new birth of free- dom ; and that government of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
MALICE TOWARD NONE CHARITY FOR ALL.
Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, tliat this mighty scourge of war may speedily ])ass away. Yet if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be saiti, that the judg-
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.— 5
ments ot" the Lord are true and righteous alto- gether.
With malice toward none, with charity for all, with tirmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us finish the work we are in — to bind up the nation's wound ; to call for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphans ; to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations. — From the Second Inauoural.
387
JOHN LINGARD.— 1
LINGAKD, John, an English ecclesiastic and historian, born in 1771 ; died in 1851. He entered the Roman Catholic College at Douai France, in 1791 ; this College being- dissolved during the Revolution, Lingard returned to England, and with some others established a seminary near Durham, of which he was made S^ice- President and Professor of Natural and Moral Philoso- phy. Ill 1825 he received the ofterof acar- dinalship, which he declined. During his later years he received a pension of £300 from the British Government in considera- tion of his important historical labors. IJe put forth Antiquities of the Amjlo-Saxon Church (1806 ; enlarged edition, 1845), and several treatises of a somewhat polemical character. Of his principal work, The History of England from the Fust Invasion hy the Romans to the Accession of Willicnn and Mary in 1688, the first volume in folio appeared in 1819, and the eighth in 1830. A new edition, thoroughly revised, was published in 1849.
THE EXPULSION OF THE LONG PARLIAMENT BY CROMWELL.
Cromwell's resoUition was immediately formed, and a company of musketeers received orders to accompany him to the House. At this eventful moment, big with the most im])ortant conse- quences both to himself and his country, what- ever were the workings of Cromwell's mind he liad the art to conceal them from the minds of the beholders. Leaving the military in the lobby, he entered the House, and composedly seated himself on one of the outer benches. His dress was a plain suit of black cloth with gray worsted stockings. For a while he seemed to listen with interest to the debate; but when
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JOHN LINGARB.— 2
the Speaker was going to put the question, he whispered to Hai-rison, " This is the time ; I must do it ; " and rising put off iiis hat to address the House.
At first his language was decorous, and even lauchvtory. Gradually he became more warm and animated ; at hxst he assumed all the ve- liemence of passion, and indulged in personal vituperation. He charged the members with self-seeking and profaneness, with the frequent de- nial of justice, and numerous acts of oppression ; witli idolizing the lawyers, the constant advocates of tyranny ; \\-ith neglecting the men who had bled for them in the field, that they might gain the Presbyterians who had a|)Ostatized from the cause : and with doing all this in order to perpet- uate tlieir own power and to replenish their own purses. But their time was come, the Lord had disowned theiu ; He had chosen more worthy instruments to perform His work.
Here the orator was interrupted by Sir Peter "NVentworth, who declared that he had never heard language so unparliamentary — language, too, the more offensive because it was addressed to them by their own servant, whom they had too fondly cherished, and whom, by their un- [>recedented bounty they had made what he was.
At these words Cromwell put on his hat, and, springing from his place, exclaimed : " Come, Sir, I will put an end to your prating 1 " For a few moments, apparently in the most violent ag- itation, he paced forward and backward ; and then, stamping on the floor, added: " You are no Parliament ; I say you are no Parliament ; bring them in." Instantly the door opened, and Colonel Worsley entered, followed by more than twenty musketeers. '' This." cried Sir Henry Vane, " is not honest ; it is against morality and common honesty — " " Sir Henry Vane," re- plied Cromwell ; " 0 Sir Henry Vane ! Tiie Lord deliver me from Sir Henry Vane ! He
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JOHN LINGARD.— 3
might have prevented this. But he is a juggler and has not common honesty himself! " From Vane he directed his discourse to Whitelock, on whom he poured a tonent of abuse ; then point- ing to Chaloner, "There," lie cried, "sits a drunkard ; " next to Marten and Wentwortli, <' There are two whoremasters ; ' and after- wards selecting different members in succession, described them as dishonest and corrupt livers, a sliame and a scandal to the profession of the gospel.
Suddenly, however, checking himself he turned to the guard and ordered them to clear the House. At these words Colonel Harrison took the Speaker by the hand, and led him from the chair Algernon Sidney was next compelled to quit his seat ; and the other members, eighty in number, on the approach of the military, rose and moved towards the doors.
Cromwell now resumed his discourse. " It is you," he exclaimed, " that have forced me to do this. I have sought the Lord both day and night that He would rather slay me than put me on the doing of this work." Alderman Allan took advantage of these words to observe that it was not yet too late to undo what had been done ; but Cromwell instantly charged him with pecu- lation, and gave him into custody. When all were gone, fixing his eyes on the mace, "What," said he, "shall we do with this fool's bauble ? Here, carry it away." Then taking the act of dissolution from the clerk, he ordered the doors to be locked, and, accompanied by the military, returned to Whitehall.
That afternoon the members of the Council assembled in their usual place of meeting. Bradshaw had just taken the chair, when the Lord-general entered and told them that if they were there as private individuals they were welcome ; but if as the Council of State, they must know tiiat the Parliament was dissolved. " Sir," replied Bradshaw, with the spirit of an 390
JOHN LINGARD.— 4
ancient Roman, '' we have heard what you did at the House this morning, and before many hours all England will know it. But, Sir, you are mistaken to think that the Parliament is dis- solved. No power under heaven can dissolve them but themselves ; therefore, take you notice of that." After this protest they withdrew.
Thus, by the parricidal hands of its own children, perished the Long Parliament, which, under a variety of forms, had for more than twelve years defended and invaded the liberties of the nation. It fell without a struggle or a groan, unpitied and unregretted. The mem- bers slunk away to their homes, where they sought by submission to purchase the forbear- ance of their new master ; and their paitisans — if partisans they had — reserved themselves in silence for a day of retribution, which came not before Cromwell slept in his grave. The royalists congratulated each other on an event which they deemed a preparatory step to the restoration of the King ; the army and navy, in numerous addresses, declared that they would live and die, stand and fall with tli£ Lord-gen- eral ; and in every part of the country the con- gregations of the saints magnified the arm of the Lord, which had broken the mighty, that in lieu of the sway of mortal men, the Fiith Mon- archy, the reign of Christ, might be established on earth.
391
ELIZA LYNN LINTON.-l
LINTON, Eliza (Lynx), an English author, was born at Keswick, in 1822. Her first novel, Azeth, the Egyj^tian, pub- lished in 1846, .was followed by Amymune: a Romance of the days of Pericles (1848), and Realities (1851.) She has contributed many articles to periodicals, among them are the papers on The Girl of the Period. Among her other works are. Witch Stories (1861), The Lahe Country., illustrated by her husband 1864, Grasp your Nettle (1865), Sowing the Wind (1866), The True History of Joshua Davidson.^ Christian and Com- munist (1872), Patricia Kemball (1874), The Atonement of Learn Dundas., The World Well Lost (1877) , The Rebel of the Family (1880), My Love (1881), /one, (1882), and The Autobiography of Christopher Kirhland (1885.)
FEXCED IN.
Though a seaside place, the sea was only a passing adjunct, not an active part of Milltown existence. A land-locked, placid bay, shallow and barren, it was artistically valuable on ac- count of its color, and the changing lights lying on its cliffs; but nearly worthless for fishing, and very little used fur boatmg. Only one liouse in the place had a yacht in the basin within the breakwater. This was the Water Lily, a pretty little toy belonging to the Lowes. Being thickly inhabited by the gentry, every rood of land had its exclusive owner, and its artificial as well as natural value. The very cliffs were fenced off against trespassers; per- petual attempts were made to stop old-estab- lished rights of way, which sometimes succeeded ; if at others they failed when some man, of more public spirit than his neighbors, was personally inconvenienced, and the open paths across the fields which Avere inalienable were grudgingly
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ELIZA LYNN LINTON.— 2
marked otf by lines of thorns^ with licne warn- ings of prosecution should the narrow strip be departed from ; while all the gates were pad- locked, and the stiles made unnecessarily high and difficult.
The country was noted for its garden-like neatness. Every hedge and bank for milts around was trimmed and combed like a croquet lawn. No wild flowers were allowed on the Milltown public wayside; no trailing growths, rich and luxuriant to attract an artist and dis- tress the highway board and private gardens, hung about the well-kept hedges of thorn and privet. If you wanted to study botany you must go some five miles or so inland, where a certain stretch of unreclaimed lands gave tin; growths that flourish in peat and neglect, as well as afforded sfjuatting ground to a few half- starved miserable sinners whom the Milltown people regarded with a mixture of fear and contem|)t, as if they were of another order of beings altogether from themselves.
If the face of the country was fenced and trimmed and curled, till not a vestige of wild beauty or natural grace was left in it, the society of Milltown was in harmony therewith It would have been hard to find a more rigidly I'espectable or more conventionalized set of peo- ple anywhere, than were those who ordered their lives in this pretty hypaithral prison by the *' safe," if untrue, gospel of repression and con- demnation. They were all retired admirals and colonels and landed gentry, who lived tliere ; all emphatically gentlemen.
The gentlefolks were one thing and the com- monalty was another, and the one repi-esented the sheep and the elect, and the other the goats and the discarded. The gentry classed these last all togetiier in a lump, and the idea that they in their turn could be split into minor subdivis- ions, wherein the baker and tlie boatman, tlie furmer and his hind, held different degrees,
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ELIZA LYNN LINTON —3
seemed to them as ridiculous as the wars of pig- mies, or the caste distinctions of savages. But tlie commonalty followed their leaders, and the example of class exclusiveness set in the higlier circles was faithfully copied through the lower.
Milltown was respectable ; as a rule, intensely so. No one got into debt publicly, or did wrong openly ; and whatever sins might be committed were all out of sight and well covered down. The majority, too, went the right way in poli- tics. No confessed Republican had ever troubled the clear stream of Milltown s Conservatism, The worst of the pestilent fellows who conva&sed: for the wrong side, and voted blue instead of yellow at the elections, and who stood up- against board meetings and vestries, were nothing worse than mild Whigs, who would have been shocked to have heard themselves classed with Odger and Bradlaugli.
The parish church where Mr. Borrodailc, the rector, preached his weekly ortliodox sermon, or what may be called dogmas of a second intui- tion, not wholly moral nor yet wholly theologi cal, was a fine old building of the Early Eng lish style. The services were conducted in what they called " a proper and decent man- ner." There was no ecclesiastical vagueness at Milltown ; no tampering with the unclean thing in any way. Extreme opinions were tabooed. to which side soever they leaned, and enthus- iasm was regarded as both vulgar and silly.
Milltown prided itself on being English — P^ng- !ish to the backbone; and as England was, to its mind, the Delos of the religious as well as of the social and political world, and as the Thirty- nine Articles were nourishment enough for the most hungry soul, any line of thought which would have led it a hair's breadth away from ec- clesiastical Christianity, as decided by Act of Parliament, would have been considei-ed a heresy and a treason.
Tlie inhabitants did their duty and the rector 394
ELIZA LYNN LINTON.— 4
did his. Tliey went to church; heard what he had to say with more or less attention and more or less personal profit , then went home to what amount of eartlily comfort their rents or wages provided, and dismissed the subject of religion till the next Sunday, when they look it up agani with their best clothes and a sujierior din- ner. He prepared his sermon, wherein he either exhorted the poor to contentment and honest in- dustry, or lectured his congregation on the sins and temptations to which those of low estate are specially prone (he dropped the subject of tiie sins of those in high places) , or else he said a few words about elementary dogmas, which the more vigorous Wesleyan minister serving the little chapel by ihe water side called " milk for babes;"' then he, too, went home to his well- spread table, where he drank his fine old crusted port and ate his Dartmoor mutton witli a good appetite and a tranquil soul.
Furthermore, there was the usual sprinkling of widows with marriageable daughters; of old bachelors who could, but would not ; and of spinsters from whom hope, like chance, had long since fled. Of these last were the two kinds familiar to all who understand provincial life in England . the one strict and severe, who ignored all individual rights, as well as the rights of human nature, in favor of the conventional law — to wliom nio-;t things were shocking, and the worst interpretation came easy ; and the other wlio could read French, had been to London, had a slight tendency to plain speaking, tolerated cigars, and did not encourage scandal, and was considered lax by mothers and strong-minded by men.
Further more, still, and different from the rest of the MiUtown world, were Dr. Fletcher, and, liis sister Catherine, of whom more when their turns come.
None of the questions agitating the woild out- side this little Sleepy Hollow of l*hilistinism ■395
ELIZA LYNN LINTON.— 5
found a sympathetic echo here. Woman's rights were considered immoral, unrighteous, and indeli- cate ; strikes, and the theory of the rights of la- bor, were criminal and treasonable ; tlie education of the poor was the knell of England's prosper- ity ; and the democratic spirit abroad boded the downfall of the empire and tiie ruin of society. But where all else was evil, one place at least remained pure. Milltown held itself clear of I lie prevailing sins, and constituted itself the Zoar of English social order and political righteousness Patricia Kemhall.
396
WILLIAM JAMES LINTON.— 1
LINTOX, William James, an English wood-eugraver and author (husband of the preceding, to whom he was married in 1858), born at Loudon in 1812. In 1851 he was one of the founders of Tke Leader, a Radi- cal newspaper, and in 1855 became manager of Pea and Pencil, an illusti'ated journal. En 1867 he came to the United States, tak- ing up his permanent residence at New Haven, Conn. Before coming to America he contributed largely to several pei^odi- cals. He is the author of a life of Thomas Paine, and of several works on wood-en- graving, an art in which he for a long time held the foremost place. In 18()5 he put forth Glarihel and other Poems, a volume profusely illustrated by himself. In 1882 he edited Rare Poems of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, and in 1883, in con- junction with Richard H. Stoddard, Eng- lish Verse, in five volumes.
A PRAYER FOR TRUTH.
0 Go 1 ! the giver of all which men call good Or ill, the Origin and Soul of Power !
1 pray to Thee as all must in their hour Of need, for solace, medicine, or food. Whether aloud or secretly — undeistood
No less by Thee. I pray ; biU not for fame. Nor love's best happiness, nor place, iiorwealtli:
1 iisk Tliee only for that spiritual health
Which is perception of the True — the same As in Thy Nature : so to know and aim Toward Thee my thouglif, my word, my whole
of life. Then matters little whether care or strife, Hot sun, or cloud, o'erpass this earthly day ; Night Cometh, and my star climbeth Thy heavenly way.
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WILLIAM JAMES LINTON.- 2
REAL AND TRUE.
Only the Beautiful is real !
All tliiugs of which our life is full,
All mysteries which life inwreathe,
Birth, life, and death, All that we dread or darkly feel — All are but shadows, and the Beautiful Alone is real.
Nothing but love is true !
Earth's many lies, whirled upon Time's swift wheel, Shift and repeat their state — Birth, life, and death, And all that they bequeathe Of hope or memory, thus do alternate
Continually ; Love doth anneal Doth beauteously imbue The wine-cups of the archetypal Fate.
Love, Truth, and Beauty — all are one !
If life may expiate The wilderings of its dimness, death be known
But as the mighty ever-living gate Into the Beautiful All things flow on
Into one Heart, one Melody, Eternally.
POETS.
True Poet! Back, thou Dreamer! Lay thy dreams In ladies' laps ; and silly girls delight With thy inane apostrophes to Night, Moonsliine, and Wave, and Cloud ! Thy fancy
teems — • • Not genius I Else some high heroic themes Should from thy brain proceed, as Wisdom's
might Fi'om head of Zeus. For now great Wrong and Right Affront each other, and War's trumpet screams,
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WILLIAM JAMES LINTON.— 3
Giddyiiig the earth with dissonance. Oh. where
Is He, voiced godlike, unto those who dare To more than daring with tlie earnest sliout. Of a true battle-hymn ? We tight without
The music which should cheer us in oiu- liglit While Poets learn to pipe like whiflling streams.
LABOR IN VAIN.
Oh not in vain ! Even poor rotting weeds
Nourish the roots of fVuitfuUest fair trees ; So from thy fortune-loathed hope proceeds
The experience that shall base high victories. The tree of the good and evil knowledge needs
A rooting place in thoughtful agonies. Failures of lofty essays are the seeds
Out of whose dryness, when cold Night dis- solves Into the dawning Spring, fertilities
Of liealthiest promise leap rejoicingly. Therefore hold on thy way, all luidismayed
At the bent brows of Fate, untiringly !
Knowing this — past all the woe our earth in- volves, Sooner or later Truth must be obeyed.
399
SARA JANE LIPPINCOTT— 1
LIPPINCOTT, Sara Jane (Clarke), an American author, born at Poiiipey, N Y., in 1823. In 1843 she removed with her parents to New Brighton, Pa., and en- tered upon literary worlc, her first prose ar- ticles being published over the signature of" Grace Greenwood," by which she is best known. She married Mr. Leander K. Lip- pi ncott, of Philadelphia, and in 1854 estab- lished there a juvenile paper, The Little Pilgrim^ which she edited for several years. Among her works are : Greenwood Leaves (1850), Poems (1861), Haps and Mishajys of a Tour in England (1854), The Forest Tragedy and Other Tales (1856), Stories and Jjegends of Travel (1858), Stor- ies from Famous Ballads (1860), Stories of Many Lands (1867), Stories and Sights in France and Italy (1868), New Life in New Lands (1873), Stories for Home Folks (1884.)
THE POET OF TO-DAY.
More than the soul of ancient song is given To thee, O ])oet of to-day ! — thy dower
Comes from a higher than Olympian heaven, In holier beauty and in larger power.
To thee Humanity, her woes revealing,
Would all her griefs and ancient wrongs re- hearse ; Would make fhy song the voice of her appeal- ing. And sob her mighty sorrows through thy verse.
While in her season of great darkness sharing, Hail thou the coming of each promise-star
Which climbs the midnight of her long despair- ing, And watch foi- morning o'er the hills afar.
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Wherever truth her holy warfare wages,
Or treedom pines, there let thy voice be heard.
Sound like a prophet-warning down the ages The human utterance of God's living word !
But bring thou not the battle's stormy chorus, The tramp of armies, and the roar of Hglit.
Not war's hot smoke to taint the sweet nioni o'er us, Nor blaze of pillage reddening up the night.
Oil, let thy lays prolong that angel-singing. Girdling mth music the Redeemer's star.
And breathe God's peace, to earth glad tidings bringing From the near heavens of old so dim and far !
IXVOCATION TO MOTHER EARTH.
Oh, Earth! thy face hath not the grace
That smiling Heaven did bless, When thou wert "good," and blushing stood
In thy young loveliness; And, mother dear, the smile and tear
In thee are strangely met; Thy joy and woe together flow —
But ah 1 we love thee yet.
Thou still art fail", when morn's fresh air
Thrills with the lark's sweet song; When Nature seems to wake from dreams.
And laugh and dance along; Thou 'rt fair at day, wiien clouds all gray
Fade into glorious blue ; When sunny Hours fly o'er the flowers,
And kiss away the dew.
Thou 'rt fair at eve, when skies receive
The last smile of the sun ; When thi'ough the shades the twilight spreads,
The stars peep, one by one; Thou 'rt fair at night, when full starlight
Streams down upon the sod ; When moonlight pale on hill and dale
Rests like the smile of God.
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And thou art grand, where hikes expand,
And mighty rivers roll ; AVhen Ocean proud, with threateiiings loud,
Mocketh at man's control ; And grand thou art when lightnings dart
And gleam athwart the sky ; When thunders peal, and forests reel,
And storms go sweeping by !
We bless thee now for gifts that thou
Hast freely on us shed ; For dews and showers, and beauteous bowers,
And blue skies overhead ; For morn's perfume, and midday's bloom,
And evening's hour of mirth ; For glorious night, for all things bright.
We bless thee, Mother Earth !
But when long years of care and tears
Have com(! and passed away. The tmie may be when sadly we
Shall turn to thee, and say : " We are worn with life, its toils and strife.
We long, we pine for rest ; We come, we come, all weai'ied home —
Room, mother, in thy breast ! " 402
DAVID LIVINGSTONE— 1
LIVINGSTONE, David, a Scottish mis- sionary and explorer in Africa, born at Blantyre, near Glasgow, in 1813 . died at llala, Central Africa, May 1, 1873. His father was a poor weaver, and the son gained the greater part of his early educa- tion at an evening school, while working through the day in a cotton-mill. While still working in the mill, he studied medi- cine and theology, and in 1838 oft'ei-ed him- self to the London Missionary Society as a missionary to Southern Africa, whither he set out in 18-10. At Port Natal he mar- ried the daughter of Robert Moft'att, a mis- sionary, and took up his station at Kuru- man, about 600 miles from Cape Town. In 1849 he started on his first exploring expedition, during which he discovered Lake Ngami, the first of the great African lakes made known to Europeans. In 1852 he set out upon his second expedition, which lasted four years. Leaving Cape Town, he made his'way to the Portuguese settlements, thence going eastward across the entire breadth of the African continent to the sea, travelling in all not less than 11,000 miles. He returned to England in 1856, and next year published his Mis- sionary Travels and JResearches in South Africa.
In 1858, having been provided with funds by Government and private individ- uals, he returned to Africa. Among the results of this expedition, which lasted until 1863, was the discovery of Lake Nyassa. He also re-visited the Falls of Mosioatunye (" Sounding Smoke ") on the Zambesi, which he had discovered during his previous journey, l^o this cataract —
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DAVID LIVINGSTONE.— 2
not less remarkable than that of Niagara, lie gave the name of " Victoria Falls." lie returned to England in 1864, and in the following year put forth his Narrative of an Exiiedition to the Zamhesi and its Tribu- taries.
In 1865 he set out on a new expedition. Nothing was heard of him for a year, and a report reached the coast that he had been murdered by the natives ; but in April, 1868, letters were received from idm. The next tidings came in May, 1869, when he was at Ujiji, on Lake Tanganyika, in Cen- tral Africa. It was nearly two years be- fore anything further was heard from liim. In 1871 the proprietor of the New York Herald fitted out an expedition, under the command of Henry M. Stanley, to go in search of Livingstone. Stanley reached Lake Tanganyika, where he encountered Livingstone, who had just arrived fi-om a long expedition, in the course of which he came upon a great riVer to which he gave the native name of the Lualaba, which he erroneously believed to be the upper waters of the Nile ; but which is now generally known as the Congo — the same which Stanley subsequently descended to its mouth — more than- a thousand miles from that of the Nile.
Of Livingstone nothing further was heard until October, 1873, when Commander Cam- eron, who had been sent by the British Government with a party for his relief, met a company of the explorer's paity, who were bearing the dead body of their leader, who had died hundreds of miles away on the 1st of May. The remains were carried to the coast, thence to London, where they were
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solemuly buried iu Westminster Abbey, April 18, 1874:. These faitlifal attendants of Livingstone also brought his papers which were deciphered, and pubHshed in 187-i, under the title. The Last Journals of David Livingstone, including his Wander- ings and Discoveries in Eastern Africa from 1865 to ivithin a few days of his Death.
ENCOUNTER WITH A LION.
We found the lions on ti small hill about a quarter of a mile in length, and covered with trees. A circle of men was formed round it, and they gradually closed up, ascending pretty near to each other. Being down below on the plain with a native schoolmaster, named Mebdlwe — a most excellent man — I saw one of the lions sitting on a piece of rock within the now closed circle of men. Mebalwe fired at him before I could, and the ball struck the rock on which the animal was sitting. He bit at the spot struck, as a dog does at a stick or stone thrown at him ; then leaping away, broke through tiie opening circle, and escaped unhurt. The men were afraid to attack him, perhaps on account of their belief in witchcraft. When the circle was re-formed, we saw two other lions in it ; but we were afraid to fire lest we should strike the men, and they allowed the beasts to I»urst through also. If the Bakatla had acted according to the custom of the country, they would have speared the lions in their attempt to get out.
Seeing we could not get them to kill one of the lions, we bent our footsteps towards the vil- lage. In going round the end of the hill, how- ever, I saw one of the beasts sitting on a piece of rock as before ; but this time he had a little bush in front. Being about thirty yards off, I took a good aim at his body through the bush, and fired both barrels into it. The men then
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called out, " He is shot ! he is shot ! " Others I'lied, "He has been shot by another mjin too ; let us go to him ! " I did not see any one else shoot at him ; but I saw the hon's tail erected in anger behind the bush, and turning to the people, said, " Stop a little till I load again."
When in the act of ramming down the bullets I heard a shout, Starting, and looking half round, I saw the lion just in the act of springing upon me- I was upon a little height ; he caught my shoulder as he sprang, and both came to the ground below together. Growling horribly close to my ear, he shook me as a terrier-dog does a rat. The shock produced a stupor similai' to that which seems to be felt by a mouse after the first shake of the cat. It caused a sort of dreami- ness, in which there was no sense of pain nor feeling of terror, though quite conscious of all that was happening. It was like what patients partially under the influence of chloroform de- scribe, who see all the operation, but feel not the knife. This singular condition was not the result of any mental process. The shake anni- hilated fear, and allowed no sense of horror in looking round at the beast. This peculiar state is probably produced in all animals killed by the carnivora; and if so, is a merciful provision of our benevolent Creator for lessening the pain of death.
Turning round to relieve myself of the weight — as he had one paw on the back of my head — I saw his eyes directed to MebAlwe, who was trying to shoot him at a distance of ten or fifteen yards ; his gun, a flint one, missed fire in both barrels. The lion immediately left me, and at- tacking Mebalwe, bit his thigh. Another man, whose life I had saved before, after he had been tossed by a buffalo, attempted to spear the lion while he was biting MebAlwe. He left Mebalwe, and caught this man by the shoulder ; but at that moment the bullets he had received look effect and he fell down dead. The whole was
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DAVID LIVINGSTONE.— 5
tlie work of u tew moments, and must have been his paroxysms of dying rage. In order to take out the charm from him, the Bakathi on the fol- lowing day made a huge bonfire over the car- cass, which was declared to be that of the larg- est lion they had ever seen. Besides crunching the bone into splinters, he left eleven teeth- wounds on the upper part of my arm Mis- sionary Travels and. Researches.
THE FALLS OF MOSIOATUNYA.
It is rather a hopeless task to endeavor to convey an idea of this cataract in words, since, as was remarked on the spot, an accomplished painter even by a number of views, could impart but a faint impression of the glorious scene. The probable mode of its formation may perhaps help to the conception of its peculiar shape. Niagara has been formed by a wearing back of the rock over which the river falls ; and, during a long course of ages, it lias gradually receded, and left a liroad, deep, and pretty straight trough in front. But the Victoria Falls have been formed 1) y a crack right across the river, in the hard, black basaltic rock, which there forms the bed of the Zambesi. The lips of the crack are still quite sliarp, save about three feet of the edge over which the river falls. The walls go sheer down from the lips without any projecting crag, or symptom of stratification or dislocation.
When the mighty rift occurred, no change of level took place in the two parts of the bed of the river tlius rent asunder ; consequently in coming down the river to Garden Island,* the water suddenly disappears, and we see the op- posite side of the cleft, with grass and trees growing where once the bed of the river ran, on
*" Garden Island" lies at the very edge of the cataract, much as " Goat Island " does at Niagara. It was so named by Living.stone when, in 1855, he first saw Mosioatunya.
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the same level us that part of the hed on wli'udi we now sail.
The lirst erack is in length a few yards more than the bi'eadtli of the Zambesi, which by meas- ununent, we found to be a little over 1860 yards ; but this number we resolved to retain, as indicating the year in which the fall was for the first time carefully examined. The main stream here runs nearly north and south, and the cleft across is nearly east and west. The depth of the rift was measured by lowering a line, to the end of which a few bullets and a foot of white cotton cloth were tied. One of us lay witli his head over a projecting crag, and watched the descending calico, till after his com- panions liad i)aid out 310 feet, the weight rested on a sloping projection, probably 50 feet fi'om the water below — the actual bottom being still farther down. The white cloth now appeared the size ot a crown-piece. On measurmg the width of this deep cleft by the sextant, it was found at Garden Island — its narrowest part — to be 80 yards, and at its broadest somewhat more. Into this chasm, of twice the depth of Niagara Falls, the rivei- — a full mile wide — rolls with a deafening roar. And this is the Mosioatunya, or Victoria Falls.
Looking from Garden Island down to the bottom of the abyss, nearly half a mile of water which has fallen over that portion of the falls to our right, or west of our point of view, is seen collected in a narrow channel, 20 or 30 yards wide, and flowing at exactly right angles to its previous course, to our left ; while the other half — or that which fell over the eastern portion of the falls — is seen on the left of the narrow channel below, coming towards our right. Both waters unite midway in a fearful boiling whirl- pool, and find an outlet by a crack situated at right angles to the fissure of the falls. This outlet is about 1170 yards from the westei-n end of the chasm, and some 600 from its Eastern
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end. The whirlpool is at its commeiK-ement. The Zambesi — now not apparently more than 20 or 30 yards wide — vuslies and surges south, throiiiih the narrow escape-channel, for 130 yards; then enters a second chasm, some- what deeper and nearly parallel with the first. Abandoning the bottom of tlie eastern half of this second chasm to the growth of large trees, it turns sharply off to the west, and forms a pro- montory with the escape-channel 1170 yards long, and 416 yards broad at the base. After leaching this base the river Hows abruptly round the head of anotlier promontory, much narrower tlian the rest, and away back to the west in a fourth chasm ; and we could see in the distance that it appeared to round still another promon- tory, and bend once more in .another chasm to- ward tiie east.
In this gigantic zig-zag, yet narrow trough, tlie rocks are all so sharply cut and angular, that the idea at once arises that the hard basaltic trap must have been riven into its present yha[)e by a force acting from beneath; and that this proba- bly took place when the ancient inland seas were let off by similar fissures nearer the ocean — Expedition to the Zambesi.
Considering that it requires a journey of not less than three months to reach Mosio- atunya from the coast in either direction, and as long to return, it is not strange that so few Europeans have seen the falls. We have endeavored to keep a record of these, and do not find more than a score up to 1889. Charles Livingstone, the younger brother of David, who accompanied him on this expedition, is the only person, as far as we know, who has seen both Mosioatunya and Niagara, and he considers the former to be the more striking of the two. — Of Livingstone's last journey only a few words
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DAVID LIVINGSTONE.— 8
Call here be said. In liis Journal^ late iii August, 1872, lie notes the objects he had in view: —
LATEST GEOGRAPHICAL SPECULATIOXS.
Mr. Stanley used some very strong arguments in favor of my going home, recruiting my strengtli, getting artificial teeth, and then re- turning to finish my task. But now judgment said, " All your friends will wish you to make a complete work of the exploration of the Sources of the Nile before you retire." My daughter Agnes says, " Much as I wish you to come home, I would rather that you finished your work to your own satisfaction than return merely to gratify me." Rightly and nobly said, my darling Nannie. Vanity whispers pretty loudly, " She is a chip of the old block." My blessings on her and all the rest.
It is all but certain that four fullgrown, gush- ing fountains rise on the water-shed eight days south of Katanga (about lat. 8° S., long. 30° W.), each of which at no great distance off becomes a large river ; and two rivers thus formed flow nortli to Egypt, the other two south to Inner Ethiopia;- that is, Lufii'a, or Bartle Frere's River, flows into Kamolondo, and that into Webb's Luahiba — the main line of drainage. Another, on the north side of the sources — Sir Paraffin Young's Lualaba — flows through Lake Lincoln, otlier- wise named Chibungo and Lomame, and that too into Webb's Lualaba. Then Liambai Foun- tain— Palmerston's — forms the Upper Zambesi ; and the Longa(Lunga) — Oswell's Fountain — is the Kafue ; both flowing into Inner Ethiopia. It may be that these are not the fountains of the Nile mentioned to Herodotus by the secretary of Minerva, in Sais, in Egypt ; but they are worth discovery, as in the last hundred of the 700 miles of water-shed from wdiich nearly all the Nile springs do unquestionably arise.
I propose to go from Unyanembe to Fipa ;
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tlicu round the south end of 'I'aiiganyika, Taiu- bete, or Mbete ; tlien across the Cliambeze, and round south of Lake Bangwelo, and due west to the ancient fountains ; leaving the underground excavations, till after visiting Katanga. This route will serve to certify that no other sources of the Nile can come from the south without be- ing seen by me. No one will cut me out after this exploration is accomplished. And may the good Lord of All help me to show myself one of His stout-hearted servants ; an honor to my children, and perhaps to my country and my race .... Stanley's men may arrive in July next.
Then engage bearers half a month — August ; five months of tiiis year will remain for joui-ney. The whole of 1873 will be swallowed up in work ; but in February or March, 1874, please the Almighty Disposer of events, I shall com- plete my task and retire.
Up to April 10, 1873, notwithstanding several attacks of dissentery, Livingstone kept a full journal of his doings ; but on that day he had a severe attack, and failed rapidly, but was carried in a palanquin. His journal thenceforth con- tains only mere jottings. The last entry is dated April 27 • " Knocked up quite, and remain — recover — sent to buy milch goats. We are on the banks of the Molilamo." The accounts of his last hours are derived wholly from the re- lations of two of his faithful native followers. About midnight, April 30, May 1, he prepared a dose of calomel for himself, and said to his at- tendants, " All right; you can go now." These wore the last words that mortal man ever heard from his lips. Some hours later his men became alarmed, and six of them entered his hut. This is what they saw :
THE DEAD LIVINGSTONE.
Passing inside, they looked towards the bed. Livingstone was not lying u[)oii it, but appeared
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to be i-n gaged in prayer. A candle, stuck by its own wax to the top of the bed, shed a light sufficient for them to see his form. He was kneeling by the side of his bed, liis body stretched forward, his head buried in his hands upon the pillow. For a minute they watched liim. He did not stir, there was no sign of breathing. Then one of them advanced softly to him and placed liis hands to his cheeks. It was suffi- cient : life had been extinct for some time, and the body was almost cold. Livingstone was dead.
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LIVY.— 1
LIVY (Titus Livius, surnamed Patavi- Nus, from the place of his birth), a Roman historian, born at Patavium, the modern Padua, B.C. 59; died there a.d. 17. "His family, originally of Rome, was one of the most important in his native city. He went to Rome where he became prominent as a rhetorician, which in his case was equivalent to a lecturer on belles-lettres, and was one of the brilliant circle, of which Yirgil and Horace, somewhat his seniors, were members, that adorned the Court of the Emperor Augustus, at whose sugges- tion, we are told, Livy set about his great history, called by himself the •Annals of Rome.
The Annals^ when entire, consisted of' 1-1:2 " Books ; " but of these only 35 are now extant, so that more than three-fourths luive been lost. They were at an early period divided into " decades," or series of ten Books. The decades which wx have are the 1st, the 3d, the 4th, a portion of the 5th, and a few fragments of others. The lost decades are those which — apart from their quantity — would have been far more valuable than those which remain, since they relate to the later historj^ of Rome, for which more trustworthy materi als existed than for the early centuries. This defi- ciency is, however, partially supplied by si very early abstract of the contents of the; lost portions; and these abstracts are our only means of acquaintance with some of the most important periods of Roman his- tory. The quarter which remains makes four stout volumes ; so that the Annals were one of the most comprehensive historical works ever written by a single person.
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The question of the authenticity of the Annals of Livy has been much debated. It is admitted that much is purely legendary. Livy himself affirms this of at letist the earlier Books. But our purpose is not to set forth the verity of Roman history ; but to sliow Livy's manner of telling it. Our extracts are from the very literal and some- what bald, translations by Spillan and Ed- monds, and the more spirited rendering of certain passages by the Rev. W. Lucas Col- lins, embodied in his little work on Livy.
THE LEGEND OF ROMULUS AND REMUS.
In my opinion the origin of so great a city, and the establishment of an empire next in power to that of the gods, was due to the Fates. The vestal Rhea, being deflowered by force, when she had brought forth twins, declares Mars to be the fatlier of her illegitimate offspring — either because she believed it to be so, or because a god was amox-e creditable author of her offence. But neither gods nor man protect lier or her children from the king's cruelty. The priestess is bound and thrown into prison ; the children he commands to be thrown into the current of the river.
By some interposition of Providence, the Tiber, having overflowed its banks in stagnant pools, did not admit of any access to the regular bed of the river ; and the bearers supposed that the infants could be drowned in waters however still. Then, as if they liad effectually executed the king's orders, they exposed the boys in the nearest land-flood, where now stands the Ficus Rummahs (they say that it was anciently called XXie Ficus Romulamis, "the Fig-tree of Romulus.") The country thereabout was then a vast wilder- ness.
The tradition is, that when the subsiding water had left on the dry ground the floating 414
LIVY.— 3
trougli, in which the chikhrn had been exposed, a thirsty she-wolf eoming from the ueigliboring inoimtains, directed her course to the cries of the itifants. and tliat she held down her dugs to them with so much gentleness that the keeiier of the king's flocks found her licking the boys with her tongue. It is said that his name was Faust ii- lus ; and tliat they were carried by him to his homestead to be nursed by his wife Laiirentia. Some are of opinion that she v as called Ltipa — She-wolf — among the shepherds, from her being a common prostitute, and that tliis gave rise to the surprising story. — Annals, Book I. — TransL o/'Si'ii.LAN and Edmonds.
THE COMBAT OF THE HOUATII AND THE CURIATII.
The signal is given ; and the tliree youths on each side, as if in battle array, rush to the charge with determined fury, bearing in their breasts the spirit of mighty armies ; nor do the one nor the other regard their personal danger. The public dominion or slavery is present to their mind, and the fortunes of their country, which was ever after destined to be such as they should now establish it.
As soon as their arms clashed on the first en- counter, and their burnished swords glittered, great horror strikes the spectators ; and, hope inclining to neither side, their voice and breath wen; suspended. Then, having engaged hand to hand, when not only the movements of their bodies and the rapid brandisliings of their weapons, but wounds also and blows Avere seen ; two of the Romans fell lifeless, one upon the other — the three Albans being wounded. And when the Alban army raised a shout of joy at their fall, hope entirely — anxiety, however not yet — deserted the Roman legions, alarmed for the lot of the one whom the three Curiatii sur- rounded. He happened to be unhurt, so that, being alone, he was by no means a match for 415
LIVY.— 4
them all. Yet, he was confident against each singly. In order therefore, to separate their at- tack, he takes to flight, presuming that they would pursue him with sucli swiftness as the wounded state of his body would suffer each.
He liad now fled a considerable distance fiom the place where they had fought, wlien, looking behind, he perceived them pursuing him at great intervals from each other, and that one of them was not far from him ; on liim he tmiied jiround with great fury. And whilst the Albaii aimy shouts out to the Curiatii to succor their brother, Horatius, victorious in liaving slain liis ant:igo- nist, was now proceeding lo a second attack. Then the Romans encourage their cliam|)ion Avith a shout such as is usually given by persons cheering in consequence of unexpected success ; he also" hastens to put an end to the combat. Wherefore, before the other, who was not far off, could come up, he dispatched this second Curiatius also.
And now, the combat being brought to an equality of numbers, one on each side remained ; but they were equal neither in hope nor in strength. The one, his body untouched by a weapon, and by his double victory made cour- ageous for a third contest ; the other dragguig afoiig his body exhausted from the wound, ex- hausted from running, and dispirited by the slaughter of his brethren before his eyes, pre- sents himself to his victorious antagonist. Nor was that a fight. The Roman, exulting, says, " Two I have ottered to the Shades of my brothers ; the third I will offer to the cause of this war, that tlie Roman may rule oyer the Alban." He thrusts his sword down into his throat, whilst faintly sustaining the weight of his armor ; he strips him as he lies prostrate. The Romans receive Horatius with triumph and congratulation ; and with so much the o-reater joy, as success had followed so close on fear. ...
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After this both armies returned to their homes. Horatius marched foremost, carrying before him tlie spoils of the three brothers. His sister — a maiden who liad been betrothed to one of the Curiatii — met him before the gate Capena ; and having recognized her lover's military robe, which she herself had wrought, on her brother's shoulders, she tore her hair, iuul with bitter wailings called by name on her .l.'ceased lover. The sister's lamentations in ill the midst of his own victory, and of such great public rejoicings, raised the indignation of the excited youth. Having therefore drawn his sword, he ran tlie damsel through the body, at tlie same time chiding her in these words ; "Go lience, with thy unseasonable love to thy es- poused, forgetful of thy dead brotiiers, and of him who survives — forgetful of thy native coun- try. So perish every Ronuin woman who shall mourn an enemy !" — Aiinah, Book 1 — Transl. of Spillax and Edmonds.
Hannibal's passage of the alps.
On the ninth day they came to a summit of the Alps, chiefly through places trackless; and after many mistakes of their way, which were caused either by the treachery of the guides ; or, when they were not trusted, by entering val- leys at random, on their own conjectures of the route.' For two days they remained encamped on the summit ; and rest was given to the sol- diers, exhausted with toil and figliting ; and sev- eral beasts of burden, which had fallen down among the rocks, by following the track of the :uiny, arrived at the camp. A fall of snow — it h<-ing now the season of the setting of the con- stellation of the Pleiades — caused great fear to the soldiers, already worn out with weariness of so many hardsliips.
On the standards being moved forward at day- break, when the army ))roce<'ded slowly over all places entirely block(;(l up witli snow, i\nd lan- 27 ' 417
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guor and despair strongly appeared in the eoun- tcnanoes of all, Hannibal, liaving advanced be- fore the standards, and ordered th(> soldiers to halt on a certain eminence, whence there was a prospect far and wide, points out to them Italy and tlie plains of the Po, extending themselves l>eneath the Alpine mountains ; and said that they were now surmounting not only the ram- parts of Italy, but also of the city of Rome ; that the rest of the journey would be smooth and down hill ; that after one, or at most a sec ond battle, they would have the citadel and capi- tal of Italy in their power and possession.
The army tlien began to advance ; the enemy now making no attempts beyond petty thefts, as opportunity offered. But tiie journey proved much more difficult than it had been in the ascent, as tlie declivity of the Alps being generally shorter on the side of Italy, is consequently steeper. Nearly all the road was precipitous, narrow, and slippery, so that neither those who made the least stumble coidd prevent themselves from fall- ing, nor, when fallen, remain in the same place; but rolled, both men and beasts of burden, one upon another.
They then came to a rock much more narrow, and formed of such per[)endicidar ledges that a liglit-armed soldier — carefully making the at- tempt, and clinging with his hands to the bushes and roots around — could -with difficulty lower himself down. The ground, even before very steep by nature, had been broken by a recent falling away of the earth into a precipice of nearly a thousand feet in depth. Here, when the cavalry had halted, as if at the end of their journey, it is announced to Hannibal, wonder- ing wdiat had obstructed the march, that the rock was impassable. Having then gone him- self to view the place, it seemed clear to him that he must lead his army round it, I)y however great a circuit, tlirough the pathless and untrod- den regions around.
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But this route also proved impraoticiibk' ; for while the new snow of a, moderate depth re- mained on the old. wliich had not been removed, their footsteps were planted with ease, as they walked upon the new snow, which was soft, and not too deep ; but when it was dissolved by the trampling of so many men and beasts of burden, they then walked on the bare ice below, and through a dirty fluid formed by the melting snow.
Here there was a wretched struggle, both on jiccount of the slippery ice not affording any foot- hold to the step, and giving away beneath the foot the more readily by reason of the slope ; and wliether they assisted tliemselves in rising l)y tlii^ir hands or their knees, their supports theui- -flves giving way, they would tumble again. Nor were there any stumps or roots near, by pressing i.^ainst which one might with hand or foot sup- [)oit himself; so that they only floundered on tiie smooth ice and amid the melted snow. The beasts of burden also cut into this lower ice by merely Heading upon it; at others they broke it com- |)letely through by the violence with which they struck it with their hoofs in their struggling ; so that most of tiiem, as if taken in a trap, stuck ill the hardened and deeply frozen ice.
At length, after the men and beasts of burden had been fatigued to no purpose, the camp was pitched on tlie summit, the ground being cleared for tiiat purpose with great difficulty, so mucli snow was tliere to be dug out and carried away, i'lie soldiers being then set to make a way down till' cliff, by which alone a passage could be ef- frcted ; and it being necessary that they should rut through the rocks, having felled and lopped .1 number of large trees wliich grew around, tlicy make a huge pile of timber; and as soon as a strong wind fit for exciting the flames arose, lli<!y set tire to it ; and pouring vinegar on the heated stones, they render them soft and crumb- ling. They then open a way with iron instru- 41',»
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meats through the rock thus heated by the fire, and soften its declivities by gentle windings, so that not only the beasts of burden, but also the elephants, could be led down it.
Four days were spent about this rock, the beasts nearly perishing through hunger ; for the summits of the mountains are for the most part bare, and if there is any pasture the snows bury it. The lower parts contain valleys, and some sunny hills, and rivulets flowing beside woods, and scenes more worthy of the abode of man. There the beasts of burden were sent out to pas- ture, and rest given for three days to the men, fatigued with forming the passage. They then descended into the plains — the country and the dispositions of the inhabitants being now less rugged.
In this manner chiefly they came to Italy in the fifth month, as some authors relate, after leaving New Carthage, having crossed the Alps in fifteen days. What number of forces Han- nibal had when he passed into Italy, is by no means agreed upon by authors. Those who state them at the highest make mention of 100,000 Coot and 20,000 horse ; those who state them at the lowest, of 20,000 foot and 6,000 horse. Lucius Cincius Alimentus, who relates that he was made prisoner by Hannibal, would influence me most as an authority, did he not confound the number by adding the Gauls and Liguiians. Including these (who, it is more probable, flocked to him afterwards — and so some authors assert), he says that 80,000 foot and 10,000 horse were brought into Italy ; and that he had hef^rd from Hannibal himself that after crossing the Rhone he had lost 36,000 men, and an immense number of horses and other beasts of burden, among the Taurini, the next nation to the Gauls, as he de- scended into Italy Annals, Book XXI. —
Transl. of Spillan and Edmonds.
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LIVY.— !)
IN ROMK, AFTER THE PEFEAT NEAR LAKE THRASYMENUS
AVlien the first tidings of this disaster reached Koine, great was the panic and confusion ; and there was a general rush of the people into the Forum. Wives and mothers wandered about the streets, asking all they met what this sudden calamity was that men reported, and which had happened to the army. And when the crowd, like a great public meeting, made its way to the election-courts and the senate-house, and ap- pealed to the magistrates for information, at length, a little before sunset, Marcus Pomponius, the Prtetor announced, " We have been beaten in a great battle." And though no further par- ticulars could be learned from him, yet men caught vague rumors one from the other, and went home saying, that "the Consul, with the greater part of its forces were cut to pieces ; that the few who survived had either been made to pass under the yoke or were scattered in flight throught Etruria." Various as was the fate of the beaten army were the different forms of anxiety felt by those who had relatives serv- ing under the Consul; none knowing wliat tl\eir fate had been, and all uncertain what they had to hope or what to fear.
Next day, and for some days afterwards, crowds thronged the gates — women in almost as great numbers as men — waiting for some mem- ber of their family, or for news of him. They threw themselves upon all whom they met, with anxious inquiries, and could not be shaken off — especially from any one whom tliey knew — until they had asked every particular from first lo last. Then you might have marked the different countenances, as they passed from their infoini- ants, according as each had heard cheerinir or mournful news; while, on the way home, friends crowded around them to congiatulate or condole. The women showed tlieir joy or grief most (con- spicuously. One mother who met her son at the
LIVY.— 10
gate, returning safe, is said to have expired on beholding him ; another, who had heard a false report of her son's death, and was sitting weep- ing in her house, saw him returning, and died of over-joy. The Praetors kept the Senate sit- ting for several days from sunrise to sunset, con- sulting what commander and wliat troops could be found to resist the victorious Carthaginians, — Annals, Chap. XXII — Transl. of Collins.
IN ROME AFTER THE VICTORY ON THE METAURLS.
While the city was in this state of anxious suspense, there came a rumor, vague at first, that two Narnian horsemen had ridden from the battle to the Roman force wliicli lay watching the passes of Umbria, with the news that the enemy had received a heavy blow. Men took it in with their ears rather than their minds, as too great and too joyful to be entertained in thought, or readily believed. The very rapidity of the communication was an objection, for tlie 1 tattle was said to have taken place only two days before.
Soon a letter was brought in from JManlius, from the camp, announcing the arrival of the horsemen. When this letter was carried through the Forum to the court of the City Praetor, the Senate rose in a body from their hall ; and such a rush and struggle was made by the people towards the doors of the Senate- house that the courier could not make his way through, but was dragged to and fro by eager enquirers demanding that he should read it loudly on the public rostra before he cariied it to the Senate. At last the crowd was forced back and kept under restraint by the authori- ties, and the joyful news w^as circulated by degrees, though men's minds were as yet un- able to receive it. The letter was read in the Senate first, then in public to the people ; and, according to their various dispositions, some i'ii
LTVY.— 11
felt ail assured joy, others would give no credit to the tale until they had either heard or seen despatches from the Consuls themselves.
Presently word was brought that official messengers were coming. Then young and old went forth to meet tliem, each longing to be the ilrst to drink in such joyful tidings with eyes and ears. There was one continuous stream of j)eople out as far as the Milvian bridge. The officers entered the P'orum, the centre of a crowd of all ranks. Some questioned them, and some, those who escorted them, as to what had hap- pened ; and as each heard the news that the enemy's forces, and their commander, Hasdrubal, were cut to |)ieces — that the Roman legions were safe, that the Consuls were unharmed — they at once imparted their joy to others. The temples during the next three days were crowded ; wives and mothers in holiday attire, leading (heir childi-en with them, were giving thanks to heaven, and casting off all fear, as though the
war were already ended Annals, Chap.
XXVII Trunsl. of Collins.
HANNIBAL RECALLED FROM ITALY TO CARTHAGE.
He is said to have groaned aloud, and ground, his teeth and scarcely to have re- frained from tears, as he listened to the mes- sage of the envoys. When they had delivered themselves of tlieir instructions, "Ay," said he, "now they recall me in plain terms instead of by iiii|ilication — they who have so long been trying to drag me back by refusing me men or money. Hannibal is defeated not by the Roman peoph-. whom he has so often beaten and put to Hight, but by the Carthaginian Government — their jealousy and envy. Not Scipio himself will lioast and exult so much in this ignoniinioiis ntuin of mine, as will Hanno, who seeks to ('jfei't the destruclioii of our house by tin! ruin of Carthage, since he caM do it in no other way."
42 i
LIVY.— 12
Seldom was any man, leaving his native land for foreign exile, known to have parted from it with more evident sorrow that Hannibal showed in quitting the soil of an enemy. Often, as he looked back on the shores of Italy, lie accused gods and men, and cursed himself and his folly, •'that he had not led his troops straight to Rome while their swords were yet red from the
victory of Cannfe." — Annals, Chap. XXX
Transl. of Collins.
THE DEATH OP HANNIBAL.
He had always anticipated some such end to Ills life [being delivered up to the Romans] ; both because he knew the unrelenting hatred the Romans bore him, and because he had little faith in the honor of princes. He had taken refuge with Prusias, King of Bithynia; and the Roman General Flaminius demanded his death or rendition to them. He asked a slave for the (joison which he liad for some time kept ready for such an emergency. "Let us free Rome from this anxiety," said he, " since they think it long to wait for an old man's death." [His age was only forty-five.] "The triumph which Flaminius will win over an unarmed and aged man is neither great or glorious ; verily, this moment bears witness that the character of the Roman people has somewhat changed. Their fathers, when King Pyrrhus — an armed enemy — lay camped in Italy, forewarned him to be- ware of poison. These present men have sent one of their Consulars on such an errand as tliis — to urge Prusias to the base murder of liis guest."
Then launching execrations against Prusias and his kingdom, and calling on the gods to witness liis breach of faith and hospitalities, he swallowed
the draught. Such was the end of Hannibal
Annals, Chap. XXXIX. — Transl. o/" Collins.
424
JOHN LOCKE.— 1
LOCKE, John, an English philosopher, born in 1632 ; died in 1704. After stndy- iug at Westminster School he entered Christ-churcli College, Oxford, where he took his degree of Bachelor of Arts in 1655, and where he continued to reside un- til 1664, when he became secretary to an embass}^ to the Electoral Court of Branden- burg. Returning to England after a year, he was for some time in doubt whether to continue in the diplomatic profession, to study medicine, or to take Orders in tiie Cliurch. In fact, though he became neither a physician nor a clergyman, he entered deeply into both medicine and theology.
In 1669 he was employed by Lord Ash- ley, afterwards Earl of Shaftesbury, to draw up a series of fundamental laws for the government of the colony of Carolina, which had been granted to Ashley and seven others. In 1682 Shaltesbury was impeached of high treason, and took refuge ill Holland, whither he was soon followed by Locke, whose name was by order of the King stricken from the roll of Oxford stu- dents. While residing at Utrecht he wrote his noble essay on Toleration^ the cardinal principle of Avhich is that the State has to do only with civil matters, and should there- fore tolerate all modes of Avorship not im- moral in their nature or involving doctrines inimical to good government. Returning to England in the same fleet which brought over the Princess of Orange, he received the office of Commissioner of Appeals, with a salary of £200 ; and in 1795 he was made one of the Commissioners of Trade and Plantations, a place worth £1,000 a year.
425
JOHN I.OCIvE.— 3
The writings of Locke, wliicli cover a wide range of topics, have been many times publislied, the most complete edi- tion, in ten octavo vokimes, was pubhshed ill 1823. His celebrity as a philospher, however, rests mainly npon his two trea- tises, the Essay on linrnan UnderstandhKj ^ and the shorter work entitled " The Gondiicl of the Understayidi'ivjy The former of these works was commenced as early as 1670, was finished in 1687, but not publislied until 1690. Of this work Sir James Mack- intosh says :
"Few books have contributed more to rectify prejudice, to undermine estal)Ii?hed erroes, to diffuse a just mode of thinking, to excite a fearless spirit of inquiry, and yet to contain it within the boundaries which Nature has pre- scribed to the human understanding. If Bacon first discovered the rules by which knowledge is improved, Locke has most contributed to make mankind at large observe them. If Locke made few discoveries, Socrates made none ; yet both did more for the improvement of the un- dei'standing, and not less for the process of knowledge, than the authors of the most bril- liant discoveries."
Of Hie Conduct of the Understanding. Mr. Hallam says :
'' I cannot think any parent or instructor justified in neglecting to put this little treatise in the hands of a boy about the time when the reasoning faculties become develo|)ed. It will give him a sober and serious, not flippant or self- conceited independency of thinking, and while it teaches how to distrust ourselves, and to watch those prejudices which necessarily grow up from one cause or another, will inspire a ii^isonal)le confidence in wliat has been well considered."
426
.TOHNT LOCKE.— ;{
The Conduct of the Understanding is di^ vided into about fift}- short "Sections."
SCHOOL LOGIC AND THE UNDKK9TANDING.
The last resort a man has recourse to in (he ooiuUict of himself is his Understanding; for though we distinguish the faculties of tlie mind, and give the supreme command to the "Will, us lo an agent, yet the truth is, the man, which is tin' agent, determines himself to this or that vol- imtaiy action, upon some precedent knowledge, or a|)p(>arance of knowledge, in tht^ Understand- ing. \o man ever sets himself about anything hut upon some view or other which serves him as a reason for wliat he does ; and whatsoever faculties he employs, the Understanding, with suc.li light as it lias — well or ill informed — con- stantly leads ; by that light, true or false, all his operative powers are <lirected. The Will itself, how absolute and uncontrollable soever it may be thought — never fails in its obedience to the dictates of the Understanding. The ideas and images in men's minds are the visible powers tliat constantly govern them, and to these they all universally pay a ready submission. It is therefore of the highest concernment that great care should be taken of the Understanding, to conduct it right in the pursuit of knowledge, and in the judgments it makes.
The Logic now in use has so long possessed the chair, as the only art taught in the schools for the direction of the mind in the study of the arts and sciences, tliat it would perhaps be thought an affectation of novelty to suspect that the rules which have served the learned world these two or three thousand years, and which, without any complaint of defect, the learned have rested in, are not sufficient to guide the Undci'standing. And I should not doubt but that this attempt would be censured as vanity or presumption, did not the great Lord Verulam's autUo-ity justify it: who not thinking learning
427
JOHM LOCICE -4
could not be aflvaiiced Ijeyond Avhat it was. he*, caiiso for many ages it liad not lieeii, did not rest in the lazy appi'obation and applause of what was, because it was, but enlarged his mind to what might be.
In his Preface to his Novum Organum he says : " They who attributed so much to Logic {Dialectica) perceived very well and truly, that it was not safe to trust the Understanding to itself without the guard of any rules. But the i-emedy reached not the evil, but became a part of it ; for the Logic which took place — though it might do well enough in civil affairs and the arts wdiich consisted in talk and opinion — yet comes very short of subtilty in the real performances of Nature ; and catching at w hat it cannot reach, has served to confirm and establish errors rather than open a w^ay to truth." And therefore, a little after, he says: ^^ Necessario requiritur itt melior et perfectior mentis et intellectns humani introducatur — It is absolutely necessary that a better and perfecter use and employment of the Mind and Understanding should be introduced." — The Conduct of the Understanding, Sect. I.
NATURAL PARTS.
There is, it is visible, great variety in men's understandings, and their natural constitutions put so wide a difference between some men in this respect that art and industry would never be able to master ; and their very natures seem to want a foundation to i-aise on it that wdiich other men easily attain to. Among men of equal education there is a great inequality of parts. And the woods of America, as well as the schools of Athens, produce men of several abilities in the same kind.
Though this be so, yet I imagine most men come very short of wdiat they might attain unio in their several degrees, by a neglect of their understandings. A ffnv rules of logic are thought sufficient in this case for those who pretend to the
■i2S
JOHN LOCKE.— 5
highest improvements; whereas T tliiiik there are a great many natural defects in the iinderstaiul- ing capable of amendment, which are overlooked anil wholly neglected. And it is easy to per- ceive that men are guilty of a great many faults ill the exercise and improvement of this faculty of the mind, which hinder them ni their pro- gress, and keep them in ignorance and error all their lives. Some of them I shall take notice of and endeavor to point out proper remedies for, in the following discourse — The Conduct of the Understanding, Sect. II.
THEOLOGY.
There is indeed one science — as they are now distinguished — incomparably above all the rest, when; it is not by corruption narrowed into a trade or faction, for mean or ill ends and secular interests. I mean Theology, which containing tiie knowledge of God and his creatures, our duty to Him and our fellow-creatures, and a view of our present and future state, is the compre- liension of all the other knowledge directed to its true end: i.e., the lionor and veneration of the Creator, and the happiness of mankind.
Tliis is that noble study which is every man's dutv, and every one that can be called a rational creature can be capable of. The works of Na- ture and the words of Revelation display it too in characters so large and visible that those who are (piite blind may in them read and see the first principles and the most necessary parts of it, and penetrate into those infinite depths filled with the treasures of wisdom and knowledge. This is that science which would truly enlarge men's minds were it studied, or permitted to be studied, every- wiiere, with that freedom, love of truth, and cliai-ity which it teaches; and were».not made, contrary to its nature, the occasion of strife, fac- lion, or malignity and narrow impositions. I shall say no more here of this, but lliat it is un- ih.iibti'dlv a wrouL'' ust' of mv Undci'standing to
JOHN LOCKE— 6
make it the rule, and measure of aiiothei maiTs — a use which it is neither lit for, nor capable of. The Conduct of the Understanding, Sect. XXllI.
FUNDAMENTAL VERITIES.
The mind of man being very narrow, and so v*low in making acquaintance of things and tak- ing in new truths, that no man is capable, in a much longer life than ours, to know all truths, it l)ecomes our prudence, in our search after know- ledge, to employ our thoughts about fundamen- tal and materhd questions, carefully avoiding tiiose tliat are trifling, and not suffering our- selves to be diverted from our main even purpose by those that are merely incidental.
flow much of many young men's time is thrown away in purely logical inquiries, I need not mention. This is no better than if a man who was to be a painter should spend all his time in examining the threads of the several cloths he is to paint upon, and counting the hairs of each pencil and brush he intends to use in tiie laying on of his colors. Nay, it is much worse than for a young painter to spend his apprentice- ship in such useless niceties ; for he, at the end of all his pains to no purpose, finds that it is not [)ainting, nor any help to it, and so is really to no l)urpose. Whereas, men designed for scholars have often their heads so filled and warmed with disputes on logical questions that they take these airy, useless notions for real and substantial knowledge, and think their understandings so well furnished with science that they need not look any farther into the nature of things, or descend to the mechanical drudgery of experi- ment and inquiry.
This is so obvious a mismanagement of the Understanding, and that in the professed way to knowledge, that it could not be parsed by ; to which might be joined abundance of questions and the May of handling them in schools. What faults in paiticular of this kind every man is or
430
JOHN LOCKE.— 7
maybe «uilty of. would be infinite to enumerate. It suffices to have shown that puperiieiul and slight discoveries and observations, that contain nothing of moment in themselves, nor serve as clews to lead us unto farther knowledge, should be lightly passed by, and never thought worth otu- searching after.
There are fundamental truths which lie at the I)ottom, the basis upon which a great many others rest, and in which they have their consistency. These are teeming truths, rich in store with which they furnish the mind ; and, like the lights of heaven, they are not only beautiful in them- selves, but give light and evidence to other things that, without them, could not be seen or known. Such is that admirable discoveiy of INIr. Newton, tiiat all bodies gravitate to one another, which may be counted as the basis of natural philoso- phy ; which, of what use it is to the understand- ing of the great frame of our solar system he has, to the astonishment of the learned vk'orld, shown ; and how much farther it would guide us in other things, if rightly pursued, is not known.
Our Saviour's great rule, that we should love our neighbor as ourselves is such a fundamental tiuth for the regulating of human society, that I tliink that by that alone one might without diffi- culty determine all the cases and doubts in social moi-ality. These, and such as these, ai-e the truths we should endeavor to find out and store our minds with The Conduct of the Under- standing, Sect. XLIII.
BOTTOMING.
The consideration of the necessity of search- ing into fundamental verities leads me to another thing in the conduct of the Undei'standing that is no less necessary, viz: To accustom ourselves, in any question proposed, to examine and find out upon what it bottoms.
Most of the difilculties that come in our way,
431
JOHN LOCKE.— 8
when well considered and traced, lead us to some proposition — which, known to be true, clears the doubt, and gives an easy solution to the question ; while to{)ical and superficial arguinents — of which there is store to be found on both sides — lining the head with variety of thoughts, and the mouth with copious discourse, serve only to amuse the understanding, and entertain com pany, without coming to tlie bottom of the ques- tion— the only place of rest and stability lor an inquisitive mind, wiiose tendency is only to truth and knowledge.
For example, if it be demanded whether the Grand Seignior can lawfully take what he will from any of his people ? This question cannot be resolved without coming to a certainty whether all men are naturally equal : lor upon that it turns; and that truth, well settled in the understanding, and cai'ried in the mind through the various debates concerning the various rights of men in society, will go a great way in putting an end to them, and showing on which side the
truth is Tlie Conduct of the Understanding ,
Sect. XLIV.
432
FREDERICK LOCKER.— 1
LOCKER, Frederick, an English writer of clever " verses of societ}'^," born in 1821. He was for many years connected with the Admiralty Office. He married a daughter of the wealthy banker, Sir Curtis Lampson. after whose death in 1885, he assumed the name of Lampson in addition to his own. He is especially noted for his unique col- lection of drawings by the old masters, and of rare books of the Elizabethan period. He has published a volume of London Lyrics, made up of his contributions to various journals (fifth edition in 1872), a volume entitled Patchwork (1879), and edited the Lijra Elegantiarum (1867.)
THE UNREALIZED IDEAL.
JNIy only love is always near :
In country or in town I see her twinkhng feet, I hear
The rustling of her gown.
She foots it ever fair and young ;
Her locks are tied in haste, And one is o'er her shoulder flung,
And hangs below her waist.
She ran before me in the meads ;
And down this world-worn track She leads me on ; but while she leads
She never gazes back.
And yet her voice is in my areams,
To witch me more and more ; TliMt wooing voice — ah me ! it seems
L(;ss near me than of yore.
Iviglitly I sped wlicn hope was high,
And youth beguiled the chase ; I follow, follow still, for I
Sliall never see her face.
433
FKEDEKICK LOCKER— 2 VANITY FAIR.
Vanitas vanitatum has rung in the ears or gentle and pimple for thousands of years The wail still is heard, yet its notes never scare Either gentle or sini[)le fioni Vanity Fair.
I often liear people abusing it, yet
There the young go to learn, and the old to for
get; The mirth may be feigning, the sheen may be
glare, *
But the gingerbread's gilded in Vanity Fair,
Old Dives rolls in his chariot, but mind Atra Gara is up witii the lackeys behind; Joan trudges with Jack : — are the sweet-hearts
aware Of the trouble that waits them in Vanity Fair?
We saw them all go, and we something may learn
Of the harvest they reap when we see them re- turn ;
The tree was enticing, its bi-anches are bare : —
Heigh-ho for the promise of Vanity Fair !
That stupid old Dives — once honest enough — His honesty sold for star, ribbon, and stuff; And Joan's pretty face has been clouded with
care Since Jack bought her ribbons at Vanity Fair.
Contemptible Dives ! too credulous Joan ! Yet we all have a Vanity Fair of our own ; My son, you have yours, but you need not de- spair : — I own I've a weakness for Vanity Fair.
Philosophy halts, wisest counsels are vain ; AVe go, we repent, we return there again ; To-nicfht you will certainly meet with us there : — So come and be merry at Vanity Fair.
434
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART— 1
LOCKHART, John Gibsox, a Scottish author, born at Cainbiisnethan in 1794; died at Abbotsford in 1854, He studied at the University of Edinburgh and at Balllcl College, Oxford, and in 1816 was called to ilie bar of Edinburgh. In 1820 he married a daughter of Sir Walter Scott In 1826 he succeeded Sir John T. Coleridge as editor of the London QuarLerly Review, which he conducted until 1853. As early as 1817 he became a regular contributor to BJarlnoncrs XfcKjazine his most notable contribut'on to which was "Peter's Letters to his Kins- folk," some of which, however, w^ro the production of Wilson, while Lockhart ui-ote portions of Wilson's "Christoijher in his Tent," and " Noctes Ambrosiaiia*." Lockhart wrote several novels, the best ot wiiich are, Adam Blair and Rrciinahl Dal- 'oii. His spirited translations of the '' An- cient Spanish Ballads," most of which had j)reviously appeared in Bkichcood, were col- lected into a volume in 1823. The princi- pal of his other works are : Life of Robert Burns (1828), Life of Napoleon Bonaparte (1829), Life of Sir 'Walter Scott (7 vols., 1836-38.)'
BURNS ON HIS FARM AT ELLISLAND.
It is difficult to imagine anythiiij; move beau- tiful, more noble, than wluit sueh a person as Mrs. Dunlop might at tliis period be supposed lo ooiitemplate as the probable tenor of" Robert Burns's life. What fame can biing of biippi- ' ness he had already tasted ; In^ had overleaped, hy the force of his genius, all tlie painful bar- riers of society ; and there was probably not a man iu Scotland who would not have tiiouglit himself honored by seeing Burns under his roof lie had it iu ids own jtower lo phiee iiis
JOHN GIBSON LOCK HART. —2
poetical reputation on a level with tlie vpiv highest names, by proceeding in the same course of study and exertion whicli had originally raised liijn into public notice and admiration. Sur- rounded by an affectionate family, occupied, but not engrossed, by the agricultural labors in which his youth and early manhood had de- lighted, communing with nature in one of the loveliest districts of his native land, and, from time to time, producing to the world some im- mortal addition to his verse — tlius advancing in years and in fame, with what respect would not Burns have been thought of; how venerable in the eyes of his contempoiaries — how hallowed in those of after-generations, would have been the roof of Ellisland, the field on which he '• bound every day after his reapers," the solemn river by which he delighted to wander ! The plain of Bannockburn would hardly have been holier ground Life of Burns.
CHILDREN OK GREAT MEN.
Tlie children of illustrious men begin the world with great advantages, if they know how to use them ; but this is hard and rare. There IS risk that in the flush of youth, favorable to all illusions, the filial pride may be twisted to personal vanity. When expeiience cheeks this misgrowth, it is apt to do so with a severity that shall reach the best sources of moral and intel- lectual development. The great sons of great fathers liave been few. It is usual to see their progeny smiled at through life for stilted preten- sion, or despised, at best pitied, for an inactive, inglorious humility. The shadow of the oak is broad, but noble plants seldom rise within that circle. It was fortunate for the sons of Scott that his day darkened in the morning of theirs. The sudden calamity anticipated the natural ef- fect of observation and the collisions of society and business. All weak, unmanly folly was nipped in the bud, and soon withered to the
436
JOHN CIP.SOX TAK'KHART.— 3
root. They were both remarkably modest men, liut in neither had the better stimulus of the blood been arrested. — Life of Scott.
AN OLD ENGLISH MANSION.
They halted to bait their horses at a little vil- lage on the main coast of the Palatinate, and tlien pursued their course leisurely through a rich and level country, until the groves of Gry- pherwast received them amidst all the breath- less splendour of a noble sunset. It would be difficult to express the emotions with which young Reginald regarded, for the first time, tlie ancient demesne of his race. The scene was one which a sti-anger, of years and experience very superior to his, might have been pardoned for conteniplating with some enthusiasm, but to him the first glimpse of the venerable front, em- bosomed amidst its " old contemporary trees," was the more than realization of cherished dreams. Involuntarily he drew in his rein, and the whole party as involuntarily following the motion, they approached the gateway together at the slowest pace.
The gateway is almost in the heart of the vil- lage, for the hall of Grypherwast had been reared long before English gentlemen conceived it to be a point of dignity to have no humble roofs near their own. A beautiful stream runs hard by, and the hamlet is almost within the arms of the princely forest, whose ancient oaks, and beeches, and gigantic pine-trees, darken and ennoble the aspect of the whole surrounding region. The peasantry, who watch the flocks and herds in those deep and grassy glades — the fishermen, who draw their subsistence from the clear waters of the river — and the woodmen, whose axes resound all day long among the in- exhaustible thickets, are the sole inhabitants of the simple place. Over their cottages the hall of Grypherwast has predominated for many long centuries, a true old northern ni.inoi-house,
■28 4:57
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHAKT.— 4
not devoid of a certain maguilicence in its gen- eral aspect, thougli making slender pretensions to anything like elegance in its details. The central tower, square, massy, rude, and almost destitute of windows, recalls the knightly and troubled period of the old border wars ; while the overshadowing roofs, carved balconies, and multifarious chimneys S(;attered over the rest of the building, attest the successive influence of many more or less tasteful generations. Except- ing in the original baronial tower, the upper parts of the house are all formed of oak, but tin's with such an air of strength and solidity as inight well shame many modern structures raised of better materials. Nothing could be more perfectly in harmony with the whole character of the place than the autumnal brownness of the stately trees around. The same descending rays were tinging with rich lustre the outlines of their liare trunks, and the projecting edges of the old- fashioned bay-windows which they sheltered ; and some rooks of very old family were cawing overhead almost in the midst of the hospitable smoke-wreaths. Within a couple of yards from the door of the house an eminently respectable- looking old man, in a powdered wig and very rich livery of blue and scarlet, was sitting on a garden-chair with a pipe in his mouth, and a cool tankard within his reach upon the ground. — Reginald Dalton.
THE BROADSWORDS OF SCOTLAND
Now there's peace on the shore, now there's
calm on the sea. Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us
free, Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee. Oh the hroadsionrds of old Scotland / And oh, the old Scottish broadswords ! 438
JOHN GIBSON I.OJKlIAliT.-5
Old Sir Ralph Abercruiiiby. the good and the
brave — Let him flee from our board, k't him sU'c}) with
tlie shive, Whose libation comes slow while we honor his grave. Oh. the broadswords of old Scolkmd ! And oh, the old Scottish broadswords f
Though he died not, like him, amid victory's
roar. Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud on
the shore, Not the less we remember the spirit of Moore. Oh, the broads words of old Scot/and ! And oh, the old Scottish broadswords !
Yea, a place with the fallen the living shall
claim ; We'll entwine in one wreath every glorious
name — Tiie Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the (_Traham. All the broadswords of old Scotland ! And oh, the old Scottish broadswords !
Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves
of the Forth, Count the stars in the clear cloudless heaven of
the north ; Then go blazon their numbers, their names anil their worth. All the broadswords of old Scotland ! And oh, the old Scottish broadswords !
The highest in splendor, the luunljlest in place,
Stand united in glory, as kindred in race,
For the private is brother in blood to his Grace.
Oh. the broadswords of old Scotland!
And oh, the old Scottish broadswords ! 439
JOKN GIBSON LOCKHART.— 6
Tlu'ii sacred to each and all let it be
Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us
free, Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee. OA, the broadswords of old Scotland! And oh, the old Scottish broadswords !
EULOGY UPON CAPTAIN PATON.
His waistcoat, coat and breeches, were cut off
the same web, Of a beautiful snuff-color, of a modest gentry
drab ; The blue stripe in his stocking round his neat,
slim leg did go ; And his ruffles of the cambric fine, they were
whiter than the snow. Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
His hair was curled in order, at the rising of the
sun, In comely rows and buckles smart that down his
ears did run ; And before there was a toupee, that some inches
up did grow ; And behind there was a long queue, that did
o'er his shoulders flow. Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e !
And whenever we foregathered, he took off his
wee tlu'ee oockit, And he proffered you his snuff-box , which he
drew from his side-jjocket, And on Burdett or Bonaparte he would make a
remark or so ; And then along the plainstones like a provost
he would go Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
440
JOHN LOGAN— 1
LOGAN, John, a Scottish poet, born in 1748 . died in 1788. He was ordained a ciergyman, and preached at Leith from 1773 to 1786. He at length gave offense to liis congregation by writing a tragedy, and went t<^ Loudon, where he died.
TO THE CL'CKOO.
Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove,
Thou messenger of Spring ! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.
Wliat time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear ; Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year ?
Delightful visitant ! with thee
I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.
The schoolboy, wandering through the wood,
To pull the primrose gay, Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,
And imitates thy lay.
NViiat time the pea puts on the bloom
Thou tliest tiiy vocal vale, .\n annual guest in other lands,
Another Spring to hail.
Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green.
Thy sky is ever clear ; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No Winter in thy year.
Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee !
We'd make, with jf)yful wing, Our annual visit o'er tlie globe.
Companions of the Spring.
441
GEORGK LONG.— 1
LONG, George, un English scholar, born in 1800 ; died in 1879. He entered Trinity College, Cambridge, where in 1822 hegracl- uated as first Chancellor's Medallist; be- came a Fellow of his College, and afterwards accepted a professorship in the University of Virginia. Returning to England, betook an active part in the work of the Society for the Diffasion of Useful Knowledge, ed- iting the Penny Gyclopsedia from its com- mencement in 1833 to its completion in 1845. He also edited the Biographical Dictionary of the Society for the Diffusion of Usefid Knoioled(je (184:2-44.) Among his numerous works are the Decline of the Roman Republic (five vols., 1864-84), and Select Lives from Plutarch^ accompanied by copious dissertations, in the form of " Notes," one of which is given in the following ex- tract. In 1873 he received the grant of a royal pension of £100.
MARCUS JUNIUS BRUTUS.
Brutus had moderate abilities, with great in- dustry and much learning. He had no merit as a general, but he had the courage of a soldier. He had the reputation of virtue, and he was free from many of the vices of his contemporaries : he was sober and temperate. Of enlarged po- litical views he had none; there is not a sign of his being in this respect superior to the mass of his contemporaries. When the Civil War broke out, he joined Pompeius, though Pompeius had murdered his father. If he gave up his private enmity — as Plutarch says — for what he believed to be the better cause, the sacrifice was honora- ble. If there were other motives — and I believe there were — his choice of his party does him no credit.
His conspiracy against Cjesar can only be jus-
442
GEORGE LONG.— 2
litied by tliose who think that a usurper oiijiht to he got rid of in any way. But if a man is to be murdered, one does not expect those to take a part in the act who, after being enemies have re- ceived favors from him, and professed to be his friends; the murderers should beat least a man's declared enemies, who have just wrongs to avenge. Though Brutus was dissatisfied with things under Ctessu", he was not the first mover in the conspiracy. He was worked upon by others, who knew that his character and personal relation to Ciesar would in a measure sanctify the deed ; and by their persuasion, not his own resolve, he became an assassin in tiie name of freedom — which meant the triumph of his party, and in the name of virtue — which meant no- thing.
The act was bad in Brutus as an act of treachery, and it was bad as an act of policy. It failed in its object — the success of a party — because the death of Ctesar was not enough ; other victims were necessary, and Brutus would not have them. He put himself at the head of a plot in which there was no plan ; he dreamed of success, and Ibrgot the means ; he mistook the circumstances of the times, and the character of tlie men.
His conduct after the murder Avas feeble and uncertain ; and it was also as illegal as the usur- pation of CiBsar. He left Rome as Prtetor with- out the permission of the Senate; betook pos- session of a province which, even according to Cicero's testimony, had been assigned to an- other ; he arbitrarily passed beyond the bound- aries of his province, and set his effigy on the coins ; he attacked the Bessi in order to give his soldiers booty ; and he plundered Asia to get money for the conflict against Caesar and An- tonius for the mastery of Rome and Italy. The means tliat he had at his disposal show that he robbed without measure and without mercy ; and there never was greater tyranny exercised over
GEORGE LONG.— 3
li(l[.kvs.s people in the name of liberty than the wretched inhabitants of Asia experienced from Brutus, "the Liberator," and Cassias, "the last of the Romans." But all these great resources were throAvn away in an ill-conceived and worse executed campaign.
Temperance, industry, and unwillingness to shed blood are noble qualities in a citizen and a soldier ; and Brutus possessed them. But great wealth gotten by ill means is an eternal re- proach ; and the trade of money-lending, carried on in the name of others with unrelenting greediness, is both avarice and hypocrisy. Ci cero — the friend of Brutus — is the witness for his wealth and for his unworthy means to in crease it.
Untiring industry and a strong memory had stored the mind of Brutus with the thoughts of others ; but he had not capacity enough to draw profit from his intellectual as he did from his gol- den treasures. His mind was a barren field on which no culture could raise an abundant cro(). His wisdom was the thoughts of others, and lie had ever ready in his mouth something that othei-s had said. But to utter other men's wisdom is not enough ; a man must make it his own by th<i labor of independent thought.
Philosophy and superstition were blended in the mind of Brutus, and they formed a chaos in his bewildered brain, as they always will do. In the still of night phantoms floated before his wasted strength and watchful eyes ; perhaps of him — the generous and brave — who had saved the life of an enemy in battle, and fell by his hand in tlie midst of peace. Conscience was his tormentor, for truth was stronger than the illusions of a self-imputed virtue.
Though Brutus had condemned Cato's death, he died by his own hand, not with the stubborn resolve of Cato, who would not yield to an usurper, but merely to escape from his enemies. A Roman might be pardoned for not choosing to
GEORGE LONG.— 4
liecomu the prisoner of a Roman, but his grave should have been a battle-liekl, and the instru- ment should liave been the hands of those who vere fighting against the cause which he pro- laimed to be righteous and just. Brutus died without belief in the existence of that virtue uhieli he had affected to follow. The triumph of a wrongful cause, as he conceived it, was a proof that virtue was an empty name. He for- got the transitory nature of all individual ex- istences, and thought that justice perished with him. Brutus died in despair, with the courage but not with the faith of a martyr.
When men talk of tyi-anny, and rise against it, the name of Brutus is invoked : a mere name and nothing else. What single act is there in the man's life wdiich promised the regeneration of his country and the freedom of mankind ? Like other Romans, he only thought of main- taining the supremacy of Rome ; his ideas were no larger than tlieirs ; he had no sympathy with those whom Rome governed and oppressed. For his country he had nothing to propose ; its worn- out political constitution he would maintain, not amend ; indeed amendment was impossible. Pi'obably he dreaded anarchy and the dissolution of social order, for that would have released his debtors and confiscated his valuable estates. But C;esMi"'s usurpation was not an anarchy ; it was a monarchy — a sole rule ; and Brutus, who was ambitious could not endure that.
445
HENRY WADSWUKTH LONGFELLOW— 1
LONGFELLOW, Henry Wausworth, an Ainerioau poet, born at Portland, Maine, February 27, 1807; died at Cambridge, ^ Mass., March 24, 1882. He entered Bow- (loin College at fourteen, graduated in 1825; was tutor there for a short time, and in 1826 was appointed Professor of Modern Languages. He then went to Europe where he studied three j^ears; returning late in 1829 he entered upon his duties as Pro- Ifssor. In 1835 he was chosen to succeed George Ticknor as Professor of Modern Languages and Literature in Harvard Col- lege. He established himself in the old Cragie House, which had been Washing- ton's headquarters in 1775-76, which con- tinued to be his home during the remainder of his life. He resigned his professorship in 185-4. While a student at Bowdoin he contributed several short poems to the Bos- ton Literary Gazette^ which were afterwards brought together under the title of i^arZ^er Poems. While Professor at Bowdoin he contributed several papers to the North American Revieiv^ one of which, on "The Moral and Devotional Poetry of Spain," contained his translation of the Coplas de ManriqtLc.
Although Longfellow is most distinct- ively known as a poet, he wrote much graceful prose. Besides his college prelec- tions and contributions to the North Ameri- can Review he published Outre 3fer, a series of sketches from Euroj^e (1826), Hy- pn-ion, a romance, (1839), and Kavanah, a tale of New England life (1849.)
446
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW.— 2
THE I'lOXIC AT ROARING BROOK.
Every state and almost every county of New England lias its " Roaring Brook " — a mountain streamlet overhung by woods, impeded by a mill, enc'.imbered by fallen trees, but ever racing, rushing, roarinti down tlirough gurg-lintr o;ullies, and filling the forest with its delicious sound and freshness; the drinking-place of home-returning, herds; the mysterious haunt of squirrels and blue-jays, the sylvan retreat of school-girls, wlio frequent it on summer holidays, and mingle their restless thoughts, their overflowing fancies, their fair imaginings, with its restless, exuber- ant, and rejoicing stream
At length tliey reached the Roaring Brook. From a gorge in the mountains, through a long, winding gallery of birch, beech, and pine, leaped the bright brown water of the jubilant streamlet, out of the woods, across the plain, under tlie rude bridge of logs, into the woods again — a day between two nights. "With it went a song that made the lieart sing likewise ; ;'i song of joy and exultation, and freedom ; a continuous and unbroken song of life and pleas- ure, and i)erpetiial youth. Presently turning otf from tiie road, which led directly to the mill, and was rough with the tracks of heavy wheels, they went down to the margin of the brook.
" How indescribably beautiful this brown water is," exclaimed Kavauagh. " It is like Avine or the nectar of the gods of Olympus ; as if the falling Hebe had poured it from the gob- let."
"More like the mead or the mctheglin of the northern gods," said Mr. Churchill, " spilled from the drinking-horn of Valhalla."
P>e long they were forced to cioss the brook, stepping from stone to .stone of the little rapids and cascades. All crossed lightly, easily, safely, even "the sumpter mule," as jMr. Churchill called himself on account of the pannier. Only
447
HENKY WADSWORTH LONGFKT.LO^y.— I?
Cecilia lingered behind as if nfrnid to oross ; Cecilia, who had crossed at that 8uiue [jlace a hundred times before ; Cecilia, who had the surest foot and the firmest nerves of all the village maidens. She now stood irresolute, seized with a sudden tremor, blushing and laughing at her own timidity, and yet unable to advance. Kav- anagh saw her embarrassment, and hastened back to help her. Her hand tremlded in his ; she thanked him with a gentle look and woi-d. His whole soul was softened within him. His attitude, his countenance, his voice, were alike submissive and subdued. He was as one pene- trated with the tenderest emotions.
It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; it is less difficult to know that it has begun. A thousand heralds proclaim it to the listening air ; a thousand ministers and messen- gers betray it to the eye. Tone, act, attitude, and look — the signals upon the countenance — the electric telegraph of touch — all these betray the yielding citadel before the word itself is uttered which, like the key surrendered, opens every avenue and gate of entrance, and makes retreat impossible. — Kavanah.
Longfellow's first volume of original poems, The Voices of the Niijlit, was pub- lished in 1839. His subsequent works appeared originally in many small volumes, though now collected into Wo. Following are the titles and dates of most of the larger of these poems: Voices of the Nir/ht (1839); Ballads and other Poems (1841) ; Poems on Slavery (1842) ; The Spanish Student, a drama (1843) ; Evamjeline (1847) ; The Sea- side and the Fireside (1849) ; The Song of Hiawatha (1855) ; The Courtship of Miles Standish (1858) ; Tales of a Wayside Inn (1863); The Masque of ^Pandora (1875); Han < fin ( I of the Crane (1875'* Michael
448
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.— 4
Angela, a dramatic poem (1879) ; Ultima Thale (1882.) Shortly after his death was pubhshed In the Harbor, a small volume con- taining his last poems. Besides these were numerous collections of smaller poems, several hundred in number. All the fore- going are now included in Volume I. of his Collected Poems. In Volume II-, under tlie general title of " Christus," he brought together in 1870 three dramatic poems already published : The Divine Tragedy, The Oolden Legend, and The Neiu England Tragedies.
Longfellow's Translations — mainly from French, Italian, German, Spanish, and Swed- ish poets, are numerous. The collection en- titled The Poets and Poetry of Europe (184:6), contains many translations by himself, which are now included in his Works. Of longer translations the principal are : The Coplas de Manrique, from the Spanish ; Tegner's Children of the Lord's Supper, from the Swedish ; and Dante's Divina Commedia, from the Italian.
THEMES FOR SONG.
" The land of Song within thee lies,
Watered by living springs ; The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes Are gates unto that Paradise, Holy thoughts, like stars arise,
Its clouds are angel's wings.
" Learn that henceforth thy song shall be Not mountains capped with snow,
Nor forests sounding like the sea,
Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly,
Where the woodlands bend to see The bending heaven Itelow.
29 449
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW— 5
"Look then, into thine heart, and write !
Yes, into Life's deep stream ! All forms of sorrow and delight, All solemn Voices of the Niglit That can soothe thee or affright
Be these henceforth thy theme."
From Prelude to Voices of the Night.
HYMN TO THE NIGHT.
1 heard the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls !
I saw her sabh' skirts all fringed witii light From the celestial walls !
I felt her presence, by its spell of might
Stoop o'er me from above ; The cahn, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight
Tlie manifold soft chimes. That till the haunted chambers of the Night,
Like some old poet's rhymes.
From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there
From those deep cisterns flows.
O holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before ! Thou layest thy fingers on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.
Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like I breathe this
prayer
Descend with broad-winged flight, The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the fair, The best-beloved Night!
Voices of the Night.
450
HENRY WADSWORTH LOXCiFELLOW.— 6
FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.
When the hours of Day are numbered,
And the voices of the Night Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight ; Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful firelight
Dance upon the parlor wall : — Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door ; The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more : He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife. By the roadside fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life ; Tliey, the holy ones and weakly,
Wlio tlie cross of suflFering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on eartli no more.
And with them the Being Beauteous
AVho unto my youth was given. More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven. AVith a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me
Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Ls the spirit's voiceless prayer. Soft rebukes, in blessings ended.
Breathing from her Hps of air. Oh. though oft depressed and lonely
All my tears are laid aside, If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died.
Voices of the Night. 451
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW— 7 THE AVAKNING.
Beware ! Tlie Israelite of old who tore
The lion in his path — when, poor and blind, He saw the blessed light of heaven no more,
Shorn of his noble strength, and forced to grind In prison, and at last led forth to be
A pander to Philistine revelry — I'pon the pillars of the temple laid
His desperate hands, and in its overthrow Destroyed himself, and with him those who made
A cruel mockery of his sightless woe ; The poor blind slave, the scoff and jest of all,
Expired, and thousands perished in the fall ! There is a poor blind Sampson in this land.
Shorn of his strength, and bound in bonds of steel, AFiio may, in some grim revel, raise his hand.
And shake the pillars of the commonweal, Till the vast temple of our liberties
A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. Poems on Slavery.
GRAND-PRE, IN ACADIE.
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, in- distinct in the twilight.
Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic.
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answer the wails of the forest.
This is the forest primeval ; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe when he hears in the wood- land the voice of the huntsman ?
452
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.— 8
"Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of
Acadian farmers — Men whose lives glide on like rivers that water
the woodlands, Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting the
image of heaven ? Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers
forever departed ! Scattered like dust and leaves when the mighty
blasts of October Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle
them far o'er the ocean. Naught but tra<lition remains of the beautiful
village of Grand-Pre. Ye who believe in affection that hopes- and en- dures, and is patient. Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of
woman's devotion, List to the mournful tradition still sung by the
pines of the forest ; List to a Tale of Love in Acadie. home of the
happy.
Prologue to Evangeline.
Still stands the forest primeval, but far away
from its shadow, Side by side in the nameless graves their lovers
are sleeping. Under the humble walls of the little Catholic
churchyard, In the heart of the city they lie, unknown and
unnoticed. Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing be- side them ; Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are
at rest and forever ; Thousands of aching brains, where theirs are no
longer busy ; Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have
ceased from their labors, Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have
completed their journey.
453
HENRY WADSWORTH LU\GFELL0W.-9
Still stands the forest primeval ; but under the
shade of its branches Dwells another race, with other customs and
language. Only along the shores of the mournful and misty
Atlantic Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers
from exile Wandered back to their native land to die in its
bosom. In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom
are still busy ; Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their
ku'tles of homespun ; And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's
story, _ While from its rocky cavern the deep-voiced
neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsofate answers the
wail of the forest.
Epilogue to Evangeline.
LAUNCHING THE SHIP.
At the word, Loud and sudden there was heard. All around tliem and below The sound of hammers, blow on blow. Knocking away the shores and spars. And see ! she stirs !
She starts — she moves — she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel ; And, spurning with her foot the ground, With one exulting joyous bound. She leaps into the Ocean's arms !
And lo ! from the exulting crowd There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, That to the Ocean seemed to say, " Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray, Take her to thy protecting arms, With all her youth and all her charms ! "
454
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.— 10
How beautiful slie is ! How fair Slie lies within those arms, that press Her form with many a soft cai'ess Of tendei-ness and watchful care ! Sail forth into the sea, O Ship ! Through wind and wave, right onward steer ! The moistened eye, the trembling lip. Are not the signs of doubt or fear.
Sail forth into the sea of life, () gentle, loving, trusting Wife, And safe from all adversity Upon the bosom of that sea Thy comings and thy goings be! For gentleness and love and trust Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ; And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives !
Tliou, too, sail on. O Ship of State ! Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! Humanity, with all its fears, Witli all the hopes of future years-, Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! We know what Master laid thy keel, What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, Who made each mast and sail and rope, What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge and wluit a heat Were shaped the anchors of thy hope. Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 'Tis of the wave and nr t the rock; 'Tis but the flapping of the sail. And not a rent made by the gale ! In spite of rock and tempest's roar, In spite of false lights on the shore. Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears. Our faith triumpliant o'er our fears, Are all with thee — are all witli thee !
77ie Ihnldiny of the SJiip. 455
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.— 11
JOHN ALDEN AND PRISCILLA.
Thereupon answered the youtli, " Indeed, I do
not condemn you ; Stouter hearts than a woman's have quailed in
this terrible winter. Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a
sti'onger to lean on ; So I am come to you now witli an otfer and
proffer of marriage, Made by a good man and true — Miles Standish,
the Captain of Plymouth." Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla,
tlie Puritan maiden. Looked into Alden's face, her eyes dilated with
wonder. Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned her
and rendered her speechless ; Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the
ominous silence : — " If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very
eager to wed me. Why does he not come himself, and take the
trouble to woo me ? If I am not worth the wooing, I am surely not
worth the winning ! " Then John Alden began explaining and
smoothing the matter. Making it worse, as he went, by saying the
Captain was busy — Had no time for such things. " Such things ! "
the words, grating harshly. Fell on the ear of Priscilla; and, swift as a flash,
she made answer : — "Has no time for such things, as you call it,
before he is married ; Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after
the wedding? That is the way with you men ; you don't under- stand us, you cannot. When you have made up your minds, after
thinking of this one and that one. Choosing, selecting, comparing one with another,
456
HENKY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.— 12
TIr'Ii you make known your desires, with abrupt
and sudden aAowal, And are ottended and liurt, and indignant, per
haps, that a woman Does not respond at once to a love that slie
never suspected, Does not attain at a bound the height to which
you have been climbing. This is not right nor just : for surely a woman's
affection Is not a tiling to be asked for — and had only for
the asking. When one is truly in love, one not only says it,
but shows it. Had he bnt waited awhile — had he only showed
that he loved me — Kvcn this Captain of yours — who knows?
at last might have won me, Old an<l rougli as lie is ; but now it can never
happen." Still John Alden went on. unheeding the
words of Priscilla, Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, per- suading, expanding : He was a man of honor, of noble and generous
nature ; Though he was rougli, he was kindly ; she had
known how, during the winter. He had attended the sick with a hand as gentle
as a woman's ; Somewhat hasty and hot — he could not deny it
— and headstrong ; Not to be laughed at and scorned because he
was little of stature ; P'or he was great of heart, magnanimous, courtly,
courageous ; Any woman in Plymouth — nay, any woman in
England — Might be happy and ))roud to be called the wife
of Miles Standish ! But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple
and eloquent language, 457
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLUW.— 13
Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise ot his rival,
Archly the maiden smiled, and with eyes over- running with laughter.
Said, in a tremulous voice, " Why don't you speak for yourself, John ? "
The Courtship of Blihs Standish.
THE SONG OF HIAWATHA.
Should you ask me. Whence these stories ?
Whence these legends and traditions,
With the odors of the forest,
With the dew and damp of meadows,
AVith the curling smoke of wigwams,
With the rushing of great rivers,
Witli their frequent repetitions,
And their wikl reverberations
As of tlmnder in the mountain?
I should answer, I should tell you: —
" From the forests and the i)rairies,
From the great lakes of the Northland,
From the land of the Ojibways,
From the land of the Dacotahs,
From the mountains, moors, and fenlands
Where the heron, the Shuhshuhgah,
Feeds among the reeds and rushes.
I repeat them as I heard them
From the lips of Nawadaha,
The musician, the sweet singer."
Should you ask where Nawadaha Found these songs, so wild and wayward, Found these legends and traditions, 1 should answer, I should tell you : — " In the birds' nests of the forest. In the lodges of the beaver. In the hoof-prints of the bison. All the wild-fowl sang tliem to him, In the moorlands and the fenlands, In the melancholy marshes ; Chetowack, the plover, sang them Mahng, the loon, the wild-gosse, Waway, The blue heron, the Shulishuhgah, And the grouse, the Mushkodasa I "
458
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.— 14
If still further you should ask me Saying, "Who was Xawadaha? Tell us of this Nawadaha, I should answer your inquiries
Straightway in such words as follows :
" In the Vale of Tawasentha,
In the green and silent valley,
By the pleasant water-courses,
Dwelt the singer Nawadaha.
Round about the Indian village,
Spread the meadows and the corn-fields,
And l)eyond them stood the forest,
Stood the grove of singing-pines trees.
Green in Summer, white in Winter,
Ever sighing, ever singing. —
And the pleasant water-courses,
You could trace them through the valley.
By the rushing in the Spring-time,
By the alders in the Summer,
By the white fog in the Autumn,
By the black line in the Winter ;
And beside them dwelt the singer,
In the vale of Tawasentha,
In the green and silent valley.
There he sang of Hiawatha,
Sang the Song of Hiawatha,
Sang his wondrous birth and being,
How he prayed, and how he fasted.
How he lived and toiled and suffered.
That the tribes of men might prosper
Tiiat he might advance his people."
THE DEPARTURE OF HIAWATHA
Then the Black-Robe chief, the prophet, Told his message to the people, Told the purport of his mission, Told them of the Virgin Mary, And her blessed Son, the Saviour; How in distant lands and ages He had lived on earth as we do ; How he fasted, prayed and labored ; How the Jews — the tril)e accui-sed — 459
HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLOW. -15
Mocked him, scourged him ciuciiied him ;
How he rose from where they hiid him,
"Walked again with his disciples,
And ascended into heaven.
And the chief made answer, saying : —
" We have listened to your message,
AVe have heard your words of wisdom
We will think on what you tell us.
It is well for us, O brothers,
Tliat you come so far to see us ! " Then they rose up and departed.
Each one homeward to his wigwam ;
To the young men and the women
Told the story of the stranger
Whom the Master of Life had sent them
From the shining land of Wabun. Heavy with the heat and silence
Grew the afternoon of Summer ; With a drowsy sound the forest Whispered round the sultry wigwam ; With a sound of sleep the water Rippled on tlie beach below it ; From the cornfields shrill and ceaseless Sang the grasshopper, Pahpukkeena ; And the guests of Hiawatha, Weary with the heat of Summer, Slumbered in the sultry wigwam.
Slowly o'er the simmering landscape Fell the evening's dusk and coolness. And the long and level sunbeams Shot their spears into the forest. Breaking through its shields of shadow, Rushed into each secret ambush, Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow ; Still the guests of Hiawatha Slumbered in the silent wigwam. From his place rose Hiawatlia, Bade farewell to old Nokomis, S[)ake in whispers, spake in this wise, Did not wake the guests that slumbered :— " I am going, O Nokomis, On a long and distant journey
460
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.— 16
To the portals of the Sunset, To the regions of the home-wind, Of the northwest wind Keewaydin. But these guests I leave behind me, In your watch and ward I leave them ; See that never harm comes near them, See that never fear molests them ; Never danger or suspicion, Never want of food or shelter, In the ]odge of Hiawatha."
Forth into the village went he, Bade farewell to all the warriors, Bade farewell to all the young men ; Spake persuading, spake in this wise : — '* I am going, O my people. On a long and distant journey. Many moons and many winters Will have come and will have vanished Ere I come again to see you. But my guests I leave behind me ; Listen to their words of wisdom, Listen to the truth they tell you ; For the Master of Life has sent them From the land of light and morning."
On the shore stood Hiawatha, Turned and waved lus hand at parting ; On the clear and luminous water Launched his birch canoe for sailing ; From the pebbles of the margin Shoved it forth into the water ; Whispered to it, '' Westward ! Westward ! " And with speed it darted forward.
And the evening sun descending Set the clouds on fire with redness ; Burned the broad sky, like a prairie, Left upon the level water. One long track and trail of splendor, Down whose stream, as down a river, Westward, westward, Hiawatha Sailed into tlie fiery sunset. Sailed into the ])urple vapors. Sailed into the dusk of evening. 461
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.— 17
And the people from tlie margin Watched him floating, vising, sinking, Till the birch canoe seemed lifted High into that sea of splendor, Till it sank into the vapors, Like the new moon, slowly, slowly, Sinking in the purple distance.
And they said, " Farewell forever! " Said, " Farewell, 0 Hiawatha ! " And the forests, dark and lonely. Moved through all their deptlis of darkness Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!" And the heron, the Shuhshuhgah, From her haunts among tlie fenlands, Screamed, " Farewell, O Hiawatha !"
Thus departed Hiawatha, Hiawatha, the Beloved, In the glory of the sunset, In the purple mists of evening, To the regions of the home-wind, Of the nortliwest wind, Keewaydin, To the Islands of the Blessed, To the Kingdom of Ponemah, To the land of the Hereafter.
Conclusion of Hiawatha.
MAIDENHOOD.
Maiden, with the dark brown eyes ; In whose orbs a shadow lies. Like in dusk the evening skies!
Thou whose locks outsliine the sun, Golden tresses wreathed in one, As the braided steamlets run !
Standing, witli reluctant feet, Wliere the brook and river meet, "Womanhood and childhood fleet !
Gazing, witli a timid glance. Oil the brooklet's swift advance. On the river's broad expanse !
462
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.— 18
Deep and still, that gliding stream, Beautiful to thee must seem As the river ot" a dream.
Then why pause with indecision When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian ?
Seest thou shadows sailing by, As the dove, with startled eye, See the falcon's shadow fly ?
Hearest thou voices on the shore, That our ears perceive no more. Deafened by the cataract's roar ?
Oh, thou child of many prayers !
Life hath quicksands ; life hath snares !
Care and age come unawares !
Like the swell of some sweet tune, Morning rises into noon. May glides onward into June.
Childhood is the bough, where slumbered Birds and blossoms many-numbered ; Age that bough with snow encumbered.
Gather, then, each flower that grows, When the young heart overflows, To embalm that tent of snows.
Bear a lily in thy hand ;
Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand.
Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth In thy heart the dew of youth. On thy lips the smile of truth.
Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal Into wounds that cannot heal, Even as sleep our eyes doth heal ;
And that smile, like sunshine, dart Into many a sunless heait. For a smile of God thon art.
463
HENRY WADSWOKTH LONGFELLOW.— 19
THE BUILDERS.
All are architects of Fate,
Working in these walls of Time ;
Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme.
Nothing useless is and low ;
Each thing in its i)lace is best ; And wliat seems but idle show
Strengthens and supports the rest
For the structure that we raise,
Time is with materials filled ; Our to-days and yesterdays
Are the blocks with which we build.
Truly shape and fashion these ;
Leave no yawning gaps between ; Think not, because no man sees.
Such things will remain unseen.
In the days of elder Art,
Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part ;
For the Gods see everywhere.
Let us do our work as well,
Both the unseen and the seen ; Make the house, where Gods may dwell,
Beautiful and clean.
Else our lives are incomplete, Standing in these walls of Time,
Broken stairways, where the feet Stumble as they seek to climb.
Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
With a firm and ample base ; And ascending and secure
Shall to-morrow find its place.
Thus alone can we attain
To those turrets, where the eye Sees the world as one vast plain,
And one boundless reach of sky.
464
HENKY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW.— 20
THE DAY IS DONE.
The day is done, and the darkness falls fi'om the
' wings of Night ; As a featlier is wafted downward from an eagle
in its flight, I see the lights of the village gleam throngh the
rain and mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me that my
soul cannot resist ; A feeling of sadness and longing that is not akin
to pain, And resembles sorrow only as the mist resembles
the rain.
Come read to me some poem, some simple and heartfelt lay,
Tliat shall soothe this restless feeling and banish the thougiits of day.
Not from the grand old masters, not from the bards sublime.
Whose distant footsteps echo througli the corri- dors of time.
For, like strains of martial music, their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor, and to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humble poet, whose songs
gushed from his iieart As the showers from the clouds of Summer, or
tears from tlie eyelids start ; Who through long days of labor, and nights
devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music of wonderful
melodies. Such songs have power to quiet the restless pulse
of care. And come like the benediction that follows after
prayer
30 4«5
HENRY AVADSWORTH LONOFELLOW.— 21
Then read from the treasured volume the poem
of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet the beauty
of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music, and the
cares that infest the day, Sliall fold their tents, like the Arabs, and as
silently steal away.
DANTE.
Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom,
With thoughtful face, and sad majestic eyes,
Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise. Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom.
Yet in thy heart what human sympatliies,
AVhat soft compassion glows, as in the skies The tender stars their clouded lamps relume !
Methinks I see thee stand with pallid cheeks By Fra Hilario in his diocese,
As up the convent walls, in golden streaks, The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease;
And as he asks what there the stranger seeks, Thy voice along the cloister whispers, " Peace !"
THE TWO ANGELS.
[This poem was addressed to James Russell Lowell, whose wife died on the same morning when a child was born to Longfellow.]
Two angels — one of Life and one of Death — Passed o'er our village as the morning broke ;
The dawn was on their faces, and beneath. The sombre houses, hearsed with plumes of smoke.
Their attitude and aspect were the same.
Alike their features and their robes of white ;
But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame. And one with asphodels, like flakes of light.
466
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.— 22
I saw them pause on their celestial way ;
Then, said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed, " Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray
The place where thy beloved are at i-est !"
And he who wore the crown of asphodels. Descending, at my door Itegan to knock ;
And my soul sank within me, as in wells
The waters sink before an earthquake's shock.
I recognized tlie nameless agony,
The terror and the tremor and the pain.
That ott belbre had filled or haunted me,
And now returned with threefold strength again.
The door I opened to my heavenly guest,
And listened — for 1 thought I heard God's voice ;
And, knowing whatsoe'er Hii sent was best, Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice.
Then, with a smile that filled the house with light,
" My errand is not Death, but Uti," h<' said; And, ere I answered, passing out of sight,
On his celestial embassy he sped,
'Twas at thy door, 0 friend ! and not at mine. The angel with the amaranthine wreath.
Pausing, descended ; and, with voice divine. Whispered a word that had a sound like " Death."
Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, A shadow on those features fair and thin ;
And softly from that hushed and darkened room, Two angels issued, where but one went in.
All is of God ! If He but wave His hand. The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud. Till, with a smile of light on sea and land,
Lo ! He looks back from the departing cloud. 467
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW,— 23
Angels of Life and Death alike are His ;
Without His leave they pass no threshold o'er; Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this,
Against His messengers to shut the door ?
CURFEW. I.
Solemnly, mournfully, dealing its dole, The Curfew Bell is beginning to toll.
Cover the embers, and put out the light. Toil comes with the morning, and rest with the night.
Dark grow the windows, and quenched is the
fire ; Sound fades into silence, all footsteps retire.
No voice in the chambers, no sound in the hall ! Sleep and oblivion reign over all !
II.
The book is completed, and closed, like the day ; And the hand that has written it lays it away.
Dim grow the fancies ; forgotten they lie ; Like coals in the ashes, they darken and die
Song sinks into silence, the story is told ; The windows are darkened, the hearthstone is cold.
Darker and darker the black shadows fall ; Sleep and oblivion reign over all.
468
*•%
LONGINUS.— 1
LONGINUS, DiONYSius, a Greek rhet- oricau, boru, probably in Syria, about 213 A. D, , executed at Palmyra iu 273. lie studied at Athens, and after travelling widely returned to Athens, where he estab- lished a school of belles lettres. About 268 he was invited by Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra to be tutor of her two sons ; and he became in fact her minister. The noble reply of Zenobia to the Roman Emperor Aurelian, who demanded that she should surrender unconditionally, on pain of death, was written by Longinus, who upon the capture of the queen was put to death by Aurelian, The only extant work of Lon- ginus is his treatise On the Sublime, the best English translation of which is that of Wilham Smith (1770.)
THE SUBLIME IN HOMER AND MOSES.
I have hinted in another place tliat the Suh- Hme is an image reflected from the inward great- ness of the soul. Hence it comes to pass that a naked tliought, without words, challenges ad- miratioM, and strikes by its grandeur. Sucli is the silence of Ajax in the Odyssey, which is un- doubtedly noble and far above expression. To arrive at excellence like this, we must needs suppose that which is the cause of it. I mean that an orator of true genius must have no mean and ungenerous way of thinking. For it is im- possible that those who have grovelling and ser- vile ideas, or are engaged in the sordid pursuits of life should produce anything worthy of ad- miration and the perusal of all posterity Grand and sublime expressions must flow from them — and them alone — whose conceptions are stored and big with greatness.
And hence it is that the greatest thoughts are always uttered by the greatest souls. When I'armenio cried, " I would accept these proposi-
LONGINUS.— 2
tionsif I were Alexander,' Alexander made this reply, "And so would I, if I were Parmenio. ' His answer showed the greatness of his mind. So the space between heaven and earth marks out the vast reach and capacity ot Homer s ideas wiien lie says : —
Wliilst scarce the skies her horrid head can bound, She stalks on earth.
This description may with more justice be aj)- ))lied to Homer's genius than to the extent of Discord But what disparity, what a fall theie IS in Hesiod's description of jMelancIioly, if the poem of The Shield may be ascribed to liim : "A filthy moisture from her nostrils flowed." He has not represented his image as terrible, but loathsome and nauseous On the other hand, Avith what majesty and pomp does Homer exalt his deities : —
Far as a shepherd, from some point on high, O'er the wide main extends his boundless eye. Through such a space of air, with thuudering sound, At one long leap the immortal coursers bound.
He measures the leap of the horses by the ex- tent of the world; and who is there that, con- sidering the superlative magnificence of this thought, would not Avith good reason cry out that if the steeds of the Deity were to take another leap, the world itself would want room for it? How grand and jjompous also are those descriptions of the combats of the gods —
Heaven in loud thunder bids the trumpets sound, Aud wide beneath them groans the rending ground. Deep in the dismal regions of the dead The Infernal Monarch reared his horrid head ; Leapt from his throne lest Neptune's arm should lay His dark dominions open to the day. And pour in light on Pluto's drear abodes, Abhorred by men, and dreadful e'en to gods.
What a prospect is here ! The earth is laid open to its centre ; Tartarus itself disclosed to view , the whole world in commotion aud totter- ing on its basis , and what is more, Heaven and
470
LONGINUS.— 3
Hell — things mortal and inunortal — all amilial- ing together, and, sharing in the danger of tliis immortal battle. But yet thesu bold representations — if not allegorieally understood — are downright blasphemy, and extravagantly shocking. For Homer, in my opinion, when he giv'es us a detail of the wounds, the seditions, the punishments, imprisonments, tears of the deities, with those evils of every kind under which they languish, has to the utmost of his power exalted his heroes who fought at Troy into gods, and degraded his gods into men. Nay, he makes their condition worse than human, for when man is overwhelmed in misfortune, death affords a comfortable port, and rescues him from misery But he represents the infelicity of the ajods as everlasting as their nature. And how far does he excel those descriptions ot the gods, when he sets a deity in his true light, and panits him in all his majesty, grandeur, and perfection, as in that description of Neptune which has been already applauded by several writers : —
Fierce, as he passed, the lofty mountains nod, The forests shake, earth trembled as he trod, And felt the lootsteps of the immortal god. His whirling wheels the glassy surface sweep The enormous monsters rolling on the deep, Gambol around him ou the watery way, And heavy whales in awkward measure play The sea subsiding spreads a level plain, Exults, and owns the monarch ot the main ; The parting waves before his eoursers fly ; The wondering waters leave the axles dry.
iSo, likewise tiie Jewish legislator — not an ordinary person — having conceived a just idea of the power of God, has nobly expressed it in the beginning of his law : "And God said, Let there be light, and there was light ; Let the earth be, and the earth was."
THE ILIAD AND THE ODYSSEY.
Homer himself shows us in the Odyssey that when a great genius is in its decline, a fondness
471
LONGINUS.— 4
for the fabulous clings fast to age. In reiUity the Odyssey is no more tlian tlie epilogue of the Uiiul. Having written the Iliad in tlie youth and vigor of his genius, he has furnished it with continued scenes of action and combat ; whereas the greatest part of the Odyssey is spent in narra- tion— the delight of old age ; so that in the Odyssey Homer may with justice be resembled to the setting sun, whose grandeur still remains, without the meridian heat of his beams. The style is not so grand as tliat of the Iliad, the sublimity not continued with so much spirit, nor so uniformly noble ; the tides of passion flow not along with so much profusion, nor do they hurry away the reader in so ra[)id a current. There is not the same volubility and gi-eat variation of the phrase : nor is the work embellished with so many stirring and expressive images. Yet, like the ocean, whose very shores, when deserted by the tide, mark out how wide it sometimes Hows, so Homer's genius, when ebbing into all those fabulous and incredible ramblings of Ulysses, shows plainly how sublime it had been.
472
AUGtfSTUS BALDWIN LONGSTREET.— 1
LONGSTREET,' Augustus Baldwin, ail American lawyer, clergyman, and author, born at Augusta, Georgia, in 1790 ; died at Oxford, Miss., in 1870. He graduated at Yale in 1813 ; studied in the Law School at Litchfield, Conn.; entered upon practice in his native State, where he was chosen to legislative and judicial positions. In 1838 he entered the ministry of the Methodist Episcopal Church. In 1839 he became President of Emory College, Oxford, Geor- gia ; was subsequently President of Cen- tenary College, Louisiana, of the University of Mississippi ; and in 1857 became Presi- dent of South Carolina College, at Colum- bia. After the close of the civil war he returned to the presidency of the University of Mississippi. He was a frequent contribu- tor to Southern periodicals, and published several books, the latest being a story. Mas- ter William Mitten (1864.) His best known work is Oeorgia Scenes^ Characters^ Inci- dents^ etc., written before he entered the ministry, published originally at the South, and afterwards at New York in 1840. A second edition, purporting to be " revised," appeared in 1867.
A MONOMACHIA IN GEORGIA.
If my memory fail me not, the 10th of June, 1809, found me, at 11 o'clock in the forenoon, ascending a long and gentle slope in what was called " The Dark Corner of Lincoln." I believe it took its name from the moral darkness which reigned over that part of the country at the time of which I am speaking. If in this point of view it was but a shade darker than the rest of the county, it was inconceivably dark.
If any man can name a trick or a sin which had n(jt been comaiitted at tlie time of which 1
473
AUGUSTUS BALDWIN LONGSTREET.— 2
am speaking in the very focus of the county's ilhimination, lie must be the most inventive of the tricky, and the very Judas of sinners. Since that time, however (all humor aside), Lincoln has become a living proof that " light shineth in darkness." Could I venture to mingle the solemn with the ludicrous — even for the purpose of honoralde contrast — I could adduce from this county instances of the most numerous and won- derful transitions from vice and folly to virtue and holiness which have ever, perhaps, been witnessed since the days of the apostolic minis- try. So much, lest it should be thought by some that what I am abont to relate is charac- teristic of the county in which it occurred.
Whatever may be said of the moral condition of the Dark Corner, at this time, its natural con- dition was anything but dark. It smiled in all the charms of Spring ; and Spring borrowed a new charm from its undulating grounds, its luxuriant woodlands, its sportive streams, its vocal birds, and its luxui-iant flowers. Rapt with the enchantment of the season and the scenery around me, I was slowly rising the slope, when I was startled by loud, profane, and bois- terous voices, which seemed to proceed from a thick covert of undergrowth about two hundred yards in the advance of me, and about one hun- dred to the right of my road.
" You kin, kin you ? "
" Yes, I kin, and am able to do it ! Boo- oo-oo ! Oh, wake snakes, and walk your chalks !
Brimstone and fire ! Don't hold me,
Nick Stoval ! The fight 's made up, and let 's go
at it. my soul if I don't jump down his
throat, and gallop every chitterling out of him before you can say ' Quit ! ' "
" Now, Nick, don't hold him ! Jist let the wildcat come, and I'll tame hiin. Ned '11 see me a fair fight ; won't you, Ned ? "
"Oh, yes ; I'll see you a fair fight, blast my old shoes if I don't.''
474
AUGUSTUS BALDWIN LONGSTREET— 3
'• That's sufficient, as Tom Haynes said when he saw the elephant. Now let him come."
Thus they went on, with countless oaths inter- spersed, which I dare not even hint at, and with much that I could not distinctly hear. " In mercy's name !" thought I, "what band of ruf- fians has selected this holy season and this heavenly retreat for such pandemonium riots ! "
I quickened my gait, and had come nearly opposite to the thick grove whence the noise proceeded, when my eye caught indistinctly, and at intervals, through the foliage of the dwarf- oaks and hickories which intervened, glimpses of a man, or men, who seemed to be in a violent struggle ; and I could occasionally catch those deep-drawn, emphatic oaths which men in con- flict utter when they deal blows. I dismounted, and hurried to the spot with all speed. I had overcome about half the space which separated it from me, when I saw the combatants come to the ground ; and, after a short sti'uggle, I saw the uppermost one (for I could not see the other) make a heavy plunge with both his hands ; and at the same instant I heard a cry in the ac- cent of keenest torture —
" Enough ! My eye's out ! "
I was so completely horror-struck that I stood transfixed for a moment to the spot where the cry met me. The accomplices in the hellish deed which they had perpetrated had all fled at my approach ; at least I supposed so, for they were not to be seen.
" Now, blast your corn-shucking soul," said the victor — a youth of about eighteen years old — as he rose from the ground. " Come, cutt'n your shines 'bout me agin, next time I come to the Court House, will you ! Git your owl eye in agin if you kin ! "
At this moment he saw me for the first time. He looked excessively embarrassed, and was moving otf, when I called to him, in a tone em-
475
AUGUSTUS BALDWIN LONGSTREET.— 4
boldened by the sacredness of" my office, and the iniquity ot his crime —
"Come back, you brute ! and assist me in re- lieving your fellow-mortal whom you have ruined for ever ! "
My rudeness subdued his embarrassment in an instant, and, vv^ith a taunting curl of his nose he replied —
" You needn't kick before you're spurred. There ain't nobody there, nor ha'nt been, nother. I was jist seein' how I coulda'yoM^"
So saying, he bounded to his plov.gli, which stood in the corner of tlie fence about fifty yards beyond the battle-ground.
And, would you believe it, gentle reader ! his report was true. All that I had lieard and seen was nothing more nor less tlian a Lincoln rehearsal, in which the youtli who had just left me had played all the parts of all the characters of a Court House fight, I went to the ground from whicli he had risen, and there were the prints of his two thumbs, plunged to the balls in the mellow earth, about the distance of a man's eyes apart ; and the ground was broken up as if two stags had been engaged upon it — Georgia Scenes.
476
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