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THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
GIFT OF FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD
Digitized by tine Internet Arcliive
in 2008 witli funding from
IVIicrosoft Corporation
http://www.archive.org/details/aldenscyclopedia16newy
ALDEN'S CYCLOPEDIA
Universal Literature
PRXSEMTINO
BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES, AND SPECIMENS
FROII THE WRITINGS OP EMINENT AUTHORS
OF AUi AG12S AKD ALL NATIONS
VOL. XVI
NEW YORK
JOHN B, ALDEN, PUBLISHER
1890
Copyright. 1890,
BV
JOHN B, ALDEN.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME XVI.
PACK.
O'Bri'en, Fitz James, (Irish-Amer., 1828-1862.)
Of Loss, ....... 2
Elisba Kent K:ine, . . . - 4
OEHLENscHLXGER(o'len-shla'ger), AdamOottlob, (,Dan., 1770-1850.)
" Alacklin " : Deflication to Goethe, . 2
On Trace of the MaKio Lamp, ... .a
The Scandinavian Warriors and Bards, . . 6
On Leaving Italy, . . . . . .7
Ohnet (o-na), Geosges, C^r., 1848- .)
The Inventor and the Banker, .... 1
Ol'iphant, Caroli.ve. See Nairne, Lady.
0LIPH.4XT, L.\rKKXCE, (Engl., 1829-1888.)
Kevohitions and the Government in China, . 2
A Visit on Mount Carmel, .... 3
Omphant, Margaret Orme Wilson, (KikjI., 1831- .)
Am Englisli Rector and Kectory, . . .1
Edward living, ...... 4
Savonarola and Lorenzo De' Medici, . .6
Omar Kh.wyam, (Pers., 1050-1125.)
iSelectiuns from the '• Kub&yAt,'' ... 3
O'piE, Amelia Alderson, iEariL, 17ti9-18.>3.)
Tlirt Orphan Boy's Tale. . . . .1
O'Rkilly CoiI'le). John Boyle, (Irish-Arney., 1S4-J-1890.)
Western Australia, ..... 1
Dying in Ilarnes.s, . . 2
My Native Land, ...... 3
The Pilgrims of the Mayflower, . . .4
Or'igen. (6rr., 185--254.)
Unending Metempsychoses and Prubations, . . 2
The Father, Sou, and lioly Ghost, . . . .3
Origeu's Theological System, .... 4
Or'ton, James, G4)iier., 1830-1877.)
The Genesis of the Andes and the Amazon, . . 1
Os'good, Frances Sarge.vt Locke, Corner., 1811-1850.)
Lahorare est Orare. . . . .1
Passing to the Hereafter, .... 3
Osgood, Kate Pi-tnam. (-4m<'r., 1841- .)
Driving Home the Cows, . . . ,1
Out of Prison, ...... 2
Osgood, Samuel, (Amer., 1812-1880.)
Our Schoolmasters, . . . . , .1
Our Doctor, ....... 2
Our Minister, . ...... 2
The Practical Man, ..... 3
The .4.ge of St Augustine, and Our Own, . . .4
S-l 335
4 CONTENTS.
PAOS,
OssTAX (osh'e-an"). See Macphersov, Jaxe"?. OssoLi (os'so-le), Sarah Margaret Fuller, Marchion- ess b". (.Amer., 1810-1850.)
The Heroic in the Roman Cliaracter,
Roman Manfuhiess,
The Ilistoi-y and Literature of Rome, .
Encouragement,
Orplieus, ..... O'tis. James, CAmer., 1725-1783.)
The British Constitutiou and the Colonies.
The Ri-J cto Vote, .... Ot'-way, Thomas, iEngl., 1651-1685.)
Pierre aiidJaffler, ....
A Morning ia Spring, .
Parting, .....
Oi;iDA(\ve-da). See De la RamS, Locisa. O'VEUBCRY, Sir Thomas, ^Engl., l.jtil-1613.)
The Fair and Happy Milkmaid,
A Franklin, ..... O'viD, iRom., 43 B.C.-18 a.d.)
The Closing of the Temple of Janu^,
The Primeval Cliaos, .
The Advent of Man.
The G lc:en A-e,
Pallas and Aracline at the Loom,
The T.'-aasf or Illation of Arachue,
Ovid"s Pl^ce of Banishment, O'we.v, Sir Richard, {EwjL, 1804- .)
The British Mammnth, ....
OWEX, Robert Dale. iScot.-Amer , 1801-185*.)
Antecedent Probability of Spiritual .Manifestations, O'wEx.soN, Sydney. See Mokgan, Lady. Ox'enford, John, (.Enyl., 1812-1877.)
A Conversation with Goethe, Ox'enuam, Henry Nutcombe, iEngl., 1S29-
The Law of Honor, .... Page, Thomas Nelson, QAmer., 1853- .)
Marse Chan, ..... Pag'et, Violet, [Vernon I^e], iEngl., 1856-
Seeking New Scenes, .... Paine, Robert Treat, (Amer., 1773-1811.)
Adams and Liberty,
Epilocue to "The Clergyman's Daughter," Paine, Thomas, (Anglo- Amer., 1736-1809.)
The American Condition at the Close of 1776,
Burke's Patricianism, .... Pa'ley. William, (Engl, 174.3-1805.)
On Property, ....
Credibility of St. Paul. ....
The World Made with a Benevolent Design,
Distinctions of Civil Life L' ist in Church, . Pal'krey, John GoRELAM,(.4mer., 1796-1881.)
Roger WilliauLS, ....
Three Cycles of New England History,
The Awakening, ....
•)
.)
CONTENTS. 5
PAGE.
Pal'cirave, Sir Francis. (Enr/l , irSS-lSCl.) The Fate of Ha old, ..... 1
Palgravi;, Fuancts Turner, iEn;il. 1S21- .) Faith i.nilS:ght ill the Luiter Day:, . . .1
ToaChilJ e
Palo:;ave, William Gipford, (Siy^., 182G-1S88.) la tho Des rt at Niuht, . . . . .2
Palm'er, Euward Henry, (Engl., 1840- .) Mohammed and ihe Jews, .... 1
Music ai.d Wjn>', . . . . . .3
Falsehood, ....... 3
Pal.mer, John Willtamson, (Amer., 1825- .) Arirvad.iinthe lirahiiiiu. . . . . .1
PAr,>:E.^, Ray, CAmcr.. 1808-1887.) My Faith Looks Up to Thee, .... 2
Jesus :t:ie Very Tl.onjjlit of Thee. . . . .2
Tlie Chcrus of a:1 Saints, . .... 3
Palmer, 'William Pitt, iAmer., 1805-1884.) Thj Smack in Sehool, ... ... 1
Lines to a Krieml, ...... 2
Pak'doe. JiUA, liEiigL, 1806-1862.) The Beacon Li;;ht, . . . . . .1
Park, Mungo, (.SVo*., 17:i-l806.) The Cumpassiouate African Woman, ... 2
Par'ker, Theodoue, iAiner., 1810-1860.) Characteristics of Washington, . . . .2
The Higlier Good, ...... 5
Park'man, Francis, iAnirr., 1S23- .) Louis XV. and Poiiipad'iur, .... 2
Tlie Ne-.v England Colonies, . . . . .2
Tlie Colony of Virgiiiia, ..... 4
The Colony of Pennsylvania, . . . ' .5
New En;;land and New France, .... 6
Pau'nell, Thomas, (Jrisli, 16:9-1718.) The Ways of Providence Justified, . . . .1
The Better Life, ...... 3
Parr, Harriet, [Holme Lee], iEngl., 1828- .) Joan\s Home, . . . . . . .1
Par'sons, Thkophilus, (,Amer., 1797-1882.) The Sea, ....... 1
Parsons, Thomas William, (Amer., 1819- .) On a Bust c.f Dante, . . . . . .1
St. James's Park, ...... 2
Dirge. For One Who Fell in Battle, . . .3
Part'ington, Mrs. See Siiillaber, Benjamin P.
Par'ton, James, (Amer., 1821- .)
Henry Clay, 1
Privations and Heroism. . . . .3
Parton, Sara Payson Willis, CAmer., 1811-1872.) Fatherhood, ....... 1
Pas'cal, Blaise, (Fi:, 1623-1662.) Of a Futuie Existence, . . . . .1
pA'TER, Walter, iEugl., 1839- .) Journeying to Rome, ..... 1
Denys L'Auxerrois, . . . . . .3
6 CONTENTS.
Pat'mohe, Cotentrt Kearset Dighton, (Engl., 1S23- .)
Counsel to the Newly-Married Husband, . . 1
The Toys, ......
Pain. ........
Pavl'ding, James Kirke, (Amer., 1779-1860.)
Jolin Hull and His Son Jonathan, Payn, James, iEngl., 1830- .)
Mrs. Beckett, ......
A Hill-Fog
Freedom, .......
Payne, John Howard, (.Amer., 1792-1852.)
Home, Sweet Home, .....
Tlie Roman Father, .....
Pea'body, Anduew Preston, (Amer., 1811- .)
Relf-Love and Benevolence, .... Peabody, Oliver William Bourne, CAmer., 17'j9-1S50.)
To a Departed Friend, ..... Peabody, William Bourne Oliver, (Amer., 1799-1847.)
Hymn of Nature, ......
Pea'cock, Thomas Love, (Enr/l., 1785-1866 )
Robin Hood and His Merry Men,
The Men of Gotham. . . .
The War-Song of DinasVawr, Pear'son, John, (Engl., 1613-1686.)
The Resurrection, ......
PECi, George Washington, iAmer., 1840- .)
A Trying Situation, ..... Pel'lico, Silvio, iltnl, 1789-1854.)
The Deaf -and-Dumb Boy, .....
The Heroism of Maroncelli, .... Penn, William, (.Engl., 1644-1718.) •
On Pride of Noble Birth, .....
Paternal Counsels, ..... Pepys (peps). Samuel. (Engl., 163.3-1703.)
Mrs. Pepys Gets a New Petticoat,
Mr. and Mrs. Pepys Take a Drive, .
Mr. Pepys Does Not Like " Hudibras,"
Mr. Pepys Gets a Glimpse at Royalty. Per'cival, James Gates, (Amer., 1795-1856.)
The Coral Grove, ......
The Pleasures of the Student, Perrault (pa-ro). Chari.es, (Er., 1628-1703.)
Tlie Awakening, .....
I'er'ry, Nora, (Amer., 1841- .)
After the Ball, ......
Promise and Fulfilment, ....
He.ster Browne, ...... 4
Perry, Tuo.mas Sargeant. (Amer., 1845- .)
Evolution in Literature, ..... 1
Pe'trahch, (Itul., 1304-1374.)
Laura's Beauty and Virtues, . . . .3
On the Di'ath of Laura. ..... 3
Laura in Heaven, . . . . .4
To the Princes of Italy, . . . . . 4
The Damsel fif the Laurel, . . . .7
CONTENTS. 7
PAGE.
Peyton Cp&'ton), Thomas. (Engl, 1595-1625.)
The Invocation to tlif Heavenly Muse, . . ■ -^
Adam and Eve in I'aradise, . . . . -3
Tlie Temptation and the Fall, ... 4 Mount Amara, .....•• 5
The Terrestrial Paradise, . , . ■ ■ ^
The Expulsion from Paradise, . . . '>
Pfeiffeii (fi'fer), Emily, (.Engl., -1890.)
Oriental Color, .... • '
Past and Future, . . . • -2
The Children of Light, ..... 3
Among tlie Glaciers, . . . . • • 8
Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart. See Ward, Elizabeth Stu- art Phelps.
Pi'att. John James, CAmer., 1835- .)
The MorninK Street, ..... 1
The Fisherman's Light-House, . . . .2
TheSight of Angels 3
Piatt. Sarah Morgan Bryan, (.4mer., 1836- .)
Over a Little Bed at Nisrht, . .1
In Primrose Time, ...... 3
Au Emigrant Singing from a Ship, . . .4
The Gilt of Empty Hands, .... 5
Forgiveness, . . . . . • ■ ^
I*ikr'pont, John, (.-Imer., 1785-18C6.)
Classical and Sacred Themes for Music, . . .1
Dedication Hymn, ...... S
The Departed Child 3
Warren's Address to the .Vmerican Soldiers, . . 5
Piers Ploighman, (author, William Langlanu, Engl., 1332-1400.)
Beginning of the Vision, . . . . .2
Vision of Mercy and Truth, .... 2
A Seller of Indulgences, . . . . - 2
The Coming Reformation, .... 3
WellBelievingand Well-Doing, . . . .3
The Meeting with the Ploughman, . . . B
Pike, Albert, 0-lmej-., 1809- .)
Buena Vista, ...... 1
PiN'DAR. (6'r., 520 B.C.-440 B.c )
From the First Pyihian Ode, . . . . .1
From the Thirteenth Olympic Ode, ... 2
Pindar, Peter. See Wo:x-ott, John.
Pink'ney, Edward Coate, iAmer., 1803-1828.)
A Health, 1
A Serenade, ....... 2
Piozzi (peot'se), Hester Lynch. See Mrs. Tbrjlls. Pla'to, (Gr.. 429 B.C.-343 B.C.)
The Vision of Er, in the Other World, , . .2
The Philosopher, ...... 9
Plau'tus, {Rom., 254 B.C. -184 B.C.)
An Indulgent Master, . . . . . .1
Prologue to "The Shipwreck," .... 3
Plin'y the Elder, (Rom., 23 A.D.-79.)
The Earth— Its Form and Motion, . . . .8
6 C'ONTESTii,
Position and Size of the Earth, .
On Man, ....
On Trees, ....
Of Sletals,
Valuable Natural Products, Pliny tlie Younger, (Rom., 62-107.)
The Eruption of Vesuvius, a.d 79,
Pliny to Trajan,
Trajan to Pliny, Pi.u'tarch, CGr., - .)
On Bashfulness,
On the I^ove of Wealth,
On Punishments,
On Eating Flesh, PoE, Edgar Allan, (,Ainer., 1811-1849
The Coliseum,
The Bells,
The Raven, ,
Annabel Lee,
The House of Usher, PoL'LOK, Robert, {Scot., 1799-182:
Opening Invocation,
True Happiness,
Holy Love, Pope, Alexander, (Engl., 1088-1744.)
Numbers in Verse, .
Belinda at Her Toilet,
Belinda at the Water-Party,
The Seizure of the Lock,
Boring Rhymesters,
Trust in Providence,
The Universal Chain of Being,
'ITiG Coming Messiah. .
The Reign of Messiah,
The Universal Prayei-: dco. opt. Po.i'TER, Jane, CEngl, 1776-1850.)
Thaddeus of Warsaw Avows His Love, Porter, Noati, CAmer., 1811- .)
The Ideal Christian College, .
The Progressive Character of Christianity, . Praed (prad), Rosa Murray-Prior, ^Engl., 1852-
Affinities, .....
Praed, Winthrop Mackworth, CEngl., 1802-1839.)
Charade: "Camp Bell," ....
Charade: "Knight-Hood," .
The Vicar, ......
Quince. ......
Pratt, Ella Farman, (Amer., 18 - .)
Planning, .....
Pren'tice, George Denison, CAnier., 1802-1870.)
The Flight of Years, ....
Pren'tiss, Elizabeth Payson, (Amer., 1818-1878.)
Last Words. .....
Pres'cott, AVilliam Hickling, (_Amer., 1796-1859.)
E."cpulsi(.n of the .Je%vs from Spain,
PAGE 2 3 4 5 6
CONTEXTS.
In SiRht of the Valley and City of Mexico,
The Last of the Iiicas, .... pRKS'TON, Harriet Watehs, iAmer., 1843- .)
Count Lej Tolstoi, . . • ■
PnESTON, Maugaret Junkix, Oimei:, 1825- .)
Dedication to Old Songs and New,
The Morrow, . . . . ■
Morning, ....••
Night
Saint Cecilia, .....
A Grave in Hollywood Cemetery, Richmond, Va
(lods Tatience, .... Primk, Samuel Iren.«us, (Amer., 1812-1885.)
Sa:niH'l Hanson Cox, .... Pri.mk, William Cowpku, (.-Irner., 1825- .)
I'isoatorial Mi^ditutions, .
C) Ml itlier Dear, Jerusalem! . Pkin'glu, Thomas, (.Scot., 1789-1834.)
Afar in the Desert, . .
Pri'ou, M.\tthew, {Engl., 1CIJ4-17:01.)
To a Very Young Ladv of Quality, .
For His Own Monument, .
Epigrams, .....
I'lioc'TER, Adel.'VIDE Anne, (Engl., 1825-1864.)
A Legend of Bregenz,
.•V Woman's Question, ....
Life and Deatli, .... Procter, Bryan Waller, CEngl., 1790-1874.)
Tho Sea, ......
Inscription for a Fountain,
A retitiun to Time, ....
Life,
To Adelaide I^rocter, ....
Come, Let Us Go to the Land, Proctor, Edna Dean, CAmer., 18 - .)
Moscow, .....
Tho Return of the Dead,
Heaven, OLord, I Cannot Lose,
Take Heart, ..... Proctor, Richard Anthony, (Engl., 1837-1888.)
Betting on the Odds in Horse-Racing, .
Prayer and Weather, .... Proit, Father. Sec Mahony, Francis. Pkudhomme (priidom), Sully, (JV , 1S39- .)
Tiio Missal. .....
Pur'chas, Samuel, (Engl., 1577-1628.)
Purchases Authorities, ....
The Sea, ..... Pyle, Howard, (Amer., 1853- .)
The Treasure Restored, PYTnAG'or..\s. (Gr., 5:0b.c.-504 n.c.)
Th? " Synibo'.s " of Pythagoras, .
The G >lden Verses, .... Q-.-arles, Francis, (Engl., 1502-1G44.)
Delight ill God Only,
9
PAOS.
5
10 CONTENTS.
PAOX.
QuiK'CKY, Thomas »e. See De QnNCET, Thomas.
QuiNCy, JosiAH, (Amer., 177^-1864.)
Tlie Lessons Tauglit by New Eaglaiiu History, 1
QuiNTiL'iAX, (.Rom., 40-118.)
The Perfect Orator, ..... 1
Hints for the Earliest Training of the Orator, 2
How Soon Education Should Begin, ... 2
The Training in Boyhood, . . .3
Emulation to be Encouraged, .... 4
Examining Witnesses, . . . .4
Arguments Derived from the Per.sonality of a Party, 5
When a Good Man May Defend a Bad Cause, . 6
Conclusion of the " Institutiones,'" . . .7
Rabelais (rabe-Iil), Fkancois, (jPr., 1490-1553.)
The Infant Garsrantun. ..... 2
The Abbey of Thelema, . . . . .2
Monks and Monkejs, ..... 3
CYCLOPEDIA
OF
UNIVERSAL LITERATURE.
O'BRIEN, FiTZ James, an Irish-Ameri- can litterateur^ born at Limerick in 1828, died at Cumberland, Maryland, in 1862. He was educated at the University of Dublin. On leaving college lie went to London, and in a couple of years ran through an inheritance of X 8,000. He had in the mean time made some successful experiments in autiiorship; and in 1852 came to New York, where he entered upon a brilliant career as a contributor to mag- azines, writing with facility upon a variety of topics, both in prose and verse.
Toward the close of 1861, he joined a New Yoik regiment, and was not long afterward appointed upon the staff of General Lander. At a skirmish on Feb- ruary 26, 1862, he received a wound in the shoulder, which was not thought to be se- rious; but through unskilful surgical treat- ment, he died on April 6th. A volume made up from some of his Poems and Stories. edited by William Winter, was published in 1881. The following poem, which is among his latest, was written early in the autumn of 1851, when he was about to break off his *' Bohemian " way of life, aud
FIT2 JAMES O'BKIEN. -2
essay a new career. Those who can read between the lines will pei'ceive that it is in a way antohiograpliical, and that the "Loss " deplored is not tliat of any woman, bat of his own better self, as it might have been, and might perhaps again be.
OF LOSS.
Stretched, silver-spun the spider's nets;
The quivering sky was wliite with fire; The Llackbird's scarlet epaulets
Reddened the hemlock's topmost spire.
Tiie mountain in his purple cloak,
His feet with mist}' vapors wet, Lay dreamily, and seemed to smoke
All day his giant calumet.
From farm-house bells tlie noonday rung. The teams that plowed the furrows stopped ;
The ox refreshed his lolling tongue,
And brows were wiped, and spades were dropped ;
And down the field the inowers stepped, With burning brows and figures lithe.
As in their brawny hands they swept From side to side the hissing scythe ;
Till sudden ceased the noonday task. The scythe 'mid blades of grass lay still,
As girls with can and cider-flask. Came romping gayly down the hill.
And over all these swept a stream Of subtle music — felt, not heard—
As one conjures in a dream The distant singing of a bird.
I drank the glory of the scene,
Its autumn splendor fired my veins;
The woods were like an Indian Queen Who gazed upon her old domains.
And, ah ! mel bought I heard a sigh Come softly through her leafy lips;
FITZ JAMES O'BRIEN. -<J
A mourning over da3-s gone bj-,
That were before the white man's ships.
And so I came to think on Loss — I never much could think on Gain —
A poet oft will woo a cross
On whom a crown is pressed in vain.
I came to think — I know not how —
Perchance through sense of Indian wrong —
Of losses of my own, that now
Broke for the first time into song.
A fluttering strain of feeble words
That scarcely dared to leave my breast j
But, like a brood of fledgling birds, Kept hovering round their natal nest.
*' 0 loss ! " I sang, " 0 early loss !
O blight that nipped the buds of spring ! O spell that turned the gold to dross!
0 steel that clipped the untried wing!
"I mourn all days, as sorrows he
Whom once they called a merchant-prince, Over the ships he sent to sea.
And never, never, heard of since.
"To ye, O woods, the annual May Restores the leaves ye lost before ;
The tide that now forsakes the bay,
This night will wash the widowed shore.
" But I shall never see again
The shape that smiled upon my youth ; A misty sorrow veils my brain,
And'dimly looms the light of Truth.
« She faded, fading woods, like you!
And fleeting shone with sweeter grace, And as she died the colors grew
To softer si)lendors in her face.
"Until one day the hectic flush
Was veiled with death's eternal snow ;
She swept from earth ami<l a hush, And I was left alone below !"
While thus T moaned, I heard a peal Of laughter through the meadows flow,
FITZ JAMES O'BRIEN.— 4
I saw the farm-boys at their meal, I saw the cider circling go.
And still the" mountain calmly slept, His feet with valley-vapors wet ;
And, slowly circling, upward crept The smoke from out his calumet.
Mine was the sole discordant breath That marred this dream of peace below;
"0 God," I cried, " give, give me death. Or give me grace to bear thy blow ! "
ELISHA KENT KANE.
(Died February 15, 1857.) Aloft upon an old basaltic crag, [Pole,
Which, scalped by keen winds that defend the Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll Around the secret of the mystic zone, A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag, Flutters alone.
And underneath, upon the lifeless front Of that drear clitf, a simple name is traced: Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt, But with a rocky purpose in his soul, Breasted the gathering snows. Clung to the drifting floes. By want beleaguered, and by winter chased, Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste.
Not many months ago we greeted him. Crowned with the icy honors of the North. Across the land his hard-won fame went forth : And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by
limb ; [pi'it">
And his own mild Keystone State, sedate and Burst from its decorous quiet as he came ; Hot southern lips, witli eloquence aflame, Sounded his triumph ; Texas, wild and grim. Proffered its horn^' hand; the large-lunged
West, From out its giant breast, Yelled its frank welcome. And from main to
main, Jubilant to the sky.
FITZ JAMES O'BRIEN.— 5
Thundered the mighty cry, " Honor to Kane !"
Tn vain — in vain beneath his feet we flung The reddening roses! All in vain we poured The golden wine, and round the shining board Sent the toast circling till the rafters rung With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast ! Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceased, Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes. Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies, Faded and faded. And the brave young heart That the relentless Ar<;tic winds had robbed Of all its vital heat, in that long quest For the lost Captain, now within his breast More and more faintly throbbed. His was the victory ; but, as his grasp Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp, Death launched a whistling dart ; And ere the thunders of a[/plause were done His bright eyes closed forever on the sun ! Too late, too late the splendid prize he won In the Olympic race of Science and of Art !
Like to some shattered being that, pale and lone,
Drifts from the white North to a Tropic zone.'
And, in the burning day
Wastes, peak by peak, away,
Till on some rosy even '
It dies with sunlight blessing it ; so he
Tranquilly floated to a southern sea,
And melted into Heaven !
He needs no tears, who lived a noble life.
We will not weep for him who died so well ;
But we will gather round the hearth, and tell
The story of his life : —
Such homage suits him well
Better than funeral pomp or passing bell.
What tale of peril and self-sacrifice !
Prisoned amidst the fastnesses of ice.
With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow;
Night lengthening into months ; the ravenous
floe Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear Crunches his prey ; the insufficient share
riTZ JAMES O'BRIEN. -«
Of loathsome food ;
The letharjTfv of famine, the despair
Urging to hibor, nervously' pursued ;
Toil done with skinny arras, and faces hued
Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind
Glimmered the fading embers of a mind !
That awful hour, when through the prostrate
band Delirium stalked, laying his burning hand Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew ; The whispers of rebellion — faint and few At first, but deepening ever till they grew Into black thoughts of murder : — such the
throng Of horrors round the Hero. High the song Should be that liymns the noble part he played ! Sinking himself, 3'et ministering aid To all around him. B\' a mighty will Living defiant of the wants that kill, Because his death would seal his comrades' fate ; Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill Those Polar winters, dark and desolate, Equal to every trial — every fate — He stands, until spring, tardy with relief. Unlocks the icy gate, And the pale prisoners thread the world once
more. To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shore, Bearing their dying chief.
Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold From royal hands, who wooed the knightly
state : The knell of old formalities is tolled, And the world's knights are now self-consecrate. No grander e})isode doth chivalry hold Til all its annals, back to Charlemagne, Than that long vigil of unceasing pain, Faithfully kept, through hunger and through
oold. By the good Christian Knight, Elisha Kane !
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLAGER.-^!
OEHLENSCHLAGER, Adam Gott. LOB, a Danish dramatist and poet, boni at Copenhagen in 1779 ; died there iu 1850. His fatlier was steward of the royal palace at Fredericksburg, where the son passed his early life. At the age of twelve he began to write dramatic pieces, which Avere performed by himself and his schoolmates. In 1803 he published a vol- ume of poems Tiiis was followed by his drama of Aladdin, which gained for him a travelling stipend from the Government. He thoroughly mastered the German lan- guage, into which he translated those of his works which were originally written in Danish. He went to Italy, where he became intimate with the Danish sculptor, Thorwaldsen. Returning to Denmark in 1810, he was made Professcn" of ^stlietics in the University of Copenhagen. His Works, wliich include dramas, poems, novels, and translations, fill forty-one vol- umes in German and twenty-one in Danish. He is best known by his dramas, twenty- four in all, of which nineteen are upon Scandinavian subjects. Many of them have been translated into English by Theodore Martin and othei^. Among the best of Ills works are : Aladdin, Hakon Jarl, Palnatoke, Axel and Vafborf/, Correg- gio^ Canute the Great, The Varangians in Constantinople, Land Found and Losf^ based upon the early voyages of the North- men in America, Dlna, and The Gods of the North. A complete edition of his Poetiske Skrifter (Poetical Writings) was published at Co])enhagen in thirty-two volumes (1857-65}.
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLEXSCHLAGER.— 2
•' ALADDIN : " DEDICATIOX TO GOETHE,
Born in far Nortlieru clime,
Came to mine ears sweet tidings in raj prime
From fairy laud ; Where flowers eternal blow, Where Power and Beaut\' go.
Knit in a magic band. Oft, when a cliild, I'd pore In rapture on the Saga lore ;
When on the wold The snow was falling white, I, shuddering with delight,
Felt not the cold. When with his pinion ciiill The Winter smote the castle on the hill,
It fanned my hair. I sat in m}- small room, And througli the lamp-lit gloom
Saw Spring shine fair. And though my love in j'outh Was all for Northern energy and truth,
And Northern feats, Yet for my fancy's feast The flower-apparelled East
Unveiled its sweets. To manhood as I grew, [I flew];
From North to South, from South to North
I was possest By yearnings to give voice in song To all that had been struggling long
Within my breast. I heard bards manifold ; But at their minstrelsy my heart grew cold ;
Dim, colorless, became My childhood's visions grand : Their tameness only fanned
My wilder flame. Who did the young bard save ? Who to his eye a keener vision gave
That he the child Amor beheld, astride The lion, far-off ride.
Careering wild ?
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSOHLAQER.— 3
Thou, great and good ! Thy spell-liko lays Did the eucliaiitcd curtain raise
From fairy-land, Where flowers eternal blow, Wliere Power and Beauty go,
Knit in a loving band.
Well pleased thou heardest long
Within thy halls the stranger minstrel's song.
Taught to aspire By thee, my spirit leapt To bolder heights, and swept
The German lyre.
Oft have I sung before ;
And many a hero of our Northern shore,
With grave, stern mien, By sad Melpomene Called from his grave, we see
Stalk o'er the scene.
And greeting they will send
To friend Aladdin cheerily as a friend.
The oak's thick gloom Prevails not wholh- where W^arbles the nightingale, and fair
Flowers waft perfume.
On thee, to whom I owe
New life, what shall my gratitude bestow ?
Nought has the bard Save hi? own song! And this Thou dost not — trivial as the tribute is —
With scorn regard.
Transl. o/ Theodore Martix.
ON TRACE OF THE MAGIC LAMP.
rNouREDDiN. tho enchanter, is seated by a table on which is a little chest filled with white sand. Upon this sand he half-consciously traces lines ; then speaks.]
Nbiireddin. — A wondrous treasure ! The greatest in the world ? — Hid in a cavern ? — Where ? — In Asia ? — And where in Asia? — Hard by Ispahan! Deep in the earth ; high over-arched with rocks j
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLAGER.— 4
Girt round witli lofty mountains. Holy Allali ! What mighty mysteiy begins to dawn Upon me ? Shall I reach the goal, at last, At midpight hour, after the silent toil Of fort^' weary years? I question further: — What is this matchless prize ? — A copper
lamp ! How's this ? An old rust-eaten copper lamp ! — And what, then, is its virtue ? — How ! — '• Con- cealed, Known but to him that owns it." And shall 1 (Scarce dares my tongue give the bold questioa
voice), Shall I, then, e'er the happy owner be ? See ! tlie fine sand, liive water interblends, And of the stylus leaves no trace behind. All's dark ! — Yet stay ! — With surging waves
it heaves. This arid sea, as when the tempest sweeps With eddying blast through Biledulgerid. What mean these furrows ? — 1 am to draw
forth A poem that lies eastward in the hall, Old, dust-begrimed ; and, wheresoe'er my eyes, Wlien I so open it, chance to fall, I am to read, and all shall then be clear.
[He rises slowly, and takes an old folio, which he opens, and reads]
" Fair Fortune's boons are scattered wide and far, In sinccle sparkles only fouuil and rare, And all her gifts in few combined are.
" Earth's choicest flowerets bloom not everywhere: Where mellows ripe the vine's inspiring tide, AVith bane and bale doth Nature wrestle there.
" In the lush Orient's sultry palm-groves glide F'ell serpents tlirougli rank herbage noiselessly, And there death-dealing venom doth abide.
" Darkness and storm deface the Northern sky; Vet there no sudden shook o'erwhelms the land, And steadfast cliffs the tempest's rage defy.
" Life's gladsome child is led by Fortune's hand; And what the sage doth moil to make his prize, When in the sky the pale stars coldly stand,
" From his own breast leaps forth in wondrous wise. Met by boon Fortune midway, he prevails. Scarce weeting how, in whatsoe'er he tries.
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENaCHLAGER.— 6
" 'Tis over thus that, Fortune freely hails Her favorite, ami on him her blessings showers, Even as to heaven tlie scented tlovver exliales.
*' Unwooed she conies at unexpected hours; And little it avails to rack thy brain, Anil ask where liu'k her lon;^ reluctant powers,
" Fain wouldst thou grasp Hope's portal shuts amain And all thy fabric vanishes in air; Unless foredoomed by Fate thy toils are vain, Thy aspirations doomed to meet despair."
These lines were woven in a mortal's brain, A sorry rliymer's, little conversant With Nature's deep and tender mysteries: Kindly she tenders me the hidden prize. Is it that she, with woman's waywardness, May make a mock of me ? Not so : on fools She wastes not her sage accents ; the pure light Is not a meteor-light that leads astra\'. With a grave smile, her finger indicates Where lies the treasure she has marked for mine. —
Yes! I divine the hidden import well Of that enigma she prepared for me ; In the unconscious poets' mystic song The needful powers are by no one possessed ; To lift great loads must many hands combine : To me 'twas given, with penetrating soul, To fathom Nature's inmost mysteries ; But I am not the outward instrument. " Life's gladsome child ! " — That means some
creature gay, By nature dowered, instead of intellect, With bod}' oul}', and mere j'onthful bloom. A 3'oung, dull-witted boy shall be my aid; And, all unconscious of its priceless worth, Secure and place the treasure in my hands. Is it not so, thou mighty Solomon ?
[Traces lines in the sand.]
Yes, yes, it is ! A fume of incense will Disclose to nie the entrance to the rock. And a rose-cheeked, uneducated boy Will draw the prize for my advantage forth, As striplings do in Europe's lotteries. O holy prophet, take my fervent thanlcs ! My mind's exhausted with its deep research.
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLEN"SCHLA.GER.— «
The goal achieved, my overwearied frame Longs for repose. Now, will I sleep in peace. To-morrow — by the magic of my ring I stand in Asia. The succeeding day Beholds me here, and with the wondrous lamp ! Trcmsl. of Theodore Martin.
THE SCANDINAVIAN WARRIORS AND BARDS.
Oh ! great was Denmark's land in time of old!
Wide to the South her branch of glory spread ; Fierce to the battle rushed her heroes bold,
Eager to join the revels of the dead ; While the fond maiden flew with smiles to fold
Round her returning warrior's vesture red Her arm of snow, with nobler passion fired, When to the breast of love, exhausted, he I'etired.
Nor bore they only to the field of death
The bossy buckler and the spear of fire ; The bard was there, with spirit-stirring breath, His bold heart quivering as he swept the wire. And poured his notes, amid the ensanguined heath, While panting thousands kindled at his lyre. Then shone the eye with greater fury fired. Then clashed the glittering mail, and the proud foe retired.
And when the memorable A:iy was past,
AndThor triumphant on his people smiled,
The actions died not with the day they graced;
The bard embalmed them in his descant
wild.
And their hymned names, through ages un-
effaced.
The weary hours of future Danes beguiled.
W^hen even their snowy bones had mouldered
long, On the high column lived the imperishable song. And the impetuous harp resounded high With feats of hardiuient done far and wide ;
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLEX50HLAGER.— 7
While the bard soothed witli festive minstrelsy
The chiefs reposing after battle-tide. Nor would stern themes alone his hand employ : He sang the virgin's sweetly temi)ered pride, And hoary eld, and woman's gentle cheer, And Denmark's manly hearts, to love and friendship dear.
Transl. of Walker.
ON LEAVING ITALY.
Once moi-e among the old gigantic hills with
vapors clouded o'er; The vales of Lombardy grow dim behind, the
rocks ascend before.
They beckon me, the giants, from afar; they
wing ni}' footsteps on ; Their helms of ice, their plumage of the pine,
their cuirasses of stone.
My heart beats higli, my breath comes freer forth — wliy should my heart be sore ?
I hear the eagle's and the vulture's cry, the nightingale's no more.
Where is the laurel ? Where the myrtle's bloom ? Bleak is the path around.
Where from the thicket comes the ringdove's cooing ? Hoarse is the torrent's sound.
Yet should I grieve, when from my loaded bosom a weight appears to flow ?
Methinks the muses come to call me home from yonder rocks of snow,
I know not how — but in yon land of roses ray
heart was heavy still ; I startled at the warbling nightingale, the
zephyrs on the hill.
They said the stars shone with a softer gleam- it seemed not so to me.
In vain a scene of beauty beamed around: my thoughts were o'er the sea.
Transl. in For. Quart. Recicw.
GEORGES OHNET.— 1
OHNET, Georges, a French editor, dramatist and novelist, born in Paris in 1848. He was successively editor of Le Paij>i and of Le CoustitutionneL and was remarked for his vivacity and polemical spirit. Among his earlier works are a drama, llegina Sarin (1875_), and a comedy Marthe (1877). Several of his novels have been dramatized. One of these Le 3Iaitre de Forges (1882), was played a whole year, This and otherromances — Serge Paniiie^ Le Co7ntesse Sarah, Lise Fleuron, La Grranded Marniere, Les Lames de Grolx-Mort — wers put fortli as a series under the tith; ig, Batailles de la Vie. Noir et Rose (1887) is a collection of stories. Volonte (1888), is directed against pessimism. La Conversion du Professeur Rameau. and Le Dernier Amour (1890), are his most recent works.
THE INVENTOR AND THE BANKER.
"Do not fear to ask too much. I will agree to whatever you wish. I am so sure of success."
Success ! This one word dissipated the shadows in which the tyrant of La ITeuville was losing himself. Success! The word typical of the inventor. He remembered the furnace of which he had heard so much. It was on the future of this invention that the marquis based his hopes of retrieving himself. It was by means of this extraordinary consumer tliat he proposed to again set going tiie work at tlie Great Murl-Pit, to pay his debts, to rebuild his fortune. Tlie banker began to understand the situation. Carvajan became himself again.
" No doubt it is _your furnace about which j-ou are so anxious ? " he said, looking coldly at the marquis. " But I must remind you tliat 1 am here to receive money and not to lend it — to terminate one transaction and not to com- mence another. Is that all you bad to say to me?"
UKORGES OHNET.— 2
But the inventor, with the obstinacy and candor of a nianiuc, began to explain his plans, and to enuniorate his chances of success. He forgot to whom he was addressing himself, and at what a terrible crisis he had arrived ; he thouglit of nothing but his invention, and how best to describe its merits. He drew the banker into the corner of the laboratory, where the model stood, and proposed to set it going to describe how it acted ; and, as he spoke, he be- came more and more excited, until he was simply overflowing with enthusiasm and con- fidence.
Carvajaii's cold, cutting voice put a sudden stop to his ecstasies. " Bnt under what pre- text do you intend me to lend j'ou money to try the merits of j-our invention ? You already owe me nearly four hundred thousand francs, my dear sir, a hundred and sixty thousand of which are due to me this very moruing. Are you in a position to pay me ? "
The marquis lowered his head.
" No, sir," he whispered.
" Your servant then. And in future pray remember not to trouble people simply to talk trash to them, and that when a man can't pay his debts, he oughtn't to give himself the airs of a genius. Ha, ha, the consumer, indeed ! By the way, it belongs to me now like everj'- thing else here. And if it is worth anything, I really don't see wh.y I shouldn't work it m}-- self— "
" You ! »
" Yes, I, marquis. I think the moment has come when j'ou may as well give \^p all attempt at diplomacy. All that there is left for you to do is to pack up your odds and ends and say good-b^'e to your country house."
The tyrant jilanted himself in front of Monsieur de Clairefont, and, his face lighted up with malicious glee, resumed :
" Thirty yeai-s ago you had me thrown out of your house. To-day it is my turn. A bailiff is below taking au inventory." He burst into an
GEORGES OHNET.— 3
insulting Liugli, and thrusting his hands into his pockets with, insolent familiarity, walked up and (lown the room with the airs of a master.
The marquis had listened to his harangue with stupefaction. The illusions he had still preserved fled in a second, as the clouds before the breath of the storm-wind. His reason re- turned to him, he regained his judgment, and blushed at having lowered himself so far as to make proposals to Carvajan. He no longer saw in him the lender, always ready for an advantageous investment — he recognized the bitter, determined enemy of his family.
" I was mistaken," he said, contemptuously. " I thought I still possessed enough to tempt your cupidit3\"
"Oh, insolence," returned the banker, coldly. " That is a luxury in which your means will not permit you to indulge, my dear sir. When a man's in people's debt he should try to pay them in other coin than abuse."
" You are able to take advantage of my po- sition, sir," said the marquis, bitterly. "I am at your mercy, and I ought not to be surprised at anything since my own children have been the first to forsake me. What consideration can I expect from a stranger when my daughter closes her purse to me, and my son leaves me to fight the battle alone ? ]3ut let us put an end to this interview. There is nothing more to be said on either side."
Carvajan made a gesture of surprise, then his face lighted up with diabolical delight.
" Excuse me," he said. " I see you have fallen into an error, and that I must undeceive you. You are accusing your son and daughter wrongfi'lly. No doubt you asked Mademoiselle de Clairefoiit to relieve you from your em- barrassments and she refused, as you pretend. She had very good reasons for her refusal — the money you asked she gave long ago. So 3'ou complain of her ingratitude ? Well, then, let me tell you that she has ruined herself for you, aad secretly, aud imploring that you should
GEORGES OHNET.— 4
not be tolfl the use she had niarle of her fortune. And tliat is wl)at you call closing her purse to you!"
The marquis did not utter a word, did not breathe one sigh. A wave of blood rushed to liis head, and he turned first crimson, then livid. He only looked at Carvajan as might a victim at his murderer. He felt as though his heai't were being wrung within his breast. He took a few steps, then, forgetting that his tor- mentor was still present, niechanic;illy seated himself in his arm-chair and leaning his head against the back, moved it restlessly from side to side.
But tlie mayor followed him, taking an ex- quisite delight in the agony of his enemy, and overpowering and crushing him with the weight of his hatred.
" As for your son," he went on, " if he is not with you now, you may be sure it is through 110 want of inclination on his part. He was arrested 3'esterday and taken to Kouen under escort of two gendarmes." , . .
His brain reeled, and he stared wildly at the monster who was gloating over his agonj-. "If Heaven is just, you will be punished through your son," he cried. " Yes, since you have no pit^'^ for mine, yours will show no regard for 3'ou. Scoundrel ! You are the parent of an honest man. He it is who will chasten you ! "
These words uttered by the marquis with the fire of madness, made Carvajan shudder with fear and rage.
" Why do you say that to me ? " he cried.
He saw the old man walking aimlessly to and fro, with haggard eyes, and wild ges- ticulation. " I believe he is going mad ! " he whispered to Tondeur.
"Ha, ha!" laughed the marquis. "'My enemies themselves will avenge me. Yes, the son is an honorable man — he has already left his father's house once — he will loath what he will see being done around him."
Suddenly he turned on Carvajan.
GEORGES 0H:N'ET.— 5
" G-o out of here, 3^011 monster ! " lie ex- claimed. " Your work is done. You have robbed me of my fortune, you hare robbed me of my lioiior. There is but my model left, and that you sliall not liave ! "
He rati to his table, t^re up his designs and trampled them underfoot. Then, seizing a heavy hammer, he hurried to ihe stove, and laughing horribly all the line, tried to break it. Carvajan in his exasperation stepped for- ward to stop him. But the old man turned round with hair bristling and mouth foaming.
" Stay where you are or I'll kill you ! " be cried.
" Sacredie ! I'm not afraid!" returned the banker. And he was on the point of rushing forward to save the stove from the destructive rage of the inventor, when the door was thrown open and Mademoiselle de Clairefont appeared. She had heard from below the marquis's high, excited tones.
" Father ! " she cried.
She sprang to him, took the hammer from him and clasped him in her arms. — Antoinette {La Grande Marniere).
LAURENCE OLIPHANT.— 1
OLIPHANT, Laurence, an English author, bom in 1829 ; died in 1888. _ His father was for many years Chief Jusiice of Ceylon, and the son, while quite young, made a tour in India, visiting, in company with Sir Jung Bahadoor, the native court of Nepanl, an account of which he pul)- lished in his Journeu to Katmandhu. He afterwards studied at the University of Edinburgh, and was admitted to the Scot- tish and the English bar. In 1852 he travelled in Southern Russia, visiting tlie Crimea. He succeeded in entering the fortified port of Sebastopol, of which he gave the earliest full uccount in his Russian Shores of the Black Sea (1855). In 1855 lie became private secretary to Lord Elgin, Governor-General of Canada, travelled in British America and the Northwestern parts of the United States, and ].ublished Minnesota and the Fa?- West (1856). In 1857 he accompanied Lord Elgin, who had been appointed British Envoy to China and Japan, and wrote a valuable Narrative of the Earl of Elgin s Mission to China and Japan (1860). In 1861, while acting as Charge d' Affaires in Japan, he was severely wounded by an assassin, and retire<l from the di[ilomatic service. From 1865 to 1868 he was a member of Parliament for the Scottisli burgh of Stirling. He sub- sequently took j)art in efforts to establish Christian Socialistic Communities in the United States ; and was afterwards made Superintendentof Indian Affairs in Canada. During the latter years of his life he resided in Palestine. Among his miscelLineous writ- ings are : Transcaucasian Campaign of Omer Pasha (1856), Piccadilly, a Fragment of Contemporaneovs Biography (1870), The
LAtmENCE OLIPHANT.— 2
Land of G-ilead (1882), Travesties^ Social and Political (1882), Altiora Peto, a Novel (1883), Episodes in a Life of Adventure (1887), Haifa, or Life in Modern Pales- tine (1887), and Scientific Religion (1888).
REVOLUTIONS AND THE GOVERNMENT IN CHINA.
An}' person who has attentively observed the working of the anomalous and altogether unique system under which the vast empire of China is governed, will perceive that, although ruling under altogether different conditions, supported not by physical force, but by a moral prestige, unrivalled in power and extent, the emperor of China can say, with no less truth than Napoleon, '^ L' JEmpire c'est rnoi." Backed by no standing army worth the name, depending for the stability of his authority neither upon his military genius nor admin- istrative capacity, he exercises a rule more absolute than any European despot, and is able to thrill with his touch the remotest prov- inces of the Empire; deriving his ability to do so from that instinct of cohesion and love of order by which his subjects are super-emineutly characterized.
But while it happens that the wonderful en- durance of a Chinaman will enable him to bear an amount of injustice from his Government which would revolutionize a Western state, it is no less true that the limits may be passed ; when a popular movement ensues, assuming at times an almost Constitutional character. When any emeute of this description takes place, as directed against a local official, the Imperial Government invariably espotises the popular cause, and the individual, wliose guilt is inferred from the existence of disturbance, is at once degraded. Thus a certain sj'mpathy or tacit understanding seems to exist between the Emperor and his subjects as to how far each may push their prerogatives ; and, so long as neither exceeds these limits, to use their own expression, " the wheels of the chariot of
LAURENCE OLIPHANT. -3
Imperial Government revolve smoothly on their axles." So it hupitens that disturbances of greater or less import are constantly occurring in various parts of the country. Sometimes they assume the most formidable dimensions, and spread like a running fire over the Empire ; but if tlie}' are not founded on a real grievance, they are not supported by jjopular sympathy, and gradually die out, the smouldering embers kept alive, perhaps, for some time by the exer- tions of the more hiwless part of the community, but the last spark ultimately expires, and its blackened trace is in a few years utterly ef- faced.— Narrativie of the Mission of the Earl of Elgin.
A VISIT ON MOUNT CAKMEL.
M}' host, who came out to meet me, led me to an elevated [datform in front of the village mosque, an unusually imposing edifice. Here, under the shade of a spreading mulberry-tree, were collected seven brothers, who represented the famih', and about fift^- other members of it. They were in the act of pra\er when I arrived — indeed, they are renowned for tiieir piet}'. Along the front of the terrace was a row of water-bottles for ablutions, behind them mats on which the praying was going forward, and behind the worshippers a confused mass of slippers. When tliey had done praying, they all got into their slippers. It was a marvel to me how each knew his own.
The}' led me to what I supposed was a place of honor, where soft coverlers had been spread near the door of the mosque. We formed the usual squatting circle, and were sipping coffee, when suddenly every one started to liis feet ; a dark, active little man seemed to dart into the midst of us. Everybody struggled frantically to kiss his hand, and he passed through us like a flash to tlie oilier end of the platform, followed by a tall negro, whose hand everybody, includng ssmy aristocratic liost, seemed also anxious to kias. I had not recovered from mj
LAUEENX'E OLIPHANT.— 4
astonishment at this proceeding, when I re- ceived 51 message from the new-comer to take a place b}'' liis side. I now found tliat lie was on the seat of honor, and it became a question, until I knew who he was, whether I should admit his right to invite me to it, thus acknowl- edging his superiority in rank — etiquette in these matters being a point which has to be attended to in the East, however absurd it may seem among ourselves. I therefore for the moment ignored his invitation, and asked my host, in an off-hand way, who he was. He in- formed me that he was a mollah, held in the higliest consideration for his learning and piety all through the country, iipoii which he, in fact, levied a sort of religious tax ; that he was here on a visit, and that in his own home he was in the habit of entertaining two hundred guests a night, no one being refused hospitality. His father was a dervish, celebrated for his miracu- lous powers, and the mantle thereof had fallen upon the negro, who had been his servant, and who also was much venerated, because it was his habit to go to sleep in the mosque, and be spirited away, no one knew whither, in the night ; in fact, he could become invisible almost at will.
Under these circumstances, and seeing that I should seriously embarrass my host if I stood any longer on my dignity, I determined to waive it, and joined the saint. He received me with supercilious condescension, and we ex- changed compliments till dinner was announced, when my host asked whether I wished to dine alone or with the world at large. As the saint had been too patronizing to be strictlv polite, I thought I would assert my right to be exclu- sive, and said I would dine alone, on which he, with a polite sneer, remarked that it would he better so, as he had an objection to eating with any one who drank wine, to which I retorted that I had an equal objection to dining with ^hose who ate with their fingers. From this it
LAURENCE OLIPHANT.-5
will appear that my relations witli tlie holy man were getting somewhat strained.
I was, therefore snpplied with a pyramid of rice and six or seven elaborately cooked dishes all to myself, and squatted on one mat, while a few yards off the saint, my host, and all his brothers squatted on another. When they had linished their repast their places were occupied by others, and I counted altogether mure than "fifty persons feeding on the mosque terrace at my host's expense. Dinner over, they all trooped in to pray, and I listened to the monotonous chanting of the Koran till it was time to go to bed. My host offered me a mat in the mosque, where I should have a. chance of seeing the miraculous disappearance of the negro ; but as 1 had no faith in this, and a great deal in the snoring, b}' which I should be disturbed, I slept in a room apart as excln- sively as I had dined.
I was surprised next morning to observe a total change in the saint's demeanor. All the supercilious pride of the previous evening had vanished, and we soon became most amiable to each other. That he was a fanatic hater of the Giaour I felt no doubt, but for some reason he liad deemed it politic to adopt an entirely altered demeanor. It was another illustration of the somewhat painful lesson which one has to learn in one's intercourse with Orientals. They must never be allowed to outswagger you. — Haifa.
MARGARET OllUE OLIPHANT. -1
OLIPHANT, Margaret Orme (Wil- son), a Ih'itish novelist and biogiapher, born at Liverpool in 1831. She was of Scottish parentage, married into a Scottish family, and most of iier earlier novels were Scottish in their scene and character. Her first novel, Passages in the Life of Mrs. Margaret Maitland of Surm/^side, appeared in 1819; this was followed for more than forty years by many others, among which are : Adam Grceme of Mossc/ray (1852), Lilieslea f (1S55), Chronicles of Carlingford (1866), n^ Ministers Wife (\%Q^), Squire Arden (1871), A Rose m June (1871), Young Musgrave (1877), He that Will not when he May (1880), A Little Pilgrim (18.82), The Ladles Lindores (1883), Oliver s Bride (1886), in conjunction with T. B. Aldrich, The Second Son (1888), Joyce (1888), Neighbors on the Green., and A Poor Gentleman (1889). Among her works in biograj)hy and general literature are: Life of Edivard Irving (1862), His- torical Sketches of the Reign of George II., originally i)ublislied in Blachvood's Maga- zine (1869), St. Francis of Assisi (1870), Memoir of Cou7it Montalemhert (1872), The Makers of Florence (1876), The Lit- erary History of England., during the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuiies (1886), Foreign Classics for English Readers (1887), 17ie Makers of Venice (1887), and a Biography of Laurence OH- phant (1889).
AN KNGLISH KECTOR AND RECTORY.
** Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things. Let tlie child alone — she will never be _young again if she should live a hundred years."
These words were spoken in the gardeu of
MARGARET ORME OLIPHANT.— 2
Dinglefield Rectory on a very fine summer day a few years ago. The speaker was Mr. Damerel, tlie Rector, a middle-aged man, with very fine, somewhat worn features, a soft, benignant smile, and, as everybody said wlio knew liim, tlie most cliarniing manner in the world. He was a man of very elegant mind, as well as manners. He did not preach often, bnt when he did preach all the educated persons of liis congregation felt that they had very choice fare indeed set before them. I am afraid the poor people liked the curate best ; but tlien the curate liked them best, and it mattered very little to any man or woman of refinement what sentiment existed between the cottage and the curate. Mr. Damerel was perfectly kind and courteous to everybody, gentle and simple, who came in his way, but he was. not fond of poor people in the abstract. He dis- liked everything that was nnlovel}' ; and, alas ! there are a great many unlovely things iu povert}-.
The rectory garden at Dinglefield is a delightful place. The house is on the summit of a little liill, or rather tableland, for in the front, towards the green, all is level and soft, as becomes an English village ; but on the other side the descent begins toward the lower country, and from the drawing-room windows and the lawn, the view extended over a great plain, lighted up with links of river, and fading into unspeakable hazes of distance, such as were the despair of every artist, and the delight of the fortunate people who lived there, and were entertained day by day with the sight of all the sunsets, the mid-day splendors, the fly- ing shadows, the soft prolonged twilights. Mr. Damerel was fond of saying that no place he knew so lent itself to idleness as this. " Idleness! I speak as the foolish ones speak," he was wont to say ; " for what occu[>ation could be more ennobling than to watch those gleams and shadows — nil Nature spread out before you, and demanding attention, though
MARGARET ORME OLIPHAN'T.— 3
so softly that oiil}' those wlio have ears hear. I allow, niN' gentle Nature here does not shout at 3'ou, and compel your reganl, like her who dwells among the Alps, fur instance. M}'^ dear, you are always so practical ; but so long as j'ou leave me my landscape I want little more."
Thus the Rector would discourse. It was only a very little more he wanted — only to liave his garden and lawn in perfect order, swej)t and trimmed every morning, like a lady's boudoir, and refreshed with every variety of flower; to have his table not heavilv loaded with vulgar English joints, but daintily covered, and oh ! so delicately served ; the linen always fresh, the crystal always fine ; the ladies dressed as ladies shoidd be ; to have his wine — of which he took very little — always fine, of choice vintage, and with a bouquet which rejoiced the heart ; to liave plenty of new books; to have quiet, undisturbed by the noise of the children, or any other troublesome noise which broke the harmony of Nature; and especially undisturbed by bills and cares, such as, he declared, at once shorten life and take all pleasure out of it. This was all he required and surel}'^ never man had tastes more moderate, more innocent, more virtuous and refir.ed.
The little scene to which I have thus ab- ruptly introduced the reader took place in the most delicious part of the garden. The deep stillness of noon was over the sunshiny world; part of the lawn was brilliant in light; the very insects were subdued out of the buzz of activity by the spell of the sunshine; but here, under the lime-tree, there was a grateful shade, where everything took breath. jMr. Damerel was seated in a chair vidiich had been made expressl}' for him, and which combined the comfort of soft cushions with such a rustic appearance as became its liabitation out of doors; under his feet was a soft Persian rug, in colors blended with all the harmoin' which belongs to the Eastern loom ; at liis side a pretty carved table, with a raised rim, with
MAI^GARET OR.ME OLIPIIAXT.— 4
books upon it", and .1 thin Venice glass con- tiiining a rose.
Anotlifir ruse — tlio Rose of ni}' stor}' — was lialf-sirtinij, lialf-rtn-lining on the grass at his feet — a pretty, lii^ht ligure in a soft inusliu dress, almost white, with bits of soft rose-col- ored ribbons here and there. Siie was the eldest child of the house. Her features I do not think were at all remarkable, but she had a bloom so soft, so delicate, so sweet, that her father's fond title for her, " a Rose in June," was everywhere acknowledged as appropriate. A rose of the very season of roses was this Rose. Her very smile, which went and came like breath, never away for two minutes to- gether, 3'et never lasting beyond the time 3'ou took to look at her, was flowery too — I can scnrcely tell why. For my own part, she always reminded me not so much of a garden rose in its glory, as of a bunch of wild roses, all bloom- ing and smiling from the bough — here pink, liere white, here with a dozen ineffable tints. In all her life she had never had occasion to ask herself was she happy. Of course she was l)ap[)y ! Did she not live, and was not that enough ? — A Hose in Jane.
EDWARD IRVING.
Chalmers and Irving were, with the excep- tion of Robert Hall, the two greatest preachers of their day. Irving had passed a 3'ear or two as Chalmers's assistant at Glasgov/- before lie went to London, in 1822. and where the world found him out, and in his obscure chapel he became almost the most noted of all the nota- bilities of town. Even now, when his story is well known, and his own journals and letters have proved the nobleness and sincerity of the man, it is difticnlt for the world to forget that it once believed him after liaving followed and stared at him as a prodicjy — an impostor or a madman. And it is well known that the too Jofty and unworldly strain of his great mind
MARGARET ORME OLIPHANT.— 5
separated liim from that homely standing- ground of fact, upon wliich alone our mortal footsteps are safe ; and from the very exalta- tion of liis aspiring soul brought him down in- to humiliation, subjection to pettier minds, and to the domination of a sect created by his im- pulse, yet reigning over liim.
Tlie eloquence of Irving was like notliing else known in his day. Sumetliing of the lofty parallelism of the Hebrew, something of tiie noble English of our Bible, along with that solemn national form of poetic phraseology, " such as grave lovers do in Scotland use," com- posed the altogether individual style in which he wrote and spoke. It was no assumed or elaborated st^yle, but the natural utterance of a mind cast in other moulds than those common to the men of the nineteenth century, and in himself at once a primitive prophet, a medieval leader, and a Scotch Borderer, who had never been subject to the trimming and chopping influence of societj'. It is said tiiat a recent publication of his sermons has failed to attract the public; and this is comprehensible enough, for large volumes of sermons are not popular literature. But the reader who takes the trouble to over- come the disinclination which is so apt to arrest us on the threshold of sucli a study, will find himself carried along by such a lofty sim- plicity, by such a large and noble manliness of tone, by the originality'' of a mind incapable of doubt taking God at His word, instinct with, that natural faith in all things divine which is, we think, in its essence one of the many inheri- tances of genius. — though sometimes rejected and disowned — that he will not grudge the pains. He who lield open before the orphan that grand refuge of the " fatherhood of God," whicli struck the listening statesman with wondering admiration; he who, in intimating a death, " made known to them the good intel- ligence that our brother has had a good voyage, HO far as we could follow him or hear tidings of him," saw everything around him with mag-
MAKGAKET OllEM OLIPHANT. -«
nified and ennobled vision, and 3poke of what he saw witli the grandeur yet simplicity of a seer — telling his arguments and his reasonings as if they had been a narrative, and making a great poetic stor^' of the workings of the mind and its labors and consolations.
In the most abstruse of his subjects this method continues to be alwavs aiiparent. The sermon is like a sustained and breatiiless tale, with an affinity to the minute narra- tive of Defoe or of the j)rimitive historians. The pauses are brief, the sentences long, bur the interest does not flag. Once afloat upon the stream, the reader — and in his da}' how much more the liearer ! — finds it difficult to release himself from the full flowing tide of interest in which he looks for the accus- tomed breaks and breathing-places in vain. Literary History of England.
SAVONAROLA AND LORENZO DE' MEDICI.
It was in the villa of Carregi, amid the olive-gardens, that Lorenzo lay, dying among the beautiful things he loved. As Savonarola took his way up the hill, with the old monk those duty it was to accompany him, he told the monk that Lorenzo was about to die. This was, no doubt, a very simple anticipation, but everytliing Savonarola said was looked upon b\' his adoring followers as prophecy. \Yl)eu the two monks reached the beautiful house from which so often the INIagnificent Lorenzo had looked out upon his glorious Florence, and in which liis life of luxury, learned and gay. had culminated, the Prior was led to the cliamber in which the owner of all these riches lav hopeless and helpless, in what ought to have been the prime of his days, with visions of sacked cities and robbed orphans distracting his dying mind, and no aid to be got from either beauty or learning. "Father," said Lorenzo, " there are three things which drag me back, and throw me into despair, and I
MARGAliET ORME OLIPHAX7\~7
know not if God will ever pardon me for tht-m." Tiiese were the sack of Volterra, tlie robbery of the Monte delle Fanoiulle, and the massacre of the Pazzi. To this Savonarola answereil by reminding his penitent of the mercy of God. The dramatic climax is wanting in the account given by Folitian ; but we quote it in full from the detailed and simple nai-rative of Burla- macchi : —
" Lorenzo," said Savonarola, •• be not so despairing, for God is merciful to you. if you will do the three things I will tell you." Tlieri snid Lorenzo, " What are these thi-ee things ? " The Padi-e answered, '•' The first is that 3'ou should have a great and living faith that God can and will pardon you." To which Lorenzo answered, " This is a great thing, and I do believe it." The Padre added, " It is also necessary that everything wrongfully acqnired should be given back by you, in so far as you can do this, and still leave to your children as much as will maintain them as private citizens.'' These words drove Lorenzo nearly out of liimself ; but afterwards he said, "This also will I do." The Pailre then went on to the third thing, and said, "Lastly, it is necessai-y that freedom and her poi)ular government, according to republican usage, should be restored to Flor- ence." At this speech Lorenzo turned his back upon him, nor ever said another word. Upon which the Padre left him, and went away without other confession
We do not know where to find a more re- markable scene. Never before, as far as we can ascertain, had tliese two notable beings looked at each other face to face, or inter- changed words. They met at the supreme moment of the life of one, to confer there upon the edge of eternity, and to part — but not in a petty quarrel, each great in his way ; the Prince turning his face to the wall in the bit- terness of his soul ; the Friar drawing liis cowl over his head, solemn, nnblessing, but not un- pitiful. They separated after their one inter-
MARGARET ORME OL1PHANT.-8
view. The Prince had sought the unwilling Preacher in vain when all went well with Lo renzo ; but the Preacher " grieved greatly," as he afterwards said, not to have been sooner when at last they met ; and Savonarola recognized in the great Medici a man worth struggling for — a feHov/ and peer of his own.
Thus Lorenzo died at forty-four, in the height of his days, those distracting visions in his dying eye.-^- — the sacked city, the murdered innocents of the Pazzi blood, tlie poor maidens robbed in their orphanage. He had been vic- torious and splendid all his days ; but the battle was lost at last ; and the prophet by the side of his princely bed intimated to him, in that last demand, to which he would make no an- swer, the subversion of all his work, the downfall of his family, the escape of Florence from the skillful hands which had held her so long. The spectator, looking on at this strange and lofty conllict of the two most notable figures of the time, feels almost as much sym- path}^ for Lorenzo — proud and sad, refusing to consent to that ruin which was inevitable — as with the patriotic monk, lover of freedom as of truth, who could no more absolve a despot at his end than he could play a courtier's part during his life.
As that cowled figure traversed the sunny marbles of the loggia, in the glow of the April morning, leaving doubt and bitterness behind, what thoughts must have been in both hearts I The one, sovereign still in Florence, reigning for himself and his own will and pleasure, proudh' and sadly turned his face to the wall, holding fast his sceptre, though his moments were numbered. T'he other, not less sadly — a sovereign too, to whom that sceptre was to fall, and who should reign for God and goodness — went forth into the Spring sunshine, life blos- soming all about him, and the fair City of Flowers lying before him, white campanile and red dome glistening in the early light, — life with the one, death with the other ; but Nature,
MARGARET ORME OLIPHAyT.— 9
calm and fair, and this long-lived, everlasting Earth, to which men, great and small, are things of a moment, encircling both. Lorenzo de' Medici died, leaving as such men do, the deluge after him, and a foolish and feeble heir to con- tend with Florence, aroused and turbulent, and all the troubles and stormy chances of Italian politics ; while the Prior of San Marco retired to his cell and his pulpit, from which for a few 3'ears thereafter he was to rule over his city and the spirits of men — a .reign more wonderful than any which Florence ever saw. — The Makers of Florence.
OMAU KHAYYiJU.— 1
OMAR KHAYYAM, a Persian pocu, Dorn about 1050 ; died about 1125. He was born when Edward the Confessor reigned in England, and was approaching man- hood wlien William the Norman con- quered the island. He lived througli the English reigns of William the Conqneror, William Rnfus, Henry I., and Stephen, and far into that of Henry II., the fiist English Plantagenet. Khaijijdm means " the Tent-maker," and it is })r()bable that Omar maintained himself by that craft until the sun of fortune rose for him. He was in youth a pnpil of the most famous philosopher of Khorasan ; he and two of his fellow-students entered into a compact that if either of them rose to fortune he should share it with the others. Nizam-ul- Mulk, one of the three, came, in time, to be Vizier of the mighty Alp Arslau, and his successor. Malek, son and grandson of T(gnil Heg, the Tartar founder of the Sel- joulc dymisty. He was not unmindful of tlie 3'ouihful compact, and proffered every ad- vancement to the others. But Omar had no aspirations for political greatness. He devoted himself to study, especially of astronomy-, and when the Vizier undertook to reform the confusc^d Mohammedan calendar, Omar was one of those to whom the work was confided. The result of their labors is thus described by Gibbon : " The reign of Malek was illustrated by the Gelalcemi era ; and all errors, whether past or futnie, were corrected by a com- putation of time whicli surpasses the Julian and approaches the accuracy of the Gre- gorian style."
Omar Khayydm was a speculative philo- osopherand poet, as well as an astronomer.
OMAR KIIAYrlM.— ^
Of Ins Rubdydt " Stanzas," only one mnnnscri{)t, written at Sliiras, in 14G0, exists in England ; it contains 158 qnat- rains, the first, second, and fourtli lines usnally, though not invariably, rhyming together. About two-thirds of this man- uscript was transhited into English by Edward Eiizgerald in 1872. A superb edition of this translation was published iu 1884 at Boston, in a large folio volume, profusely illustrated by Elihu Vedder ; the illustrations occupying some ten times as much space as the text. If we could con- ceive of the Greek Anacreon, and the Roman Lucretius combined into one being, we should have something like the Persian Omar Khayyam. Of him and his poem Mr. Fitzgerald says :
" Having failed of finding any Provi- dence but destiny, and any world but this, lie set about making the most of it, pre- ferring rather to soothe the soul into ac- quiescence with things as he saw them than to perplex it with vain disquietude after what thev might be. ... I have ar- ranged the Ruhdijdt into a sort of Eclogue, with perhaps a little less than equal pro- portion of the * Drink and make-merry,' which recurs over-frequently in the original. Either way, the result is sad enough. Saddest, perhaps, when most ostentatiously merry ; more apt to move sorrow than anger towards the old Tent-maker, who, after vainly endeavoring to unshackle his steps from destiny, and to catch some glimpses of to-morrow, falls back upon to-day (which has outlasted so many to- morrows) as the only ground lie hfisgot to stand upon, however momently slipping from under his feet." — Mr. Vedder ai'ranges
OMAR KHAYYAM.-3
tlie quatrains somewhat differently from Mr. Fitz_2^erald, wliose order of enumera- tion we follow.
SELECTIONS FROM THE " RUBATAT." I.
Wake ! for tlie Sun ■who scattered into flight The stars before liini from the field of Niglit, Drives Night along with them fiom Heaven, and strikes The Sultan's turret with a shaft of Light,
II.
Before the phantom of False-Morning died, We thought a Voice witliin the Tavern cried, " When all the Temple is prepared within, Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?"
III. And as the cock crew, those who stood before The Tavern shouted, " Open then, the door! You know how little time we have to stay, And, once departed, may return no more."
XL!
Perplexed no more with Human or Divine, To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign, And lose your fingers in the kisses of The Cypress-slender minister of Wine.
XLII.
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press. Ends — in what all begins and ends — in " Yes ! "
Think then you are To-day what Yesterday Yon were — To-morrow you shall lie not less.
XLTII.
So when the Angel of the darker Drink At last shall find 3'ou at the river-brink, And offering his cup invite your Soul Forth to your lip to quaff — you shall not shriuk.
XLIV.
Wh}', if the Soul can fling the dust aside And naked on the air of FTfuvon ride,
OMAR KHAYYAM.— 4
Were't not a shame — were't not a shame for him In the clay carcase crippled to abide ?
XLV.
'Tis but a tent where takes his one-day's rest A Sultan to the realm of death addrest,
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferbash Strikes, and prepares it for another guest.
XLVI.
And fear not lest Existence, closing your Account and mine, should know the like no more. The Eternal Saki from that bowl has poured Millions of bubbles like us — and will pour.
XLVII.
When You and I behind the veil are past, Oh ! but the long, long while the World shall last, Which of our coming and departure heeds As the Seven Seas should heed a pebble cast.
XLVIII.
A moment's halt — a momentary taste Of Being from the well amid the waste —
And lo ! the phantom caravan has reached The Nothing it set out from. — Oh, make haste !
XLIX.
Would you that spangle of Existence spend About the Secret — quick about it, friend !
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True, And upon what, prithee, does Life depend ?
L.
A Hair, perhaps, divides the False and True; Yes ; and a single letter were the clew —
Could }'ou but find it — to the Treasure-house, And, peradventure, to the Master too ;
LI.
Whose secret Presence through Creation's veins Running, quicksilver-like, eludes your paius.
Taking all sha])es from Fish to ^Loon, They change and peri-sh all — but He remains,
OMAR KHATYiCM.-*
Lll.
A moment guessed; then back behind the fold. IinniuivHl of darkness, round the Drama rolled,
Wliicli, for the i)astinie of Eternity, He does Himself conclude, enact, behold.
LIII.
But if in vain do'vn on the stubborn floor Of Earth, and np to Heaven's unopening door You gaze To-day, while You are I'^oie, how then To-morrow You, when shall be l^ou no more ?
LIV.
Waste not your hour, nor in the vain pursuit Of This and That endeavor and dis[)ute ;
Better b'j J!)cund with the fruitful Grape Thau sadden after uone — or bitter fruit.
LV.
You know, my friends, with what a brave
carouse I made n. second marriage in my house ;
Divorced old barren lleason from my bed, And took the Daughter of the Vine to spouse,
LVI.
For Is and fsf^'t with rule and line, And iTp-and-do\cii by logic I define,
0,{ all that one shonld care to fathom, I Was never deep in anything but Wine.
LVII. Ah ! but my computations, people say. Reduced the Year to better reckoning. — ^Nay,
'Twas only strilnng from the calendar Unborn To-morrow and dead Yesterday.
LVII I.
And lately by the Tavern-door agape
Came shining throngh the dark an Angel-shape,
Jiearing a vessel on his shoulder; and He bade me taste of it : and 'twas the Grape I
LIX.
The Grape, that can with logic absolute The two-and-seventy jarring sects confute;
OMAR KHA-YYA^M.— 6
The sovei'eign Alcliemist tliat, in a truce, Life's leaden metal into gold transmutes
LXIII.
Oh, threats of Hell and hopes of Paradise I One thing at least is certain — this Life flies 5 One thing is certain, and the rest is Lies : The flower that once has blown for ever dies.
LXIV.
Strange, is it not, that of the mj'riads who Before us passed the door of Darkness through,
Not one returns to tell us of the road, Which to discover we must travel too ?
LXV.
The revelations of devout and learned, Who rose before us and as prophets burned,
All are but stories which, awoke from sleep, They told their fellows, and to sleep returned.
LXVI.
I sent my Soul through the Invisible, Some letter of that After-life to spell ;
And b3'-and-b3' my Soul returned to me, And answered, " I myself am Heaven and Hell."
LXVII.
Heaven's but the Vision of fulfilled Desire, And Hell the Shadow of a soul on fire,
Cast on the darkness into which ourselves, So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.
LXVIII.
We are no other than a moving row
Of magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with this sun-illumined lantern, held In midnight by the Master of the Show ;
LXIX.
Impotent Pieces of the game He plays. Upon his checker-board of Nights and Days, Hither and thither moves and checks and mates, And one by one back in the closet lays.
OMAR KHAYYAM— 7
LXX.
The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes, But right or left, as strikes the Player, goes ;
AnctHe that tossed yon down into the fi<dd, He knows about it all — lie knows, He knows.
LXXX.
The moving Finger writes — and having writ, ]\Ioves on ; nor all your piety and wit,
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.
LXXXI.
And that unveiled bowl they call the skj^, "VVhereuuder crawling, cooped, we live and die.
Lift not your hands to it for help— for It As im potently rolls as you or I.
LXXXII.
With the first clay they did the last man knead, And there of the last harvest sowed the seed ;
And the first morning of Creation wrote What the last dawn of Keckoning shall read.
xc. What ! out of senseless N'othing to provoke A conscious Somethhxg to resent the yoke
Of unpermitted Pleasure, under paiu Of everlasting penalties if broke !
xci.
0 Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin Beset the road I was to travel in,
Tiiou wilt not with predestined evil round Enmesh, and then impute my fall to Sin !
xcii.
0 Thou, who INFan of baser earth didst make, And even with Paradise devise the Snake,
For all the sin wherewith the face of Man Is blackened, Man's forgiveness give — and take !
AMELIA OPIE.— 1
OPIE, Amelia (Aldersox), an Eng- lish tale-wiiter and poet, boiMi in 1769; died in 1853. In 1798 she niairied John Opie, the painter, who died in 1807. She was bioLight up a Unitarian, but in 1827 became a member of the " Society of Friends." She did not commence her literary career until past thirty, when she put forth her Father and Daugliter (1801). Her tales, generally grouped into series of three or four volumes, appeared at inter- vals until 1828, and Avere greatly admired in their day. Among these are : Simple Ta'es (180G), Temper (1812), New Tales (1818), Tales of the Heart (1820), Made- line (1822), Illustratiojis of Lijing (1825), Detraction Displayed (1828.) She also published from time to time several vol- umes of verse not destitute of poetical merit.
THE OUPHAN BOy's TALE.
Stay Lady, sta}', for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orpluin's tale. Ah ! sure my looks must pit}' wake ;
'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale. Yet I was once a mother's pride,
And my brave father's hope and joy; But in the Nile's proud fight he died,
And I am now an orphan boy.
Poor foolish child ! how pleased was I
When news of Nelson's victory came, Along the crowded streets to 1^y,
And see the lighted windows flame ! To force me home my mother sought ;
She could not bear to see my joy, For with m}- father's life 'twas bought,
And made me a poor orphan bo^'.
The people's shouts were long and loud ;
My mother, sluiddering. closed her ears ; "Rejoice ! rejoice ! " still cried the crowd ;
My mother answered with her tears.
AMELIA OPIE.— 2
« Wli}' are you crying thus ? " said I,
"While otliers laugh and shout with joy ?"
She kissed me ; and, with such a sigh, She called me her poor orphan boy.
" What is an orphan boy ? " I cried,
As in her face I looked and smiled ; My mother, through her tears replied,
" You'll know too soon, ill-fated child ! " And now they've tolled my mother's knell,
And I'm no more a parent's joy. 0 Lady, 1 have leai-ned too well
What 'tis to be an orphan boy !
Oh ! were I by j'our bounty fed ! —
Nay, gentle Lady, do not chide! — Trust me, I mean to earn my bread ;
The sailor's or))han boy has pride. Lady, you weep ! Ha ! this to me ?
You'll give me clothing, food, employ ? Look down, dear parents ; look and see
Your happy, happy, orphan boy I
JOHN BOYLE O'EEILLY.— 1
O'REILLY, John Boyle, an Irish- American journalist and poet, born in County Meatli, Ireland, in 184J: ; died in 1890. He took part in the revolutionary movement of 1863, and afterwards entered a cavalry regiment in the British army. In 1866 he was tried for treason, and sentenced to imprisonment for life. This sentence was subsequently commuted to transporta- tion for twenty years, and he was sent to the penal colony of Wes.c Australia. In 1869 he made liis escape, by the aid of the captain of an American whaling vessel. Taking up his residence at Boston he be- came editor of the Pilot. He has ])ub- lished Songs from the Southern Seas (1872), Songs, Legends, and Ballads, (1878), Moondyne ; a Storg from the Under- World (1879), Statues in \he Block (1881), and The Ethics of Boxing (1888).
WESTERN AUSTKALIA.
0 beauteous Soutliland ! land of yellow air That liangeth o'er thee slumbering, aud doth hold
The moveless foliage of thy waters fair And wooded hills, like aureole of gold!
O thou, discovered ere the fitting time,
Ere Nature in completion turned thee forth !
Ere aught was finished but thy peerless clime, Thy virgin breath allured the amorous North.
O land! God made thee wondrous to the eye, But His sweet singers thou hast never heard*,
He left thee, meaning to come by-and-by, And give rich voice to every bright-winged bird.
He painted with fresh hues th\' myriad flowers, But left them scentless. Ah ! their woful dole,
Like sad reproach of their Creator's powers — To make so sweet, fair bodies, void of soul.
JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. -2
He gave tliee trees of odorous, precious wood ', But 'mid them all bloomed not one tree of fruit ;
He looked, but said not that His work was good AVhen leaving thee all perfumeless and mute.
He blessed thy flowers with honey. Every bell Looks earthward, sunward, with a yearning wist,
But no bee-lover ever notes the sv.ell
Of hearts, like lips, a-hungeringto be kissed.
0 strange land, thou art virgin ! thou art more Than fig-tree barren ! Would that I could paint
For others' eyes the glory of the shore
Where last I saw thee ! But the senses faint.
In soft, delicious dreaming when they drain Thy wine of color. Virgin fair thou art,
All sweetly fruitful, waiting witii soft pain The spouse who comes to wake thy sleeping heart.
DYIXG IN HARNESS.
Only a fallen horse, stretched out there on the
road. Stretched in the broken shafts, and crushed by
the heavy load ; Only a fallen horse, and a circle of wondering
eyes Watching the 'frighted teamster goading the
beast to rise.
Hold ! for his toil is over — no more labor for
him. See the poor neck outstretched, and the patient
eA'es grow dim ; See on the friendly stones how peacefully rests
the head — Thinking, if dumb beasts think, how good it is
to be dead; After the weary journey, how restful it is to
lie With the broken shafts and the cruel load,
waiting only to die.
JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.— 3
Watchers, he died in harness — died in the
shafts and straps — Fell, and the burden killed him : one of the
day's mishaps — One of tlie passing wonders marking the city
road — A toiler dying in harness, heedless of call or
goad.
Passers, crowding tlie pathway, staj'ing your
steps awhile, What is ths symbol? Only death — why should
we cease to smile At death for a beast of burden ? On, through
the busj' street. That is ever and ever echoing the tread of the
hurrying feet.
What was the sign ? A symbol to touch the
tireless will ? Does He who taught in parables speak in
parables still ? The seed on the rock is wasted — on heedless
hearts of men, That gather and sow and grasp and lose — labor
and sleep — and then — Then for the prize ! — A crowd in the street of
ever-echoing tread — The toiler, cruslied by the heavy load, is there in
his harness — dead !
MY NATIVE LAND.
It chanced me upon a time to sail
Across the Soutliern Ocean to and fro ; And, landing at fair isles, by stream and vale
Of sensuous blessing did we ofttimes go. And months of dreamy joj's. like jo\'s in sleep,
Or like a clear, calm stream o'er mossy stone, Unnoted passed our hearts with voiceless sweep,
And left us yearning still for lands unknown. And when we found one, — for 'tis soon to find
In thousand-isled Cathay another isle. — For one sliort noon its treasures filled the mind.
And then again we yearned, and ceased to smile.
JOHK BOYLE O'REIL-LT. -4
And so it was, from isle to isle we passed, Like wanton bees or boj's on flowers or lips ;
And when that all was tasted, then at last We thirsted still for draughts instead of sips.
I learned from this there is no Southern land
Can fill with love the hearts of Northern men.
Sick minds need change; but when in health
they stand
'Neath foreign skies.their love flies home again.
And thus with me it was: the yearning turned
From laden airs of cinnamon away, And stretched far westward, while the full heart burned With love for Ireland, looking on Cathay ! My first dear love, all dearer for thy grief !
My land, that has no peer in all the sea, For verdure, vale, or river, flower or leaf, — If first to no man else, thou'rt first to me. New loves may come with duties, but the first Is deepest yet, — the mother's breath and smiles, Like that kind face and breast where I was nursed Is my poor land, the Niobe of isles.
THE PILGRIMS OF THE MAYFLOWER.
[From Poem at the Inauguration of the Plymouth Monument, August 1, 1889.]
Here, where the shore was rugged as the waves, Wliere frozen Nature dumb and lifeless lay, And no rich meadows bade the Pilgrims stay,
Was spread the symbol of the life that saves : To conquer first the outer things ; to make
Their own advantage, unallied, unbound ;
Their blood the mortar-building from tlie ground ;
Their cares the statutes, making all anew ;
To learn to trust the many, not the few ;
To bend the mind to discipline; to break The bonds of old convention, and forget
The claims and barriers of class; to face
A desert land, a strange and hostile race.
And conquer both to friendship by the debt
JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. -5
Tliat Nature pays to justice, love. ;tii<i tnil : — Here on this Kock, and on this sterile soil. Began the kingdom not of Kings, but Men, Began the making of the world agnin. Here centuries sank, and from the hirlier brink A New World reached and raised an Old
World link, When England's hands, by widervision tanglu, Threw down the feudal bars the Xomian
brought, And here revived, in spite of sword and stake, The ancient freedom of the Wapentake.
Here struck the seed — the Filgrim.s' ronfle.ss town, Where equal, rights and equal bonds were set, Where all the People equal-franchised met,
Wiiere doom was writ of Privilege and Crown, Where human breath blew all the idols dowii. Where crests were naught, where vulture flags
were furled, And Common Men began to own the world.
ORIGEN. 1
ORIGEN, a Fatlier of the Church, re- specting tlie exact place of whose birth and death there is some question. Tlie most probable representation is that he was born at Alexandria, Egypt, in 185, and died at Tyre in 2o4. As lie was of Greek descent, and wrote in Greek, he may pro- perly be designated as a Grecian. He was by birth a Christian, and, his father having suffered martyrdom, he, witli his mother and her seven chihlren, was left in poverty. He in time opened a school at Alexandria, ■which became famous. He lived a life of the utmost austerity. After many and varied experiences, which need not here be detailed, he ojtened, in 231, what we may call a theological seminary at Csesarea, in Palestine. When the Decian persecu- tion broke out, in 251, Origen was im- prisoned and ]Hit to torture ; but was eventually released, and died soon after- ward.
Origen has been styled " the father of Biblical criticism and exegfesis." Jerome says of him : " He was a man of immortal genius, who understood logic, geometry, arithmetic, music, grammar, rhetoric, and all the sects of the philosophers." But the main subject of his labors belongs to the domain of theolog}^ upon which he was a voluminous writer, even though the statement that he wrote 6,000 books may be set down as an exagfcre ration. His ex- taut works (some of them beinij fraofments, and others existing only in an earl}' trans- lation into Latin) are the Hexapla (•' Six- fold^^^ because it contained, in parallel columns, the Hebrew text, written in Greek character, the Septuagint voi-sion, and those of Aquila, Symmachus, and Theodo-
ORIGEN. -2
tion) ; Commentaries on the Scriptures ; und tlie treatises on Prbiciples, on Prayer^ on Martyrdom^ and Ac/ainst Celsui<.
Oil certain speculative points Origen advanced views quite different from those which have come to be generally accepted throughout Cliristendom. To set these forth at length, and in the words of Origen, would reqtiire a volume. We shall tliere- fore present the summaiies as given by Cave (^Hist. Lit.') and Schaff (^Church History).
UNENDING METEMPSYCHOSES AND PROBATIONS.
Origen was accused of maintaining that the death of Christ was advantageous not to men 011I3-, but to angels, devils, nay, even to the stars and other insensible things, which he sup- posed to be possessed of a rational soul, and, therefore, to be capable of sin ; that all rational natures — whether devils, human souls, or any other, were create<l by God from eternity, and were originally })ure intelligences, but after- wards, according to the various use of their free-will, were dispersed among the various or- ders of angels, men, or devils. That angels and other supernatural beings were clothed with sub- tile and ethereal bodies, which consisted of mat- ter, although in comparison with our grosser bodies they may be called incorporeal and spir- itual. That the souls of all rational beings, after putting off one state, pass into another, either superior or inferior, according to their respective behavior. And that thus, by a kind of i)erpetual transmigration, one and the same soul may successively — and even often — pass through all the orders of rational beings. And that hence the souls of men w-ere thrust into the prison of bodies for offences committed in some former state ; and that when loosed from hence, they will become either angels or devils as they shall have deserved. Tliat, how- ever, neither the punishment of men or devils,
0RIGEN.-3
nor the jo^-s of the saints, sliall be eternal ; but that all shall return to their original state of pure intelligences, to begin the same round over and over again. — Cave, Hist. Lit.
THE FATHEU, SON, AND HOLV GHOST.
Origen brings the Son as near as possible to the essence of the Father, not only making him the absolute personal Wisdom, Truth, Kiglit- eousness, ilcason, but also expressly predicating eternity of him, and propounding the Church dogma of the Eternal Generation of the Son. This Generation he usually presents as pro- ceeding from the Will of the Father ; but he also conceives it as proceeding from his Essence ; and hence, at least in one passage, in a frag- ment on the epistle to the Hebrew, he applies the term homoousios to the Son — thus declar- ing him co-equal in substance with the Father. This idea of Eternal Generation, however, has a peculiar form in liim, from its close connection •with his doctrine of an eternal creation. He can no more think of the Father without the Son than of an almighty God without creation, or of light without radiance. Hence lie de- scribes this Generation not as a single instan- taneous act, but, like creation, ever going on. But on the other hand, he distinguishes the Essence of the Son from that of the Father ; speaks of a difference oi' Substance; and niakoh the Son decidedly inferior to the Father.
Origen ascribes to the Holy Ghost eternal existence; exalts him, as lie does the Son, far above all creatures, and consitlers him as the source of all charisms — especially as the prin- ciple of all illumination and holiness of be- lievers under the Old Covenant and the New. But he places the Spirit in essence, dignity, and efficiency below the Son, as far as he places the Son below the Father. And though he grants, in one passage, that the Bible nowhere calls the Holy Ghost a creature, 3'et, acconling to another somewhat obscure sentence, he himself inclines to the view — which
0IIIGEN.-4
however, lie does not avow — that the Holy Ghost had a beginning (thougli, according to his sj-stem, not in time but from eternity), and is tlie first and most excellent of all things pro- duced by the Logos.
In the same connection he adduces three opinions concerning the Holy Ghost : one, re- garding him as not liaving an origin ; anotlier, ascribing to him no separate personality ; and a third, making him a being originated by the Logos. The first of these opinions he rejects, because the Father alone is without origin. The second he rejects, because in Matt. xii. 32, the Spirit is plainly distinguished from the Son. The third he takes for the true and Scriptural view, because everything was made b}^ the Logos. — ScHiVFF, Church History.
origen's theological system.
Following the direction which Justin Martyr, and especially Clement of Alexandrin, had pui*- sued, Origen sought to create, with the aid of the philosophy of his day, a science of Christian doctrine whose systematic structure should be equal to the S3'stems of the philosophers. In doing this, he held very positively' to the fun- damental doctrines of Christianity as they had been handed down and defined in opposition to the heretics, especiall}'^ the Gnostic heretics. But he found truths in the philosophical systems, and tried to show that they were borrowed from the Bible, predicating, however a general revelation of the Logos. — Schaff- Herzog-Micylopedia of Meliyious Knowledge.
JAMES ORTO:^.— 1
ORTON", James, an American physicist, born at ijeneca Falls, N. Y., in 1830 ; died on Lake Titicaca, among ihe Andes, in 1877. He graduated at Williams College in 1855, and at Andover Tlieological Sem- iiiaiyin 1848. After travelling in Euro[)e, he entered the Congregational ministry; hut in 18t)7 lie was made Instructor in Natural Science at Rochester University ; in 18G9 Professor of Natural Philosoiiiiy at Vassar College. In the latter year he headed a scientific expedition to South .Vmerica, going first to Quito, thence de- scending the Amazon to its mouth, thus crossing the continent from West to East, nearly upon the line of the equator. In 1873 he headed a similar expedition, cross- ing the continent from East to West. In 1876 he undeitook an exploration of the river Beni, hv which the great Andean Lake Titicaca discharges its waters into the Amazon; but died while crossing that hike. — His works are : Miners' Liuide (1849), The Proverbialist and the Poet (1852), The Andes and the Amazon (1870), Underground Treasures (1872), Liberal Education of Women (1873), Comparative Zoolof/y (1875).
THE GEXKSIS OF THE ANDES AND THE AMAZON.
Tliree cj'cles :igo an island rose from the sea where now expands the vast continent of South America. It was the culminating point of the highland of Guiana. For ages this granite peak was the sole representative of dr\' hiiui south of the Canada liills. In pro- cess of time a cluster of islands rose above the thermal waters. Tlioy were the small begin- ings of the future mountains of Brazil. Long- protracted peons elapsed without adding a page to the geology of South America, All the
JAMES ORTON.— 2
great mountain chains were at this time slum- bering beneath the ocean. The city of Xew York was sure of its site, but huge dinotheri wallowed in the mire where uow^ stand the palaces of Paris, London, and Vienna.
At length the morning breaks upon the last Day of Creation, and the fiat goes forth that the proud waves of the Pacific, which have so long washed the tablelands of Guiana and Brazil, should be stayed. Far away towards the setting sun the white surf beats in long lines of foam against the low, winding archi- pelago— the western outline of the Western Continent. Fierce is the fight for the master}' between sea and land, between the denuding power of the waves and the volcanic forces underneath. But slowly — very slowly, yet sureU' — rises the long chain of islands by a double process. The submarine crust of the earth is cooling, and the rocks are folded up as it shrivels ; wliile the molten material from within, pushed out through the crevices, over- flows, and helps to build up the sea-defianc wall. A man's life would be too short to count even the centuries cunsumed in this operation. The coast of Peru has risen 80 feet since it felt the tread of Pizarro. Suppose the Andes to have risen at this rate uniformly and without inter- ruption, 70,000 3ears must have elapsed before they reached their present altitude. But when we consider that, in fact, it was an intermitted movement — alternate upheaval and subsidence — we must add an unknown number of mil- lennia.
Three times the Andes sank hundreds of feet beneath the ocean level, and again were slowly brought up to their present height. The suns of uncounted ages have risen and set upon these sculptured forms, though geologi- cally recent, casting the same line of shadows century after centurv. A long succession of brute races roamed over the mountains and plains of South America, and died out ere man was created. In these pre-Adamite times, long
JAMES ORTON.— 3
before the Incas ruled, the mastodon and the niegatlieriuiii, the horse and the tapir, dwelt ill the liigh valley of Quito ; yet all these passed away before the arrival of the aborigines. The wild horses now feeding on the pampas of Buenos Ay res were imported 330 years ago.
And now the Andes stand complete in their present gigantic pi"oj)ortions, one of the grandest and most symmetrical mountain chains in the world. Starting from the Land of Fire, it stretches northward, and mounts up- ward, until it enters the Isthmus of Panama, •where it bows gracefully to either ocean ; but soon resumes, under another name, its former majesty, and loses its magnilicence only where the trappers chase the fur-bearing animals over the Arctic plains. Nowhere else does Nature present such a continuous and Ioft\' chain of mountains, unbroken for 8,000 miles, save where it is rent asunder by the Magellanic Straits, and proudly tosses up a thousand pin- nacles into the region of eternal snow. . . .
The moment the Andes rose, the great con- tinental valley of the Amazon was stretched out and moulded in its lap. The tidal waves of the Atlatitic were dashing against the Cor- dilleras, and a legion of rivulets were busily ploughing up the sides into deep ravines ; the sediment, by this incessant wear and tear, was carried eastward, and spread out, stratum by stratum, till the shallow .sea between the Andes and the islands of Guiana and Brazil was filled up with sand and clay. Huge glaciers (thinks Agassiz) afterwards descending, moved over the inclined plane, and grouTid the loose rock to powder. Eddies and currents, throwing up .«?and-banks as they do now, gradually defined tlK! limits of the tributary' streams, and directed them into one main trunk, which worked for itself a wide, deep bed, capable of containing the accumulated flood. Then and thus was created the Amazon. — The Andes and the Amazon.
FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.— 1
OSGOOD, Frances Sargent (Locke), an American poet, born at Boston in 1811 ; died at Hinj^liani, Mass., in 1850. In 1835 she married Samuel S. Osgood, a portrait- painter, with wlioni she shortly went to London, where they remained four yeai'S, during whicli she wrote for various maga- zines ; and published The Casket of Fate^ and A Wreath of Wild Flowers from Neio Eni/land. In 1840 they returned to America, taking up tlieir residence in New York. She published : Poetry of Floivers and Flowers of Poetry (1841), Poems (1846), The Floral Offering (1847), and an illustrated volume ot" Poems (1849). A complete edition of her poems was pub- lished in 1850. Shoi'tly after her death a memorial volume was pnt forth by her friends, with a Life hy Rufus W. Gris- wold.
LABORARE EST OBARE.
LaborisEest — froin tlie sorrows that greet us;
Itest from all petty vexations that meet us,
Rest from sin-promptings tliat ever entreat us, Kest from the world sirens that lure us to ill.
Work — and pure slumbers sliall wait on tlie pillow ;
Work — tliou shalt ride over Care's coming billow ;
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping- willow. Work with a stout heart and resolute will.
Labor is Health : Lo, the husbandman reaping : How through his veins goes the life-current
leaping ; How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping, Free as a sunbeam, the swift sickle guides. Labor is Wealth : In the sea the pearl growethj
FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.— 2
Rich tlie queen's robe from the frail cocoon
riowetli 5 From the tine acorn the strong forest bloweth, Temple and statue the marble block hides.
Droop not though shame, sin, and anguish are
round thee ; Bravely tling off the cold chain that hath bound
thee, Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee;
Rest not content in thy darkness — a clod. Work for some good, be it ever so slowly ; Cherish some flower be it ever so lowly ; Labor! all labor is noble and holy ;
Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy
God.
Pause not to dream of the future before us ; Pause not to weep the wild cares that came
o'er us : Hark how Creation's deep musical chorus
Uninterinitting, goes up into Heaven ! Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing; Never the little seed stops in its growing; More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing, . . ■ .
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.
" Labor is Worship ! " the robin is singing ; " Labor is Worship ! " the wild bee is ringing. Listen ! that eloquent whisper upspringing, Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving
shower ; From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing
flower ; From the small insect the rich coral bower : Only man in the plan shrinks from his part.
Labor is Life : 'Tis the still water faileth ; Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth.
FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.— 3
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. Labor is Glory : The flying cloud lightens ; Only the waving wing changes and brightens ; Idle hearts only the dark Future brightens ; Play the sweet keys wouldst thou keep them in tune.
The following are the last verses written by Mrs. Osgood.
PASSING TO THE HEREAFTER.
You 've woven roses round my way,
And gladdened all my being ; How much I thank you none can say, Save only the All-seeing.
May He who gave this lovely gift — This love of lovely doings —
Be with you whereso'er you go, In every hope's pursuings.
I'm going through the eternal gates, Ere June's sweet roses blow :
Peath's lovely angel bids me there, And it is sweet to go.
KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.— 1
OSGOOD, Kate Putnam, an Ameri- can author, born in Fryeburg, Me., in 1841. She is a sister of James Ripley Osgood, the publisher. At an early age she contributed to magazines under the signature of Kate Putnam, and subsequent- ly under her full name. In 1869 she went to Europe, where she studied and travelled until her return to this country in 1874. She is best known by her poem Driving Home the Cows, which was published in Harper s Maj/azine in March, 1865. This was widely copied, and was one of the few poems of worth suggested by the civil war.
DKIVING HOME THH COWS.
Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass He turned them into the river-lane;
One after another he let them pass, Then fastened the meadow-bars again.
Under the willows, and over the hill. He patiently followed their sober pace ;
The merry whistle for once was still,
And something shadowed the sunny face.
Only a boy ! and his father had said He never could let his youngest go :
Two already were l.ying dead
Under the feet of the trampling foe.
But after the evening work was done,
And the frogs were loud in the meadow- swamp,
Over his shoulder he slung his gun
And stealthily followed the foot-path damp.
Across the clover, and through the wheat. With resolute heart and purpose grim,
Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, And the blind bats flitting startled him.
Thrice since then had the lanes been white, And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom;
KATE ITTXAM OSGOOD.— 2
And now, wlieii tlit; cows came back at night, The feeble father drove tliem home.
For news had come to the lonely farm
Tliat three were lying where two had lain;
And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son's again.
The summer day grew cool and late
He went for the cows when the work was done ;
But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming one by one :
Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess,
Shaking their horns in the evening wind;
Cropping the buttercups out of the grass — But who was it following close behind?
Loosely swung in the idle air-
The empty sleeve of army blue, And worn and pale from the crisping hair
Looked out a face that the father knew.
For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, And yield their dead unto life again ;
And the da.y that comes with a cloudy dawn In golden glory at last may wane.
The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes, For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb ;
And under the silent evening skies
Together they followed the cattle home.
OUT OF PRISON". ^
From crowds that scorn the mounting wings,
The happy heights of souls serene, I wander wliere the blackbird sings. And over bubbling, shadowy spi'ings,
The beech-leaves cluster, young and green,
I know the forest's changeful tongue. That talketh all the day with me*
I trill in every bobolink's song,
And every brooklet bears along My greeting to the chainless sea!
KATE riTTXAM OSGOOD.— 3
The loud wind lauglis, tlie low wind broods;
There is no sorrow in the strain ! Of all the voices of the woods. That haunt these houseless solitudes^
Not one has any tone of pain.
In merry round my days run free,
With slender thought for worldly things:
A little toil sufficeth me ;
I live the life of bird and bee,
Nor fret for what the morrow brings.
Nor care, nor age, nor grief have I,
Only a measureless content ! So time may creep, or time may fly; I reck not bow the years go by,
With Nature's youth forever blent.
They beckon me by day, by night,
The bodiless elves that round me play!
I soar and sail from height to height;
No mortal, but a thing of light As free from earthly clog as they.
But when my feet, unwilling, tread The crowded walks of busy men, Their walls that close above my head Beat down my buoyant wings outspread, And I am but a man again.
My pulses spurn the narrow bound !
The cohl hard glances give me pain! I long for wild, unmeasured ground. Free winds that wake the leaves to sound,
Low rustles of the summer rain !
M.y senses loathe their living death —
The coffined garb the city wears ! I draw through sighs ni}^ heavy breath, And pine till lengths of wood and heath Blow over nae their. endless airs.
SAMUEL OSGOOD.— 1
OSGOOD, SamuivL, au American clergy- man and author born at Charlestovvn, Mass., in 1812 ; died at New York in 1880. He graduated at Harvard in 1832, and at the Cambridge Divinity School in 1835. After being minister of several Unitarian Churches he in 1849 succeeded Orville Dewey as minister of the Church of the Messiah, New York. In 1870 he took orders in the Episcopal Church, but did not assume any parochial charge. His principal works, besides iiumerous trans- lations from the German, are : — Studies in Christian Biography (1851), Milestones in our Life-Journey (1855), Student Life (1860), and American Leaves^ consisting of papers originall)'- publislied in period- icals (1867).
OUR SCHOOLMASTERS.
Our Schoolmasters were great characters in our eves, and the two who held successively the charge of the Grammar department made a great figure in our wayside chat. The first of them was a tall, fair-haired man, with an almost perpetual smile, though it was not easy to decide whether this smile was the expression of his good-nature or the mask of his severit}- ; he wore it much the same when he flogged au oi^ender as when he praised a good recitation. He seemed to delight in making a joke of pun- ishment, and it was a favorite habit of his to fasten upon the end of his rattan the pitch and gum taken from the mouths of the masticating urchins, and then, coming upon their idleness unaware, he would insert the glutinous imple- ment in their hair, not to be withdrawn with- out an adroit jerk and the loss of some scalp- locks. Poor fellow ! his easy nature probably ruined him, and he left school, not long to follow any industrious calling. When a few years afterwards I met him in Boston, with
SAMUEL Os(;OOD.— 2
marks of broken lieiilth ;uul fortune in liis fuce and dress, tlie siglit was shocking to old associations, as if a dignity quite sacerdotal had fallen into the dust. — Milestones in our Ijife- Journey,.
OUll DOCTOR.
Our Doctor was a most emphatic character ; a man of decided mark in the eye alike of friends and enemies. He was very impatient of questions, and very brief yet pithy in his advice. He lost his brevity, however, the moment that other subjects were broached, and he could tell a good story with a dramatic power that would have made him famous on tlie stage. He was renowned as a surgeon, and could guide the knife within a hair's breadth of a vital nerve or artery with his left liand quite as firmly as with his right. This ambi-dexterity extended to other faculties, and he was quite as keen at a negotiation as at an amputation. He was no paragon of conciliation, and many of the magnates of the professi-on appeared to have little liking for him, and sometimes called him a poor scholar, rude in learning and taste, but lucky in his mechanical tact. But he beat them out of this notion, as of man}' others, by giving an anniversary dis- course before the State Medical Association, which won plaudits from his severest rivals for its classical elegance as well as its professional learning and sagacity. It was said that the wrong-side of him was very wrong and very rough ; but those of us who knew him as a friend, tender and true, never believed that he had any wrong-side.— J/iYes^oweo' in our Life- Journey.
OUR MINISTER.
Our Minister had the name of being the wise man of the town ; and I do not remember to have heard a word of disparagement of his mind or motives, even among those who questioned the soundness of his creed. His
SAMUEL OSGOOD.— 3
voice has always been as no other man's to many of us, whether heard as for the first time at a father's funeral, as by me when a child of five years old, or in the pulpit from year to j-ear. He came to the parish when quite young, and when theological controversy was at its full height. A polemic style of preacliing was then common, and undoubtedly in his later years of calm study and broad and spiritual philosophiz- ing, he would have read with some good-natured shakes of the head the more fiery discourses of his novitiate. There was alwa^^s something peculiarly impressive in his preaching. Each sermon had one or more pith^- sayings that a boy could not forget. It was evident that our Minister was a faithful student and indefatig- able thinker. When the best books afterwards came in our way, we found that the guiding lines of moral and spiritual wisdom had already been set before us, and we had been made familiar with the well-winnowed wheat from the great fields of humanity. Every thought, whether original or from books, bore the stamp of the preacher's own individuality ; and we may well endorse the saying, that upon topics of philosophic analysis and of prudent morals he was vvithout a superior, if not without a rival, in our pulpits. — Milestones in our Life- Journey.
THE PRACTICAL MAN.
The truly practical man, first of all brings to his aid the forces of a sound judgment ; and in its light he notes calmly and keenly the goods and the ills at stake, and studies carefully the best way to shun the ill and choose the good. He is strong at once from this v.ery point of view : and because he is forewarned he is fore- armed. His judgment, observant of substantial good, is wisdom ; and, as studious of the best means to win that good, it is prudence. With wisdom and prudence for his counsellors, be judges Fortune's threats and promises by a scale of substantial values, and measures the way to their true value by a scale of reasonable
SAMUEf. OSGOOD.— 4
probahilitie-s ; so lie escapes a multitude of tricks. Not in the g;iiiil)]er's madness nor the lounger's alarms, but with a firm 3^et cautious eye, he scans the prizes to be gained or lost, and chooses prudent means to wise ends. The great wil- derness of uncertain chances is no longer a wilderness to him ; for he knows to what point he is to travel, with wisdom for his star and compass, and with prudence for his path- finder and guide. To him, thus wise and prudent, there is a gradual opening of the truth that there is over all chances a prevailing Law ; and over the combination of events, as over the revolutions of the globe, there is a presiding purpose. Probabilities become to him clearer and clearer ; and in his own vocation, as well as in the great mission of life, a light shines upon the road that he is to tread, until its dim shadows vanish into day.
He is not, indeed, infallible, for to err is luiman ; but he has studied chances till he has found the main chance ; and in his ruling policy the element of certainty is so combined with the element of risk that the risk serves to quicken and vitalize the whole combination, as the oxygen of the atmosphere — in itself so inebriating and consuming — gives spirit and life when mingled in moderate proportion with the more solid and nutritious nitrogen. To change the figure — he aims to live -and work in the temperate zone of sound sense and solid strength, and he is not in danger of running off into tropical fevers or polar icebergs ; for he is content to be warm without being burned, and to be cool without being frozen. — American Leaves.
THE AGE OF ST. AUGU.STINE, AND OUR OWN.
Could the legend told of seven young men of that age, who came forth from a cave at Ephesus, where they had been immured by the pagan Emperor Decius, and whence they were Baid to have emerged, awakened from nearly two centuries of sluxiiber, to revisit the scenes of their
SAMUEL OSGOOD.— 5
youth, and to beliold with astonishment the cross displa\'ed triura[)liant where once the Ephesian Diana reigned supreme : — could this legend be virtually fulfilled in Augustine — dating the slumber from the period of his decease ; could the great Latin Father have been saved from dissolution, and have sunk into a deep sleep in the tomb where Possidius and his clerical companions laid him, with solemn hj'ms and eucharistic sacrifice, while Geneseric and his Vandal were storming the city gate ; and could he but come forth in our day, and look upon our Christendom, would he not be more startled than were the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus ?
There indeed roll the waves of the same great sea; there gleam the waters of the river on which so many times he had gazed, musing upon its varied path from the Atlas Mountains to the Mediterranean, full of lessons of human life ; there stretches the landscape in its beauty, rich with the olive and the fig-tree, the citron and the jujube.
But how changed are all else. The ancient Xumidia is ruled by the French, the country- men of Martin and Hilary ; it is the modern Algiers. Hippo is onh' a ruin, and near its site is the bustling manufacturing town of Bona. At Constantine, near by, still lingers a solitary qhurch of the age of Constantine, and the only building to remind Augustine of the churches of his own day. In other places, as at Bona, the mosque has been converted into the Christian temple, and its mingled emblems might tell the astonished saint how the cross had struggled with the crescent, and it had conquered. Go to whatever church he would, on the 28th of August, he would hoar a mass in commemoration of his death ; and might learn that similar services were offered in every country under the sun, and in the imperial lan- guage which he so loved to speak.
Let him go westward to the sea-coast, and he finds the new city of Algiers ; and if he
SAMUEL OSGOOD.— G
arrived ;it a favorable time lie might hear the cannon announcing tiie approach of the Mar- seilles steamer, see the people throng the shore for the last Frencli news, and thus contemplate at once the mighty agencies of the world — • powder, print, and steam. Although full of amazement, it would not be all admiration. He would find little in the motley population of Jews, Berbers, and French, to console him for the absence of the loved people of his charge, whose graves not a stone would appear to mark.
Should he inquire into the state of theology through Christendom, in order to trace the in- fluence of his favorite doctrines of Original Sin and Elective Grace, he would learn that they had never in their decided forms been favorites with the Catholic Church ; that the imperial Mother had canonized his name and pro- scribed his peculiar creed; and that the prin- ciples that fell with the walls of the hallowed Port Royal had found their warmest advocates in Switzerland, in Scotland, and far Amer- ica— beyond the Roman communion. He would recognize his mantle on the shoulders of Calvin and his followers, — Knox of Scotland, and those mighty Puritans who, trusting in God and His foreseeing will, colonized our own Kew England.
The Institutes of Calvin would assure him that the modern age jiossessed thinkers clear and strong as he, and the work of Edwards On tJie Will would probably move him to bow his head, as before a dialectician of a logic more adamantine than his own, and make him yearn to visit the land of a divine who united an intellect so mighty with a spirit so liumble and devoted. Should he come among us, he would find multitudes to accept his essential principles, though few, if any, in his views of the doom of infants or of the limited offer of redemption. He would think much of our or- thodoxy quite Pelagian, even when tested by the opinion of present champions of the ancient faith. — Studies in Christian Bioyraphy. 45
SAi;.\:r MAT;r;ARET OSSOLI. -i
OSSOLI. Sarah Margaret (Fuller) Marchioness D\an American author,born at Cainbridgeport, Mass., in 1810; died by shipwreck off the coast of Long Island, in 1850. Her early education was con- ducted by her father, and she was taught Latin and Greek at an early age. Her father dying suddenly in 1835, she under- took the maintenance of her younger brothers and sisters,which she accomplished by teaching in schools, and subsequently by taking private pupils. In 1840 The Dial, a transcendental magazine, was estab- lished, of which she was for two years the editor. Near the close of 1844 she became literary critic of the New York Tribune. In 1846 she accompanied a party of her friends to Europe, taking up her residence the next year at Rome. In December, 1847, she was married to the Marquis Ossoli, a young Italian nobleman of a some- what impoverished famil3^ During the siege of Rome by the French she devoted herself to the care of the sick and wounded in the hospitals. The city having surren- dered in June, 1849, she, with her husband and child made their way to a village in the Abrnzzi, and subsequently to Florence and Leghorn. At Leghorn, on May 17, 1850, tliey took passage for the United States on board a small sailing vessel, there being in all only five passengers. After a voyage of ten weeks they were off the coast of Long Island. A violent storm S{)i;uig uj), and the vessel was driven upon the low sandy shore of Fire Island. She, and her husband and child were drowned; and in the wreck was lost the manuscript of a work on The Roman Repuhlie. Her various writings, edited by her brother.
SARAH MARGARET OSSOLI.— 2
Rev. Artluir B. Fuller (1822-1862), were published in 1855. They include Sum- mer on the Lakes (1843), Woman in the Nineteenth Century (1844), and Papers on Literature and Art (1846). Her Life has been written by William llenry Channing, with cha{)ter8 by Emerson, Clarke, and others (1852), by J alia Ward Howe (1883,> and by Thomas W. Higginson (1884).
THE HEROIC IN THE ROMAN CHARACTER,
111 accordance with this discipline in heroic common-sense was the influence of those great Romans whose thoughts and lives were my daily food during those plastic years. The genius of Rome displayed itself in Character, and scarcely needed an occasional wave of the touch of Thouglit to show its lineaments, so marble-strong th&y gleamed in every light. Who that has lived with these men but admires the plain force of Fact, of Thought, passed into Action ? Tliey take up things with their nakeil hands. There is just the man,, and the block he casts before you — no diviinty,, no demon, no unfulfilled aim, but just the many and Rome, and what he did for Rome, Every- thing turns jour attention to what a man caa become, not by yielding himself freelj^ to im- pressions, not by letting nature play freely tlirougli him, but by a single thought, an earnest purpose, an indomitable will ; bv hardi- hood, self-command, and force of expression.
Architecture was the art in which Rome ex- celled; and this coi-responds with the feeling these men of Rome excited. They did not grow ; they built themselves up, or were built up by the fate of Rome, as a temple for Jupiter Stator.
The ruined Roman sits among the ruins; he flies to no green garden ; he does not look to Heaven ; if he is defeated, if he is less than he meant to be, he lives no more. The names which end in -us seem to speak with lyric
SAEAH MARGARET OSSOLL— 3
cadence. That measured cadynce, that tramp aud march, which are not stilted, because they indicate real force, yet which seem so when compared with any other language, make Latin a study in itself of mighty influence. The lan- guage alone, without the literature, would give one the thought of Rome. Man present in nature, commanding nature too sternly to be inspired bjMt ; standing like the rock amid the sea, or moving like fire over the land, either impassive or irresistible ; knowing not the soft mediums or fine flights of life ; but by the force which he expresses, piercing to the centre. — Papers on Literature and Art.
ROMAX MANFULXESS.
We are never better understood than when we speak of a '' Roman Virtue, " a " Roman Outline." There is somewhat indefinite, some- what unfulfilled in the thought of Greece, of Spain, of modern Italy ; but Rome ! it stands by itself, a clear Word. The power of Will, the dignity of a fixed Purpose, is what it utters. Every Roman, was an Emperor. It is well that the Infallible Church should have been founded on this Rock ; that the presumptuous Peter should hold the keys, as the conquering Jove did, before his thunderbolts, to be seen of all the world. Apollo tends flocks with Admetus ; Christ teaches by the lonely lake, or plucks wheat as he wanders through the fields some Sabbath morning. They never came to this stronghold ; they could not have breathed freely where all became stone as soon as spoken ; where divine youth found no liorizon for its all- promising glance ; but every Thought put on, before it dared to issue to the day in Action, its toga virilis. Suckled by this wolf-man gains a different complexion from that which is fed b_y the Greek honey. He takes a noble bronze in camps and battle-fields ; the wrinkles of councils well beseem his brow, and the eye cuts its way like a sword. Tlie iEagle should never have been used as a symbol
SARAH MAi:()AKET OSSOLT.— 4
hy any other nation ; it belonged to Rome. — I^apers on JAterature and Art.
TllK UJSTORY AND LITERATURE OF ROME.
The History of Rome abides in the mind, of course, more than the literature. It was degeneracy for a Roman to use the pen ; his life was in the day. The "Vaunting" of Rome, nice that of the North American Indians, is her proper literature. A man rises ; he tells us who he is, and what he has done ; he speaks of his country and her brave men ; he knows that a conquering God is there, whose agent is his own right hand ; and he should end like the Indian, " I have no more to say." It never shocks us that the Roman is self- conscious. One wants no universal truths from him, no philosophy, no creation, but only his life — his Roman life — felt in every pulse, realized in every gesture. The universal heaven takes in the Roman only to make us feel his individuality the more. The Will, the Resolve of a\Ian ! — it has been expressed — fully expressed.
I steadilv loved this ideal in my childhood ; and this is probably the cause wh}' I have always felt that man must know how to stand firm on the ground before he can fly. In vain for me are men more, if they are less, than Romans. Dante was far greater than any Roman ; yet I feel he was right to make the Mantuan his guide through Hell, and to Heaven. — Papers on Literature and Art.
ENCOURAGEMENT.
For the Power to whom we bow Has given its pledge that, if not now, They of pure and steadfast mind, By faith exalted, truth refined, Shall hear all music loud and clear, Whose first notes the}' ventured here. Then fear not thou tb wind the horn. Though elf and gnome thy courage scorn. Ask for the castle's king and queen —
• SARAH MARGARET OSSOLL— 5
Though rabble rout may rush between, Beat thee senseless to tlie ground, In the dark beset thee round — Persist to ask and it will come, Seek not for rest in humbler home : So slialt thou see what few have seen, The palace home of King and Queen.
ORPHEUS.
Each Orpljeus must to the depths descend.
For only thus the Poet can be wise, Must make tlie sad Persephone his friend,
And buried love to second life arise ; Again his love must lose through too much love,
Must lose his life by living life too true, For what he sought below is passed above.
Already done is all that he would do ; Must tune all being with his single Ij're,
Must melt all rocks free from their prima pain Must search all Xature with his own soul's fire.
Must bind anew all forms in heavenly chain. If he already sees what he must do.
Well may he shade his eyes from the far- shining view.
JAMES OTIS.— 1
OTIS, Jamks, iui American Revolu- tionary patriot, born at Barnstable, Mass., in 1725rdie(l at Andover in 1788. He grad- uated at Harvard in 1743, studied law, and in 1748 commenced practice at Plymouth. 'I'wo years afterwaid he ]'enioved to Boston, and soon rose to the first rank in his profes- sion. His public career began about 1761, when lie held the lucrative office of Advo- cate-general for the Crown. He resigned this position when called upon to defend cer- tain ro3'al revenue officers ; and, declining to receive any fee, became counsel for the merchants of Boston who protested against the revenue-writs. In his plea, wliicli was quite as much a political speech as a legal argument, Otis took the broad ground that the American people were not bound to yield obedience to laws in the making ot which they had no share. John Adams, who heard this speech, afterward declared that on that day *' the child Independence was born." In 1764 Otis put forth a bulky pamphlet entitled The Rights of the Colonies Asserted and Proved, which evinces how moderate were the demands of the most advanced Colonies, ten years before the outbreak of the war of the Revolution, in which Otis himself was prevented from taking any prominent part. In the sum- mer of 1769 he made a newspaper attack upon some of the royal revenue officers. While sitting in a coffee-house, he was as- sailed by a gang of tliese, was savagely beaten, and received a sword-cut on the head from the effects of which he never re- covered. DurincT the reraalninof fourteen years of his life he was, with some lucid in- tervals, insane. He was in time taken to the house of his sister at Andover. On
JAMES OTIS —2
May 23, 1783, while standing at the door- way during a thunder-shower he was struck by liglituing and died on the spot. Otis possessed considerable classical knowlege, and in 1760 published Rudiments of Latin Prosody^ which was used as a text-book at Harvard. He also wrote a work on Greek Prosody, which was never published. He comes down in literary history wholly by the memory of his great speech in 1761, and by his Rights of the Colonies. The Life of James Otis has been written by William Tudor (1823).
THE BRITISH CONSTITUTION AND THE COLONIES.
Tlie sum of my argument is : that civil government is of God ; that the administrators of it were originally the whole people ; that they might have devolved it on whom they pleased ; that this devolution is fiduciary, for the good of the whole ; that by the British Constitution this devolution is on the King, Lords, andCommons, the supreme, sacred, and uncontrollable legisla- tive power, not only in the realm, but through the dominions; that by the abdication of King James II. the original compact was broken to pieces ; that by the Revolution of 1688, it was renewed, and more firmly established, and the rights and liberties of the subject in all parts of the dominions more fully explained and con- firmed; that in consequence of this establish- ment and the Acts of Succession and Union, his Majesty George III. is rightful King and Sov- ereign, and, with his Parliament, the supreme legislative of Great Britain, France, and Ire- land, and the dominions thereunto belonging.
That this Constitution is the most free one, and by far the best now existing upon earth ; that by this Constitution, every man in the dominions is a free man ; that no part of his Majesty's dominions can be taxed without their consent ; that every part has a right to be rep- resented in the supreme or some subordinate
JAMES OTIS.— 3
legislature ; that the refusal of this would seem lu be u contradiction iu {)ractice to the theory of the Constitution ; that the colonies are sub- ordinate dominions, and are now in such a state as to make it best for the good of the whole that they should not only be continued in the enjoj^nient of subordinate legislation, but be also represented in some proportion to their numbers and estates, in the grand legislature of the nation; that this would firnilj^ unite all parts of the British empire in the greatest peace and prosperity, and render it invulnerable and perpetual. — lilc/hts of the Jiritish Colonies Asserted and Proved.
THE RIGHT TO VOTE.
Ko good reason can, however, be given in any country why ever}' man of a sound mind should not have his vote in the election of a represent- ative. If a man has but little property to protect and defend, yet his life and liberty are
things of some importance. Mr. J s argues
onl}' from the vile abuses of power, to the con- tinuance and increase of such abuses. This, it must be confessed, is the common logic of modern politicians and vote sellers. To what purpose is it to ring everlasting changes to the colonists on the cases of Manchester, Birming- ham and Sheffield, which return no members ? If those, now so considerable, places are not rep- resented, they ought to be. — Considerations on Behalf of the Colonists.
THOMAS OTWAY.— 1
OTWAY, Thomas. ;ui English dram- atist, born in Suffolk, in 1651 ; died at London, 1685. He was the son of a clergy- man, and was sent to Oxford ; but left the university without taking a degree, and went to London. In 1672 he made an unsuccessful appearance upon the stage, and never again appeared upon the boards. During the next five years he produced several dramas which met with good suc- cess. In 1677 he procured a cornetship in a regiment of horse which was sent to Flanders. He was discharged in dis- grace, returned to London in a state of extreme destitution, and began again to write for the stage. But his way of life was such that lie was always in poverty. Besides some eight or ten dramas, he wrote a few poems. The only work of his which deserves remembrance is the tragedy of Venice Preserved (produced in 1682), which ranks high among our dramas of the second class, and still holds a place on the stage.
Pierre (m prison) and Jaffier. Pierre. — What whining monk art thou ? what holy cheat ? That wouldst encroach upon my credulous ears And cant'st thus vilely ? Hence ! I know thee not ! Jaf. — Xot know me, Pierre ! Pierre. — No ; know thee not ! What art
thou ? tTaf. — Jaffier, thy friend ; thy once loved, valued friend ! Though now deservedly scorned and used most hardly. Pierre. — Thou Jaffier ! thou my once loved, valued friend ! By heavens, thou liest ! The man so called my friend
THOMxVS OTWAY. -2
Wus generous, honest, iaiilit'ul, just, and val- iant ; Noble in mind, and in his person lovely; Dear to my eyes, and tender to my heart; But thou, a wretched, base, false, worthless
coward. Poor in thy soul, and loathsome in thy aspect ! All eyes must shun thee, and all hearts detest
thee. Prithee, avoid ; no longer cling thus round me, Like sometliing baneful that my nature's
chilled at. Jaf. — I have not wronged thee ; by these
tears I have not. Pierre. — Hast thou not wronged me ?
Darest thou call thyself Jaffier — that once loved, valued friend of
mine ; And swear thou hast not wronged me ?
Whence these chains ? Whence the vile death which I may meet this
moment? Whence this dishonor but from thee, thou false
one ? Jaf. — All's true. Yet grant me one thing,
and I've done asking. Pierre. — What's that ? Jaf. — To take thy life on such conditions The council have proposed. Thou and thy
friends May yet live long, and to be better treated. Pierre. — Life ! ask my life ! confess ! record
myself A villain for the privilege to breathe, And carry up and down this cursed city A discontented and repining spirit, Burdensome to itself, a few years longer; To lose it, maybe, at last, in a lewd quarrel Por some new friend, treacherous and false as
thou art ! No ; this vile world and I have long been
jangling, And cannot part on better terms than now, When only men like thee are fit to live in't.
THOMAS OTWAr.— 3 Jaf. — By all that's jiist-
Pierre. — ■ Swear by some other power,
For thou hast broke that sacred oath ah-eady. Jaf. — Then by that hell I merit, I'll not leave thee Till to thyself at least thou'rt reconciled, However thy resentments deal with me. Pierre. — Not leave me !
Jetf. — Xo ; thou shalt not force me from thee. Use me reproachfully and like a slave ; Tread on me, buffet me, heap wrongs on wrongs On my poor head : I'll bear it all with patience ; Shall weary out thy most unfriendly' cruelty; Lie at thy feet, and kiss them, though they
spurn me ; Till, wounded b}^ my sufferings, thou relent, And raise me to thy arms with dear forgiveness.
Pierre. — Art thou not
Ja/— What ? Pierre. — A traitor?
Jaf. — Yes.
Pierre. — A villain ?
Jaf. — Granted.
Pierre. — A coward, a most scandalous cow- ard ; Spiritless, void of honor ; one who has sold Thy everlasting fame for shameless life ?
Jaf. — All, all, and more ; my faults are
numberless. Pierre. — And wouldst thou have me live on terms like thine ?
Base as thou'rt false
Jaf. — No. To me that's granted ; The safety of thy life was all I aimed at, In recompense for faith and trust so broken. Pierre. — T scorn it more because preserved by tlioe ; And as when first my foolish heart took pity On thy misfortune, sought thee in thy miseries, Relieved thee from thy wants, and raised thee
from the state Of wretchedness in which thy fate had plunged thee,
THOMAS OTWAV. 4
To milk thee in my list of noble friends, All I received, in surety ftrt- tliy truth. Were unregarded oaths, and this, this dagger, Given with a wortliless pledge thou since hast
stolen ; So T restore it back to thee again, Swearing b}^ all those powers which thou hast
violated, Never from this cursed hour to hold commun- ion, Frieiidi'.hip, or interest with thee, though our
years Were to exceed those limited the world. Take it — farewell — for. now I owe thee nothing. J<if. — Say thou wilt live, then. Pierre. — For my life, dispose it
Just as thou wnlt; because 'tis what I'm tired with. Jqf.—O Pierre ! Pierre. — No more !
Jiif. — My eyes won't lose the sight of thee, But languish after thine, and ache with gazing. Pierre. — Leave me ! Nay, then, thus I throw thee from me ; And curses great as is thy falseliood catcli thee !
Venice Preserved.
In Otway's poems are some pretty pas- sages of description. Here is one.
A MORNING IN SPRING.
Wished Morning's come ; and now upon the
plains And distant mountains, where they feed their
flocks, The happy shepherds leave their homely huts. And with their pijies proclaim the new-born
day. The lusty swain comes with his well-filled scrip Of healthful viands which, when hunger calls, With much content and appetite he eats, To follow in the field his daily toil,
THOMAS OTWAY.— 5
And dress tliu grateful glebe that j'ields him
fruits. The beasts that under the warm hedges slept, And weatliered out the cold bleak uight are up ; And, looking towards the neighboring pasture,
raise Their voice, and bid their fellow brutes good- morrow. The cheerful birds, too, on the tops of trees, Assemble all in choirs; and with their notes Salute and welcome up the rising sun.
PARTING.
Where am I ? Sure I wander 'midst En- chantment, And never more shall find the way to rest. But, 0 Monimia! art thou indeed resolved To punish me with everlasting absence ? Why turn'st thou from me? I'm alone al- ready ! Methinks I stand upon a naked beach Sighing to winds, and to the seas complaining; Whilst afar off the vessel sails away, "Where all the treasure of my soul's embarked I Wilt thou not turn ? O could those eyes but
speak I I should know all, for love is pregnant in
them ! Thev swell, they press their beams upon me
"still! Wilt thou not speak ? If we must part for
ever. Give me but one kind word to think upon. And please myself with, while my heart is breaking.-
The Orphan,
Sm THOMAS OVEUHITRY.— 1
OVER BURY, Sill Thomas, an English courtier, born in 1581; died in 1G13. He was a friend and adviser ot" Robert Carr, Viscount Rochester, and afterwards Earl of Somerset, the favorite of James I. He earnestly opposed the projected marriage of Rochester with the infamous Countess of Essex, and the guilty pair procured his committal, on a trumped-up charge, to the Tower, where he was secretly poisoned. The whole affair forms one of tiie most scandalous episodes in English history. Overbury wrote two didactic poems. The
Wife and The Choice of a Wife, and sev- eral prose pieces, the best of which are
Characters, being " Witty Descriptions of the Properties of Sundry Persons."
THE FAIR AND HAPPY MILKMAID.
She is a country wench that is so far from making hei'self beautiful by art that one look of hers is able to put all face-physic out of sight. She knows a fair look is but a dumb orator to commend virtue, therefore minds it not. All her excellences stand in her so silent- ly, as if they had stolen upon her without her knowledge. The lining of her apparel, which is herself, is far better than outsides of tissue ; for though she be not arrayed in the spoils of the silk-worm, she is decked in inno- cence— a far better wearing. She doth not, with lying long in bed, spoil both her complex- ion and conditions. Nature hath taught her, too, immoderate sleep is rust to the soul ; she riseth, therefore, with Chanticleer, her dame's cock, and at night makes the Iamb her cur- few. In milking a cow, and straining the teats through her fingers, it seems that so sweet a milk press makes the milk whiter or sweeter ; for never came almond-glove or aromatic oint- ment on her palm to taint it. The golden ears of corn fall and kiss her feet when she reaps
.silt 1'IIO.MAS 0VEKBURY.-2
them, as if the}' wislied to be bound and led prisoners by the same hand tliat felled them. Her breath is her own, which scents, all the year round, of June, like a new-made ha\-cock. She makes her hand hard with labor, and her heart soft with pity ; and when winter even- ings fall early, sitting at her merry wheel, she sings defiance to the giddy wheel of For- tune. She doth all things with so sweet a grace, it seems ignorance will not suffer her to do ill, being her mind is to do well. She bestows her year's wages at the next fair, and in choosing her garments counts no bravery in the world like decency. The garden and bee- hive are all her physic and surgery, and she lives the longer for it. She dares go alone and unfold sheep in the night, and fears no man- ner of ill, because she means none ; yet, to say truth, she is never alone, but is still accom- panied with old songs, honest thoughts, and prayers — but short ones ; yet they have their efficacy, in that they are not palled with ensu- ing idle cogitations. Lastly, her dreams are so chaste that she dares tell them. Only a Friday's dream is all her superstition ; that she conceals for fear of anger. Thus lives she, and all her care is that she may die in the spring-time, to have store of flowers stuck upon her winding-sheet. — Characters.
A FKAXKLIN.
His outside is an ancient yeoman of Eng- land, though his inside may give arms with the best gentleman, and never fee the herald. There is no truer servant in the house than himself. Though he be master, he says not to his servants, " Go to field," but, " Let us go ; " and with his own eyes doth fatten his flock, and set forward all manner of hus- bandry. He is taught hy Xature to be content- ed with a little. His own fold yields him both food and raiment. He is pleased with any nourishment God sends, whilst curious gluttony ransacks, as it were, Noah's ark for food, only
SIR TII()>rAS OVERBURY.— 3
to feed tlio riot ot" one meal. He is never known to go to law ; understanding to be law- bound among men is like to be hide-bound among bis beasts; they thrive not under it, and that such men sleep as unquietly, as if their pillows were stuffed with lawyers' pen- knives. When he builds, no poor tenant's cot- tage hinders his prospect; the}' are indeed his alms-houses, though there be painted on them no such superscription. He never sits up late but when he hunts the badger, the vowed foe of his lambs, nor uses cruelty but when he hunts the hare ; nor subtlety but when he set- teth snares for the snipes, or pitfalls for the blackbirds; nor oppression but when in the month of July he goes to the next river and shears his sheep. He allows of honest pas- time, and thinks not the bones of the dead anj'thing bruised, or the worse for it, though the country lasses dance in the churchyard after even-song. Rock Monda}', and the wake in summei", shrovings, the wakeful catches on Christmas-eve, the hokej*^, or seed-cake — these he 3'early keeps, yet holds them no relics of Popery. He is not so inquisitive after the news derived from the privj^-closet, when the find- ing of an eyry of hawks in his own ground, or the foaling of a colt come of a good strain, are tidings more pleasant and profitable. He is lord-paramount within himself, though beholds by never so mean a tenure; and dies the more contentedl}^ (though he leave his heir young), in regard he leaves him not liable to a covetous guardian. Lastlj', to end him, he cares not when his end comes ; he needs not fear his audit, for his quietus is in heaven. — Characters.
GVID.—l
OVID (Publics Ovidius Naso), a Roinati poet, boni at Snlnio, about ninety jniles north of Rome, in 43 B.C., died in 18 A.D.. at Toini (tlie modern Kostendje), on the Black Sea, near the mouths of the Danube. His father, a man of noble de- scent but moderate fortune, sent Ovid, with a brother just a year older than himself, to Rome, to fit them for the profession of ad- vocate. Ovid, though somewiiat against the grain, applied himself fairly well to his legal studies ; but the bent of his mind was towards poetry. He says, " What- ever I sought to say was still in verse." When he was about twenty, his brother . died; and the father consented that the remaining son, now sole heir of the estate, should devote himself to the cultivation of his poetical talents, making him a moderate allowance. He studied for a wddle at Athens, travelled for a year in Asia Minor and Sicily, and then returned to Rome. He did not, however, altogether give up the idea of public life, and held some minor official posts. On reaching his twenty- fourth year he became eligible to the qusestorship, the lowest grade in the magis- tracy. He declined to become a candidate, and entered upon his literary career.
His early poems — most of which he sub- sequently destroyed — were censured for their immorality. He himself declares that though his verse was loose his life was pure — an assertion by no means borne out by what he almost incidentally reveals. Up to the time when he was well advanced in middle age lie seems to have lived the life of a "young man about town." He had been twice married. Of his first wife he savs thatshe was "a good-for-nothing ; "
OVID. 2
of the socoikI, he merely observes that lie had " no fault to find with lier." He was close upon fifty when he married for the third time. This wife was of good family and had a kind of indirect connection with ladies of the imperial court. He makes frequent mention of lieriii his later poems, and always in terms of the warmest affec- tion. He had meanwliile come to be a prosperous man, having a city mansion near the Capitol and a couutrj^-seat.
He had just entered upon his forty- second year when lie was surprised by a rescript from the Emperor Augustus, directing him to leave Rome and take up his abode at Tomi, on the extremest verge of the empire. The reason assigned was the alleged corrupting tendency of certain poems of his, the Art of Love being spe- cially mentioned. But as the latest of these liad been put forth more than ten years, this charge was a mere pretext. It seems clear that he had become cognizant of a matter disgracefully affecting some mem- bers of the family of the emperor. He writes, " Why did I see something ? Why did I make my eyes guilty ? Why did I become, all unwittingly, acquainted with guilt ? Because my eyes unknowingly beheld a crime, I am punished. To have had the power of sight, this my sin." It has been plausibly conjectured that he knew of the conduct of-Julia, the profligate grand-daughter of Augustus ; and that his offense was that lie had held his tongue about the matter ; wlience it was inferred that he was an accessory to the offense. It is a historical fact that almost coincident with the exile of Ovid, Julia was banished from Rome. Whatever was the offense of
OYTr>._3
Ovid, it was one that rankled in the mind of Augustus as long as he lived, and was never forgotten or condoned, though Ovid over and over again begged that the sen- tence should be remitted, or at least, that some less unendurable place of exile should be assigned to him. One altogether inex- plicable circumstance is that the punish- ment was limited to exile at Tomi. His property was not confiscated, the in- come of it being regularly transmitted to him ; and he was allowed unrestricted communication with his friends at Rome. Nor was he sent under guard, but went by the route which he chose, and at sucli rate as suited him. He was simply ordered to go to Tomi, and to Tomi he went. He left Rome in December, and did not arrive at Tomi until September. Here tlie re- maining eight years of his life were passed. During all these years he never saw his wife, for she neither accompanied nor fol- lowed him.
Several works which Ovid mentions as having been written by him are lost, among wliich is the tragedy of Medea, of which Quintilian says that " it proves how much tile autlior could have achieved if he liad chosen to moderate rather than to indulge his cleverness." If more of his works had perished the world would not iiave been a loser. His extant works are : TJie Epistles of Heroines^ The Loves, The Remedies for Love, TJie Epistles from Pontus, The Art of Love, The Metamorphoses, The Fasti, and The Tristia. Only the four last of these call for special mention.
The Art of Love may be assigned to Ovid's thirty-fifth year. Taken as a whole, it may be properly designated as an inde-
OVID.— 4
cent poem, althougli, as in the case of Byron's Don Juan, it contains by way of episode many passages of great beauty. Ovid himself gave notice tliat no decent person — at least no modest woman — should read it. A considerable part of this poem has been very loosely translated by Dryden — loosely in a double sense, for Dryden has put additional grossness of his own into the grossest passages. • Tlie Fasti may be designated as a sort of Handbook of the Roman Calendar, as a poetical Almanac, or as a Ritual in verse. Its composition undoubtedly ran through several years, being nearly completed at the time of Ovid's exile to Tomi, but re- vised, with perhaps some additions, there. It gives the seasons of every special relig- ious worship and the reasons therefor. As we have it, it consists of six books, one for each of the six months from January to June. It is said, though not upon un- q uestionable authority, that there were six more books, one for each of tlie remaining months. If so, it is not easy to account for the loss of these, for the poem was un- doubtedly a popular one, and must have had a " very wide circulation." Interspersed throughout the Calendar proper are nu- merous episodes which relieve tlie neces- sarily dry details. Thus, under the month of January, the ancient god Janus is made to tell why his temple was open in time of war, and was closed when Rome was at peace with all the rest of the world — an event which is said to have occurred only three times during the Commonwealth, and which now occurred as here recorded, about the time of the birth of our Saviour.
OVID.— 5
THE CLOSING OF THE TEMPLE OP JANUS.
" In war, all bolts drawn back, my portals stand, Open for hosts that seek their native land ; In peace fast closed they bar the outward way, And still shall bar it under Cjesar's sway." — He spake. Before, behind, his double gaze • All that the world contained at once surveys, And all was peace ; for now with conquered
wave The Ehine, German icus, thy triumph gave. Peace, and the friends of peace immortal make, Nor let the lord of earth liis work forsake.
Transl. o/Alfked Church.
The Metamorphoses, also a work of years, was completed before Ovid's banisliment. It is the longest of the poems of Ovid, and is upon the whole his best. The general scope of the poem is to tell of human forms changed into animals, plants, or lifeless shapes, as narrated in myth and legend. He tells how, in a fit of vexation, he undertook to destroy the whole poem. " As for the verses," he writes from Tond, " which told of changed forms — an unlucky work whicli its author's banishment interrupted — these in the hour of my departure I put, sorrowing, as I put many other of my good tlnngs, into the flames with my own hands ; but," he added, " as they did not perish altogether, but still exist, I suppose there were several copies of them." A consider- able portion of the Metamorphoses has been translated by Dryden in liis best manner. The poem opens with an account of the primeval Chaos, and its reduction to form.
THE PRIMEVAL CHAOS.
Before the seas, and this terrestrial ball, And heaven's higli canopj'^ which covers all, Once was the face of Xature — if a face — Rather a rude and undigested mass,
OVID.— 6
A lifeless luinj), nnfashionetl and unframed, Of jarring seeds, and justly Chaos named. No sun was lighted up the world to view ; Xo moon did yet her blunted horns renew ; Nor yet was earth suspended in the sky, Nor poised did on her own foundations lie ; Nor seas about the shore their arms had thrown ; Ikit earth, and air, and water were as one. Thus all was void of light, and earth unstable, And water's dark abyss unnavigable. No certain form on any was imprest ; All were confused, and each disturbed the rest ; For hot and cold were in one body fixed, And soft with hard, and light with heavy mixed.
But God or Nature, while they thus contend, To these intestine discords put an end. Then earth from air and seas from earth were
driven, And grosser air sunk from {ethereal heaven. Thus disembroiled they take their proper place ; The next of kin contiguously embrace, And foes are sundered by a larger space. Tlie force of fire ascended first on high. And took its dwelling in the vaulted sky. Then air succeeds, in lightness next the fire, Whose atoms from unactive earth retire. Earth sinks beneath, and draws a numeroua
throng Of ponderous, thick, unwieldy seeds along. About her coasts unruly waters war, And, rising in a ridge, insult the shore.
Thus when the God — whatever God was
he— Had formed the whole, and made the parts
agree. That no unequal portion might be found, He moulded earth into a spacious round ; Then, with a breath, he gave the winds to blow, And bade the congregated waters flow. He adds the running springs and standing lakes. And bounding banks for winding rivers makes. Some parts in earth are swallowed up ; the
most
OVID. 7
In ample oceans disenibugiieJ, are lost. He shades the woods, tlie valleys he restrains With rocky mountains and extended plains. Transl. of Dryden.
After all other living creatures had been formed, Man — the ruler of ail — comes into being.
THE ADVENT OF MAN.
Something yet lacked — some holier being, dow- ered With lofty soul, and capable of rule And governance of all besides ; and Man At last had birth, whether from seed divine Of Him, the Artificer of all things, and Cause Of the amended world ; or whether earth, Yet new, and late from tether separate, still Retained some lingering germs of kindred
heaven. Which wise Prometheus, with the plastic aid Of water borrowed from the neigliboriiigstream, Formed in the likeness of the all-ordering Gods ; And, while all other creatures sought tlie ground, With downward aspect gravelling, gave to Man His port sublime, and bade him scan, erect, The heavens, and front with upward gaze the
stars. And thus earth's substance, rude and shapeless
erst, Transmuted, took the novel form of Man.
Transl. of Alfred Church.
Ovid goes on to picture the four ages — tlie Golden, the Silver, the Brass, and the Iron — which successively ensued.
the golden age.
The Golden Age was first, which, uncompeld, And without rule, in faith and truth exceld, As then there was nor punishment nor fear, Nor threatning laws in brass prescribed were ; Nor suppliant crouching prisoners shook to see Their angrie judge
OVID.— 8
in lirm content And harmless ease theii* liappy days were spent j The yet-freo earth did uf hur own accord (Untoni with j. loughs) all sons of fruit afford. Content with Nature's unenforced food, They gather wildings, strawbries of the wood, Sour cornels wliat upon tlie brambles grow, And acorns which Jove's spreading oaks bestow; 'Twas always Spring; warm Zephyrus sweetly
blew On smiling flowers which, without setting, grew. Forthwith the earth corn unmanured bears, And every 3'ear renews her golden ears ; With milk and nectar were the rivers fill'd And yellow honey from green elms distill'd. Transl. 0/ George Sandys.
The translation of tiie Metamorphoses from which the foregoing passage is taken has a special interest as being the first book written in the North American colonies. It was printed in London in 1665, in a large folio dedicated to King Charles I. Captain John Smith's True Relation and his Descrip- tion of New England were indeed printed some years earlier ; but they are hardly more than pamphlets, and were probably written in England. George Sandys, born in 1561, died in 1629, was an English gen- tleman who had won high reputation by his travels in the Levant and the H(dy Land. In 1621 he came to Virginia as treasurer of tlie colony. In tlie dedication of the translation of the 3Ietamorphoses he says that the work was "limned by that imper- fect ligiit that was snatched from the hours of night and repose; and was produced among wars and tumults." Dryden, long afterward said that Sandys was " the best versifier of his age."
One of tlie best-told transformations in the Meta) nor piloses is that of Arachne into a
OVID.— 9
spider. Aracluie — so runs the legend — was a Lycian maiden, famous for her deftness in spinning, weaving, and embroidery. Some who see her handiwork aver that Pallas must have been her instructor ; but she disdains such compliment, boasts that her skill is all her own, and only wishes that Pallas herself would enter into trial with her. Pallas, thus challenged, appears in the form of an aged woman, and vv^arns the maiden to be content with ex- celling all mortal competitors, but to beware of entering into a trial of skill with the immortal gods. Arachne scouts at the kindly warning, and repeats lier chal- lenge. Whereupon the goddess resumes her proper shape, and the contest begins.
PALLAS AND ARACHNE AT THE LOOM.
The looms were set, the webs were hung ;
Beneath their fingers, nimbly plied,
The subtle fabrics grew ; and warp and woof,
Transverse, with shuttle and with slay compact,
Were pressed in order fair. And either girt
Her mantle close, and eager wrought ; the toil
Itself was pleasure to the skilful hands
That knew so well their task. With Tj'rian hue
Of purple blushed the texture, and all shades
Of color, blending imperceptibly
Each into each. So, when the wondrous bow —
What time some passing shower hath dashed
the sun — Spans with its mighty arch the vault of heaven, A thousand colors deck it, different all, Yet all so subtly interfused that each Seems one with that which joins it, and the eye But by the contrast of the extremes perceives The intermediate change. — And, last, with
thread Of gold-embroidery pictured on the web, Lifelike expressed, some antique fable glowed. Transl. of Alfked Church.
OVID.— 10
Piillus Imd taken for the subject of her tapestry -picture her own contest with Neptune us to which should be the name- giver of the fair town which was to be for- ever known, as Athens, from one of her appeUations. Arachne, in scornful mood, liad chosen to depict the immortal gods in their lowest sensual performances. Her work, however, was so perfect that Pallas herself could detect no imperfection, any more than in her own. Doubly enraged, at her own failure to surpass Arachne, and at the gross insult that liad been given to all the celestial iiierarchy, Pallas smote her competitor over and over again full in the face. Arachne, stung beyond en- durance by this ignominy, tried to hang herself. The result of all is thus told by Ovid:—
THE TRANSFORMATION OF ARACHNE.
The high-souled maid Such insult not endured, and round her neck Indignant twined tlie suicidal noose, And so had died. But, as she hung, some ruth Stirred in tlie breast of Pallas. The pendant
form She raised, and " Live ! " she said ; " but hang
thou still Porever, wretcli ; and through all future time, Even to thy latest race bequeath thy doom ! " — And as she parted sprinkled her witli juice Of aconite. With venom of that drug Infected, dropped her tresses ; nose and ear Were lost ; her form, to smallest bulk com- pressed, A head minutest crowned ; to slenderest legs, Jointed on either side her fingers changed; Her body but a bag, whence still she draws Her filmy threads, and with her ancient art Weaves the fine meshes of her Spider's web. Transl. o/" Alfred Church.
OVID.— 11
Tlie IVistia, or "Sorrows" of Ovid are a series of poems composed during the early years of his exile, and transmitted from time to time to his friends at Rome. Tiiey touch upon all sorts of topics, but running througli all is a thread of supplication for a remission, or at least a mitigation, of his punishment, which he hoped would some- how reach the ears of the njighty Augustus. To us the most interesting parts of these poems are those in which he describes the wintry horrors of the region to which he had been exiled. These, we judge, are best expressed in the excellent prose trans- lation of H. T. Riley. Making all due allowances for poetical exaggeration — though Ovid expressly avers that he wrote truthfully and irOrn his own observation and experience — tliere can be no doubt that the climate of the region (now known as theDobrudga) has greatly changed since Ovid's time. The mean temperature is about that of Spain, though in the winter it is much colder, by reason of the fierce winds which have swept over the vast northein steppes. Neitiier the lower course of the Danube nor the Black Sea is now frozen over. Tlie vine flourishes, grass abounds in summer, and large crops of grain are produced ; whereas Ovid's de- scription would well apply to NovaZembla, Spitzbergen, or the shores of Hudson Bay.
ovid's place of baxishment.
If any one remembers the banished Nasso. and if without me my name survives in "the Cit}'," let liim know tliat T am living in the miilst of barbarism, exposed under stars that never set in the ocean. The Sauromatae — a savage race — the Bessi and tlie Getae surround me: names how unworthy of my genius to meatiou !
0VTD.-!'2
When the air is luil.l we are defended by the intervening Danube, while it flows; b}^ its waves it repels invasion. But when dire Winter lias put forth his rugged face, and the earth has become white with ice — when Boreas is at lib- erty, and snow has been sent upon the regions under the Bear — then it is true that these na- tions are distressed b}' a shivering climate. The snow lies deep, and as it lies neither sun nor rains melt it; Boreas hardens it, and makes it endure forever. Hence, when the former ice has not melted, fresh succeeds; and in man}' places it is wont to last for two years.
So great is the strength of the Xorth wind, when aroused, that it levels high towers to the ground, and carries off roofs borne away. The inhabitants poorly defend tlieniselves from the cold by skins and sewed breeches ; and of the whole body the face is the only part exposed. Often the hair, as it is moved, rattles with the pendent icicle, and the white beard shines with the ice that has been formed upon it. Liquid wine becomes solid, and preserves the form of the vessel. They do not drink dranglits of it, but take bites.
Why should I mention how the frozen rivers become hard, and how the brittle water is dug out of the streams ? The Danube itself— which is no narrower tlian the Nile — mingles through many months with the vast ocean. It freezes as the wind hardens its azure streams, and it rolls to the sea with covered waters. Where ships had gone, men now walk on foot ; and the hoof of the horse indents the waters hardened by freez- ing. Samaritan oxen drag the uncouth wagons along strange bridges as tlie waters roll beneath.
Indeed (I shall hardly be believed, but inas- much as there is no profit in untruths, an eve- witness ought to receive full confidence) I have seen the vast sea frozen with ice, and a slippery crust covered the unmoved waters. To liave seen is not enough. I have trodden upon the hardened ocean, and the surface of the water was under my foot, not wetted by it. The ships
OVID. -13
stand hemmed in by the frost as though by marble, and no oar can cleave the stiffened water.
When the Danube has been made solid by thedi-yiugiS^orthern blasts, the barbarous enemy is carried over on his swift steed. An enemy, strong in horses, and in the arrow tliat flies from afar, depopulates the neighboring region far and wide. Some take to liight; and no one being left to protect the fields, the unguarded prop- erty becomes a prey. Some of the people are driven along as captives, with their arms fast- ened behind their backs, looking back in vain upon their fields and their homes ; some die in torments, pierced by poisoned arrows. What the enemy cannot carry with them they destroy; and the flames consume the unoffending cot- tages.
Even when there is peace, there is alarm from the apprehension of war. This region either be- holds the enem3', or is in dread of a foe which it does not behold. The earth, deserted, becomes worthless ; left unfilled in ruinous neglect. Here the luscious grape does not lie hidden under the shade of the leaves, and the ferment- ing new wine does not fill the deep vats. The country does not bear fruit. You may behold naked plains without trees, without herbage : places, alas ! not to be visited by a fortunate man ! Since the great globe is so wide, why has this land been found out for the purpose of my punishment ? — Transl. o/" Riley.
SIR RICHARD OWEN.— 1
OWEN, Sill Richard, an English anat- omist, boni at Lancaster in 1804. He studied medicine at Edinburgh and Paris, and inl82G connnenced general practice at London; but having been appointed Assist- ant Curator of the iJuiiterian Museum, he devoted himself exclusively to tlie study of couiparative anatomy. In 1886 he suc- ceeded Sir Charles Bell as Professor of Anatomy and Physiology in the College of Surgeons; he resigned this position in 1856, on being appointed Superintendent of the Natural History Department in the British Museum. He has been especially active in all the great sanitary movements of his time. Of his numerous works in his special department of study we name but a few: Ilistori/ of British Fossils (1846), Historic of British Fossil Reptiles (1849- 51), Principles of Comparative Osteologt/ (1855), On the Anatomy of Vertebrates (1866), The Fossil Meptilia of South Africa (1876), The Fossil Mammals of Australia^ and the Extinct 3Iarsupials of Grreat Britain (18TT). Besides these are numerous monographs upon various scientific subjects.
THE BRITISH MAMMOTH.
Most of tlie largest and best preserved tusks of the British mammoth have been dredged up from tlie submerged drift, near the coasts. In 1827 an enormous tusk was landed at Rams- gate ; although the hollow implanted base was wanting, it still measured nine feet in length, and its greatest diameter was eight inches. The outer crust was decomposed into thin layers, and the interior portion had been re- duced to a soft substance resembling putty. A tusk dredged up from the Goodwin Sands, which measured six feet six inches in length, and twelve inches in greatest circumference, probably belonged to a female mammoth.
SIR mCHAKD OWEN.— 2
Captaiu Martin, in whose possession it is, describes its curvature as being equal to a semicircle turning outwards oil its line of pro- jection. This tusk was sent to a cutler by whom it was sawn into five sections ; but the interior was found to be fossilized, and unfit for use. But the tusks of the extinct elephant which have thus reposed for thousands of j'ears in the bed of the ocean which waslies the shore of Britain are not always so altered by time and the action of surrounding influences as to be unfit for the purposes to which recent ivory is applied. . . .
Mr. Robert Bald has described a portion of a mammoth tusk, thirty-nine inches long and thirteen inches in circumference, which was found imbedded in diluvial clay at Clifton Hall, between Edinburgli and Falkirk, fifteen or twenty feet from the present surface. Two other tusks of nearly the same size have been discovered at Kilmaiiis in Ayrshire, at the depth of seventeen and a half feet from the surface, in diluvial clay. The state of preser- vation of these tusks was nearly equal to that of the fossil ivory of Siberia. The tusks of the mammoth found in England are usually more decayed; but Dr. Buckhmd alludes to a tusk from argillaceous diluvium on the Yorkshire coast, which was hard enough to be used b}' the ivory-turners.
Tlie tusks of the mammoth are so well pre- served in the frozen drift of Siberia, that they have long been collected in great numbers for the purposes of commerce. In the account of the mammoth's bones and teeth of Siberia, pub- lished more than a century ago in the 1 hilo- sopJiical Transactions, tusks are cited which weighed two hundred pounds each, and are used as ivory, to make combs, boxes, and such other things; being but a little more brittle, and easily turning yellow by weather or heat. From that time to the present there has been no intermission in the supply of ivory furnished by the extinct elephants of a former world.— History of British Fossils. "
ROBERT DALE OWEN".— 1
OWEN, Robert Dale, an American author, horn in Sct)tliiiid in 1801 ; died in 1858. He was the son of iiobeit Owen, the social reformer, with whom he came to America in 1823, and soon afterward took up liis residence at New Harmony, Indiana. ]n 18oo, he was elected to the Indiana Leg- ishiture, and in 1843 to Congress. In 1845 lie introduced the Bill organizing the Smith- sonian Institution, of which he was made one of the Regents, and chairman of its build- ing committee. In 1853 he was appointed Charge d'Affaires at Naples, and 1855 was made Minister there. He wrote several books relating to edtication and social re- forms; and became a believer in the doc- trines of " Spiritualism." His principal works relating to this subject are : Footprints on the Boundaries of Another World (18G0), The Debatable Land betiveen this World and the Next (1872), Threading my Way^ an autobiography (1874).
ANTECEDENT PROBABILITY OF SPIRITUAL MAXIFESTATIOXS.
If some Leverrier of Spiritual Science had taken note twenty-five years ago of certain perturbing agencies of whicli the effects were visible througliout the religious world, he might have made a [irediction more important than that of the French astronomer in regard to the as yet undiscovered jilanet Uranus. For even then it could have been discovered — what, liow- ever, is inucli more evident to-day — that an old belief was about to disappear from civilized so- ciety : a change wliicli brings momentous results in its train. This change is from behef in the Exceptional and the Miraculous to a settled conviction that it does not enter into God's economy, as manifested in His works, to deal except mediately tln-ough the instrumentality of Natural Laws; or to suspend or change those
ROBERT DAI.E OWEN.— 2
laws on special occasions, or— as men do — to make temporary laws for a certain age of the world, and discontinue these through a succeed- ing generation. In other words, the civilized world is gradually settling down to the assurance that the Natural Law is universal, invariable, persistent.
The advent of this change conceded — a thoughtful observer, endowed with a prophetic faculty, might have foreshadowed some of its consequents. If Natural Law be invariable, then either the wonderful works ascribed to Christ and his disciples were not performed, or else they were not miracles. If they were not performed, then Christ lent himself to de- ception. This theory disparages his person, and discredits his teachings. But if they were performed under Natural Law, and if Natural Laws endure from generation to generation, then, inasmuch as the same laws under which these signs and wonders occurred must exist still — we may expect somewhat similar phenomena at any time.
But an acute observer, looking over the whole ground might, have detected more than this. He would have found two antagonistic schools of religious opinion : the one, basing spiritual truth on the JNIiraculous and the Infallible, chiefly represented in a Church of vast power, fifteen hundred years old, which has held her own against bold and active adversaries, and even increased in the relative as well as the actual number of her adherents for the last three hundred years. The other, dating back three hundred and fifty years only, affiliating more or less with the spirit of the age, and so j)lacing herself in the line of progress; yet with less imposing antecedents, with fewer adherents, and, alas ! weakened in influence by a large admixture of Indifferentism, and still more weakened in influence by intestine dissensions on questions of vital moment, even on the relig- ions shibboleth of the day — the question of Uni- form itule or Miracle ; manv of the latter Church
RODEllT DALE OWEN.— 3
still holding to tlie opinion tluit to abandon the doctrine of tlie iliraculous is to deny the works of Christ.
Apparently a very unequal contest — the out- look quite discouraging. Yet if our observer had abiding faith in tlie ultimate prevalence alike of tlie doctrine of Christianity and of Nat- ural Law, he might, in casting about for a way out of the difficulty,, have come upon a practical solution.
History would inform him that the works of Christ and his disciples, mistaken by the Jews for miracles, effectively arrested the attention of a semi-barbarous age, incapable of appreciating the intrinsic value and the moral beauty of the doctrines taught. And analogy might suggest to hiin that if phenomena more or less resem- bling these could be witnessed at the present day, and if they were not weighted down by claims to be miraculous, they might produce on modern indifference a somewhat similar impres- sion. . . .
Guided b}' such premises as these, our- sup- posed observer of twenty-five years since, though living at a time when the terms "Medium" and "Manifestation " (in their modern sense) had not 3'^et come up, might have predicted the speedy appearance and recognition among us of Spirit- ual Phenomena resembling those which attended Christ's ministry and the Apostles' labors. . . .
The occurrence among us of Spiritual Phe- nomena under Law not only tends to reconcile Scripture and sound philosophy ; not onh' helps to attest the doctrine of the universal reign of Law ; not only explains and confirms the general accuracy of the Gospel narrative — but it does mtich more than this. It supplies to a strug- gling religious minoritj', greatly in want of aid, the means of bringing to light even before unbelievers in Scripture, the great truth of Im- mortality ; and it furnishes to that same minor- ity, contending against greatly superior num- bers, other powerful argumentative weapons urgently needed in society. — TJie Debatable Land.
JOHN OXENFORD. -1
OXENFORD, JoHX, an English au. thor, born in Caniberweli, near London, England, in 1812 ; died in 1877. He was admitted to the bar in 1833, and devoted much time to dramatic criticism for the press. He translated poems and wrote songs, which have been set to music. Among his works for the stage are : My Felloiv Clerk (1835), A Day Well Spent (1836), Porter's Knot (1869), and £456, lis. 3(^. (1874). He published transla- tions of the Autobiography of Goethe^ the Conversations of Eckermann with Groethe (1850), the JTellas of Jacob (1855), and a' collection of songs from the French entitled The Illustrated Book of Freiich Songs, (1855).
A CONVERSATION WITH GOETHE.
To-day, after dinner, Goethe read me the first scene of tlie second act of " Faust." The effect was great, and gave me a high satisfac- tion. We are once more transported into Faust's study, where Mephistopheles finds all just as he liad left it. He takes from tlie hook Faust's old study-gown, and a thousand moths and insects flutter out from it. By the direc- tions of Mephistopheles as to where these are to settle down, the locality is brought very clearly before our eyes. He puts on the gown while Faust lies behind the curtain, in a state of pa- ralysis, intending to play the doctor's part once more. He pulls the bell, which gives su(rh an awful tone among the solitary convent-halls, that the doors spring open and the walls trem- ble. The servant rushes in, and finds in Faust's seat Mephistopheles, whom he does not recognize, hut for whom he has respect. In answer to inquiries he gives news of Wigner, who has now become a celebrated man, and is hoping for the return of liis master. He is, we hear, at this moment deeply occupied in his laboratory, seeking to produce a Homunculus.
JOHN OXENFOKU.— 2
The servant retires and the Bachelor enters, — • the same whom we knew some years before us a sliy young stiulent, wlien iVLt'[)histoplieles (in Faust's gown) made game of him. He is now become a man, and is so full of conceit that even Mephistoijheles can do nothing with him, but moves his chair further ana further, and at last addresses the pit.
Groethe read the scene quite to the end. I was pleased with his youthful productive strength and with the closeness of the whole. '' As the conception," said Goethe, " is so old — for I have had it in my mind for fifty years — the materials have accumulated to such a degree, that the difficult operation is to sepa- rate and reject. The invention of the whole second part is really as old as I say ; but it may be an advantage that I have not written it down until now, when my knowledge of the world is so much clearer. I am like one who in his youth has a great deal of small silver and copper money, which in the course of his life he constantly changes for the better, so that at last the property of his youth stands before him pieces of pure gold."
We spoke about the character of the Bache- lor. " Is he not meant,'' said I, " to represent a certain class of ideal philosophers ?"
" No," said Goethe, " the arrogance which is peculiar to youth, and of which we had such striking examples after our war for freedom, is personified in him. Indeed, everyone believes in his 3-outh that the world really began with him, and that all merely exists for his sake. Thus in the East there was actually a man who every morning collected his people about him, and would not go to work until he commanded the sun to rise. But he was wise enough not to speak his command until the sun of its own accord wag really on the point of appearing." Goethe remained awhile absorbed in silent thought ; then he began as follows : —
" When one is old one thinks of worldlv mat-
JOHN OXENFORD.— 3
ters otherwise than when he is j'ouug. Thus I cannot but think that the demons, to tease and make sport with men, have phiced among them simple hgnres wliich are so alluring that every one strives after them, and so great that nobody reaches them. Thus they set up E-affaelle, with whom thought and act were equally per- fect ; some distinguished followers liave ap- proached him, but none have equalled him. Thus, too, they set up Mozart as something un- attainable in music; and thus Shakespeare in poetry. I know what you can s;)}' against this thought, but I only mean natural character, the great innate qualities. Thus, too, Napoleon is unattainable. That the Russians were so mod- erate as not to go to Constantinople is indeed very great ; but we find a similar trait in Na- poleon, for he had the moderation not to go to Rome."
Much was associated with this copious theme ; I thought to myself in silence that the demons liad intended something of the kind with Goethe, inasmuch as he is a form too alluring not to be striveii after, and too great to be reached.— 7%(3 Conversations of Eckcrmann with Goethe.
HENRY NIJTCOMBE OXENHAM.— 1
OX EN 1 1 AM, Henry Nutcombe, an English clergynnui and author, born at Harrow in 1829. His hither, also a clergy- man, was one of the masters at Harrow Sciiool, where *"he boy was prepared for the University. He took his degree of M. A. at Balliol College, Oxford, in 1854, and in the same yearentered the Anglican priest- hood, wliicli he left in 1857 for that of Rome. He has been a professor in St. Edmund's College, Ware, and master in the Oratory School at Birmingham. Among his works are : PoemH (1854), Church Parties (1857), Catholic Doctrine of the Atoneriifnt (1865), enhirged and revised in X'S'SlUi't^collections ofOherAminergaii (1872), Moral and Meligious Estimate of H'ivisec- tion (1879), and Short Studies, Ethical and lieliyious (1884). He has translated from the German, Dr. DoUinger's First Afie of the Church and Lectures on Reunion of the Churches^ and Bishop Hefele's His- tory of the Councils of the Church, and has contributed to the Edinhwi/li Review, Con- temporary, Church Quarterly, Academy^ and other English periodicals.
THE LAW OF HOXOR.
Hallam tells us in the conchulinj? chapter of liis State of Europe during tlie Middle Ages, tliat "tliere are three powerful spirits which have from time to time moved over tlie surface of the waters, and given a predominant impulse to tlie moral sentiments of mankind. Tiiese are the spirits of liherty, of religion, and of honor." He goes on to say that "it was the principal business of chivahy to animate and cherish the last of these tlu-ee," and that tlie results of the other two have at least been " equalled by the exquisite sense of honor which this institution preserved." And tlien he adds that, .as the institution passed away, '' the spirit of
HENKY NUTCOMBE OXENHAM.— 2
chivalry left behind it a more valuable successor. The character of knight gradually subsided into that of gentleman." And a scrupulous regard for the law of honor, it need hardlj^ be observed, is supposed to constitute, if not the whole duty, the distinctive excellence of a gentleman as such.
There are, however, besides the law of honor, three distinct standards, always separable iu idea, though often not separated iu fact, by some one or more of which men ordinarily en- deavor to regulate their conduct ; that is, of course, men who acknowledge some rule of lite other than that of mere selHsh inclination. These are the law of the land, the law of right or of conscience, and the precepts of a religion claiming to have divine authority
Now it is plain at a glance that the law of honor differs essentially in kind from all these three. Each of them affects to enjoin within its own limits a complete standard of duty, and, though civil legislation cannot in- clude all moral obligations, it must at least sanction nothing immoral. But the law of honor enjoins at best certain duties only, arbi- trarily selected, and belonging to a particular class ; it may even prescribe as duties, and certainly often condones as blameless, what religion, or conscience, or the State, or all of them, condemns as vices. And thus we read of Sir Lancelot : —
His honor rootod in dishonor stood,
And faith unfaithful made him falsely true.
It constitutes, as was said before, the code of "a gentleman," while moral obligation holds good equally of a gentleman and a chimney-sweep. Truthfulness and courage, again, are the prin- cipal virtues which the law of honor requires of a man, chastity of a woman ; but conscience and religion demand truthfulness and chastity of both sexes alike. Or, in a wider sense, honor is the standard of a class, and thus there may be many diverse and iucougruous stand-
A HET^RY NUTCOMBE OXEXHAM.— 3
ards of honor, as tliore is said to be ''lionor among thieves." And thus again there is a / recognized standard of schoolboy honor, which /• varies more or less at different times, and even I in different schools ; according to which, e. y., ' formerly veracity was a duty owed to a school- fellow, but not to a master, some kinds of bullying were held legitimate, and fighting was obligator^'' under certain cii'cumstances, as duelling was, till recently, held obligatory among men. Not indeed that a fight at school is at all the same thing morally as a duel, or open to the same condemnation on moral or religious grounds ; far from it. It involves, generally speaking, no serious danger to the combatants, and neither implies nor engenders malice; boys shake hands before standing up to fight, and are all the better friends after- wards. Still there is a certain analogy. In a M'ord, the law of honor is not only imperfect, but sectional ; and, according to the dominant spirit of the particular class concerned, it may become positively vicious, just as, not so very long ago, it prescribed duelling, and still pre- scribes it in some countries, though in this respect we have revised the code during the last half-century in England. It supplies, in short, what is essentially a conventional standard and only accidentally a moral one. — (Short jStudies, Ethical and Religious.
THOMAS NELSOK PAGE.— 1
PAGE, Thomas Nelson, an American author, born at Oakland, Va., in 1853. His early life was passed on the estate, which was part of the original grant of his maternal ancestor, Thomas Nelson. His education was received at Washington and Lee University, and he studied law, taking his degree from tlie University of Virginia in 1874. He has practised his profession in Richmond, Va., but he has given much time to writing. His stories are written iu the negro dialect of Virginia, and are among the most successful of their kind. Manse Chan, a tale of the civil war, published in the Century in 1884, attracted much attention. Mr. Page is now writing a biogi-aphy of Thomas Nelson for the series entitled 3Iakers of America. His writings have been published in book-form under the title, In Ole Vln/inni/ (1887). He has also published Befo' de War, written in collaboration with A. C. Gordon (1888) ; and Two Little Confederates, which ap- peared in the St. Nicholas Magazine in 1889.
MARSE CHAN,
"Well, jes' den day blowed boots an' saddles, an' we mounted; an' de orders come to ride 'roun' de slope, an' Marse Chan's company wuz de secon', an' when we got 'roun' dyah, we wuz riglit in it. Hit wuz de wust place ever dis nigger got in. An' dey said, " Charge 'em ! '' an' my king ! ef ever you see bullets fly, dey (lid dat day. Hit wuz jes' lil^e hail ; an' we wen' down de slope (I long wid de res') an' up de hill right to'ds de cannons, an' de fire wuz so strong dyah (dey had a whole rigi- ment o' infintrys layin' down dyar onder de cannons) ; our lines sort o' broke an' stop ; de cun'l was kilt, an' 1 b'lieve de}' wuz jes' bout to bre'k all to pieces, when Marse Chan rid up an'
THOMAS NELSON PAGE.— 2
cotch liol' (le fleg an' hollers, ' Foller me!' an' rid straiiiiii' up de liill 'mong de cannons. I seen 'ini wlien he went, de sorrel four good lengths ahead o' ev'y urr hoss, jes' like he use' to be in a fox hunt, an' de whole regiment right arfcer 'iin. Yo' ain' uuver hear thunder ! Fust thing I knovved, de roan roll' head over heels, and flung me up 'g'instde bank, like 3-0' chuck a nubbin' over 'g'inst de foot o' de corn pile. An dat's what kep' me from bein' kilt. I 'spects Judy she say she think 'twuz Provi- dence, but I think 'twuz de bank. O' co'se, Providence put de bank dyah, hut how come Providence nuver saved Marse Chan ? Wiien I look 'roun', de roan wuz layin' dyah by me, stone dead, wid a cannon-ball gone mos' th'oo him, an' our men hed done swe[)' dem on t'urr side from de top o' de hill. 'Twan' 'mo'n a niinit, de sorrel come gallupin' back wid his mane flyin', an' de rein hangin' down on one side to his knee. ' Dyah ' says T, ' fo' Gord ! I 'spects dey done kilt Marse Chan, an' I promised to tek care on him.' I jumped up an' run over de bank, in dyar, wid a whole lot o' dead men, an' some not dead yet, under one o' de guns wid de fleg still in he han' an' a bullet right th'oo he' body, lay Marse Chan. I tu'n him over and call 'im, ' Marse Chan!' but t' wan' no use, he wuz done gone home, sho' nuff. I pick 'im up in my arms wid de fleg still in he ban's, an' toted 'im back jes' like I did dat dey when he wuz a bah\^, an' old master giv 'im to me in my arms, an' sez he could trust me, an' tell me to tek keeron 'im long ez he lived. I kyar'd 'im 'way oft' de battlefield, out de way o' de balls, and I laid 'im down onder a big tree till T could git somebod}' to ketch de sorrel for me. He wuz cotched arfter a while, an' I hed some money, so I got some pine plank _ an' ma<le- a coffin dat evenin', an' wrapt Marse Chan's body up in de fleg, an' put' im in de coffin ; but I did'n nail de top on strong, cause I knowed old missis 'd wan' see im ; an I got a' ambulance an' set out for home dat nigcht. We reached
THOMAS T^ELSON PAGE.— 3
dj'ali de next evein' arfter travellin' all dat night an' all nex' day.
"Hit 'peared like somethin' had tola ole missis we wuz comin' so ; for when we got home she wuz waitin' for us — done drest up in her bes' Sunday clo'es, an' stan'n' at de head o' de big steps, an' ole marster settin' in his big cheer — ez we druv up de hill to'ds de house, I drivin' de ambulance an' de sorrel leadin' 'long behine wid de stirrups crost over de saddle. She come down to de gate to meet us. We took de coffin out de ambulance an kyar'd it right into de big parlor wid de pictures in it, whar dey use' to dance in old times when Marse Chan waz a schoolboy, an' Miss Anne Chahmb'lin use' to come over an' go wid ole missis into her chamber an' tek her things off. In dyar we laid de coffin on two o' de cheers, an' ole missis never said a wud ; she jes' looked so ole and white.
" When I had tell 'em all 'bout it, I tu'ned right 'round' an' rid over to Cun'l Chahm- b'lin's cause I knowed dat was what Marse Chan he'd a' wanted me to do. I didn' tell nobody whar I wuz gvvin' 'cause yo' know none on 'em hadn' never speak to Miss Anne, not sence de dull, an' de^' didn' know 'bout de letter.
" When I rid up in de 3'ard, dyar wuz Miss Anne a-stan'in on de poach vvatchin' me ez I rid up. I tied my lioss to de fence, an' walked up de parf. She knowed by de way I walked dyar wuz somethin' de motter, an' she wuz mighty pale. I drapt my cap down on de een o' de steps an' went up. She nuver opened her mouf ; jes' stan' right still an' keep her eyes on my face. Fust, I couldn' speak ; den I cotch my voice, an' I say, ' Marse Chan, he done got he furlough !'
" Her face wuz mighty ashy, an' she sort of shook, but she didn' fall. She tu'ned round an' said, * Git me de ker'ige ! ' Dat wuz all.
" When de ker'ige come roun', she had put on her bonnet, an wuz ready. Ez she got in she
THOMAS NELSOX PAGE. -4
sezto me, "^ llev yo' brought him home ?' An* we Ji'ove 'long, 1 ridiii' behind.
'' When we got liome, slie got out, an' walked up de big wailc — up to de jJ^ach by lierse'f. Ole missis had done fin' de letter iu Marse Chan's pocket, wid de love in it, while I wuz 'way, an' she wuz a waitin' on de poach. Day say dat wuz de fust time ole missis cry. when she fin' de letter, an' dat she sut'n'y did cry over it, pintedly . . .
" Well, we buried Marse Chan dyar in de ole grabeyard, wid de fleg wrapped roun' 'im, an' he face lookin' like it did dat mawnin' down in de lo groun's, wid de new sun shinin' on it so peaceful.
" Miss Anne sbe nuver went home to stay arfter dat ; she stay wid ole marster an' ole missis ez long ez dey lived. Dat warn' so mighty long, cause ole marster he died dat fall, when dey wuz foUerin' fur wheat — I had jes married Judy den — an' ole missis she warn' long behine him. We buried her by him nex' summer. Miss Anne sbe went in de hospitals toreckly arfter ole missis died ; an' jes' 'fo' Richmond fell sbe come home sick wid de fever. Yo' nuver would 'a' knowed her fur de same Miss Anne — sbe wuz light ez a piece o' peth, an' so white, 'cep' her eyes an' her sorrel hyar, an she kep' on gittin' whiter an' weaker. Judy sbe sut'n'y did nuss her faithful. But she nuver got no betterment! De fever an' Marse Chan's bein' kilt bed done strain her, an' she died jes' fo' de folks wuz sot free.
" So we buried Miss Anne right by' jNIarse Chan in a place wliar ole missis bed tole us to leave, an' dey's bofe on 'em sleep side by side over in de ole grabeyard at home.
" An' will yo' please tell me, Marster ? Dey tells me dat de Bible say dyar won' be marry- in' nor givin' in marriage in heaven, but I don' b'lieve it signifies dat — does you ? "
VIOLET PAGET.— 1
PAGET, Violet (Vernon Lee pseud.}, an English author, born in 1856. Since 1871 she has lived in Italy, where she has studied art and literature. Slie is a frequent contributor to magazines and reviews, and has written several stories and novels under the pen name of "Ver- non Lee." Her /Studies of the Uu/hteenth Century in Itahj (1880), was reviewed by the Atlienceum, which said : '' These studies show a wide range of knowledge of the subject, precise investigation, abun- dant power of illustration, and healthy en- thusiasm." Her other books are Belcaro, Essays on yEsthetical Questions (1882), The Prmce of a Hundred Soups (1883), Ottilie : an Eighteenth Century Idyl (1883), Euphorion, essays (1881), The Countess of Albany (1884), 3Iiss Brown (1884), Bald- ivin (1886), Juvenilia (1887), and Haunt- inys (1890).
SEEKIXG NEW SCENES.
Tlie next evening, among the lamentation? of Mrs. Simson's establishment, Anne Brown set off for Cologne. This first short scrap of journey moved lier verj' much: wlien the train puffed out of tlie station and the familiar faces were liidden by out-houses and locomotives, tlie sense of embarking on unknown waters rushed upon Anne; and when, that evening, her mnid bade her good-niglit at the liotel at Cologne, offering to brush her hair and help her to U!i(h'ess, she was seized with intolerable home-sickness for the school — the little room she had just left — and she would have implored any one to take her back. But the next few days she felt quite different: the excitement of novelty kept her up, and almost made it seem as if all these new things were quite habitual ; for there is nothing stranger than the way in which excitement settles one in novel posi-
VIOLET PAGET. -2
tions, and familiarizes one with the unfamiliar. Seeinj^ a lot of sights on the way, and knowing tliat a lot more remained to be seen, it was as if there was nothing beyond these three or four days — as if the journey would have no end; that an end there must be, and what the end meant seemed a thing impossible to realize. She scarcely began to realize it when the ship began slowly to move from the wharf at Ant- werp; when she walked up and down the de- serted and darkened deck, watching the widen- ing river under the clear blue spring night, lit only by a ripple of moonlight, widening mj's- teriously out of sight, bounded only by the shore-lights, with here and there the white or blue or red light of some ship, and its long curl of smoke, making her suddenly conscious that close by was another huge moving thing, more human creatures in this solitude, till at last all was mere moonlight-permeated mist of sky and sea. And only as the next day — as the boat cut slowly through the hazy, calm sea — was drawing to its close, did Anne begin to feel at all excited. At first as she sat on the deck, the water, the smoke, the thrill of the boat, the people walking up and down, the children "wandering about among the piles of rope, and leaning over the ship's sides — all these things seemed the only reality. But later, as they got higher up in the Thames, and the un- wonted English sunshine became dimmer, a strange excitement arose in Anne — an excite- ment more physical than mental, which, with every movement of the boat made her heart beat faster and faster, till it seemed as if it must burst, and a lot of smaller hearts to start up and throb all over her body, tighter and tighter, till she had to press her hand to her chest, and sit down gasping on a bench.
The afternoon was drawing to a close, and the river had narrowed ; all around were rows of wharves and groups of ships ; the men began to tug at the ropes. They were in the great city. The light grew fainter, and the starlight
VIOLET PAGET. -3
mingled with tlie dull smoke-gray of London ; and all about were the sad gray outlines of the old houses on the wharves, the water gray and the sky also, with only a faint storm-red where the sun had set. The rigging, inter- woven against the sky, was gray also; the brownish sail of some nearer boat, the dull red sides of some sroamer hard by, the onlj^ color. The ship began to slacken speed and to turn, great puffs and pants of the engine running througii its fibres; the sailors began to halloo, the people around to collect their luggage ; they were getting alongside of the wharf. Anne felt the maid throw a shawl round her; heard. her voice as if from a great distance, say- ing " There's Mr. Hamlin, Miss; '' felt herself walking along as if in a dx-eam, and as if in a dream a figure come up and take her hand, and slip her arm through his, and she knew herself to be standing on the wharf in the twilight, the breeze blowing in her face, all the people jost- ling and shouting around her. Then a voice said, "I fear you must be very tired, Miss Brown." It was at once so familiar and so strange that it made her start: the dream seemed dispelled. She was in realit}', and Hamlin was really by her side. . . .
It is sad to think how little even the most fervently loving among us are able to reproduce, to keep" within recollection, the reality of the absent beloved ; certain as we seem to be, livino- as appears the phantom which we have cherished, \ve yet always find, on the day of meetins;, that the loved person is different from tlie simulacrum which we have carried ni our hearts. As Anne Brown sat in the car- riage which was carrying her to her new home, the'^feeling which was strongest in her was not joy to see Hamlin again, nor fear at enter- ing on this new pliase of existence, but a recurring shock of surprise at the voice which was speaking to her, the voice which she now recognized as that of the real Hamlin, but which was so indefimiblv different from the
VIOLET PAGET.— 4
voice wliieli hud liuuiited Iilt throughout tliose months of absence. Humliii was seated by her side, tlie maid opposite. The carriage drove (juickly througli a network of dark streets, and then on, on, along miles of embankment. It was a beautiful spring night, and the mists and fogs \vl)ich liung over river and town were soaked with moonlight, turned into a pale-blue luminous haze, starred with the yellow specks of gas, broken into, here and there, by the yellow sheen from some open hall door or lit windows of a part3'-giving house ; out of the faint blueness emerged the unsubstantial out- lines of things — bushes and overhanging tree- branches and distant spectral towers and belfries. . . .
" I hope," said Hamlin, when they had done discussing Vandyke and Rubens and Memling — "I hope you will like the house and the way I have had it arranged," and he added,"' I hope 3''ou will like my aunt. She is rather misan- thropic, but it is only on the surface."
His aunt! Anne had forgotten all about her; and her heart sunk within her as the car- riage at last drew up in front of some garden railings. The house door was thrown open, and a stream of 3'ellow light flooded the strip of garden and the railings. Hamlin gave Anne his arm ; the maid followed. A woman servant was holding the door open, and raising a lamp above her. Anne bent her head, feeling that she was being scrutinized. She walked speech- less, leaning on Hamlin's arm, and those steps seemed to her endless. It was all very strange and wonderful. Her step was muffled in thick dark carpets ; all about, the walls of the nar- row j)assage were covered with tapestries, and here and there came a gleam of brass or a sheen of dim mirror under the subdued light of some sort of Eastern lamp, which hung, with yellow sheen of metal disks and tassels, from the ceiling. Thus up the narrow carpeted and tapes- tried stairs, and into a large dim room, with strange looking things all about. Some red
VIOLET PAGET.— 5
embers sent a crimson flicker over tlie carpet ; by the tall fire-place was a table with a shaded lamp, and at it was seated a tall, slender woman, with the figure of a young girl, but whose face, when Anne saw it, was parched and hollowed out, and surrounded by gray hair.
'' This is Miss Brown, Aunt Claudia," said Hamlin.
The old lady rose, advanced, and kissed Anne frigidly on both cheeks.
" I am glad to see you, my dear," she said, in a tone which was neither cold nor insincere, but simply and utterly indifferent.
Anne sat down. There was a moment's silence, and she felt the old lady's eyes upon her, and felt that Hamlin was looking at his aunt, as much as to say, "Well, what do you think of her ? " and she shrunk into herself.
" You have had a bad passage, doubtless," said Mrs. Macgregor after a moment, vaguely and dreamily.
"Oh, no," answered Anne, faintly, "not at all bad, thank you."
" So much the better," went on the old lady, absently. " E,ing for some tea, Walter." — Miss Broion.
KOBEllT TltKAT PAIXE. 1
PAINE, Robert Treat, an Anieiican poet, born at Taunton, JNlass., in 177o ; died at Boston in 1811. lie was the son of Robert Treat Paine, one of the signers of the Dechiration of Independence. His name was originally Thomas, but after he had reached man's estate it was legally changed, at ins own petition, to that of his father, on the gi-ound that " Thomas Paine," the name of the author of The Age of Reason^ " was not a Christian name." He graduated at Harvard in 1792, having already acquired reputation by his facility in verse-making. He was placed in the counting-room of a merchant, where he remained only a short time, having become enamored with the stage, and fallen in love with an actress, whom he married at the age of twenty-one. He afterwards studied law, and in 1802 was admitted to the bar in Boston ; bat the irregular habits, which he had for some time aban- doned, soon returned upon him, and were never again sliakeu off. He had already written several poems which were very popular in their day. That by which he is best known, the ode entitled Adams and Liberty, was written for the anniversary of the Massachusetts Charitable Fire So- ciety in 1799. It consists of nine stanzas, of which we give the first two and the last two. The immediate sale of this poem brought the author some $750 — being more than nine dollars a line.
ADAMS AND LIBERTY.
Ye Sons of Columbia, who bravely have
fought For those rights which unstained from your
sires had descended, May you long taste the blessings your valor
has bought,
ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 2
And your sons reap the soil wliicli yci,ur fatljers defended.
'Mid the reign of solid Peace, May your nation increase, With the glory of Rome, and the wisdom of Greece : And ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves.
In a clime whose rich vales feed the marts of the world, Whose shores are unshaken by Europe's commotion, The trident of Commerce should never bo hurled, To increase the legitimate powers of tht. Ocean.
But should pirates invade, Though in thunder arraj-ed, Let your cannon declare the free chartei of trade : For ne'er will the sons of Columbia be slaves, While the earth bears a plaut or the sea rolls its waves.
Should the tempest of war overshadow our land, Its bolts could ne'er rend Freedom's temple asunder ; For unmoved at its portal would Washington stand, And repulse with his breast the assaults of the thunder.
His sword from the sleep Of its scabbard would leap. And conduct, with the point, every flash to the deep : For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, While the earth bears a plaut or the sea rolls its waves.
Let Fame to the world sound America's voice ; No intrigues can her sons from their Govern- ment sever ;
ROBERT TREAT PAINE.— 3
Her pride are her statesmen ; tlieir laws are lier choice, And shall flourish till Liberty slumber for- ever. Then unite heart and hand, Like Leoiiidas's band And swear to tlie God of the ocean and
land, That ne'er sluill the sons of Columbia be
slaves, While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves.
EPILOGUE TO " THE CLERGYMAN'S DAUGHTER."
Who delves to be a wit must own a mine.
In wealth must glitter ere in taste he sliine ; Gold buys him genius, and no churl will mil, When feasts are brilliant, that a pun is stale. Tip wit with gold; — each shaft with shouts is
flown ; — He drinks Campaign, and must not laugh
alone. The grape has point, although the joke be flat! Pop ! goes the cork ! — there's epigram in that! The spouting bottle is the brisk ^'e^ cVeau, Which shows how high its fountain head can
throw ! See ! while the foaming mist ascends the room, Sir Fopling rises in the vif perfume.
But, ah ! the classic knight at length perceives His laurels drop with fortune's falling leaves. He vapors cracks and clinches as before, But other tables have not learned to roar. At last, in fashion bankrupt as in pence, He first discovers undiscovered sense — And finds — without one jest in all his bags,— A wit in ruffles is a fool in ra<4s.
THOMAS PAINE.— 1
PAINE, Thomas, an Anglo-American autlior, born in Norfolkshire, England, in 1736; died at New York in 1809. His father, a member of the Society of Friends, was a stay-maker by trade, and the son was brought up to that occupation, which he followed at various places, until his twenty-fifth year, after wliich he was suc- cessively a school-teacher, an exciseman, and a tobacconist. In 1774 he went to London, where he became acquainted with Benjamin Franklin, then the Agent foi- the American Colonies, by Avhose advice he went to America, reaching Philadelphia early in 1775. He found employment with a printer and bookseller who was about to start a periodical, which Paine was to edit at a salary of X25 a year. In his introductory article he says: "This first number of the Pennsylvania Magazine entreats a favorable reception ; of which we shall only say that like the early snow- drop, it comes forth in a barren season, and contents itself with foretelling the reader that choice flowers are preparing to appear." The Magazine was continued from January, 1775, to June, 1776. At the suggestion of Benjamin Rush, Paine wrote the pamphlet Common Sense, to meet the objections raised against a separation from the Mother Country. This pamphlet, whicli appeared in February, 1776, pro- duced a marked sensation, and Paine always claimed that it was mainly owing to it that the independence of the Colonies was declared. For it the Pennsylvania Legislature voted him a grant of £500, and the University conferred upon him the honorary degree of Master of Arts.
In 1776 he served as a volunteer in the
THOMAS PAINE.— 2
army, and was with it during the retreat from New York to the Delaware. On De- cember 19, 177G, appeared tlie first of his series of brocliures, entitled The Crisitf, of which there were eighteen, the last a[)pear- iiig April 19, 178o, after peace had been linally attained. Paine's services as a writer were duly appieciated. In April, 1777, Congress appointed him Secretary to the Committee on Foreign Affairs ; in 1781 he accompanied J^aurens in his suc- cessful mission to France to procure a loan from the Government. In 1785 Congress, at the suoofestion of Washino-ton, made him a grant of -fiS.OOO, Pennsylvania gave him i^oOO, and New Y(nk presented him with a valuable confiscated estate of 300 acres at New llochelle, not far from the city of New Yoik. In 1787 he went to England, carrying with liim the model of an iron bridge, whicli attracted much attention. In 1790 Burke put forth his Jlfjlections on the French Revolution^ to wiiich Paine replied in his Rijhts of Man — the ablest of all his writings. In 1792 the French Department of Calais elected him a mem- ber of the National Convention, in the pro- ceedings of which he took an active part. He voted feu* tlie condenuiation of Louis X\^I., but urged that he sliould not be put to death. " Let the United States," said he " be the safeguard and asylum of Louis Capet." In December, 1793, he was ar- rested at the instigation of Robespierre, and condemned to the guillotine, from wiiich lie escaped by mere accident. His imprisonment lasted eleven months, when, after the downfall of Robespierre, lie was set at liberty, througli the intervention of Mr. Monroe, our Minister to France.
THOMAS PAINE.— 3
Paine's Affe of Reason^ tlie First Part of which was published in 1794, the Second Part in 1796, was at least in part written during this imprisonment. The work may properly be styled as " Deistic," in cnntra- distinction to " Theistic " on one iiand, and " Atheistic" on the other. He did not return to the United States until 1802. His Af/e of Heason had brought him into great disfavor, and he had fallen into hab- its (if gross irregularity. He was, moreover, soured by what he esteemed the neglect of the Government and the people to appre- ciate his great services. He iiad desired to be buried in the Quaker cemetery, but this being refused, his body was interred upon his farm at New Kochelle. The in- scription on his gravestone i-ead : " Here lies Thomas Paine, Author of Common Sense.^''
THE AMERICAN CONDITION' AT THE CLOSE OF 1776.
These are the times that try men's souls. Tlie summer soldier and tlie sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from tlie service of his country ; but he that stands it noio, deserves the love and tlianks of man and woman. Tyr- anny, like hell, is not easily conquered ; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict the more glorious the triumph. Wiiat we obtain too cheaply, we esteem too lightly; 'tis dearness only that gives every- thing its value. Heaven knows how to set a proper price upon its goods ; and it would be strange, indeed, if so celestial an article as Freedom should not be highly rated. Britain, with an army to enforce her tyranny, has declared that she has a right not only to tax, but to ^^ bind us in all cases 'whatsoever;^* and if being hound in that manner is not slav- ery, then there is not such a thing as slavery
THOMAS PAINE.— 4
upon earth. Even the expression is impious ; for so unlimited a power can belong only to God.
Whether the Independence of this Continent was declared too soon or delayed too long, I will not now enter into as an argument. M3' own simple opinion is, that had it been eight months earlier it would have been much better. We did not nuike a proper use of last winter ; neither could we, while we were in a dependent state. However, the fault — if it were one — was all our own ; we have none to blame but ourselves. But no great good is lost yet. All tliat Howe has been doing this month past is rather a ravage than a conquest, which the spirit of the Jei'seys a year ago would have quickly repulsed, and which time and a little resolution will soon recover. I have as little superstition in me as any man living ; but my secret o|)inion has ever been, and still is, that God Almightj^ will not give up a people to per- ish, who have so earnestly and so repeatedly sought to avoid the calamities of war, by everj'' decent method which wisdom could invent. Neither have I so much of the infidel in me as to suppose that He has relinquished the gov- ernment of the woild and given us up to the care of devils ; and as I do not, I cannot see on what groun<ls the King of Britain can look up to lieaven for help against us. A common mur- derer, a liighwayman, or a house-breaker, has as good a pretence as lie,
I shall not now attempt to give all the partic- ulars of our retreat to the Delaware. Suffice it for the present to say that both officers and men, though greatly liarassed and fatigued — frequently without rest, covei-ing, or provisions — bore it with a manly and a martial spirit. All their wishes were one — which was that the country would iurn out and help them to drive tlie enemy back. Voltaire has remarked that King William never appeared to full advan- tage but in difficulties and in action. The same remark may be made on General Wash-
THOMAS PAIXE.— 5
ington ; for tlie cliaructer fits liini. There is a natunil tiriuiieas in suiiie minds wliicli cannot be unlucked by trifles, but wliidi, wlien un- locked, discovers a cabinet of fortitude ; and I reckon it among those kind of public blessings, which we do not immediately see, that God. hath blessed him with uninterrupted health, and given him a mind that can even flourish upon cares. . . .
I thank God that I fear not. I can see no real cause for fear. I know our situation well, and can see our way out of it. While our army was collected, Howe dai'ed not risk a battle; and it is no credit to him that he decamped from the White Plains, and waited a mean op- portunity to ravage the defenceless Jerseys ; but it is a great credit to us that, with a hand- ful of men, we sustained an orderly retreat for near an hundred miles, brought all our field- pieces, the greatest part of our stores, and had four rivers to pass. None can say that our re- treat was precipitate, for we were three weeks in performing it, that the country might have time to come in. Twice, we marched back to meet the enemy and remained out till dark. The sign of fear was not seen in our camf>, and had not some of the cowardly and disaffected inhabitants spread false alarms through the country, the Jerseys never iiad been ravaged. Once more we are again col- lected and collecting; our new arm\' at both ends of the continent is recruiting fa^t, and we shall be able to open the campaign with sixty thousand men, well armed and clothed. This is our situation ; and who will may know it. By perseverance and fortitude we have the prospect of a glorious issue; by cowardice and submission, the choice of a large varietj'' of evils : a ravaged country — a depopulated city — habitations without safety, and slavery with- out hope — our homes turned into barracks and bawdy-hnupps for Hessians, and a future race to provide for, for whose fathers we shall doubt of. Look on this picture, and weep over
THOMAS PAIXE.-6
it! — and if there yet remains one thoughtless wretcli who believes it not, let him s utter it ua- luuientetl. — The Crisis, No. I.
burke's patkicianism.
Not one glunce of compassion, not one com- miserating retiection that I can find throughout his book, hus he be^^toued on those who lingered out the most wretched of lives — a life with- out hope, in the most miserable of prisons. It is painful to behold a man employing his tal- ents to corrupt himself. Nature has been kinder to Mr. Burke than he is to her. He is not afflicted by the reality of distress touching his heart, but by the showy resemblance of it striking his imagination. He pities the plu- mage but forgets the d3'ingbird. Accustomed to kiss the aristocratical hand that hath pur- loined him from himself, he degenerates into a com[)osition of Art, and the genuine soul of Nature forsakes him. His hero, or his heroine, must be a tragedy victim, expiring in show ; and not the real prisoner of niiserj' sliding into death in the silence of a duugeou. — The Hights of Man.
WILLIAM PALEY.~i
PALEY, William, an English divine and author, boi 11 at Peteiborougli in 1743; died in 1805. He gradual ed lu 1763 as senior wrangler at Ciirist's College, Oxford, of which he became a Fellow, and lectured on Moral Philosophy and Divinity. In 1775 he became rector of Miisgrave, and in 1782 was made Archdeacon of CarHsle. It is said that he would have received . a bishopric had not King George III. taken offence at a paragraph on Property, wliich is hereinafter quoted, in one of his writ- ings. The principal works of Paley are : The Principles of 3Ioral and Political Phi- lomphy (1785), Horm Pavlince (1790), A View of the Evidences of Christianity (1794), Natural Theology (1802).
ON PROPKRTY.
If you should see a flock of pigeons in a field of corn; and if — instead of eacli picking where and wliat it liked, taking just wliat it wanted, and no more — you sliould see ninety- nine of them gathering all tliey got into a heap, reserving nothing for themselves but the chaff and the refuse, keeping tliis heaj) for one, and thattlie weakest, perliaps tiie worst pigeon of the flock ; sitting round and looking on, all tlie winter, whilst this one was devouring, throwing about and wasting it ; and if a pigeon, more hardy or hungry than the rest, touched a grain of the hoard, all the others instantl3' fly- ing upon it, and tearing it to pieces: if you should see this, you would see nothing more than what is every day practiced and estab- lished among men. Among men 3-ou see the ninet\'-and-nine toiling and scraping together a heap of superfluities for one, and this too, often- times, the feeblest and worst of the whole set — a child, a woman, a madman, or a fool ; getting for themselves all the while hut a little of the coarsest of the provision which their own in-
WILLIAM PA LEY. 2
dustry produces; looking quietly on while tliey see the fruits of their labor spoiled ; ;iiid if one of their number take or touch a particle of the hoard, the others joining against hiui, and hang- ing hiui for the theft.
There uuist be some very important advan- tage to account for an institution which, in the view given, is so paradoxical and unnatural. The principal of these advantages are the fol- lowing:— 1. It increases the produce of the earth. — 2. It preserves the products of the earth to maturity. — 8. It prevents contests. — 4. It improves the convenieiicy of living.
Upon these several accounts we may venture, with a few exceptions, to pronounce that even the poorest and worst provided, in countries where propert}', and the consequences of pro[)erty, pu'evail, are in a better situation with respect to food, raiment, houses, and what are called the necessaries of life, than the}'' are in places where most things remain in common. The balance, therefore, upon the whole, must pre- ])onderate in favor of property with a great a!:d manifest excess. Inequality of property, in the degree in which it exists in most coun- tries of Europe, abstractly considered, is an evil ; but it is an evil which flows from those rules concerning the acquisition and disposal of property, by which men are incited to industrj', and by which the object of their industry is rendered secure and valuable, — Moral and Political JPhilosophy.
CREDIBILITY OF ST. PAUL.
Here we have a man of liberal attainments, and, in other points, of sound judgment, who had addicted his life to the service of the gospel. We see him in the prosecution of this purpose travelling from country to country, enduring every species of hardship, encounter- ing every extremity of danger; assaulted by the populace, punished by the magistrates, scourged, beat, otoned, left for dead ; expect- ing, wherever he came, a renewal of the same
WILLIAM >A.LEY.-3
treatment, and tlie same Vnigers; yet, wlien driven from one city, prp«i;liiiig in tlie next ; spending his whole time in tlie emplo\-nient ; sacrificing to it liis pleasures, iiis ease, liis safety; persisting in this course to old age, unaltered by the experience of perverseness, in gratitude, prejudice, desertion; unsubdued by anxiety, want, labor, persecutions ; unwearied by long confinement, undismayed by the pros- pect of death.
We have his letters in our hands; we have also a history purporting to be written by one of his fellow-travellers, and- appearing, by a comparison with these letters, certainly to have been written by some person well ac;qnainted with the transactions of his life. From the letters, as well as from the history, we gather not only the account which we have stated of him, but that he was one out of many who acted and suffered in the same manner; and of those wiio did so, several had been the com- panions of Christ's ministr}' ; the ocular wit- nesses— or pretending to be such — of his mir- acles and of his resurrection. We moreover find the same person referring, in his letters, to his su[iernatural conversion, the particulars and accompanying circumstances of which are related in the history ; and which accompanying circumstances — if all or an}' of them be true — render it impossible to have been a delusion. We also find him positively, and in appropriate terms, asserting that he himself worked mir- acles— strictly and properl}' so called; the his- tory, meanwhile, recording various passages of his niinistrx' which come up to the extent of this assertion.
The question is, wliether falsehood was ever attested by evidence like this. Falsehoods, we know, have found their way into reports, into tradition, into books. But is an example to be met with of a man voluntarily undertaking a life of want and pain, of incessant fatigue, of continual peril ; sulmiitting to the loss of his home and country, to stripes and stoning, to
WILLIAM PALEY.— 4
tedious imprisonments, and the constant ex- pectation of a violent death, for the sake of carrying about a stor}' of wliat, if false, he must have known to be so? — Jlorce Paulince.
THU WOULD MADE WITH A BENKVOLENT DESIGN.
It is a hap[)y world, after all. The air, the earth, the water teem with delighted existence. In a spring noon or a summer evening, which- ever side I turn my eyes, myriads of liappy beings crowd upon ui}' view. The insect youth are on the wing ; swarms of new-born flics are trying their pinions in tiie air. Their sportive motions, tlieir wanton mazes, their gratuitous activity, their continual change of place with- out use or purpose, testify the joy and exulta- tion wliich they feel in their lately discovered faculties. A bee amongst the flowers in spring is one of the most cheerful objects that can be looked upon ; its life appears to be all enjoy- ment. The whole insect tribe, it is probable, are equally intent upon their proper employ- ments, and under eveiy variety of constitution gratified — and perhaps equally' gratified — by the offices which the Author of their nature has assigned to them. But the atmosphere is not the onlj' scene of enjoyment for the insect race. Plants are covered with aphides greedily sucking their juices, and constantl}', as it should seem, in the act of sucking. It cannot be doubted that this is a state of gratification : what else should fix them so close to the opera- tion, and so long ? Other species are running about with an alacrity in tlieir motions which carries with it every mark of pleasure.
If we look to what the waters jiroduce, shoals of the frj' of lish frequent the margins of rivers, of lakes, and of the sea itself. Tliese are so happy that they know not what to do with themselves. Their attitudes, their vivacity, their leaps out of the water, their frolics in it, all conduce to show their excess of spirits, and are simply the effects of that excess. Suppose each individual to be in a state of positive en-
WILLIAM PALET.— 5
joyment, what a sum, collectively, of gratifica- tion and pleasure we have before our view.
The young of all animals appear to me to receive pleasure simply from the exercise of their limbs and bodily faculties, without refer- ence to any end to be attained, or any use to be answered by the exertion. A child, without knowing anything of the uses of language, is in a high degree delighted with being able to speak. Its incessant repetition of a few artic- ulate sounds, or perhaps of the single word which it has learned to pronounce, proves this point clearly. Nor is it less pleased with its first successful endeavors to walk — or rather to run, which precedes walking — although entirely ignorant of the importance of the attainment to its futuie life, and even without applying it to any present purpose, A child is delighted with speaking, without having anything to say ; and with walking, without knowing where to go. A'.id, prior to both these, I am disposed to believe that the waking hours of infancy are agreeably taken up with tlie exercise of vision — or, perhaps, more properly speaking, with learning to see.
But it is not for youth alone that the great Parent of creation hath provided. Happiness is found with the purring cat no less tlian with the playful kitten ; in the arm-chair of dozing age, as well as in either the sprightliness of the dance or the animation of the chase. To novelt}', to acuteness of sensation, to hope, to ardor of pursuit, succeeds what is, in no in- considerable degree, an equivalent for them ail — perception of ease. Herein is the exact dif- ference between the young and the old. The 3'oung are not happy but when enjoying pleasure; the old arc happy when free from pain. And this constitution suits with the degree of animal power which they respect- ively possess. The vigor of youth was to be stimulated to action by the impatience of rest; whilst to the imbecility of age, quietness and repose become positive gratifications.
WILLIAM PALEY.-«
In one important respect the advantage is with the ohi. A stute of ease is, generally speaking, more attainable than a state of pleasure. A constitution, therefore, which can enjoy ease is preferable to that wliich can taste only pleasure. This same perception of ease oftentimes renders old age a condition of great comfort. How far the same cause extends to other animal natures cannot be judged of with certainty. In the species witli which we are best acquainted — namely, our own — I am far even as an observer of human life, from think- ing that youth is its happiest season ; much less the only happy one. — Natural Theology.
DISTINCTIONS OF CIVIL LIFE LOST IN CHURCH.
The distinctions of civil life are almost al- ways insisted upon too much and urged too far. Whatever, therefore, conduces to restore the level, by qualifying the dispositions which grow out of great elevation or depression of rank, improves the character on both sides. Now things are made to appear little by being placed beside what is great. In which man- ner, superiorities that occupy the whole field of the imagination, will vanish or slirink to their proper diminutiveness, when compared with the distance by which even tlie highest of men are removed from the Supreme Being, and this comparison is naturally introduced by all acts of joint worship. If ever the poor man holds up his head, it is at church : if ever the rich man views him with respect it is there : and both will be the better, and the public profited, the oftener they meet in a situation in wliich the consciousness of dignity in the one is tempered and mitigated, and the spirit of the other erected and confirmed. — Moral and Political Fhilonophy.
JOHX GORHAM PALFREY.— 1
PALFREY, John Gouham, an Ameri- can publicist ami historian, born at Bt)stiin in 1796 ; died-ac Cambridge in 1881. He graduated at Harvard in 1815, and 1818 he became pastor of the Congregational Church in Brattle Square, Boston, as suc- cessor to Edwartl Everett. From 1831 to 1839 he was Professor of Sacred Literature ai Harvard, and from 1835 to 1842 editor of the North American Revieu\ He after- wards took a prominent part in politics, acting with the opponents of slavery, and from 1861 to 1866 was postmaster at Boston. Besides sermons, niaofazine and newspaper essa\s he j)ublished : Evidences of Christianity, originally delivered as a couise of Lowell Lectures (1843). Lectures on the Jewish Scriptures and Antiquities (1838-52), The Relation hetiveen Judaism and Christianitt/ (1854). and a Histonj of Neiv Enqland (the first three volumes 1858-1864, the fourth 1875). The fifth volume, edited by his son, Gen. Francis "Winthrop Palfrey, appeared in 1890. In Ins preface to this volume, Gen. Palfrej' states that it is almost wholly printed from the author's manuscript as he left it, sub- ject to careful revision. It brings the history down to the appointment of Washington as Commander-in-Chief of the Colonial army in 1775.
KOGEB WILLIAMS.
Tliere was do question upon dogmas between Williams and those who dismissed liim. The sound and generous principle of a perfect free- doom of conscience in religious concerns can therefore scarcely be shown to have been in- volved in this dispute. At a later period he was prone to capricious changes of religious opinion ; but as yet there was no development
JOHN GORHAM PALFREY —2
or this Ixiiul. As long as lie was in Massa- cliusetta he was no heretic, tried hy the stand- ard of the time and the jthice. He was not chiirged with lieresy. 'i'hc questions wliich lie raised — and by raising which he provoked op- position— were questions relating to political rights and to the adniinistratioii of government. He made an issue with his rulers and his neighl)ors upon fundamental points of their power and their pro[)erty, including their power of self-protection against the tyranny from which they had lately escaped. Uninten- tionally, hue eifectually, he had set liimself to play into the hands of the king and the arch- hisho[) ; and ic was not to be tliought of by the sagacious patriots of Massachusetts that in the great work which they had in liand they should suffer themselves to be defeated by such random movements.
For his busy disaffection, therefore, Williams was punished ; or, rather, he was disabled for the mischief it threatened, b^' banishment from the jurisdiction. He was punished much less severely than the dissenters from the popular will were punished throughout the Korth American Colonies at the time of the final rupture with the mother-country. Virtuall\', the freemen said to him, " It is not best that you and we should live together, and we cannot agree to it. We liave just put ourselves to great loss and trouble for the sake of pursuing our own objects uninterrupted ; and we must be allowed to do so. Your liberty, as a'ou understand it, and are bent on using it, is not compatible with the security of ours. Since you cannot accommodate j'ourself to us, go away. The world is wide, and it is as open to you as it was just now to us. We do not wish to harm you ; but there is no place for you among us.''
Banishment is a word of ill sound; but the banishment from one part of New England to another, to which, in the early j)art tif their residence, the settlers condemned Williams, was
JOHN GORHAM PALFKEY.— 3
a thing widely different from that banishment from luxurious Old England to desert New England to which they had condemned them- selves. There was little hardship in leaving unattractive Salem for a residence on the beautiful shore of Narragansett Bay, except that the former had a very short start in the date of its first cultivation. Williams, involuntarily separated from jNIassachusetts, went with liis company to Providence the same 3'ear that HooUer and Stone and their company, self- exiled, went from Massachusetts to Con- necticut. If to the former the movement was not optional, it was the same that the latter chose when it was optional ; and it proved ad- vantageous for all parties concerned. — History of New England.
In 1872 and 1873 Mr. Palfrey put forth two supplementary volumes less elaborate in details, entitled A Co7npendious History of JVew Enyland. bringing the narrative down to the meetiiior of the first Conofress of the American Colonies in 1765. Jn the Preface to the concluding volume of tiie larger History he sums up what he had done, and intimates what he hoped rather than expected still to do, and which was in a measure accomplished in the Com- pendious History,
THREE CYCLES OF NEW ENGLAND HISTORY.
The cycle of New England is eighty-six years. In the Spring of 1603 the family of Stuart ascended the throne of England. At the end of eighty-six years Massachusetts, liaving been betrayed to her enemies by Joseph Dudley, her most eminent and trusted citizen, the people on the 19th of April, 1689, com- mitted their prisoner, the deputy of the Stuart king, to the fort in Boston, which he had built to overawe them. Another eight3'-six 3'ears passed, and Massachusetts had been betra3'ed to her enemies by her most eminent and
JOHN GORHAM PALFREY.— 4
trnstcd citizen, Thomas Ilutcliinson, when, at Lc'xiniiton and Concord, on tlie 19tli of April, 1775, her farmers struck the first blow in the war of American Independence. Another eiglity-six years ensued, and a domination of slave holders, more odious than that of Stuarts or of Guelphs, had been fastened upon her, when, on the 19lh of April, 1861, the streets of Baltimore were stained by the blood of her soldiers on their way to uphold liberty and law by the rescue of the National Capital.
In the work now finished, which is accord- ingly a work in itself, I have traversed the first of these three equal periods relating to the liistory of New Eiighind, down to the time of her first revolution. If my years were fewer, I should hope to follow this treatise with another, on the history of New England under the Whig dynasties of Great Britain. But I am not so sanguine as 1 was when, six years ago, I proposed " to relate, in several volumes, the history of the people of New England." Nor can 1 even promise to myself that 1 shall have the resolution to attempt anything further of this kind. Some successor will execute the inviting task more worthily, but not with more devotion, than I have brought to this essay, nor I think, with greater painstaking.
As I part from my work, many interesting and grateful memories are awakened. 1 dis- miss it with little apprehension, and with some substantial satisfaction of mind; for mere literary reputation, if it were accessible to me, would not now be liighly attractive. My ambition has rather been to contribute some- thing to the welfare of rnv countrv, by reviving the image of the ancient virtue of New England ; and I am likely to persist in the hope that in an lionest undertaking 1 shall not appear altogether to have failed.
THE AWAKENING.
A portion of the people of New England de- plored the departure of what was, in their esti- mation, a sort of golden ti^o. Thoughtful and
JOHN GOIIHAM rALFKEY.-5
rclipfious men looked back to the time when sublime efEorts of adventure and sacrifice had attested the religious earnestness of their fathers, and, comparing it with their own day of alisorption in secular interests, of relaxa- tion in ecclesiastical discipline, and of im- ])uted laxness of manners, they mourned that tlie ancient glory had been dimmed. The contrast made a stamiing topic of tlie election sermons preached before the government from year to year, from the time of John Norton down. When military movements miscarried, when liarvests fail, when epidemic sickness brought alarm and sorrow, when an earthquake sj)reaii consternation, they interpreted the calamity or the portent as a sign of God's dis- pleasure against their backsliding, and ap- pointed fasts to deprecate his wiath, or resorted to the more solemn expedient of convoking synods to ascertain the conditions of reconcilia- tion to the offended Majesty of Heaven. — A Compendious History of New England.
His dauo:liter, Sara Hammond Palfeey (born in 1823), has written several works, in prose and verse, usually under the nom de 'plume of ''E. Foxton." They are entitled : Premices, poems (1855), Herman (1806), Agnes Wintltroj) (1869), The Chcqjel (1880), The Blossoming Rod (1887). His son, Francis Wintheop Pai-frey (born in 1831) graduated at Harvard in 1851, and at the Cambridge Law School in 1853. He served in the civil war, rose to the rank of colonel, and, havinof been severely wounded, was bre vetted as brigndier-oeneral, and in 1872 was made register in bankruptcy. Besides contributi<»ns to the "Military Papers of the [listorical Society of INLis- sachusetts," and to periodicals, lie wrote a Memoir of William F. Bai-tleU (1879), Autietam and Fredericksburg (1882), and edited Vol. V. of '"- father's History of New England-^
SIR FRANCIS PALGRAVE.— 1
PALGRAVE, Sir Francis, an Eng- lish autlior, burn in 1788 ; died in 1861. His family name was Cohen, which at his marriage, he exchanged for that of iiis wife's mother. He was carefully educated ai home, but liis father's fortunes failing, he was in 18011 articled as clerk to a tiiin ol solicitors, with whicli he remained uniil 1822, when he was employed under the liecord Commission. In 1827 he was ad- mitted to the bar. He h;id then contrib- uted articles to the JiJdinbun/h and Quar- terly Reviews^ and had, in 1818, edited a collection of Anylo-Norman Chan-yOns. In 1831 he published a Hlatorif of Enyland^ and in 1832, The Rise and Progress of the Emjll^h Commonivealth and Observations on JPrinclples of New Municipal Corpora- tions. In the latter year he was knighted. In 1837 he published Merchant and Friar. During the last tw'ent3--three years of his life he held the office of Deputy-keeper of her Majesty's Records. In this capacity he edited : Curia Regis Records., Calen- dars and Inventories of the Exchequpr, Parliamentary Writs., and Documents Illus- trative of the History of Scotland. His greatest work is a History of Normandy and of England., of which the first volume ap- peared in 1851, the second in 1857, and the third and fourth after the author's death.
THE FATE OF HAROLD.
The victor is now installed ; but what has become of tlie mortal spoils of his competitor ? If we ask the monk of Malmesbury, we are told that AVilliam siu-rei'.derpd tiie body to Harold's mother, Githa, by whose directions the corpse of the last surviving of her cliildren was buried in the Abbey of the Holy Cross. Those who lived nearer the time, however, re-
SIR FRANCIS PALGRAVE.— 2
late in explicit terms tliat William refused the rites of sepulture to his excoinmunicated enem\-. Guillielnius Pictarensis, the cha[)laiu of the Conqueror, a most trustworthy and competent witness, informs us that a body of which the features were undistinguishable, but supposed from certain tokens, to be that of Harold, was found between tlie corpses of his brothers, Gurth and Leofwine, and that William caused this corpse to be interred in the sands of the sea-shore, " Let him guard the coast," said William, "which he so madly occu])ied ; " and though Githa had offered to purchase the body by its weight in gold, yet William was not'to be tempted by the gift of the sorrowing mother, or touched by her tears.
In the Abbej- of Waltham, they knew noth- ing of Githa. According to the annals of the Convent, the two Brethren who had accom- panied Harold, hovered as nearly as possible to the scene of war, watching the event of the battle : and afterwards, when the strife was quiet in death, they humbly ajiproached Williani, and solicited his permission to seek the corpse.
The Conqueror refused a purse, containing ten marks of gold, which they offered as the tribute of their gratitude; and j)ermitted them to proceed to the field, and to bear away not only the remains of Harold, but of all who, when living, had chosen the Abbey of Wal- tham as their place of sepulture.
Amongst the loathsome heaps of the un- bnried, they sought for Harold, but sought in vain, — Harold could not possibh' be discovered — no trace of Harold was to be found; and as the last hope of identifying his remains, they suggested that possibly his beloved Editha might be able to recognize the features so familiar to her affections. Algitha, the wife of Harold, was not to be asked to perform this sorrowful dut\'. Osgood went back to Waltham, and returned with Editha and the two canons, and the weeping women resumed their miser-
sill FUANCIS PALGRA\^E.--3
able task in the cliariiel field. A ghastl}', de« C(>mj)osiiig, and mutilated corpse was selected by Editlia, and conveyed to Waltliam as the body of Harold ; and there entombed at the east end of the (dioir, with great honor and solemnity, many Norman nobles assisting in the requiem.
Years afterwards, when the Norman yoke pressed heavily upon the English, and the battle of Hastings had become a tale of sorrow, which old men narrated by the light of the embers, until -warned to silence by the sullen tolling of the curfew, there was a decrepit an- chorite, who inhabited a cell near the Abbey of St. John at Chester, where Edgar celebrated his triumph. This recluse, deeply scarred, and blinded in his left eye, lived in strict penitence and seclusion. Henry I. once visited the aged Hermit, and had a long private discourse with him ; and, on his deatlibed, he declared to the attendant monks, that the recluse was Harold. As the story is transmitted to us, he had been secretly convej'ed from the field to a castle, probably of Dover, where he continued concealed until he had the means of reaching the sanctu- ary where he expired.
The monks of Waltham loudly exclaimed against this rumor. They maintained most resolutely, that Harold was buried in their Abbey: they pointed to the tomb, sustaining his effigies, and inscribed with the simple and pathetic epitaph : Hie jacet Harold infelix ; and the}'^ appealed to the mouldering skeleton, whose bones, as they declared, showed, when disinterred, the impress of the wounds which he had received. But ma}' it not still be doubted whether Osgood and Ailric, who fol- lowed their benefactor to the fatal field, did not aid his escape? — They may have dis- covered him at the last gasp; restored him to aniniation by their care; and the artifice of declaring to William, that they had not been able to recover the object of their search, would readily suggest itself as the means of rescuing Harold from the [)ower of the conqueror. Tlie aemand of Editha's testimony would confirm
SIR FRANCIS PALGRAVE.-4
their assertion, uiid enable them to gain time to arrange for Harolds security ; and wiiiUt the litrer, wliicii bore the corpse, was slowly ad- vancing to tlie Abbey of \Valtliani, the living Harold, under the tender care of Editha, luiglic be safely proceeding to the distant fane, his haven of refnge.
If we compare the different narratives con- cerning the inhumation of Harold, we shall find the most remarkable discrepancies. It is evident that the circumstances were not accurately known ; and since those ancient writers who wi-re best informed cannot be reconciled to each other, the escape of Harold, if admitted, would solve the difficulty. I am not prepared to maintain that the authenticity of this story cannot he impugned ; but it may be remarked that the tale, though romantic, is not incredi- ble, and that tlie circumstances may be easily reconciled to probability. There were no walls to be scaled, no fosse was to be crossed, no warder to be eluded; and the examples of those who have survived after encountering much greater perils, are so very numerous and famil- iar, that the . incidents which I have narrated, would hardly give rise to a doubt, if they referred to any other personage than a King.
In this case we cannot find an^^ reason for supposing that the belief in Harold's escape was connected with any political artifice or feeling. No hopes were fixed upon the usurp- ing son of Godwin. No recollection dwelt upon his name, as the hero who would sally forth from his seclusion, the restorer of the An- glo-Saxon power. That power had wholly fallen — and if the humbled Englishman, as he paced the aisles of Waltham, looked around, and, hav- ing assured himself that no Norman was near, whispered to his son, that the tomb which they saw before them was raised only in mocker\', and that Harold still breathed the vital air — he 3*et knew too well that the spot where Harold's standard had been cast down was the grave of the pride and glory of England. — Mistory of Normandij and of England*
FRA"N"CIS TURNER PALGRAVE.— 1
PALGRAVE,FiiANCis Turner, an Eng- lish [)()et, the elilest sou ot" Sir Fnuiuis Palgrave, born at London in 1824. He was educated at LialUol College, Oxford ; was for five years Vice-[)riucipal ot" the Train- iiiiT Collefi'e for Schoohnasters, and was sub-
O O ...
sequently ai)[)ointed to a position in the educational de[)artnient of the Privy Coun- cil. In 1886 he was elected Professor of Poetry at Oxford. His principal poetical works are : Idylls and Som/s (1854), Hijmns (1868), Lijrical Poems (1871). He also compiled The Golden Treasury of EiujUsh Songs (1861), and has written largely on subjects (connected witli Art.
FAITH AND SIGHT i:S THE LATTEli DAYS.
Thou sayest, "Take up thy cross,
0 corao, and follow me ! " The night is bluclv', the feet are slack,
Yet we would follow thee.
But oh, dear Lord, we crv,
Tliat we th}' face could see! Thy blessed face one moment's space,
Then might we follow thee.
Dim tracts of time divide
Those golden days from me ; Thy voice comes strange o'er years of change ;
How can I follow thee ?
Comes faint and far thy voice
From vales of Galilee ; Thy vision fades in ancient shades;
How should we follow thee ?
Unchanging law binds all,
And Nature all we see; Thou art a star, far off, too far,
Too far to follow thee !
Ah, sense-bound heart and blind!
Is naught but what we see ? Can time undo wliat once was true ?
Can we not follow thee ?
FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE— ^
Is what we trace of law
The whole of God's decree ? Does our brief sfian grasp Nature's plaii|
And bid not follow thee ?
Oh, heavj' cross — of faith
In what we cannot see ! As once of yore thyself restore,
And help to follow thee !
If not as once thou cam'st,
In true humanity, Corae yet as guest within the breasi
That burns to follow thee.
Within our heart of hearts
In nearest nearness be ; Set up thy throne within thine own:-»
Go, Lord, we follow thee.
TO A CHILD.
If by any device or knowledge
The rose-bud its beauty could kno^,
It would stay a rose-bud forever, Nor into its fulness grow.
And if thou could'st Icnow thy own sweatnegs^
O little one, perfect and sweet, Thou would'st be a child forever.
Completer while incomplete.
WELLIAM GIFFORD PALGRA.VE.— 1
PALGRAVE, William Gifford, an Eni^lisli autlioi', Wiis bora at Westminster in 1826 ; died at Montevideo, Uruguay, in 1888. He was a son of Sir Francis Pid- grave. After graduation at Trinity Col- lege, Oxford, in 1846, lie was a|)[)ointed a lieutenant in the 8tli B()nd)ay Native In- fantry. He subsequently became connected with the Order of the Jesuits, and entered the priesthood. He was sent to Syria and Palestine, where he acquired mastery over the Arabic language, hi 1860 Napoleon IH. summoned him to France to give an account of the Syrian disturbances and massacre, and in 1861 he returned to Pales- tine chai'ged with the task of ex[)loring' Arabia in the service of the Emperor. He acquired such intimate acquaintance with the Arabs that on several occasions he was received into their mosques. Returning to England, he was sent out by the govern- ment in 1861 on special service to release Consul Cameron and other prisoners in Abyssinia. From 1866 to 1876 he served as British Consul to several places and as Consul-general to Bulgaria (1878), and to Siam (1880). He was a Feilow of several scientiiic and literary associations, includ- ing the R )yal Geogra[»hical and Roval Asiatic Societies. His works are : Nar- rative of a Year's Journey thronf/h Central anl Eastern Arabia in 1862-3 (2 vols., 1865), Usmt/s on Eastern Questions (1872), Hermann Agha : an Eastern Narrative^ a novel (2 vols., 1872), and Dutch Guiana (1876). A posthumous work, Ulj/sses : or Scenes and Studies in Many Lands^ ap- peared in 1890.
WILLIAM GIFFOPvD PALGRAVE.— 2
IN THE DESERT AT NIGHT.
Wlien Moharib had ended his prayer, he took up his chiak, shook it, threw it over his shoul- ders, and then turned towards us witli liis ordinary look and manner, in wiiich no trace of past emotion could be discerned. We all left tile garden together; there was plenty of occu[)ati(>u for every one in getting himself, his liorse, his weapons, and his travelling gear ready for the night and the morrow. Our gathering-place was behind a dense palm-grove that cut us off from the view and observation of the village ; there our comrades arrived, one after another, all fully equi[)ped, till the whole band of twelve had re-assembled. The cry of the night-prayers proclaimed from the mosque roof had long died away into silence ; the last doubtful streak of sunset faded from the west, accompanied by the thin white crescent of the j'oung moon ; night, still cloudless and studded with innumerable stars, depth over depth, reigned alone. Without a word we set forth into what seemed the trackless expanse of desert, our faces between West and South ; the direction across which tlie Eineer Daghfel and his caravan were expected to pass. More than ever did tlie caution now manifested by my companions, who were better versed than my- self in adventures of the kind, impress me with a sense, not precisely of the danger, but of the seriousness of the undertaking. Two of the Benoo-Riah, Harith and Modarrib, whom the tacit consent of the rest designated for that duty, took the advance as scouts, riding far out ahead into the darkness, sometimes on tlie right, sometimes on the left ; in order that timely notice might be given to the rest of us, should any chance meeting or suspicious ob- stacle occur in the way. A third, Ja'ad-es- Sabasib himself, acted, as beseemed his name, for guide ; he rode immediately in front of our main body. The rest of us held close togetlier, at a brisk walking pace, from which we seldom
WILLIAM GIFFORD PxVLGRAVK— 3
allowed our beasts to vary; indeed, tlie liorsea themselves, trained to the work, seemed to com- prehend the necessity of cautiousness, and stei>|)ed on warily and noiselessly. Every man in the band was dressed alike ; though I re- tained, I had carefully concealed, my pistols ; the litliam disguised my foreign features, and to any su[)erticial observer, es{)ecially at night, I was merely a iJedouiu of the tribe, with my sword at my side and my lance couched, Benoo- Eiah fashion, alongside of my horse's right ear. Not a single word was uttered by any one of the band, as, following Ja'ad's guidance, who knew ever}' inch of the ground, to my eyes utterly unmeaning and undistinguishable, we glided over the dr}' plain. At another time 1 might, perhaps, have been inclined to ask questions, but now the nearness of expec- tation left no room for speech. Besides 1 had been long enough among the men of the desert to have learnt from them their habit of invari- able silence when journeying by night. Talk- ative at other times, they then become abso- huely mute. Nor is this silence of theirs merelv a precan.tinn due to the insecurity of the road, v.liicb renders it unadvisable for the wayfarer to give an\' superfluous token of his presence; it is quite as much the result of a powerful, though it may well be most often an unconscious, sympathy with the silence of nature around. Silent overhead, the bright stars, moving on, moving upwards from the east, constellation after constellation, the Twins, the Pleiads, Aldebaran and Orion, the Spread and the Perching Eagle, the Balance, the once- worshipped Dog-Star and beautiful Canopus. I look at them till they waver before m^' fixed gaze, and looking, cnU-ulate by their position how many hours of our long night-march have already gone by, and how many yet remain before daybreak ; till the spaces between them show preternaturallv dark ; and on the horizon below a false eye-begotten shimmer gives a delusive semblance of dawn : then vanishes.
\MLL1AM GiFFOKD FALGKAVE.— 4
Silent; — not the silence of voices alone, but the silence of meaning change, dead midnight; the Wolf's Tail has not yet shot up its first slant harbinger of day in the east ; the quiet progress of tlie black spangled heavens is mo- notonous as mechanism ; no life is there. Si- lence ; above, around, no sound, no speech ; the very cry of a jackal, the howl of a wolf, would come friendly to the ear, but none is heard; as though all life had disappeared for- ever from the face of the land. Silent every- where. A dark line stretches thwart before us; you might take it for a ledge, a trench, a precipice, what j'ou will ; it is none of these ; it is only a broad streak of brown withered herb, drawn across the faintly gleaming flat. Far off on the dim right rises something like a black giant wall. It is not that; it is a thick-planted grove of palms ; silent they also, and motionless in the night. On the left glimmers a range of white ghost-like shapes; they are the rapid slopes of sand-hills shelving off into the \)\ii\n ; no life is there.
Some men are silenced by entering a place of worship, a graveyard, a large and lonely hall, a deep forest; and in each and all of these there is what brings silence, though from dif- ferent motives, varying in the influence they exert in the mind. But that man must be strangely destitute of the sympathies which link the microcosm of our individual existence with the n)acrocosm around us, who can find heart for a word more than needful, were it only a passing word, in the desert at night.— Hermann Agha.
EDWARD HENRY PALMER. -1
PALMER, Edward IIp:nry, an Eng- lish orientalist, born at Cambridge, in 1840. He graduated at the University of Cambridge in 1867, accompanied the Sinai Survey expedition in 18G8-9, and explored the land of Moab and other regions of the East in 1869-70. In 1871 he was appointed professor of Arabic at Cambridge. He has translated Moore's Paradise and the Peri into Persian, the Persian History of Donna Juliana into French, and various Persian poems into English. Among his prose writings are : The Negah, or South Conntry hy Scripture, and the Desert of Et-Tlh (1871), The Desert of the Exodus, Journeys on Foot in the Wilderness of the Forty Years' Wan- derings (1871), History of the Jewish Nation (1875), and The Song of the Reed and Other Poems (1877).
MOHAMMED AND THE JEWS.
Scarcely had the world settled down into comparative peace after tlie successive revolu- tions caused hy the inroads of the Goths and Vandals, than another revolution burst forth and spread with lightning-like rapidity over the whole of the eastern world. jMohammed had raised a protest against the prevailing idolatry and corruption of his people, and the cr}', " There is no god, but God " rung through the valleys of the Hejjaz. Hitlierto the Arab tribes had been divided into small communities, distracted by petty jealousies, and wasting their rude strength and warlike energies on border raids audcatcle-lifting excursions. The eloquent enthusiast with liis striking doctrine, struck a new chord in their hearts, and a small number rallied round his standard, to fight, not for temporary possession of coveted ground, nor revenge, but for an idea, for a conviction.
Small success begot confidence and increased
EDWARD HENRY PALMER.— 2
conviction ; and the little band fouglit more fiercely, more enthusiastically than before. And then began to dawn upon them a great truth, — they wore a nation ; the\' began to feel tlicir own gigantic strength, and they recog- nized the fact 'hat disunion and anarchy had alone prevented that strength from displaying itself before. Mohammed was just such a rallying-point as tliey needed. He himself was an Arab of the Arabs, and knew how to make his new doctrine agreeable to them, by clothing it in a purely Arab dress, and by stating it to be a simple res'ersion to the pri- mary order of things.
His religion he declared to be that of Abra- ham, the father of the ISemitic race, and he accord- ingly looked for support and credence from that kindred branch of Abraham's stock, the Jews. Of these, large numbers had settled in Arabia, and had acquired considerable influence and power. Longing for a restoration of their former glory, it is not strange that the Jews were :it first dazzled by Mohammed's proposals ; for at the opening of his mission a good under- standing existed between the propliet and the Jews, several of their learned men assisting him in the literary part of his undertaking. But both parties were deceived. IMohammed fought, perhaps unconscioush', not for the advancement of the Semitic race, or the faith of Abraham, but for the unity and aggrandizement of the Arabs. With this tlie Jews could never sj'inpfithize ; as well might Isaac and Ishmael go hand in hand. Finding that his offers and pretensions were refused, Mohammed turned upon the Jews and per- secuted them with great rancor.
The Jewish tribe of Kainoka at Medina were the first summoned to profess the new faith, or submit to death. Though unaccus- tomed to the use of arms, they made a bravo resistance for fifteen days, but were at last beaten, plundered, and driven to seek an asy- lum in Syria. Other tribes presently shared
EDWARD HENRY PALMER.— 3
the same fate, and Judaism ceased to exist ill Arabia Pi-oper, altliuugii traces of a Jewish origin may still be noted in certain of the Bedawi tribes , particularly in the neighbor- lioixl of Kiieibar, the last stronghold of which !M(iliamnied dispossessed them. — History of the Jeicisk Nation.
MUSIC AND WINE.
But yestere'en upon mine ear
There fell a pleasing, gentle strain,
Witli nitiody so sofi and clear
That straightway sprung the glistening tear, To tell my rapturous inward pain.
For such a deep, harmonious flood
Came gushing as he swept each string, It melted all my harsher mood. Nor could my glance, as rapt I stood, Fall pitiless on anything.
To make my growing weakness weak, The Saki crossed my dazzled sight, Upon whose bright and glowing cheek, And perfumed tresses, dark and sleek, Was blended strangely day with night.
"Fair maid!" I murmured as she passed, " The goblet which thy bounty fills
Such magic spell hath on rae cast,
Methinks my soul is free at last From human life and human ills."
Songs from Hafiz, i n The Song of the Reed,
FALSEHOOD.
Who looks on beautj'^'s treacherous hue,
Allured by winsome smiles, And deems it true as well as fair.
His simple faith ere long must rue.
But ah ! what fowler's net beguiles A bird when nought but chaff is there ?
Songs from Hafiz, in The Song of the Heed,
JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER,— 1
PALMER, John Williamson, aa American physician and author, born at Baltimore, Md., in 1825. His father was Dr. James C. Pahner, fleet-surgeon on board tlie Union flag-ship " Hartford " in the battle of Mobile Bay. Alter gradua- tion at the University of iMaiyland, he studied medicine. In 1849 he went to California, and was the first city physician in San Fi'ancisco. Two years later he went to India, where he was appointed surgeon of the East India Company's ship '' Phlegethon," in the Burmese war, (1851-2). His experience in California and India resulted in papers contributed to Putnam s Montldy Magazine^ and the Atlantic Montldij, and in two books, The Golden Dagon : or Up and Down tlie Irra- waddi (1853), and The Neio and the Old, or California and India in Romantic As- pects (f 859). In 1863 Dr. Palmer became Confederate war-corres{)ondent to the New York Tribune. In 1872 lie lemoved to New York, and he is now (1890) on the editorial staff of the Century Dictionary. Besides the works already mentioned, he has i)ublislied several collections of poetry. The Beauties and the Curiosities of EngraV' ing (1879), A Portfolio of Autograph Etch- ings (1882), and a novel, A.fter his Kind (188G), under the pen-name of "John Cov- entry." He translated Michelet's works, L^ Amour and La Femme into English, accomplisliing the translation of the latter in seventy-two hours. Of his poems the best known are For Charlie's Sake and Stonewall Jackson'' s Way.
ASIRVADAM THE BRAHMIN.
Simplicity, convenience, decorum, and pic- turesqueness distinguish the costume of Asir-
J0HI5 WILLIAMSON PALMER.— 2
vadam the Bralimiti. Three yards of yard- wide tine cottou eiiveh)[» his loins in sucli a manner tliat, while one end hangs in graceful folds in front, the other falls in a fine distrac- tion behind. Over this a robe of muslin, or j)ifia-cloth — the latter in peculiar favor by reason of its superior purit}^ for high-caste wear — covers his neck, breast, and arms, and descends nearly to bis ankles. Asirvadain borrowed this garment from the INhissulnian ; but he fastens it on the left side, whicdi the follower of the Prophet never does, and surmounts it with an amjde and elegant waistband, beside the broad Romanesque mantle that he tosses over his shoulder with such a senatorial air. Ilis turban, also, is an innovation — not proper to the Brahmin, — pure and simple, but, like the robe, adopted from the Moorish wardrobe for a more imposing appearance in Sahib society. It is formed of a very narrow stri[>, fifteen or twenty j'ards long, of fine stuff, moulded to the orthodox sha[)e and size by wrapping it, while wet, on a wooden tlock ; having been hardened in the sun, it is worn like a hat. As for his feet, Asirvadam, uncom{)romising in externals, disdains to pollute them with the touch of leather. Shameless fellows. Brahmins, though they be of the sect of Vishnu, go about without a blush in thonged sandals, made of abomin- able skins ; but Asirvadam, strict as a Gooroo, when the ej'es of his caste are on him, is im- maculate in wooden clogs.
In ornaments, his taste, though somewhat grotesque, is by no means lavish. A sort of stud or button, composed of a solitary ruby, in the upper rim of the cartilage of either ear, a chain of gold, curiously wrouglit, and inter- twined with a string of small pearls, around his neck, a massive bangle of plain gold on his arm, a richly jeweled ring on his thumb, and others, broad and shield-like, on his toes, com- plete his outfit in these vanities.
As often as Asirvadam honors us with his moraiug visit of business or ceremony, a slight
.TOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.— 3
yellow line, drawn horizontally between hia eyebrows, with a paste compound of jri-ound sandal-wood, denotes tliat he has purified him- self externally and internall}' b}'^ bathing and prayers. To omit this, even by the most un- avoidable chance, to appear in public without it, were to incur a grave public scandal ; only excepting the season of mourning, when, by an expressive Oriental figure, the absence of the caste mark is accepted for the token of a pro- found and absorbing sorrow, which takes no thought even for the customary forms oi decency. . . . When Asirvadam was but seven years old he was invested with the triple cord by a grotesque, and in most respects absurd, extravagant, and expensive ceremony called the Upanayana, or Introduction to the Sciences, because none but Brahmins are freely admitted to their mysteries. This triple cord consists of three thick strands of cotton, each composed of several finer threads. These three strands, representing Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva, are not twisted togetlier, but hang sepa- rately from the left shoulder to the right hip. The preparation of so sacred a badge is in- trusted to none but the purest hands, and the pro(!ess is attended with many imposing cere- monies. Only Brahmins may gather the fresh cotton ; only Brahmins may card, spin, and twist it; and its investiture is a matter of so great cost, that the poorer brothers must have recourse to contributions from the pious of their caste to defray the exorbitant charges of priests and masters of ceremonies. It is a notitreable fact in the natural history of the always inso- lent Asirvadain, that, unlike Shatrva, the warrior, Vaishya, the cultivator, or Shoodra, the laborer, he is not born into the full enjoy- ment of his honors, but, on the contrary, is scarcely of more consideration than a Pariah, until, by the C^)f«icr_?/f/-«a, he has been admitted to his birthright. Yet, once decorated with the ennobling badge of his order, our friend became from that moment something superior,
30US WILLIAMSON PALMER.— 4
soniethiiit? exclusive, somelliing supercilious, urrogant, exacting, — Asirvadain, the high Brah- min,— a creature of wide strides without awk- wardness, towering airs without bonihast, San- scrit quotations witliout pedantry, florid phrase- ology without h^'perbole, allegorical illustra- tions and |)r()verbial points without senten- tiousness, fanciful flights without affectation, and formal sti'ainsof compliment without offen- sive adulation.
Asirvadam has choice of a hundred callings, as various in dignity and profit as they are numerous. Under native rule he makes a good cooly, because the officers of the revenue are forbidden to search a Brahmin's baggage, or anything he carries. He is au expeditious messenger for no man may stop him; and he can travel cheaply for whom there is free entertainment on every road. In financial straits he may teach dancing to nautch-girls ; or he may jday the mountebank or the con- jurer, and, with a stock of mantras and charms, proceed to the curing of murrain in cattle, pips in chickens, and short-windedness in old women, at the same time telling fortunes, cal- culating nativities, finding lost treasures, ad- vising as to journeys and speculations, and crossing out crosses in love for any pretty dear who will cross the poor Brahmin's palm with a rupee. He may engage in commercial pur- suits; and, in that case, his bulling and bear- ing at the opium sales will put Wall Street to the blush. He may turn his attention to the healing art ; and allopathically, homeo- path ically, hydropathically, elect ropathically, or by any other path run a muck through many heathen hospitals. The field of politics is full of charm for him, the church in- vites his taste and talents, and the army tempts him with opportunities for intrigue, — but, whether in the shape of Machiavelisms, miracles, or mutinies, he is forever making mis chief; whether as messenger, dancing-master, conjurer, fortune-teller, speculator, mountebank^
JOHK WILLI AMSOK PALMER.— 5
politician, priest, or Sepoy, he is ever the same Asirvadam, the Brahmin, — sleekest of lackeys, most servile of sycophants, expertest of trick- sters, smoothest of hypocrites, coolest of liars, most insolent of beggars, most versatile of adventurers, most inventive of charlatans, most restless of schemers, most insidious of Jesuits, most treacherous of confidants, falsest of friends, hardest of masters, most arrogant of patrons, cruelest of tyrants, most patient of haters, most insatiable of avengers, most glut- tonous of ravishers, most infernal of devils, — pleasantest of fellows.
Superlatively dainty as to his fopperies of orthodoxy, Asirvadam is continually dying of Pariah roses in aromatics, pains of caste. If, in his goings and comings, one of the "lilies of Nelufar " should chance to stumble upon a bit of bone or rag, a fragment of a dish, or a leaf from which some one lias eaten ; should his sacred raiment be polluted bj' the touch of a dog or a Pariah, — he is read}' to faint, and only a bath can revive him. He may not touch his sandals with his hand, nor repose in a strange seat, but is prcvided with a mat, a carpet, or an antelope's skin, to serve him as a cushion in the houses of his friends. With a kid glove j-ou may put his respectabilitj' in peril, and with j'our patent leather pumps affright his soul within him.
RAY PALMER.— 1
PALMER, Rav, iiii American hym- noloL'ist, born in Little Conipton, R. L, in 180>s"; died in Newark, N. J., in 1887. After graduation at Yal^ in 1830, he tauglit in New York and in New Haven. He was licensed to preach by the New Haven West Association of Congregational ministers in 1882, ordained in ly'S5^ and s^^ttled in Batli, Me. In 1850 he removed to Albany N. Y., where he preaclied for sixteen years. Li 1866 he became secretary of tlie Con- gi-egational Union, hokling this post until 1878. The degree of D.D. was given to him by Union ('ollege in 1852. He contrib- uted to religous periodicals and journals, and published several books, including ; Spiritaal Improvement^ or Aid to Growth in Grace (1839), republished as Closet Hours (1851), Remember Me- (1855), Hints on the Formation of Religious Opin- ions ri860), Hi/mns and Sacred Pieces (1865), Hymns of My Holy Hours (1866), Home., or the tlnlost Paradise (1868), Earnest Words on True Success in Life (1873), Complete Poetical Works (1876), and Voices of Hope and Ghuhiess (1880). Dr. Palmer ranks among the best of Ameri- can hymn-writers. His first hymn. My Faith Looks up to Thee., written in 1831, but not published until later years, lias been translated into tAventy languages. Among his other Iwmns are : Fount of Everlast- ing Love (1832). Tliou who RolVst the Year J.rMm(f(1832), Awai/ from Earth my Spirit Turris (1833), Wake Thee, 0 Zionf Thy Mourning is Ended (1834), And is There, Lord, a Rest? (1843), and Lord, Tliou on Earth Did'st Love Thine Own (1864).
RAY PALMER.— 2 MY FAITH I^OOKS UP TO THEB.
My faith looks up to thee, Thou Lamb of Calvary,
Saviour diviue ! Now hear me while 1 pray, Take all my guilt away, Oh, let me, from thi: day,
Be wholly thiiie. May thy rich gi ,ce impart Strength to my tainting heart.
My zeal insj^ire! As thou hast^ died for me. Oh, may my love ti> the-^ Pure, warm and changeless be,
A living fire.
While life's dark maze I tread, And griefs around me spread.
Be thou m}' guide ! Bid darkness turn to day, Wipe sorrow's tears away. Nor let me ever stray
From thee aside. When ends life's transient dream, . When death's old, sullen stream
Sh;'ll o'er me roll, Blest Saviour ! then, in love, Fear and distrust remove ! Oh, bear me safe above,
A ransomed soul.
JESUS ! THE VERY THOUGHT OF THBE.
Jesus ! the very thought of tliee
With sweetness fills my breast; But sweeter far thy face to see,
And in thy presence rest. Nor voice can sing, nor heart can frame,
Nor can the memory find, A sweeter sound than thy blest name,
A Saviour of mankind. O Hope of every contrite heart,
0 Joy of all the meek ! To those who fall how kind thou art, How good to those who seel^ I
RAY PALMER. ~3
But what to those that find ? All ! this Nor tongue nor pen can show ;
The love of Jesus— what it is
None but his loved ones know.
THE CIIOKU.S OF ALL SAINTS. Suggested while bouriut; Haydn's Imperial Masa. The choral song of a mighty throng
Conies sounding down the ages ; 'Tis a pealing antlieni borne along,
Like the roar of the sea that rages ; Like the shout of winds when the storm awakes,
Or the echoing distant thunder, Sublime on the listening ear it breaks,
And euchains the soul in wonder.
And in that song as it onward rolls
There are countless voices blended,— Voices of m3'riads of holy souls
Since Abel from earth ascended ; Of patriarchs old in the world's dim morn.
Of seers from the centuries hoary, Of angels who chimed when the Lord was born, —
" To God in the highest, glory ! "
Of the wise that, led bj^ the mj^stic star,
Found the babe in Bethlehem's manger, And gifts, from the Orient lands afar,
l^estowed on the new-born stranger; Of Mary, the blessed of God Most High ;
Of the Marys that watch were keeping At the cross where He hung for the world to die,
And stood by the sepulchre weeping.
WILLIAM PITT PALMER.— 1
PALMER, William Pitt, an Ameri- can poet, born at Stockbridge, Mass., in 1805 ; died at Brooklyn, N. Y., in 1884. After graduation at Williams, in 1828, he taught in New York city, studied medi- cine, and became a journalist. He was president of the Manhattan Insurance Com- pany, and on its failure, owing to the Boston and Chicago fires, he was made vice-president of the Irving Insurance Company. He was the author of several poems, including" the Ode to Lights Or- pheus in Hades, The Smack in School, and Hymn to the Clouds. These were published with others in 1880, under the title, -E'c/iogs of Half a Century.
THE SMACK IN SCHOOL.
'Mid Berkshire lulls, not far away,
A district school one winter's day,
Was humming with the wonted noise
Of three score iningled girls and boys;
Some few upon their tasks intent,
But more on furtive mischief bent,
The while the masters downward look
Was fastened on a copy-book ;
When suddenly, behind his back.
Rose, sharp and clear, a rousing smack.
As 'twere a battery of bliss
Let off in one tremendous kiss!
" What's that ? " the startled master cries,
"That, thur," a little imp replies,
" Wath William Willith, if you pleathe—
I thaw him kith Thuthanneh Peathe !"
With frown to make a statue thrill. The magnate beckoned: "Hither, Willi" Like wretch o'ertaken in his track, With stolen chattels on his back, Will hung his head in fear and shame, And to the awful presence came — A great, green, bashful simpleton, The butt of all good-natured fui^.
WILLIAM PITT PALMER.— 2
With smile suppressed, and birch upraised, The threatener faltered : *' I'm amazed That you, uiy biggest pujiil, should Be guilty of an act so rude — Before the whole set school to boot — What evil genius put 3'ou to't ? " "'Twas she herself, sir," sobbed the lad ; *' I didn't mean to be so bad ; But when Susannah shook her curls, And whispered 1 was 'fraid of girls, And dursn't kiss a baby's doll, I couldn't stand it, sir, at all. But up and kissed her on the spot ! I know — boo-hoo — I ought to not; But, somehow, from her looks — boo-hoo— thought she kind o'wished me to ! "
LINES TO A FRIEND.
With sofne Chinese Chrysanthemums.
The sunlight falls on hill and dale With slanter beam and fainter glow,
And wilder on the ruthless gale
The wood-nymphs pour their sjdvan woe.
Yet these fair forms of Orient race
Still graced m\' garden's blighted bowers,
And lent to Autumn's mournful face The charm of Summer's rosy hours.
When shivering seized tlie dying year. They shrunk not from the icy blast;
But stayed, like funeral friends, to cheer The void from which the loved had passed.
JULIA PARDOE.— 1
PARDOE, Julia, an English author, born in 1806, died in 1862. She put forth a volume of poeins at the age of fourteen, and a novel two years later. She wrote voluminously in many departments of lit- erature. In 1859 she received from the Crown a pension of <£100. Among her works of travel are : The City of the Sul- tan (1836), The River and the Desert (1838), The Beauties of the Bosphorus (1839), The City of the Magyar (1840). Among her novels are : The Mardyns and the Daventrys (1835), The Hungarian Castle (1842), Confessions of a Pretty Woman (1846). Among her historical works are: Louis XIV., and the Court of France (1847), The Court of Francis 1. (1849), The Life of Mary de 3fedicis (1852), Pilgrimages in Paris (1858), Fpi- sodes of French History during the Consu- late and the Empire (1859).
THE BEACON LIGHT.
Darkness was deepening o'er the seas,
And still the hulk drove on ; No sail to answer to the breeze,
Her masts and cordage gone. Gloomy and drear her course of fear,
Eacli looked but for the grave, When, full in sight, the beacon-light
Came streaming o'er the wave.
Then wildly rose the gladdening shout
Of all that hardy crew ; Boldly tliey put the helm about,
And through the surf they flew. Storm was forgot, toil heeded not,
And loud the cheer they gave, As, full in sight, the beacondight
Came streaming o'er the wave.
And gayly of the tale they told, When they were safe on shore:
JULIA PAKDOE.— 2
How lieai'ts lijul sunk, and hopes grown cold;
Aini>l tlu' l)illo\vs' roar, When not :i star had shone from far,
By its pale light to save; Then, full in sight, the beacon-light
Came streaming o'er the wave.
Thus, in the night of Nature's gloom.
When sorrow bovvs the heart, When cheering hopes no more illume,
And comforts all depart; Then from afar shines Bethlehem's Star,
AVith cheering liglit to save ; And, full in sight, its beacon-light
Comes streaming o'er the grafe.
MUNGO PARK.— 1
PARK, MuNGO, a Scottish explorer in Africa, bom near Selkirk, in 1771 ; died in Equatorial Africa, in 1806. He studied medicine at the Universit}- of Edinburgh and made a voyage to Sumatra as as, sistant-surgeon on an East Indiaman. Upon his return he offered his services to the African Association for an explo- ration of the river Niger, sailing from Ports- mouth in May, 1795. After undergoing numerous hardships, he reached, late in July, 1796, the banks of the Quorra or Joliba, one of the main streams which make u[) the Niger. Here occurred the touching incident of the hospitality ex- tended to him by an African woman. He was obliged to desist fiom any further ad- vance into a country occupied by hostile Mohammedan tribes. At length he suc- ceeded in making his way to the coast, and reached England in December, 1797. Soon afterwards he married, iind commenced the practice of medicine at Peebles, in Scotland. In 1805 he undertook a second joniney to the Niger under the auspices of the British Governnjent. The ''xpedition, of which Park was commander, consisted in all of 44 men, of whom 34 were soldiers of the British garrison at Goree. Before reaching the Niger 31 of the partj^ had died from the pestilential climate. About the middle of November the remnant of the party, now reduced to six men, again set out. Noth- ing further was lieard of him until 1810, when some partictilars of his fate were as- certained. At a narrow pass in the river they were attacked by the natives, and all the party v/ere either shot down in the canoe, or were drowned while attempting to 8wim ashore. Park's expeditions really
MUKGO PARK.— 2
accomplishetl next to nothing in ascertain- ing tiie leal course of tiie Niger, which he supposed to be identical with the Congo. A monument in honor of Park was erected <it Selkirk in 1859.
THK COMPASSIONATE AFRICAN WOMAN".
I wiiited more tlian two liours without having (in opportunity of crossing tlie river [tlie Joli- 6a], during which time the people who had crossed carried information to Manzongo, the king, that a white man was waiting for a pas- sage, and was coming to see liim. He imme- ({iately sent one of his chief men, wlio informed me that the king could not possibly see me until he knew what had brought me into his country, and that I must not presume to cross the river without the king's permission. He therefore advised me to lodge at a distant vil- lage, to which he pointed, for the night, and said that in the morning he would give me fur- ther instructions how to conduct myself.
This was very discouraging. However, as there was no remedy, I set oiJ for the village, wliere I found, to m}' great mortification, that no person would admit me into his house. I was regarded with astonishment and fear, and was obliged to sit all day, without victuals, in the shade of a tree. Tlie night threatened to be very uncomfortable, for tlie wind rose, and there was a great appearance of a heavy rain ; and the wild beasts are so very numerous in the neigliborhood that I should be under the necessity of climbing up the tree, and resting amongst the branches. About sunset, however, as I was preparing to pass the night in this manner, and liad turned my horse loose, that he might graze at liberty, a woman, returning from the labors of the field, stopped to observe me, and perceiving that I was weary and dejected, inquired into my situation, which I briefly ex- jilanied to her; wliereupon, with looks of great compassion, she took up my saddle and bridle, and told me to follow her.
MUNOJO PARK.— 3
Having conducted me into her hut, she liglited ui» a lamp, spi-ead a mat upon the floor, and told me tliat I might remain there for the night. Finding that I was very hungry, she said that she would procure me something to eat. She according!}'' went out, and returned in a short time with a very fine fish, which, having caused to be half-broiled upon some embers, she gave me for supper. The rites of hospitality being thus performed towards a stranger in distress, my worthy benefactress — pointing to the mat, and telling me I might sleep there without apprehension — called to the female part of her family, who had stood gazing upon me all the while in fixed astonish- ment, to resume their task of sjiinning cotton, in which they continued to employ themselves great part of the night. They lightened their labor by songs — one of which was composed extempore, for I was myself the subject of it. It was sung by one of the young women, the rest joining in a sort of chorus. The air was sweet and plaintive, and the words, liter- ally translated, were these : —
"The winds roared, and the rains fell. The poor white man, faint and weai-y, came and sat under our tree. He lias no mother to bring him milk — no wife to grind his corn. (Chorus.) Let us pity the white man — no mother has he to bring him milk — no wife to grind his corn."
Trifling as this recital may appear to the reader, to a person in my situation the circum- stance v/as affecting in the highest degree. I was oppressed b}' such unexpected kindness, and sleej) fled from my eyes. In the morning I presented in}' compassionate landlady with two of the four brass buttons which remained on my waistcoat — the only recompense I could make her. — I^ar/c's Travda.
THEODORE PARKER. -1
PARKER, Theodore, an Aiiieiicaii clersi^v'niaii, born at Lexington, Mass., in 1810"; died at Florence, Italy, in 1860. He worked on his father's small farm until the age of seventeen, when he began to teacii during the winter in a district school. In 1880 he entered Harvard College, but stud- ied at home, only being present at the col- lege for examinations. In 1831 he opened a flourishing private school at Watertown, Mass. In 183-1 he entered the Divinity School at Cambridge. He had already mas- tered Latin, Greek, Hebrew, German, French, and Spanisli ; he now added Arabic, Syriac, Danish, and Swedish to the list. In 1837 he became pastor of the Unitarian Cliurch at West Roxbury, Mass. But tiie views wliich he had formed in regard to the inspiration of the Bible and some other subjects were not in accord with those held by the denomination, and led to a sharp controversy which in 1845 resulted in the formation of a new religious society at Boston that took the name of the "Twenty-eighth Congregational Society." His labors as minister to this Society were brought to a close in January, 1859, by a sudden attack, while in the pulpit, of bleed- ing at the lungs. He went to the island (if Santa Cruz in February; thence sailed for Europe, passing the winter at Rome ; whence, in April, 1860, lie proceeded to Florence, where he died on May 10. and was buried in the Protestant cemeteiy outside the walls.
Mr. Parker publislied several transla- tic)ns from the German, the most important of whicli is that, with additions, of De Wette's Introduction to the Old Testament (1843). He contributed to The Dial, and
THEODORE PARKER.— 2
other magazines ; und from IS-iT to 1850 was editor of The Massachusetts Quarterly. A collected edition of his Works^ edited by Frances Power Cobbe, in twelve vol- umes, was put forth at London in 1865 ; and another in ten volumes, edited by H. B. Fuller, in 1870. The volume Historio Americans^ first published in 1870, was first delivered as a series of popular lec- tures. His Life Jind Correspondence., edited by John Weiss, was published in 1864, and his Life by O B. Frothingham, in 1874.
CHARACTERISTICS OF WASHINGTON.
In his person Washington was six feet high and rather slender. His limbs were long; his 7ands were uncommonly large; his chest broad and full ; his head was exactly round, and the hair, brown in manhood, but gray at fifty; his forehead rather low and retreating; the nose large and massy ; the mouth wide and firm ; the chin square and heav}' ; the cheeks full and ruddy in early life. His eyes were blue and handsome, but not quick or nervous ; he required spectacles to read with at fifty. He was one of the best riders in the United States ; but, like some other good riders, awkward and shambling in his walk.
He was stately in Ins bearing, reserved, dis- tant, and apparently haughty. Shy among women, he was not a great talker in any com- pany, but a careful observer and listener. He read the natural temper of men, but not alwaj's aright. He seldom smiled. He did not laugh with his face, but in his body ; and while all was calm above, below the diaphragm his laugh- ter was copious and earnest. Like many grave persons he was fond of jokes, and loved humor- ous stories. He had negro story-tellers to re- gale him with fun and anecdotes at Mount Vernon. He had a hearty love of farming and of j»rivate life.
He was one of the most industrious of men. Not an elegant or ;tccurate writer, he yet took
THEODORE PARKER. -3
'jfivat pains with i?tyle ; and after the Revolu- tion, carefull}' corrected the letters he had writ- ten in the French War, more than thirty years befoi'c. He was no orator, like Jeft'erson, Frank- lin, Madison, and others, who had great intluence in American affairs. He never made a speech. The public papers were drafted for him, and he read them when the occasion came.
Washington was no democrat. Like the Federal party he belonged to, he had little cotifi- dence in the people. He thought more of the Judicial and Executive departments than of the Legislative body. He loved a strong central power, not local self-government. In his ad- ministration as President he attempted to unite the two parties — the Federal party -with its tendency to monarch}', and perhaps desire for it, and the Democratic part}-, which thought the Government was already too strong. There was a quarrel between Hamilton and Jefferson, who unavoidably' hated each other. The Dem- ocrats would not serve in Washington's Cabinet. The violent, arbitrary', and invasive will of Hamilton acquired an undue influence over the mind of Washington, who was beginning at the age of sixty-four to feel tlie effects of age; and he inclined more to severe laws and consoli- dated power; while, on the other part, the nation became more and more democratic. Wasliing- ton went on his own way, and yet filled the Cabinet with men less tolerant of Republican- ism than himself.
Of all the great men whom Virginia has produced, Washington was least like the State that bore him. He is not Southern in many particulars. In character he is as much a New Englander as either Adams. Yet, wondei-ful to tell, he never understood New England. The slaveholdei*, bred in Virginia, could not compre- hend a state of society where the captain or the colonel came from the same class as the com- mon soldier, and that off duty they should be equals. He thought common soldiers should only be providied with food and clothes, an4 have
THEODORE PARKER.- 4
no pay; their families sliould not be provided for hy the state. He wanted the officers to be "gentlemen," and, as much as possible, sepa- rated from the soldier. He never understood Kevv England, never loved it, and never did it full justice.
It has been said that Washington was not a great soldier. But certainly he created an army out of the roughest materials ; out-gener- alled all that Britain could send against him; and in the midst of poverty and distress organ- ized victory. He was not brilliant and rapid. He was slow, defensive, and victorious. He made "an empty bag stand upright '' — which Franklin says is "hard."
Some men command the world, or hold its admiration, by their Ideas or by their Intellect. Washington had neither original ideas nor a deeply-cultured mind. He commands us by his Integrity, by his Justice. He loved power by instinct, and strong government by reflec- tive choice. Twice he was made Dictator, with absolute power, and never abused the aw- ful and despotic trust. The monarchic soldiers and civilians would have made him a Kino-. He trampled on their offer, and went back to his fields of corn and tobacco at Mount Vernon. The grandest act of his public life was to give up his power; the most magnanimous act of his private life was to liberate his slaves.
Washington was the first man of his type ; when will there be another ? As yet the American rhetoricians do not dare tell half his excellence. Cromwell is the greatest Anglo- Saxon who was ever a ruler on a large scale. In intellect he was immenselj^ superior to Washington ; in integrity immeasurably below him. P\)r one thousand years no king in Christendom has shown such greatness as Washington, or given us so high a type of manly virtue. He never dissembled. He sought nothing for himself. In him there was no unsound spot ; nothing little or mean in his character. The whole was clean and present-
THEODORE PARKER,— 5
able. We tliiiik better of mankind because he lived, adorning tlie earth with a life so noble.
God tie tlianked for such a man. Shall we make an idol of him, and worship it with huzzas on the Fourth of July, and with stupid rhetoric on other days ? Shall we build him a great monument, founding it upon aslave-jjeu ? His glory already covers the continent. More than two hundred places bear his name. He is revered as " The Father of his Country." The people are his memorial. — Historic Ameri- cans.
THE HIGHKR GOOD.
Father, I will not ask for wealth or fame, Though once they would have joyed ray car- nal sense ; I shudder not to bear a hated name,
Wanting all wealth — myself my sole defence. But give me, Lord, e^^es to behold the truth,
A seeing sense that knows eternal right, A lieart with pity filled, and gentle ruth,
A manly faith that makes all darkness light; Give me the power to labor for mankind ; jVIake me the mouth of those that cannot speak ; Eves let me be to groping men and blind ;
A conscience to the base ; and to the weak Let me be hands and feet ; and to the foolish, mind ; And lead still further on such as Thy king- dom seek.
FRANCIS PARKMAN— 1
PARKMAN, Francis, an American historian, born at Boston in 1823. He graduated at Harvard in 1844; studied law for about two years, then travelled for a year in Europe. Early in 1844, and again in 1846, he set out to explore the Rocky Mountain region. During the last expedition he lived for several months among the Dakota Indians and other tribes still more remote, suffering hardsliips and privations whicli permanently impaired his health, and before long resulted in partial blindness. He gave an account of his ex- plorations in the Knickerhocker Magazine. These papers were subsequently ptiblished in a vohime entitled: The California mid Orefjon Trail (1849). Notwithstanding liis enfeebled health aud impaired vision he resolved to devote himself to liistorical labors involving laborious research, the sub- ject chosen being the doings of the Rise and Fall of the French Dominion in Nortli AniL^ica, with special reference to the efforts of tlie eai'ly Catholic missionaries, llie volumes are in a series of monographs, and they were produced without special reference to the chronological order of events. At various times (in 1858, 1868, 1872, 1880, and 1884) he went to France in order to examine the French archives bearing upon his historical labors. The volumes of the "• New France " series appeared in the following ordei' : The Con- spiracy of Pontiac (1851), Pioneers of France in the Neiv World (1865), Jesuits in North America (1867), Discovery of the Great West (1869), The Old RSyime in Canada (1874). Count Frontenac and, New France under Louis XIV. (1877), Mont' calm and Wolfe (1884), and The Oregon Trail (1890).
FRANCIS PARKMAN— 2
LOUIS XV. AXI> POMPADOUR.
The manifold ills of France were summed up in King Louis XV. He did not want uu- (lerstanding, still less the graces of person. In his youth the people called him " The Well- beloved," but by the middle of the century they so detested him that he dared not pass through Paris lest the mob should execrate him. He had not the vigor of the true tyrant; but his languor, his hatred of all effort, his pro- found selfishness, his listless disregard of pub- lic duty, and his effeminate libertinism, mixed with superstitious devotion, made him no less a national curse. Louis Xlll. was equally unfit to govern, but he gave the reins to the Great Cardinal Kichelieu. Louis XV. aban- doned them to a frivolous mistress, contented that she should rule on condition of amusing him. It was a hard task ; yet Madame de Pompa- dour accomplished it by methods infamous to hira and to her. She gained and long kept the power that she coveted ; filled the Bastile with her enemies ; made and unmade ministers ; appointed and removed generals. Great ques- tions of policy were at the mercy of her ca- prices. Through her frivolous vanity, her per- sonal likes and dislikes, all the great depart- ments of government changed from hand to hand incessantly; and this at a time of crisis, when the kingdom needed the steadiest and the surest guidance. The King stinted her in nothing. Pirst and last, she cost him thirty millions of francs — answering now to more than as many million dollars. — Montcalm and Wolfe.
THE NEW ENGLAND COLONIES.
The four northern colonies were known collectively as New England : Massachusetts may serve as a type of all. It was a mosaic of little village republics, firmly cemented to- gether, and formed into a single body politic through representatives sent to the " General Court" at Boston. Its government, originally
PRAXriS PARKMAN.— 3
theocratic, now tended towards democracy, ballasted as yet by strong traditions of respect for established worth and ability, as well as by the influence of certain families promi- nent in aft'airs for generations. .Yet there were no distinct class-lines, and popular power, like popular education, was widely diffused.
Practically Massachusetts was almost inde- pendent of the Mother Country. Its people were purely English, of good yeoman stock, with an abundant leaven drawn from the best of the Puritan gentry ; but their original char- acter had been somewhat modified by changed conditions of life. A harsh and exacting creed, with its stiff formalism, and its prohibition of wholesome recreation ; excess in the pursuit of gain — the only resource left to energies robbed of their natural play; the struggle for exist- ence on a hard and barit-n soil; and the isola- tion of a narrow village life — joined to produce in the meaner sorts qualities wdiich were un- pleasant, and sometimes repulsive.
Puritanism was not an unmixed blessing. Its view of human nature was dark, and its attitude was one of repression. It strove to crush out not only what is evil, but much that is innocent and salutary. Human nature so treated will take its revenge, and for every vice that it loses find another instead. Nevertheless, while New England Puritanism bore its peculiar crop of faults, it also produced many sound and good fruits. An uncommon vigor, joined to the hardy virtues of a masculine race, marked the New England type. The sinews, it is true, were hardened at the expense of blood and flesh — and this literally as well as figuratively; but the staple of character was a sturdj- con- scientiousness, an understanding coui-age, patri- otism, public sagacity and a strong good sense.
The New England Colonies abounded in high examples of public and private virtue, though not always under prepossessing forms. There were few New En glanders, however per- sonally modest, who could divest themselves
FRANCIS PARKMAN" —4
of the notion that they belunged to a people in un especial manner the object of divine ap- proval ; and thus self-rigliteousness — along with certain other traits — failed to coniniend the Puritan colonies to the favor of their fellows. Then, as now, New England was best known to her neighbors by her worst side. — Montcalm and Wolfe.
THK COLONY OF VIRGINIA.
The great colony of Virginia stood in strong contrast to New England. In both the popula- tion was English ; but the one was Puritan, with "Koundhead" traditions; and the other, so far as concerned its governing class,, was Anglican, with '• Cavalier " traditions. In the one, every man, woman, and child could read and write. In the other, 8ir William Berkeley once thanked God that there were no free schools, and no prospect of an_y for a century. The hope had found fi'uition. The lower classes of Virginia were as untaught as the warmest friend of popular ignorance could wish. New England had a native literature more than respectable under the circumstances, while Virginia had none ; numerous industries, while Virginia was all agriculture, with a single crop. New England had a homogeneous society and a democratic spirit, while her rival was an aristocracy".
Virginian society was distinctly stratified. On the lowest level were the negro slaves, near]_y as iiumerous as all the rest together. Next, the indented servants and the "poor whites," of low origin ; good-humored, but boisterous, and sometimes vicious. Next, the small and despised class of tradesmen and mechanics. Next, the farmers and lesser planters, who were mainly of good English stock, who merged insensibly into the ruling class of the great land-owners.
It was these last who represented the colony and made the laws. They may be described as the English country S(^uires transported to a
FRANCIS PARKMAN.— 5
warm climate, and turned slave-masters. They sustained their position by entails, and con- stantly undermined it by tlie reckless pro- fusion which ruined them at last. Many of them were well-born, with immense pride of descent, increased by the habit of domination. Indolent and energetic by turns ; rich in natural gifts, and often poor in book-learning; high-spirited, generous to a fault; keeping open house in their capacious mansions, among vast tobacco-lields and toiling negroes; and living in a rude pomp where the fashions of Ht. James were some- what oddly grafted on the roughness of the plantation.
What they wanted in schooling was supplied b}'^ an education which books alone would have been impotent to give — the education which came with the possession and exercise of political power ; and the sense of a position to maintain, joined to a bold S2)irit of independ- ence and a patriotic attachment to the -' Old Dominion.'"' They were few in number; they raced, gambled, drank, and swore ; they did everything that in Puritan eyes was most re- prehensible, and in the day of need they gave to the United Colonies a body of statesmen and orators which had no equal on the continent. Montcalm a7id Wolfe.
THE COLONY OF PENNSYLVANIA.
Pennsylvania differed widely from both New England and Virginia. She was a conglomer- ate of creeds and races, English, Irish, Gei-- mans, Dutch, and Swedes ; Quakers, Lutherans, Presb\'terians, Romanists, Moravians, and a variety of nondescript sects. The Quakers pre- vailed in the eastern districts : quiet, industri- ous, virtuous, and serenely obstinate. The Germans were strongest towards the centre of the colony, and were chiefly peasants ; successful farmers, but dull, ignorant, and superstitious. Towards the west were the Irish, of wliom some were Celts, always quarrelling with their Ger- man neighbors, who detested them ; but the
FRANCIS PARKMAN.— 6
gi-eater part were Protestants of Scotch descent, from Ulster ; u vigorous border population.
Virginia and New England had a strong, dis- tinctive character; Pennsylvania, with her heterogeneous population, had none but that which she owed to the sober, neutral tints of Quaker existence. A more thriving colony there was not on the continent. Life, if monotonous, was smooth and contented ; trade and the arts grew. Philadelpliia, next to Boston, was the largest town in British America ; and intellectual centre of the mid- dle and southern colonies. Unfortunately for her credit in the approaching French and English war, the Quaker influence made Pennsylvania non-combatant. Politically, too, she was an anomaly ; for though utterly un- feudal in disposition and character, she was under feudal superiors in the persons of the representatives of William Penn, the original grantee. — 3Io)itcahn and Wolfe.
NEW ENGLAND AND NEW FRANCE.
New France was all head. Under king, no- ble, and Jesuit, the lank, lean bod}'^ would not thrive. Even commerce wore the sword, decked itself with badges of nobility, aspired to forest seigniories and hordes of savage retainers.
Along the borders of the sea an adverse power was strengthening and widening, with slow but steadfast growth, full of blood and muscle ; — a body without a head. Each had its strength, each its weakness, each its own modes of vigorous life; but the one was fruit- ful, the other barren ; the one instinct with hope, the other darkening with shadows of despair.
By name, local position, and character, one of these communities of freemen stands forth as the most conspicuous representative of this antagonism : — Liberty and Absolutism, New England and New France. — Pioneer^ of J^rance iyi the New World.
THOMAS PARNELL.— 1
PARNELL, Thomas, a British poet, born at Dublin in 1769; died at Chester, Enghxnd, in 1717. He was educated at the College of Dublin, took Orders, and was made Archdeacon of Cloghei- in 1705 ; but the greater part of his mature life was jiassed in England, where he became inti- mate with Swift, Arbuthnot and Pope, whom he assisted in the translation of tlie Iliad. A selection from his Poems^ edited by Pope, appeared in 1722. His best j)ieces are two odes, A Night-jnece on Deaths The Humn to Contentment^ and The Hermit^ which has been pronounced to form "the apex and chef d/ceuvre of Augustan poetry of England." In The Hermit, a venerable recluse leaves his cell, and sets out to survey the busy world. On his journey he falls in with a youth who perpetrates various acts which excite the indignation of the Hermit ; but the youth suddenly assumes his proper form of an Angelic Messenger; and, addressing the Hei-mit, he explains his mysterious pro- ceedings.
THE WAYS OF PROVTDEXCE JUSTIFIED.
" The Maker justly claims that world He
made ; In this tlie right of Providence is laid ; Its sacred majesty through all depends On using second means to work llis ends. 'Tis thus, witlidrawii in state from human eye, The power exerts His attributes on high, Your actions uses, nor controls your will, And bids tlie doubting sons of men be still. What strange events can strike with more
surprise Than those whicli lately caught my wondering
eyes ? [just,
Yet taught by these, confess the Almighty And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust.
THOMAS PARNELL.— 2
" The great, vain man, who fared on costly food, Whose life was too luxurious to be good, Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, And forced his guests to morning draughts of
wine. Has with the cup the graceless custom lost ; And still bo welcomes, but with less of cost. The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted
door Ne'er moved in duty to the wandering poor : With him I left the cup, to teach his mind That heaven can bless if mortals will be kind. Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead With heaping coals of fire upon its head ; In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, And loose from dross, the silver runs below.
"Long had our pious friend in virtue trod ; But now the child half-weaned his heart from
God; Child of his age, for him he lived in pain, And measured back his steps to earth again. To what excesses had his dotage run. But God, to save the father, took the son. To all but thee in fits he seemed to go. And 'twas my ministry that struck the blow. The poor, fond parent, humbled in the dust, Now owns in tears the punishment was just. — • But how had all his fortune felt a wrack. Had that false servant sped in safety back ! This night his treasured heaps he meant to
steal. And what a fund of charity would fail. — Thus Pleaveu instructs thy mind. This trial
o'er. Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more." On sounding pinions here the youth with- drew ; The sage stood wondering as the seraj^h flew. Thus looked Elisha when to mount on high His master took the chariot of the sky ; The fiery pomp, ascending, left the view ; The prophet gazed, and wished to follow too.
THOMAS PAKNELL.— 3
The bending hermit here a prayer begun:
''■ Lord ! as in heaven, on earth Thy will be
done ! " Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place, And passed a life of piety and peace.
From The UermiL
THK BETTER LIFE.
The silent heart, which grief assails. Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales, Sees daisies open, rivers run, And seeks — as I have vai'nly done — Amusing thought ; but learns to know That solitude's the nurse of woe.
No real happiness is found In trailing purple o'er the ground: Or in a soul exalted high. To range the circuit of the sky, Converse with, stars above, and know All nature in its forms below; The rest it seeks, in seeking dies, And doubts at last for knowledge rise. ' Lovely, lasting Peace, appear ! Tliis world itself, if thou art here, Is once again with Eden blest, And man contains it in his breast.
'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, I sang my wishes to the wood; And, lost in thought, no more perceived The branches whisper as the}' waved. It seemed, as all the quiet place Confessed the presence of the Grace ; When thus she spake : '■' Go, rule thy will. Bid thy wild passions all be still ; Know God, and bring thy heart to know The joys which from religion flow ; Then every Grace shall prove its guest, And I'll be there to crown the rest."
Oh ! by yonder mossy seat. In my hours of sweet retreat. Might I thus my soul employ, ^ With sense of gratitude and joy. liaised, as ancient prophets were,
THOMAS PARNKLL.— 4
In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer; Pleasing ulJ men, liurting none, Pleased and blessed with God alone. Then while the j^rardens take my sight, With all the colors of delight, Wliile silver waters glide along To please my ear and tune my song, I'll lift my voice, and tune my sti-iiig, A.u(l Thee, great source of nature, sing.
The sun that walks his airy way. To light the world and give the day; The moon that shines with borrowed light; The stars that gild the gloomy night ; The seas that roll unnumbered waves ; The wood that spreads its shad}' leaves ; The fields whose ears conceal the grain, The yellow treasure of the plain : All of these, and all I see. Should be sung, and sung by me. They speak their Maker as they can. But want and ask the tongue of man. Go, search among j'our idle dreams. Your busy or your vain extremes, And find a life of equal bliss. Or own the next begun in this.
From Hymn to Contentment,
HAi;!;lET PARR.— 1
PARR, Harriet (Holme Lee, josewcZ.), an English author, born in York, England, in 1828. She has written many stories and novels, under the pen-name of " Holme Lee," which have been popular. Among them are : Maud Talbot (1854), Gilbert Massenger (1854), Thoryiey Hall (1855), Kathie Brande (1856), S't/lva^i UoWs JJavgli- ter (1858), Againi<t Wind and Tide (1859), JIawksview (1859), The Wortlibank Diary (18()0), The Wonderfid Adventures of Tvf- longbo and his Elfn L'om2:)any in their Journey with Little Content tlircugh the Enchanted Foxest (1861), WV/rjw c/^^f? Woof ; or^ The Reminiscences of Doris Fletcher (1861), Annis Warleigh's Fortunes (1863), In the iSilver Age : Essays (1864), The Life and Death of Jeanne D' Are^ called the Maid (1866), Mr. Wyiacard's Ward (1867), Basil Godfrey s Caprice (1868). Contrast; or the iSchoolfellous (1868), M. and E. de Guerin (1870), For Richer^ for Poorer (1870), Her Title of Honor (1871). The Beautiful Miss Harrington {1^11'), Country Stories^ Old and N^ew ; in prose o7id verse (1872), Echoes of a Famous Year : the story of the Franco- German War (1872), Katherine's Trial (1873), The Vicissitudes of Bessie Fairfax (1874), This Work-a-day World (1875), Ben Miller's Wooing (IS^I 6), Straightforivard (1 878), Mrs. Denys of Cote ' (1880), A Poor Squire (1882), and Loving and Serving (1883).
Joan's home.
Joan's time was her own for two hours of an fiftenioon, and .she always spent them up- stairs with her books alone. Her room told something of her life. The bart^ floor, the old clothes-chest, the pallet bed, with a thin, hard inattress, ^nd shell-pattefued coverlet, white ag
HARRIET PARR.— 2
driven snow, her last winter's night handiwork, knitted as slie read, were tlie outward signs of her peasant condition. Her tastes, modest and intellectual, appeared in the garland of sinall-lcaved ivy twisted round the frame of her misty, oval looking-glass, in the woodcuts of good pictures fastened on the walls, and in the books ranged on the mantle-shelf, on the windowsills, and a few, the most precious, on two hanging-shelves edged with scarlet cloth, another gift from her cousin Niclnjlas. . . .
This afternoon when her book was laid by, the shadow of her self-reproach soon passed. She had a great gift of being happy : of en- joying those good things of eartli which nobody envies and nobody covets because they are com- mon to all. Her childhood was a bright, a blessed background to look forward from into life. She stood at her open lattice, gazing over the wide meadows by the Lea, where red herds of cattle were feeding. She saw the blue sky far away, the sweep of distant hills, the dark- ness of thick woods, and the}' were pleasure to her. She had a mind free to receive all new impressions of beauty : but her heart was stead- fast and strong in keeping its best affection for old t3'pes. . .
At sixteen we all look for a happy life. Joan fell into a dream of one as she stood, and was quite raj)t away. The minutes passed swiftly, unconsciously. She did not hear her mother call from the stair's-foot, " Joan, father's got home from Whorlstone." She did not even liear her chamber door open ; and her mother entered, and observed her air and attitude of total abstraction without disturbing her.
"Joan, has thou fallen asleep standing, like the doctor's horse at a gate ? " said she, and laid a hand on her shoulder. Then Joan came back to herself, and started into laughing life.
"I don't know what I've been dreaming about, mother — it's a drowsy day, I think ; " and drawing a long breath, she stretched her
HARRIET PARR.— 3
arms above her bead, tbeii flung them wide to shake oft" her lethargy.
"And thou's not dressed, my love. Fatber'll like to see thee dressed. Make haste, or they'll be herefrom Aslileigh afore thou's read\'."
'' Stay and help me then, mother," pleaded Joan, who dearly liked to be helped by her motlier.
" What o' the cakes in the oven ? They'll burn if they're not watched. I'll step down an' look at em', an' come back — only don't lose any more time, joy, Father's asked for thee twice."
Joan's was not a coquettish toilette. To be clean as a primrose was its first principle. Her hair, coax it as she would, had a rufflesome look at the best, being curl}' and not uniform in tint, but brown in meshes and golden in threads, like hair that maturity darkens. The fashion of it, braided above the ear, and knotted in a large coil at the back of her head, was according to Mrs. Paget's instructions, and was never varied. The st3'le and material of her dresses were also according to her godmother's orders — washing prints, rather short in the skirt, for stepping clear over the ground, high to the throat an<l loose in the sleeve — lilac, as most serviceable, for every da}' wear, and pink or blue spotted for summer Sundays. She put on now a new pink spot that had quite a look of Ma}'. Her mother fastened it at the neck, and retiring a pace or two to view the effect, pro- nounced it very neat, only a trifle too short.
'•' Shoi-t skirts an' cardinal capes won't keep you a bairn much longer, Joan ; you'll be a woman soon in spite o' godmother," said she, and kissed her tenderly.
" That must have been what I was dreaming of," replied Joan, and as she spoke, again the far-away, abstracted gaze came into her eyes.
But her mother would not let her relapse into musing. She heard voices and feet at the gate ; and there were the cousins from Ash- leigh, — Basil Godfrey's Caprice.
THEOPHILUS PARSONS.— 1
PARSONS, Thkophilus, aii American
author, boiu at Ne\vburyj)ort, Mass., in 1797 ; died at C'anibiidge, Mass., iu 1882. He was the son of Theu})lnlus Parsons, a noted jurist of Massaciiusetts, was grad- uated at Ilarvartl in 1815, studied law, and practised in Taunton and Boston. For several years lie engaged in literary' pursuits and founded and edited the United States Free Preas. From 1847 till 1882, he was Dane professor of law in Harvard, which gave him the degree of LL.D in 1849. He published a memoir of his father (^1859), and seveial works on Swedenborgianism, including three volumes of Assays (1845), Deus Homo (1867), The Infinite and the Finite (1872), and Outlines of the Religion and Philosophy of Swedenborg (1875). His law-books include : The Laiv of Conscience (1853; 5th ed. 1864), Elements of Mercan- tile Laio (1856), Laws of Business for Busi- ness Men (1857). Maritime Law (1859), Notes and Bills of Exchange (1862), Ship- ping and Admiralty (1869), and The Po- litical, Personal, and Property Rights of a Citizen of the United States (1875^.
THE SEA.
I have spoken of the perpetual swell and heaving of the sea ; there is also its tide. SIiakesi>eare tells us that there is a tide in the affairs of men. Certairily there is a tide in the minds of men. He must be very unobservant of himself who does not know that the mind rises and falls, that it swells into fulness and strength, and then fades into emptiness and weakness, we know not how, we know not why. Formerly the tides of the sea were also a great mystery. Slowly did observation dis- close that they were under the influence of the moon, and, still later, of the sun. Science,
THEOPHILUS PARS0NS.-2
accepting this fact as the basis of its in- quir}', has, for years, been engaged in the in- vestigation of the tides, and cannot yet answer all the questions presented by their flow and ebb. So with the tides of the mind. The philosophy of mind lias been occupied with them from the beginning of thought, and has made little or no progress. We, however, are taught now, that the ever-flowing and ebbing tides of the mind are caused and governed by our faith and b}' our love ; first and most, or most directly, by our faith, which has most to do with intellectual tilings, and which tlie moon, that gives light only, represents ; and also by our k)ve, which the sun, that is the soyrce of heat, represents. Let tlie science of mind accept this truth as the law of its in- quiry, and it may wisely and successfully em- ploy itself in the investigation of the tides of the mind. We liave seen that the perpetual motion of the sea tends to preserve it in a healthful condition. ' Once I was becalmed in mid-ocean for a few days only, and during all of them the great swell of the ocean rose and fell. But in this short time the smooth sur- face of tlie sea seemed to put on an oily aspect ; unwholesome patches became visible here and there, and in spots it looked thick and turbid. A great poet, with all tlie truth of poetry, which is sometimes truer than science, has thus described a long, unbroken calm and its effect. Coleridge represents his ancient mar- iner as reaching a tropical sea, and there —
" Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'Twas sad as sad could be, And we did speak only to break The silence of that sea.
All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody sun at noon Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the moon.
Day after day, day after day, W'e stuck, nor breath nor motion:
As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean.
THEOPHILUS PARSONS.— 3
The very doop did rot ; 0 Christ! That iner this should Iks! Yea, slimy thiujis did crawl with legs Upon that slimy s(^al "
As I read tliis word-painting, it presents to me a picture of a mind wliich tlie sweet influ- ences of iieaven, tlie sun, tlie moon, and wind of tlie spirit, are wholly unable to move or stir into any activity-. And in that poetry I see how such a mind must stagnate, an<l [)urn'fy, until " slimy things do crawl upon that slimy sea."
But not this motion only tends to preserve the waters of the sea in their liealthy condition, so that they may nourish the immeasuralde amount of life which they contain, and con- tinue fie to bear men safely across their sur- face. For it is the salt ia the sea which is its great preservative.
We all know, that to keep food eatable for a great length of time, we salt it down. But salt is just as necessary and \iseful for food we daily consume. The reason of this, or the effect of salt upon the digestion and health, is not yet fully understood. . . .
Nor let us forget, that it has already been discovered by tliese physical investigations, that in the depths of the sea, and at their very bottom, there also is life. For it may teach us, that far down in the depths of the human mind, far beyond our reach or our conscious- ness, there may be forms and modes of life, whicli may be the beginning of the intellectual life, and the earliest links of that series which comes up afterwards before our consciousness, and gradually constitutes the wide world of our kuovvledge. — £ssays.
THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.— 1
PARSONS, Thomas William, Amer- ican poet, born at Boston in 1819. He was educated at the Boston Latin Suhnol; and in 1836 visited Italy, where he made Dante a special study. In 1853 lie took ihe de- <;ree of M.D. at Haiwaid : and for several years practised dentistry at Boston. In 1843 he i)ublished a translation of the first ten cantos of Dante's Inferno, and the re- maining cantos in 1867. His original works are : Ghetto di Roma, a volume of poems (1854), The Magnolia (1867), The Old House at Sudbury (1870), Tlte i^hadow of the Obelisk (1872).
ON A BUST OF DANTE.
See, from this counterfeit of liira
Whom Ariio sliall remember long, How stern of lineament, liow grim,
Tile fatlier was of Tuscan song.
Tiiere but the burning sense of wrong, Perpetual care and scorn abide ;
Small friendsliip for the lordly throng; Distrust of all tlie world beside.
Faitliful if this wan image be,
No dream liis life was — but a fight ; Could any Beatrice see
A lover in that Ancliorite ?
To that cold Ghiltelline's gloomy sight. Who could have guessed that visions came
Of Beauty, veiled with heavenly light. In circles of eternal flame ?
The lips as Cnmre's cavern close,
The cheeks, with fast and sorrow thin,
The rigid front, almost morose. But for the patient hope within, Declare a life whose course hath been
Unsullied still, though still severe;
Which, through the wavering days of siQy
Kept itself icy-chaste and clear.
THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.— 2
Not wholly such liis haggard look
When wandering once forlorn he strayed, With no companion save his book,
To Corvo's hushed monastic shade ;
Wliere, as the Benedictine laid His palm upon the pilgrim guest,
The single boon for which he prayed The convent's charity was Rest.
Peace dwells not liere : this rugged face
Betrays no spirit of repose, The sullen warrior sole we trace,
The marble nnin of many woes.
Such was his mien when first arose The thought of that strange tale divine,
When Hell he peopled with his foes, The scourge of many a guilty line.
War to the last he waged with all
Tlie tyrant canker-worms of earth : Baron and Duke, in hold and hall,
Cursed the dark huur that gave him birth.
Reused Rome's Harlot for his mirth; Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime ;
But valiant souls of knightly worth Transmitted to the rolls of Time.
0 Time ! whose judgments mock our own^ The only righteous Judge art thou :
That poor old exile, sad and lone. Is Latium's other Virgil now : Before his name the nations bow ;
His words are parcels of mankind,
Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow,
The marks have sunk of Dante's mind.
■ST. .TAMKS'S PARK.
1 watched the swans in that proud Park Which Englaiui's Queen looks out upon^
I sat there till the dewy dark : — And every otlier soul was gone; And sitting, silent, all alone,
I seemed to hear a spirit say:
Be calm — the night is ; never moan
For friendships that have passed away.
THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.— 3
The swans that vanished from thy sight
Will come to-morrow, at their hour; But when thy joys have taken flight,
To bring them back no praj'er hath power.
'Tis the world's law: and why deplore A doom that from thy birth was fate ?
True 'tis a bitter word — "No more!" But look beyond this mortal state.
Believ'st thou in eternal things?
Thou feel est in thy inmost heart Thou art not clay — thy soul hath wings;
And what thou seest is but part.
Make this thy medicine for the smart Of every day's distress ; be dumb.
In each new loss, thou truly art Tasting the power of things to come.
DIRGE.
For one who fell in battle.
Room for a Soldier ! lay him in the clover;
He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover;
Make his mound with hers who called him once her lover:
Wiierethe rain may rain upon it, Wiiere the sun may shine upon it, Where the lamb hath lain upon it, And the bee will dine upon it.
Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches Take him to the fragrant fields by the silver
birches. Where the whip-poor-will shall mourn, where the oriole perches :
Make his mound with sunshine on it, Where the bee will dine upon it, Where the lamb hath lain upon it, And the raiu will raiu upon it.
JAMES TARTOX.— 1
PARTON, James, an American author, boni in England in 1824. At the age of Ave he was brought to America; was cdiicated at the public schools, in and near New York ; and after teaching for a wliile, lie entered upon journalism. His first pub- lished book was the Life vf Horace Greeley. He subsequently devoted himself mainly to biographical works. Up to 1875 he resided at New York, and subsequently at Newburyport, Mass. His principal works are : Life of Horace Greeleij (1855), Life and Times of Aaron Burr (1857), Life of Andrew Jackson (1860), General Butler at New Orleans (1863), Life and Times of Benjamin Franklin (1864), Famous Ameri- cans of Recent Times (1867), Life of Thomas Jefferson (1874), Caricature and Comic Art (1877), Life of Voltaire (1881), Captains of Industri/ (1884). He has also written ninnerous brief biographical sketches, originally published in periodi- cals, and afterwards in separate volumes.
HENRY CLAY.
It must be confessed that Het)ry Clay, who was for twenty-eight years a candidate for the Presidency, cultivated his popularity. With- out ever being a liypocrite, lie was habitually an actor ; but the part wliicli he enacted was Henry Clay exaggerated. He was naturally a courteous man ; but the consciousness of his position made liim more elaborately and universally courteous than any man ever was from mere good-nature. A man on the stage must overdo his part, in order not to seem to underdo it.
There was a time when almost every visitor to the city of Washington desired above all things to be presented to three men there — Clay, Webster and Calhoun — whom to have seen was
JAMES PAET0N.-2
a distinction. When tlie country member bi-OLiglit forward his agitated constituent on the floor of the Senate chamber, and introduced him, Daniel Webster, the Expounder, was like- ly enough to thrust a hand at him witliout so much as turning his head or discontinuing his occupation, and the stranger shranic away, pain- fully conscious of his insignificance. Calhoun, on the contrary, besides receiving him with civility, would converse with him, if opportunity favored, and treat him to a disquisition on the nature of government, and the '-beauty'' of nullification, striving to make a lasting impres- sion upon his intellect.
Clay would rise, extend his hand with that winning grace of his, and instantly captivate him by his all-conquering courtesy. ' He would call him by name, inquire respecting his herdth, the town whence he came, how long he had been in Washington, and send him away pleased with himself and enchanted with Henry Clay. And what was his delight to receivea few weeks after, in his distant village, a copv of the Kentuckian's last speech, bearing on its cover the fraidv of " H. Clay ! " And, what was still more intoxicating, Mr. Clay — who had a surprising memory — would be lilfelj', on meet- ing this same individual two years after the introduction, to address him by name.
There was a gamey flavor in those days about Southern men, which was very pleasing to the people of the jSTorth. Reason teaches us that the barnyard fowl is a more meritorious bird than the gamecock; but the imagination does not assent to the proposition. Clay was at once gamecock and domestic fowl. His ges- tures called to mind the magnificentlv branch- ing trees of his Kentucky forests, and his hand- writing had the neatnessand delicacy of a female copyist. There was a careless, graceful, ease in his movements and attitudes like those of an Indian Chief; but he was an exact man of busi- ness, who docketed his letters, and who could send from Washington to Ashland for a docu-
JAMES PAirrON.— 3
merit, telling in what [)igeoii-liole it could be found. Xuturally iMi[)etuous, lie iicquired earl}'' in lifn an habitual inutleration ofstatement, an luibitual consideration for other men's self- love, which made him the paciticator of his time. The great Compromiser was himself a com[)roniise.
The idea of education is to tame men with- out lessening their vivacity ; to unite in thein the freedom, the dignity, the prowess of a Tecumseh, with the serviceable qualities of the civilized man. This happy union is said to be sometimes produced in the pupils of the great public schools of England, who are savages on the play-ground and gentlemen in the school- room. In no man of our knowledge has there been combined so much of the best of the forest chief with so much of the good of the trained man of business as in Henry Clay. This was one secret of his power over classes so diverse as the hunters of Kentucky and the manufac- turers of New England. — Famous Americans.
PRIVATIONS AND HEROISM.
When the Maj'-Flower left for England, not one of these hemic men and women desired to leave the land of their adoption. They had now a government; they had a church cov- enant ; i\\iiy had a constitution under which their rights were secured, and each one, ac- cording to his individual merit, could be re- spected and honored. So dear to them were these privileges that all the privations the_v had suffered, the sickness and death which had been in their midst, the gloomj' prospect be- fore them, could not induce them to swerve from their determination to found a State, where these blessings should be the birth- right of their children. — Concise History of the American I^eqple.
SARA PAYSON PARTON,— 1
PARTON, Sara Payson (Willis), an American author, born at Portland, Maine, in 1811 ; died at Brooklyn, N. Y., in 1872. Ill 1837 she married Mr. Charles Ehhidge of Boston, who died in 1846, leaving her with two children, and in straitened cir- cumstances. In 1851 she began to write for periodicals, under the 7iom de plume of " Fanny Fern," which she retained ever after. Her skeiches became popular, and in 1854 she CDUtracted with the editor of the New York Ledger to furnish a paper every week, which she continued to do for fourteen years without a single intermission. In 1856 she married Mr. James Parton., then connected with the New York Home Journal^ of which her brother, N. P. Willis, was editor. With the exception of two novels, Ruth UalU partly based on incidents of her own life (1854), and Rose Clark (1857), her writings consist of essays and short tales which originally appeared in periodicals. Several volumes made up of these have been publislied, among which are : Fern Leaves from Fanny'' s Portfolio (1853), Fresh Leaves (1855), Folly as it Flies (1868), Ginger Snaps (1870), Caper Sauce (1872). Shortly after her death, her husband put forth Fanny Fern: a Memorial Fb^wme, containing a Memoir Andi selections from her writings.
FATHERHOOD.
To my eye, a man never looks so grand as when lie bends liis ear patiently and lovingly, to the lisping of a little child. I admire that man whom I see with a baby in his arms. I delight on Sunday, when the nurses are set free, to see the fathers leading out their little ones in their best attire, and setting them right end up, about fifty times a minute. It is as good a
SARA PATSOX PARTON.— 2
means of grace a? I am acquainted with. Now tliat a man should feel ashamed to be seen doing this, or think it necessary to apologize, even jocularly, when be meets a male friend, is to me one of the unaccountable tilings. It seems to me every way such a lovely, and good, and j)roper action in a father, that I can't help thinkinfr that be who would feel otherwise, is of so coarse and ignoble a nature as to be quite unworthy of res|)ect. . How man}' times have I turned to look at the clumsy smoothing of a child's dress, or settling of its hat, or bonnet, by the unpractised fingers of a proud father. And the clumsier he was about it, the better I have loved him for the pains lie took. It is very beautiful to me, this self- abnegation, which creeps so gradually over a young father. He is himself so unconscious that he, who had for many years thought first and only of his own selfish ease and wants, is forgetting himself entirely whenever that little creature, with his eyes and its mother'' s lips, reaches out coaxing hands to go here or there, or to look at this or that pretty object. Ah, what but this heavenly love could bridge over the anxious days and nights of care and sick- ness, that these twain of one flesh are called to bear ? My boy ! My girl ! There it is ! Mine! Something to live for- — something to work for — something to come home to ; and that last is the summing up of the whole matter. " Now let us have a good love," said a little three-year-older, as she clasped her chubby arms about her father's neck when he came in at night. " Now let us have a good love." Do you suppose that man walked with slow and laggard steps from his store toward that bright face that had been peeping for an hour from the nurser}' window to watch his coming ? Do you suppose when he got on all-fours to " play elephant" with the child, that it even crossed his mind that he had worked very hard all that day, or that lie was not at that minute '' looking dignified ? " Did he wish he had a '' club "
SARA PAYSON PARTON.-^
where he could get away from home evenings, or was that " good love " of the little creature on his back, with the laugliing eyes and the pearly teeth, and the warm clasp about his neck, which she was squeezing to sulfucatioii, sweeter and better than anything that this world could give ?
Something to go home to ! That is what saves a man. Somebody there to grieve if he is not true to himself. Somebody there to be sorry if he is troubled or sick. Somebody tiiere, with lingers like sunbeams, gilding and bright- ening whatever they touch ; and all for him. I look at the busiest men of New York at nightfall, coming swarming "up town" from their stores and counting-rooms; and when I see them, as I often do, stop and buy one of those tiny bouquets as the3' go, I smile to my- self; for although it is a little attention towards a wife, I know how happj' that rose with its two geranium leaves, and its sprig of mignonette will make her. He thought of her coming home! Foolish, do you call it? Such folly makes all the difference between stepping off, scarcely conscious of the cares a wom:in carries, or staggering wearily along till she faints dis- heartened under their burthen. /Something to go home to! That man felt it and by ever so slight a token wished to recognize it. God bless him, I say, and all like him, wlio do not take home-comforts as stereotyped matters of course, and God bless the family estate ; I can't see that anything better has been devised by the wiseacres who have experimented on the Almighty's plans. " There comes wy father ! " exclaims Johnny, bounding from out a group of '•' fellows " with whom he was playing ball ; and sliding his little soiled fist in his, they go up the steps and into the house together; and again, God bless them ! I say there's one man who is all right at least. That boy has got him, safer than Fort Lafayette.— i^o% as it Flies.
BLAISE PASCAL.—!
PASCAL, Blaise, a French philosopher, born at Clermont in 1623 ; died ai Paris in 1662. He early nianifesled genius of a liio"h order, especially in nnitheniatics and the natural sciences, and wrote several treatises in these departments. The so- called *' Port-ltoyalists " were the up- holders of the teachings of Jaiisenius in opposition to those of tlie Jesuits. In 16.35 Antoine Ainauld was expelled from the Sorboime on account of a letter which he had written in defence of Jansenism. Pascal soon after came out in a series of eio-hteen letters, commonlv desio-nated as The Provincial Letters. These and liis Thoughts upon Jleligion (1670) are the Works by which Pascal is best known.
OF A FUTUBK EXISTENCE.
Tlie immortality of the soul is a thing which so deeply concerns, so infinitely concerns us, that we must utterly have lost our feeling to be altogether cold and remiss in our inquiries about it. It recpiires no great elevation of soul to observe that nothing in this world is productive of true contentment ; that our pleasures are vain and fugitive, our troubles innumerable and perpetual, and that, after all, death, which threatens us everj- moment, must, in the compass of a few years — perhaps of a few- days — put us into the eternal condition of hap- piness or misery, or nothing. Between us and these three great periods, or states, no barrier is interposed but life — the most brittle thing in all nature. And the happiness of heaven being certainly not designed for those who doubt whether we have an immortal part to enjoy it, such persons have nothing left but the miser- able chancre of annihilation or of hell.
There is not an}' reflection which can have more reality than this, as there is none which can have greater terror. Let us set the bravest
BLAISE PASCAL.— 2
face on our condition, and play the heroes as arct'ully as we can, 3'et we see liere the issue wiiicli attends the goodliest life upon earth. It is in vain for men to tui-n asiiie their tliou.:^hts from this eternity wliich awaits them, as if they were abl-j to destroy it by denying it a place in their imagination. It subsists in spite of them ; it advanceth unobserved ; and death, wliiuh is to draw the curtain from if, will in a sliort time infallibly reduce them to the dreadt'ul necessity of being forever nothing or forever miserable.
We have here a doubt of the most affright- ing consequence, and which, therefore, to en- tertain may well be esteemed the most griev- ous of misfortunes ; but, at the same time, it is our indispensable duty not to lie under it with- out struggling for deliverance. To sit di)wn with Some sort of Mcquiescence under so fatal an ignorance is a thing unaccountable beyond all expression, and the\'^ who live with such a disposition ought to be made sensible of its absurdity and stupidity, by having their in- ward reflections laid open to them, that they grow wise by the prospect of their own folly. For behold how men are wont to reason while tiiey obstinately remain tluis ignorant of what they are, and refuse all methods of instruction and illumination : —
" Who has sent me," they say " into the world I know not, nor what I am myself. lam under an astonishing and mortifying ignorance of all tilings. I know not what my body is, nor what my senses, or my soul : this very part of me which thinks what I speak ; which reflects upon everything else, and even upon itself ; yet is a mere stranger to its own nature as the dullest thing I carry about me. I behold these frightful spaces of the universe with which I am encompassed, and I feel myself enchained to one corner of the vast extent, witliont understanding whj' I am placed in this se;it rather tlianiuany other; or why this moment of time giveu me to live
BLAISE PASCAL.— 3
was assigned rather at such a point than any other of tlie whole eternity which was before me, or of all that is to come after uie. 1 see nothing but inliiiities on all sides, which devour and swallow me u[) like an atom, or like a shadow which endures but a single instant, and is never to return. The sum of uiy knowledge is that I must shortly die ; but tliat which 1 am most ignorant of is this very death which I feel unable to decline. As I know not whence I came, so I know not whither I go ; only this I know, that at my departure out of the world 1 must either fall forever into nothing, or into the hands of an incensed God, without being capable of deciding which of these two con- ditions shall eternally be my portion. Such is my state, full of weakness, obscuritj-, and wretchedness. It is possible I might find some one to clear up my doubts ; but I shall not take a minute's pains, nor stir one foot in search of it. On the contrary, I am resolved to run without fear or foresight upon the trial of the great event, permitting m^'self to be led softl}' on to death, utterly uncertain as to the eternal issue of my future condition."
But the main scope of the Christian faith is to establish these two principles : The corruption by nature and the redemption by Jesus Christ. And these opposers — if they are of no use to- wards demonstrating the truth of the redemp- tion by the sanctity of their lives— yet are at least admirably useful in showing the corruption of nature by so unnatural sentiments and suggestions. — Thoughts upon Religion.
WALTER PATER.— 1
PATER, Walter, an English autlior, bom in 1839. He was educated at Oxford, and in 18G2 was made a Fellow of Brasenose College in that University. His first con- tribution to periodical literature was pul> lislied in 1866, in the Westminster Review. His books include: The Renaissance (1873), Marias^ the Epicurean, a story of ancient Rome (1885), Imaginary Portraits (1887), and Appreciations (1890).
JOURXEYIXG TO ROME.
The opening stage of his journey, through the firm golden weather, for which he had lingered three days beyond the appointed time of starting — days brown with the first rains of autumn — brouglit him, by the by-ways among the lower slopes of the Apennines of Luna, to the town of Luca, a station on the Cassian Way ; travelling so far, mainly on foot, the baggage following under the care of his attend- ants. He wore a broad felt hat, in fashion not very uidike a modern pilgrim's, the neat head projecting from the collar of his grey paenula, or travelling mantle, sewed closely together over the breast, but with the two sides folded back over the shoulders, to leave the arms free in walking; and was altogether so trim and fresh, that, as he climbed the hill from Pisa, by the long steep lane through the olive- yards, and turned to gaze where he could just discern the cypresses of the old school garden, like two black lines upon the yellow walls, a little child took possession of his hand, and, looking up at him with entire confidence, paced on bravely at his side, for the mei-e jileasure of his company, to the spot where the road sank again into the valie}'^ beyond. From this point, leaving his servants at a distance, he surren- dered himself, a willing subject as lie walked, to tho impressions of the road, and was almost surprised, both at the suddenness with which evening came on, and the distance from his old home at which it found him.
WALTER PATER. -2
And at the little town of Luca lie felt tliat indescriljabie sense of a welcoming in the mere outward ajii)earaiice of things, which seems to mark out certain places for the special purpose of evening rest, and gives them always a peculiar amiability in retrospect. Under the deepening twilight, the rough-tiled roofs seem to huddle together side by side, like one con- tinuous shelter over the whole township, spreail low and broad over the snug sleeping-rooms within ; and the place one sees for the first time, and must tarry in but for a night, breatiies the very spirit of home. The cot- tagers lingered at their doors for a few minutes as the shadows grew larger, and went to rest earl}' ; though there was still a glow along the road through the shorn cornfields, and the liirds were still awake about the crumbling givy heights of an old temple: and yet so (piiet and air-swept was the ])lace, you could hardly till where the country left off in it, and the field- paths became its streets. Next morning he must needs change the manner of his journey. The light baggage-wagon returned, and he ])ro- ceeded now more quickly, travelling a stage or two bv post, along the Cassian Way, where the figures and incidents of the great liigh-road seemed already to tell of the capital, the one centre to which all were hastening, or had lately bidden adieu. That Wm/ lay through the heart of the old, mysterious and visionary country of Etruria; and what he knew of its strange religion of the dead, reinforced by the actual sight of its funeral houses scattered so plentifully among the dwellings of the living. revived in him for a while, in all its strength. his old instinctive yearning towards those in- habitants of the shadowy land he had known in life. It seemed to liim that he could half divine how time passed in those painted lumses on the hillsides, among the gold and silver ornaments, the wrought armor and vestments, the drows}' and dead attendants : and the close consciousness of that vast population gave him
WALTER PATER.— 3
no fear, but rather a sens<3 of companionsliip, as he climbed tlie hills on fo(jt behind the liorses, through the gei;ial afternoon.
The road, next da\', passed below a town as primitive it might seem as the rocks it perched on — white rocks, which had been long glisten- ing before him in the distance. Down the dewy paths the people were descending from it, to keej) a holiday, liigh and low alike in rough, white linen smocks. A lioinely old play was just begun in an open-air theatre, the grass- grown seats of which had been hollowed out in the turf ; and Marias caught the terrified expression of a child in its mother's arms, as it turned from the j'awning mouth of a great mask, for refuge in iier bosom. The way mounted, and descended again, down the steep street of another place — all resounding with the noise of metal under the lianimer, for every liouse had its brazier's workshop, the bright objects of brass and copper gleaming like lights in a cave, out of their dark roofs and corners. — Marius, the Epicurean.
DEXYS l'aUXERROIS.
To beguile one such afternoon when the rain set in early, and walking was impossible, I found my way to tlie shoj) of an old dealer in bric-a-brac. It was not a monotonous display after the manner of the Parisian dealer of a stock-in-trade the like of which one has seen many times over, but a discriminate collection of re;d curiosities. One seemed to recognize a provincial taste in various relics of the house- keeping of the last century, with many a gem of earlier times from tlie churches and religious liouses of the neighborhood. Among them was a large and brilliant fragment of stained glass which might have come from tlie cathedral itself. Of tlic v<'ry finest quality in color and design, II pies'Miteil a figure not exactly conformable to anv r(H',<ignized ecclesiastical type; and it Was clearly parc of a series. On m}' eager in- quiry for the reniaintler, the old man replied
WALTER PATER.-4
that no more of it was known, but added that tlie priest of a neigliboring viihige w;is the pos- sessor of an entire set of tupestnes, api):uently intended for sus[)ension in churc'.i, und designed to [jortra}' the wiioie subject of which tlieligure in tlie stained glass w;is a portion. Next after- noon, accordingly 1 repaired to the priest's house, in reality a little Gothic building, part, perhaps, of an ancient manor house, close to the village church. In the front garden, flower-garden and potager in one, the bees were busy among the autumn growths — many-coloreil asters, begonias, scarlet-beans, and tlie old fashioned parsonage flowers. The courteous owner showed me his tapestries, some of which hung on the walls of his p:irlur and staircase by way of a background for the display of other curiosities of which he was a collector. Certainly, those tapestries and the stained glass dealt with the same theme. In both were the same musical instruments — fifes, cymbals, long reed-like trumpets. The story, indeed, included the build- ing of an organ, just such an instrument, only on a larger scale, as was standing in the old priest's library, though almost soundless now; whereas in certain r)f the woven pictures the heavens appear as if transported, some of them shouting rapturously to the organ music. A sort of mad vehemence prevails, indeed, through- out the delicate bewilderments of the whole series — giddy dances, wild animals leaping, above all, perpetual wreathings of the vine, connecting, like some mazy arabesque, the various presentations of the oft-repeated figure, translated here out of the' clear-colored glass into the sadder, somewhat opaque and earthen hues of the silken threads. The figure was that of the organ-builder himself, a flaxen and flowery creature, sometimes well-nigh naked among the vine-leaves, sometimes muffled in skins against the cold, sometimes in the dress of a monk, but always with a strong impress of real character and incident from the veritable streets of Auxerre.
COVENTRY PATMORE,— 1
PATMORE, Coventry KearsEy DiGHTox, an English poet, born in 1823. From 1846 tol868 lie was an Assistant Libra- rian in the British Museum. In 184-1 he pub- lisheil a small volume of poems, wiiich was republished in 1853, with huge additions, under the title of Tamerton Church Toiver^ and other Poems. His priMci[)al work, Th'' Aii(/el in the Himse, ap[)eared in four parts: The Betrothal (1854), The Espousal (1856), Faithful Forever (1860), The Victories of Love (1862). He has since publisiied The Unknown Eros (1877), a memoir of Barry Cornwall, and Amelia (1878).
COUNSEL TO THE NEWLY-MAKKIED HUSBAND.
"Now, while slie's changing," said tlie Dean, " Her bridal for her travelling-dress, I'll preach allegiance to your Queen !
Preaching's the trade which I profess; And one more ininute's mine ! A''ou know I've paid ni_y girl a father's debt, And this last charge is all I owe.
She's yours; but I love her more than yet You can : such fondness only wakes When time has raised the heart above The prejudice of youth which makes
Beauty conditional to love. Prepare to meet the weak alarms of novel near- ness ; recollect The eye which magnifies her charms
Is microscopic for defect. "Fear comes at first; but soon, rejoiced,
You'll find your strong and tender loves Like holy rocks by Druids poised;
The least force shakes, but none removea Her strength is your esteem. Ueware
Of finding fault. Her will's unnerved By blame ; from you 'twould he des])air; But praise that is not quite deserved
Will all her nobler nature move To make your utmost wishes true.
CO V ENTK Y P ATMOKE. —2
Yet tliink, while inendiiig thus your love, Of uiiitfliing lier ideul too.
Tlie deutli of iiu[)ti;il joy is sloth: To keep your mistress lu your wife.
Keep to tlie very lieiglit 3'our oath, And honor her with arduous life."
The Espousal.
THE TOYS.
M\- little son, who looked from thouglitful eyes,
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
Having ni}' law the seventh time disobeyed,
I struck him, and dismissed,
With hard words and unkissed,
(His mother, who was patient, being dead.)
Tiien, fearing lest excess of grief should hinder
sleep, I visited his bed ; But found him slumbering deep. With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet From his late subbing wet ; And I, with moan,
Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; For on a table drawn beside his head He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red-veined stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach. And six or seveii shells, A bottle with bluebells,
And two French coins, ranged there with care- ful art. To comfort his sad heart. So when that night I prayed To God, T wept, and said: Ah ! when at last we lie with tranced breath, Kot vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toya We made our joys — How weakly understood Thj'^ great commanded good — Then, fatherly, not less
Than I, whom Thou hast moulded from the clay Thou'lt leave thy wrath, and say, *' I will be sorryfor tlieir childishness."
The. Victories of Lov9,
COVENTRY PATMOKE.— 3
PAIN.
0 Pain, Love's mystery, Close next of kin To Jo_y and heart's delight, Low Pleasure's opposite, Clioice food of sanctity A.iid medicine of sin, Angel, wliom even they that will pursue Pleasure with hell's wliole gust Find that they must Perversely woo,
My lips, thy live coal touching, speak thee true. Thou sear'st my flesh, O Pain, But brand'st for arduous peace my languid
brain, And brigiit'nest m\^ dull view. Till I, for blessing, blessing give again, And my roused s[)irit is Another fire of bliss, Wherein I learn
Peelingly how the pangful, purging fire Shall furiously burn With joy, not only of assured desire, But also present joy
Of seeing the life's corruption, stain by stain, Vanish in the clear heat of Love irate, And, fume by fume, the sick alloy Of luxury, sloth and hate Evaporate ;
Leaving the man, so darlc erewhile, The mirror merely of God's smile. Herein, 0 Pain, abides the praise For which my song I raise; But even the bastard good of intermittent ease How greatly doth it please ! Witli what repose
The being from its briglit exertion glows, When from thy strenuous storm the senses
sweep Into a little harbor deep Of rest ;
When thou, O Pain, Having devour'd the nerves that thee sustain.
COVENTRY PATM0IIE.-4
Sleep'st till tliy tender food be somewlaat
grown aguin ; And liuw tlie lull With teur-biiiid love is full ! What mockei-y of a man am I express'd That I should wait for thee To woo !
Nor even dare to love, till thou lov'st me. How shameful, too, Is tliis :
Tiiat, wlien thou lov'st, I am at first afraid Of thy fierce kiss, Like a 3'oung maid ; And only trust thy charms And get my courage in thv tlu'obbing armp. And when thou partest, what a fickle mind Thou leav'st behind,
That, being a little absent from mine eye, It straighc forgets thee what thou art, And ofttimes my adulterate heart Dallies with Pleasure, thy pale enemy. 0, for the learned spirit without attaint That does not faint,
But knows both how to have thee and to lack, And ventures many a spell, Unlawful but for them that love so well, To call thee back.
The Unknown Eroi.
JAMES KIHKE PAULDWG.— 1
PAULDING, James Kirke, an Amer- ican statesman and author, born at Nine- Partners, Dutchess county, N. Y., m 1779 ; died at Hyde Park in the same county, in 1860. At the age of nineteen he went to New York, and in 1807 he, with Washing- ton Irving, began the issue of Salmagundi, a semi-weekly journal designed to satirize in prose and verse the follies of the town. This was discontinued in less than a year, but was revived, with indifferent success, by Paulding in 1819. In 1825 he was appointed Navy Agent at the port of New York, and resigned the position in 1837 to become Secretary of tlie Navy in the administration of President Van Buren. In 1841 he retired from public life to a beautiful home which lie had purchased on the banks of the Hudson. Paulding's works were numerous, and of very unequal merit. Among them are : The Divertiiig History of John Bull and Brother Jonathan (1812), Koningsmarke (1823), The Three Wise Men of Gotham (1826), The Neiv Mir- ror for Travellers (1828), Chronicles of the City of Gotham (1830), The Dutchman's Fireside, his best novel (1831), Westtvard Ho ! (1832), Life of George Washington (1835), The Book of St. Nicholas (1837), A Gift from Fairy Land (1838), The Old Conti7ie7ital (1846), Tlie Puritan and his Daughter (1849). A collection of his Select Works, edited by his son, in four volumes,was published in 1868.
JOHN BULL AND HIS SON JONATHAN.
John Bull was a clioleric old fellow, who held a good manor in the middle of a great millpond, and which, by reason of its being quite surrounded V)y water, was generality called "Bullock Island." Bull was an iugenious
JAMES KIRKE PAULDIJ^O.— 2
mail — ail exceedingly good blacksmith, a dex- terous cutler, and a notable weaver and pot- baker besides. He also brewed cajjital porter, ale, and sniall-beer, and was, in fact, a sort of Jack-of-all-trades, and good at t-acli. In addi- tion to these, lie was a liearty fellow, an excel- lent bottle-companion, and j)assably honest, as times go. But what tarnished all these qual- ities was a very quarrelsome, overbearing dis- position, which was always getting him into some scrape or other. The truth is, he never heard of a quarrel going on among his neigh- bors but his tingi'i's itched to be in the thickest of it, so that he was hardly seen without a broken head, a black e^'e, or a bloody nose. Such was Squire Bull, as he was commonly called by the country-people his neighbors — one of those grumbling, boasting old codgers that get credit for what they are, because they are always pretending to be what the}' are not.
The Squire was as tight a hand to deal with in doors as out ; sometimes treating his family as if they were not the same flesh and blood, when they happened to differ with him on cer- tain matters.
One da}' he got into a dispute with his 3'oungest son Jonathan — who was familiarly called " Brother Jonathan " — about whether churches were an abomination. The Squire, either having the worst of the argument, or being naturally impatient of contradiction (I can't tell which) — fell into a great passion, and swore he would jdiysic such notions out of the bo3''s noddle, so lie went to some of his doctors and got them to draw up a prescription made up of thirt3--nine articles — many of them bitter enough to some palates. Tins lie tried to make Jonatlnin swallow ; and finding that he made wry faces, and would not do it, he fell upon him. and beat him like fury. After this he made the house so disagreeable to him, that Jonathan — though hard as a pine-knot, and as tough as leather — could bear it no longer. Taking his gun and his axe, he. put himself in
JAMES KIRKE PAULDING.— 3
a boat, and padJleJ over tlie mill-pond to some new lands to wliich tiie Squire pretended some sort of claim, intending to settle them, and Luild a meeting-liouse without a steeple as soon as lie grew rich enougli.
Wlien he got over, Jonathan found that the land was quite in a state of nature, covered with woods, and inhabited by nobody but wild beasts. But, being a lad of mettle, he took his axe on one shoulder and his gun on the other, marched into the tliickest of the woods, and, clearing a jiliice, built a log-liut. Pursuing his labors, and handling his axe like a notable woodman, lie in a few j-ears cleared the land, which he laid out into thirteen good farms, and building himself a fine frame-house, about half-lin- nislied, began to be quite snug and comfortable.
But Squire Bull, who was getting old and stingy, and besides was in great warit of money, on account of his having lately been made to pay swing-eing damage for assaulting his neigh- bors and breaking their heads — the Squire, I s'dj, finding Jonathan was getting well-to-do in the world, began to be ver\' much troubled about his welfare ; so he demanded that Jona- than should pay him a good rent for the land which he had cleared and m.ade good for some- thing. He trumped up I know not what claim against him, and, under different pretences, managed to pocket all Jonathan's honest gains. In fact, the poor lad had not a shilling for holiday occasions ; and had it not been for the filial respect he felt for the old man, he would certainly have refused to submit to such impo- sitions.
But for all this, in a little time Jonathan grew up to be very large for his age, and be- came a tall, stout, double-jointed, broad-should- ered cub of a fellow; awkward in his gait and simple in his appearance ; but showing a livel}-, shrewd look, and having the promise of great strength when he should get his full growth. He was rather an odd-looking chap in truth, and had many queer ways; but everybody lliat
JAMES KIRKE PAULDING.— 4
had seen John Bull, saw a great likeness between them, and swore that he was John's own boy, and a true chip uf tlie old block. Like the old Squire, he was apt to be bluster- ing and saucy ; but in the main was a peace- able sort of careless fellow, that would quarrel with nobody if you only let him alone.
While Jonathan was outgrowing his strength. Bull kept on picking his pockets of every penny he could scrape together ; till at last one day when the Squire was even more than usuall}'^ pressing in his demands, which he ac- companied with threats, Jonathan started up in a furious passion, and threw the tea-kettle at the old man's head. The choleric Bull was hereupon exceedingly enraged; and after call- ing tlie poor lad an undutiful, ungrateful, rebel- lious rascal, seized him by the collar, and forth- with a furious scufHe ensued. This lasted a long time ; for the Squire, though in years, was a capital boxer, and of most excellent bottom. At last, however, Jonathan got him under, and before he would let him u[) made him sign a paper giving up all claim to the farms, and acknowledging the fee-simple to be in Jonathan forever. — History of John Bull and Brother Jonathan.
JAMES PAYN.— 1
PAYN, James, an English author, born in 1830. He was educated at Eton, and Woolwicli, and was graduated at Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1854. At an early age he contributed to the Westminster Jieiuew and Household Words, and in 1858 he became editor of Chambers's Journal, in which he published his first novels. He contributed essay's to the Nineteenth Cen- tury and the Times. In 1882 he succeeded Leslie Stephen as editor of the Cornhill Magazine. Among liis works are Stories from Boccaccio, 'poems (1854), Poems (1855), A Family Scapegrace, Lost Sir Massingberd, By Proxy, High Spirits. A Perfect Treasure, Bentinck's Tutor, A Country Family, Cecils Tryst, The Foster Brothers, Halves. Car- lyon's Year, One of the Family, What he Cost Her, Gwendoline' s Harvest. Like Father Like Son, Mirk Abbey, Less Black than We're Painted, Murp)hy's 3Iaster, Under One Roof, The Luck of the DarrelVs. Some Lit- erary liecollections (1886), Thicker than Water, Gloiv-worm Tales (1888), and The Burnt Million, (1889).
MRS. BECKETT.
Of all the mansions in Park Lane, albeit there are some, though not many, larger, Beckett House gives the strongest impression to the passer-by not only of wealth, but, what is a very different thing (and much better), the possession of an abundance of ready money. Just as on ihumination nights we see the lines of some public edifice piclced out with fire, so all the sunnner long the balconies of Beckett House show, tier on tier, their glowing lines of flowers. Under the large portico there is a miniature jungle of tropical foliage, and when at night the opened door gives a glimpse of the interior to the passing Peri, it seems to her an Eden indeed. Nor even in winter does this
JAMES PAYN.--2
shrine of Flora lack its gifts, for in the centra and on either wing are great conservatories, to which " the time of roses," is but a poetic fig- ment, and May (for once) is happy in Decem- ber's arms.
Mrs. Beckett, the owner of this palace, has a passion for flowers, which her wealth enables her to indulge to the full ; nor is this the only proof of her good taste. She had once a liandle to her name, but laid it aside by an act of vol- antai-y abnegation. Emperors and others have done the like before her, but a woman — never. Her first husband was Sir Kobert Orr, a city kniglit, who left her an immense jointure and '' her ladyship.'" He had never been remark- able for personal beauty, and uidess in the sense of years — he was three times her age — could hardl}'^ have been called accomplished. It was a marriage of convenience; but the old man had been kind to her in life and death, and she respected his memory. Wlien she married her second husband, John Beckett, the railway engineer, she dropped "'her lady- ship." Sir Robert had been intensely pi'ond of the title, and she felt that it belonged to him. The law, of course, would have decided as much, but she might have retained it by cour- res\'. She was not a woman to parade her sentiments, and, liaving some sense of humor, was wont to account for this act of self-sacrifice tipon moral grounds; she did not think it respectable, she said, to figure with her hus- band in the '• Morning Post," as Mr. Beckett and Lady Orr ; she left that suspicious anomaly for the wives of bishops.
John Beckett had been a rich man, though he could not have measured purses with Sir Robert, and he had ten times his wit. He had wasted them much on building bridges or hol- lowing tunnels out of the " too solid earth ; " he left such enduring monuments to scientific theorists and applied the great powers of his mind — he called them witliout the faintest; consciousness of self-satire its "grasp" — to
JAMES PAYN.-S
contracts ; mostly in connection with coal. He took tlie same practical view of matrimony, whicli poor Lady Orr liad never guessed, and for Iier part had wedded lier second liusband for love. It was unintelligible to her that a man of so much wealth should pant for more; but he did so to his last breath. If he could liave carried all his money (and hers) away with him — " to melt " or *' to begin the next world with '' — he would have done it and left her penniless. As it was, he died suddenly — killed by a fall from liis horse below lier very windows — and intestate. Even when his scarce breathing body was lying in an upstairs cham- ber, and she attending it with all wifely soli- citude, she could not stifle a sense of com- ing enfranchisement after twenty' -five years of slavery, or the consciousness that her Sir Kobert had been the better man of the two.
A woman of experience at least, if not of wisdom, was the present mistress of Beckett House ; with strong passions, but with a not un- generous heart ; outspoken from the knowledge of her " great possessions," perhaps, as much as from natural frankness ; a warm friend and not a very bitter enemj' ; and at the bottom of it .all with a certain simplicity of character, of which her love for flowers was an example. She had loved them as Kitty Conway, the country doctor's daughter, when violets instead of camellias had been "her only wear,'' sweet- peas and wallflowers the choicest ornaments of her little garden, and Park Lane to her unso- phisticated mind like other lanes. "Fat, fair, and forty," she was wont to call herself at the date this story oj)ens, and it was the truth ; but not the whole truth. Fat she was and fair sho was, but she was within a few years of fifty. Of course she was admirablj'- preserved. As the kings of old took infinite pains that their bodies after death should not decay, so women do their best for themselves in that waj' while still in the flesh ; and Mrs. Beckett was as youthful as cai-e and art could make her. In
JAMES PATN.— 4
shadow and witli the light beliind her, persona of the otl)er sex might liave set her down as even loss mature than she described herself to be. There would have been at least ten years difference between their "quotations '' — as poor Sir Kobert would have called them — and that of her tiring maid.
Five years she had had of gilded ease and freedom, since drunken, greedy, hard Joliu Becicett had occupied his marble hall in Kensal Green — Sir Kobert had a similar edifice of his own in Highgate cemetery, for she had too much good taste to mix their dust — and on the whole she had enjo\-ed them. Far too well favored by fortune, however, not to have her detract- ors, she was whispered by some to be b}- no means averse to a third experiment in matri- mony. " There swam no goose so graj'," they were wont to quote, and "There was luck in odd numbers." Gossips will say anything, and men delight in jokes against the fair sex. — - Thicker than Water.
A HILL-FOG.
Long before Grace reached the proposed turning-point of her journey the sunshine hiid given place to a gray gloom, which ^-et was not the garb of evening. The weather looked lit- erally "dirty,'' though she was too little of a sailor, and too much of a gentlewoman, to call it so. Instead of running on ahead of his mistress and investigating the rocks for what Mr. Roscoe (who was cockney to the backbone, and prided himself on it) \oould call sweet- meats (meaning sweetmasts), Rip kept close to her ekirts ... It was ridiculous to sup- pose that a town-bred dog should scent at- mospheric dangers upon the mountains of Cum- berland ; but his spirits had certainly quitted him with inexi)lic:il)le precipitancy, and every now and then he would give a short, impatient bark, which said as plainly as dog could speak, " Hurry up, unless you want to be up here all night, and perhaps longer."
JAMES PAYN.— 5
This strange conduct of her little companion did not escape Grace's attention, and, though slie did not understand it, it caused her insen- sibly to quicken her stejjs. She liad rounded Halso P^'ell, and was just about to leave it for lower ground, when slie suddenly found herself in darkness. The fell had not onl}' put ils cap on, it was drawn down over its white face as that other wliite cap, still more terrible to look upon, covers the features of the poor wretch about to be '' turned off," on the gallows. The suddenness of the thing (for there is nothing so sudden as a liill-fog, except a sea-fog) gave it, for the moment, quite tlie air of a catastrophe. To be in cotton-wool is a phrase significant of superfluous comfort; and yet, curiously enough, it seemed to express better than any other the situation in which Grace now found herself, in which there was no comfort at all. She seemed to be w'rapped around in that garment which ladies call '" a cloud "" — onl}' of a coarse texture and very wet. It was over her ej'es and nose and mouth, and rendered everything invisible and deadened every sound.
It might clear away in five minutes, and it might last all night. To move would be fatal. Should she take one unconscious turn to left or right, she was well aware that she would lose all her bearings ; and yet, from a few feet lower than where she stood now, could she but have seen a hundred \'aids in front of lier, she knew there would be comparative safet}'. She could no more see a hundred 3ards, or ten or five, however, than she could see a Imndred miles. Things might have been worse, of course. She might have been at the top of the fell in« stead of half-way down it. She had been in fogs lierself, but not like this, nor so far from home. But matters were serious enough as tliey were.
Though there was no wind, of course the air had become very damp and chill. To keep her head clear, to liiishand lier strength, should a chance of exerting it be given her, and to
JAMES PAYN.— 6
remain us wann as possible, were the best, and indeed the only, things to be done. Keeping lier eyes straight before her slie sat down, and took Rip on lier lap. But for its peril, the position was absurd enough ; but it was really perilous. Lightly clad as she was, for the con- venience of walking, she could hardly' survive the consequences of such a night on the open fell. . . . An incident she had once read of a clerk in a Fleet Street bank being sent sud- denly on pressing business into Wales, and all but perishing the very next night, througii a sprained ankle, on a spur of Snowdon, came into her mind. How frightful the desolation of his position had seemed to him — its unaccustomed loneliness and weird surroundings, and the ever-present consciousness of being cut off from his fellows, in a world utterly unknown to him ! She was now enduring the self-same pangs ! — The Burnt Million.
FKKEDOM.
Between the deathbed and the charnel a battle often arises concerning the departed, like the buzzing of flies over garbage. His virtues are magnitied, his vices are exaggerated ; he is •• made more of " in every way than when he was in life. In the case of a man of loose life, and who has omitted to make himself popular, we can believe nothing of what is said, though fi'om the v^'vy extravagance of it some truth may be gathered. Mr. Herbert Perry's mem- ory suffered like the rest, and a little more, as a young gentleman who combines vice with economy, in my opinion, deserves to suffer. — The Canon^s Ward,
JOHN HOWARD PAYXE.— 1
PAYNE, John Howap.d, an American di'amatist and actor, born at New York in 1792; died at Tunis, Africa, in 1852. He early manifested a strong predilection for the stage, where he was hailed as "the young lioscius." In his sixteenth year he appeared at the Park Theatre as " Young Norval," and subsequently acted in other cities. In 1813 he went to London, where he met with a decided theatrical success. He remained in Euio[)e until 1832, and wrote several diamas, some of which were popular at the time, but none of tliem are now remembered excepting the opera of Claris or the Maid of Milan, and that only for the song '• Home Sweet Home." He experienced various ups and downs, but was alwa3^s in pecuniary straits, although from time to time lie earned large sums of money. About 1841 he received the ap- pointment of Consul at Tunis, where lie died. Thirty yeais after Iiis death, Mr. Corcoran, an American banker, caused the remains of Payne to be exhumed and brought to Washington where they were re-interred and a fine monument was erected above them.
HOME SWEET HOME.
'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like liome ! A charm from the skies seems to hallow us
there, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home, liome, Sweet home ! There's no place like home— There's uo place like home.
JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.— 2
A.T1 exilt' from liome, pleasure dazzles in vain ? All ! give me uiy lowly thatched cottage again ! The birds singing sweetly that came to my
call ; Give me them, and that peace of mind, dearer than all.
Home, home, Sweet home ! There's no place like home — There's no place like home.
THE ROM AX FATHER.
Urutus. — Romans, the blood which hath been
shed this day Hath been shed wisely. Traitors who conspire Against mature societies, may urge Tlieir acts as bold and daring; and though
villains, Yet they are manly villains; but to stab The cradled innocent, as these have done. To strike their country in tlie mother-pangs Of struggling child-birth, and direct the dagger To freedmn's infant throat, is a deed so black That njy foiled tongue refuses it a name.
[yl pause.'\ Tliere is one criminal still left for judgment ; Let hiin approach.
Titus is brought in by the Lictors.
Prisoner — Romans ! forgive this agony of grief ; My heart is bursting, nature must have way, — I will perform all that a Roman should, I cannot feel less than a father ought.
[ Gives a sif/nal to the Lictois to fall back, and advoncea from the judgment seat. ]
Well, Titus, speak, how is it with thee now ? Tell me, my son, art thou prepared to die ? £rutus ; or the Fall of Tarquin,
ANDREW PRESTON PEABODY.— 1
PEABODY, Andrew Preston, an
American pieacher, professor and author, born at Beverl3% Mass., in 1811. He grad- uated at Harvard College in 1826, and after- ward from tlie Divinity School. After one year of tutorship in mathematics, he was pastor at Portsmouth, N. H., twenty-seven years: In 1860 lie became preacher to Harvard University and professor of Chris- tian morals. In 1881, he resigned these offices, and, twice officiating as acting presi- dent, still resides in Cambiidge. From 1852, for eleven years, he edited the North Ameri- can Revieu\ to which, and to other reviews he has contributed a gi-eat number of articles. Among the books written by him are: Sermons on Consolation (1847), Chris- tianity the Religion of Nature (1864), Rem^ iniscences of European Travel (1868), Manual of Moral Philosophy^ Christianity and Science (1874), Christian Belief and Life (1^1^^ ^Harvard Reminiscences (1888), and Harvard Graduates whom I have Known (1890).
SELF-LOVE AND BENEVOLENCE.
There is at first view un irreconcilable antag- onism between self-love and beneficence. Self- love is inevitable; beneficence is a manifest duty. But if we love ourselves, how can we rob ourselves of time, reputation, ease, or money for the good of others ? If we are beneficent, how can we be otherwise than false to that law of our very natures which urges upon us a primary reference to our own happiness? I can- nut find this problem solved by any moralist before Christ. Beneficence was indeed in- culcated before Christ, but as a form of self- renunciation, not as returning a revenue to the kind heart and the generous hand. Yet here Christ plays a bold stroke. His precepts are full of philanthropy. They prescribe the ut-
ANDREW PRESTON I'EABODY.— 2
most measure of toil ;unl siicritice for humanity. They constrain tlie disciple to call nothing his own which others really need, — to hold all that he has subject to perpetual drafts from those who can claim his sympathy. Yet Christ is so far from dishonoring and denouncing self-love, that he cherislies it without imposing or suggest- ing a limit to it, nay, makes the cherishing of it a duty and a measure of the seemingly antag- onistic dut}'^, implying that the more we love ourselves the greater will be the amount of the good we do toothers. His fundamental law for the social life stretches the uniting wire be- tween these opposite poles, and transmits from each to the other the current of personal and social obligation, making duty interest, and in- terest duty. The precept, " Thou slialt love thy neighbor as thyself,"' is simply absurd, if the imagined antagonism is real. But if these two principles, in form mutually hostile, are in fact kindred and mutualW convertible, so that each does the other's work, it must be by means of springs and wheels which underlie them both and the whole fabric of societ\', and which are kept in perpetual tension and motion by an omni- present Providence. Either this coincidence of self-love and beneficence IS a law of nature, or it is a contradiction in terms and an impossibility in action. Let us consider how far it is a law of nature.
Look, first, at international relations. Un- enlightened self-love dictates war on the most trivial pretexts, quick resentment, prompt revenge, bold aggression, the preying of the strong upon the feeble. But, if history has taught an}' lesson, it has taught the inexpe- diency and folly of needless war, even when most successful, and the expediency of peace at all sacrifice, and of mutual good offices among nations. . . . A similar change has taken place in the commercial relations of the civilized world. In the ignorant infancy of modern com- merce the reigning doctrine was, that the sur- plus of the specie imported, over that exported
ANDREW PRE.STON PEABODY.— 3
determined the balance of trade in favor of a nation, so that by any specific commercial arrangement one party must be tlie gainer, the other the loser. Thus the sole effort of diplo-. matists was to outwit one another, and to throw dust into one another's eyes ; and as to mercantile matters, nations occupied a position of mutual antagonism, eacli looking for gain
at tl)e expense of the other Tiius,
though commerce seems an intensely selfish transaction, it is now girdling the earth with the zone of common interest, mutual good-will, and reciprocal helpfulness.
Among members of the same coramunit}^ I know of notliing tliat illustrates the concur- rent tendenc}^ and harmonious working of self- love and mutual benevolence so strongly and beautifully as the system of insurance. At first thought the appeal to the self-love of the uninjured as a resource against calamit\f might seem the height of absurdity, and the inscrip- tion, " Bear ye one another's burdens," placed over the office of a joint-stock company might look like bitter irony. Yet what but such an appeal is the advertisement of an insurance company ? . . . . This kindly agency, by which disasters that would overwhelm and ruin tlie individual are drawn off and scattered over a whole community with a pressure which none can seriously feel, might remind one of what takes place in a thunderstorm, when every twig of every tree, and every angle of every moistened roof helps to lead harmlessly to the ground the electric force which, discharged at any one point, would deal desolation and death.
We may trace this same harmony between self-love and benevolence in the relations and intercourse of ordinary life. We have heard a great deal at times — I think that the phrase- ology has grown obsolete now, but it was rife when the Ciir]y\ese patois used to bespoken in cultivated circles — about whole men, and the necessity of every man's being a wliole man, in himself complete, self-sufficing, and independr
ANDREW PRESTOX ]'EABODY.— 4
ent. 'L'lierc never was suc.li a man, and never will be; and were there such a man, he would be as fair a specimen of humanity as one would be as to his physical nature who lacked hands, or feet, or even head. We are by nature the complements of one another. We cannot help leaning and depending on one another. We are like trees in a forest, each sheltered and fostered b}' its neighbor-trees, and liable to speedy blighting when transplanted to a soli- tary exposure. Our social natures are as truly a part of ourselves as our physical natures ; our affections, as our appetites ; our domestic and civil relations, as our subjection to the laws of matter and of mind. The man whom we term selfish consults the needs of only an insignifi- cant fraction of himself. The self-seeker (so called) leads a life of perpetual self-sacrifice and self-denial. He alone who benefits his neighbor does well for himself. He alone who does good gets good. He alone who makes the world the happier and the better by his living in it becomes happier and better by living in it. — Christianity, the Religion of Nature.
OLIVER WILLIAM BOURNE PEABODY.— 1
PEABODY, Ollveu William Bourne, twin brother of the succeeding, an American Lawyer, clergyman, and poet, born at Exeter, N. H., in" 1799; died at Burlington, Vt., in 1850. He graduated at Harvard in 1817, studied law, and entered upon legal practice in his native town. In 1820 he removed to Boston, and assisted his brotliei-in-law, Alexander H. Everett, in editing the No7'th America7i Revieiv. He wrote the Life of Israel Put- nam and Life of Jo/in iSullivan, in Spavks's " American Biography," and contributed in prose and verse to various periodicals. From 1836 to 1842 he was Register of Pro- bate for vSuffolk county, Mass. Feeble health comj)elled him to resign this office, and for a year or two he was professor of English Literature in Jefferson College, Louisiana. Returning to Massachusetts, he studied theology, was licensed as a preacher by tlie Boston LTnitarian Asso- ciation, and in 1845 became minister of the Unitarian Church at Burlington, Vt.
TO A DEPARTED FKIEND.
Too lovely, and too earl}' lost!
My memory clings to thee; For thou wast once my guiding star
Amid the treacherous sea. But doubly cold and cheerless now
The wave, too dark before, Since every beacon-light is qiUMiched
Along the midnight shore.
I saw thee first when Hope arose
On youth's triumphant wing, And thou wast lovelier than the light
Of early dawning Spring. Who then could dream that health and joy
Would e'er desert the brow, So bright with varying lustre once,
^o chill aiul changeless now ?
OLIVER WILLIAM P.OUH>fE PEABODr.— 2
One evening when tlie autumn dew
Upon the hills was shed, A.nd Hesperus far down the west
His starry host had led, Thou said'st how sadly and how oft
To that prophetic eye, Visions of darkness, and decline,
And early death were nigh.
It was a voice from other worlds.
Which none beside could hear ; Like the night-breeze's plaintive lyre,
Breathed faintly on the ear. It was the warning, kindly given,
When blessed spirits come f'rom their bright paradise above,
To call a sister home.
How sadly on ray spirit then
That fatal warning fell ! But oh ! the dark reality
Another voice may tell : — The quick decline, the parting sigh,
The slowly moving bier, The lifted sod, the sculptured stone,
The unavailing tear.
The amaranth flowers that bloom in heaven
■Entwine thy temples now; The crown that shines immortally
Is beaming on thy brow ; The seraphs round the burning throne
Have borne thee to thy rest, To dwell among the saints on high,
Companion of the blest.
The sun hath set in golden clouds;
Its twilight rays are gone ; And, gathered in the shades of night.
The storm is rolling on. Alas! how ill that bursting storm
The fainting spirit braves. When they — the lovely and the lost — •=
Are gone to early graves.
WILLIAM BOURNE OLIVER PEABODY.— 1
PEABODY, William Bourne Oliver,
twin brother of the preceding, an American clergyman and author, born at Exeter, N. H.,in 1799; died at Springfield, Mass., in 1847. He graduated at Harvard in 1817, studied at the Cambridge Divinity Scliool, and in 1820 became pastor of tiie Unitarian Church at Springfield, holding that j)Osition until his death. Besides his pastoral duties he wrote the life of Alexander Wilson and life of Cotton Mather, in Sparks's '' Ameri- can Biography," and contributed largely to the Worth American Review and to the Christian Examiner. He wrote many hymns and other poems, which have been published in his Bemains, edited bv Everett Peabody (1850).
HYMX OF NATURE.
God of the eartli's oxt(Mided plains !
The dark green fields contented lie ; The mountains rise like lioly towers,
Wliere man might commune with the sky; The tall cliff challenges the storm
That lowers upon the vale below, Where shaded fountains send tlieir streams,
With joj'ous music in their flow.
God of the dark and heavy deep !
The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Till the fierce trumpet of the storm
Hath summoned up their thundering bands; Then the white sails are dashed like foam,
Or hurry trembling o'er the seas, Till, calmed by Tliee, the sinking gale
Serenely breathes, " Depart in peace."
God of the forests' solemn shade !
The grandeur of the lonely tree. That wrestles singly with the gale.
Lifts up admiring eyes to Tliee ; But more majestic far they stand
When side by side their ranks they form, To wave on high their plumes of green.
And fight their battles with the storrn.
WILLIAM noi'iixL or.ivKi; pp:abody.— 2
Gud oi tlie light and vi'jwless air!
Where sii miner breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might.
The fierce and wintry tempests blow ; All — from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild wliirlwind's midnight cry —
Breathe forth the language of Thy power.
God of the fair and open sky !
How gloriously above us springs The tented dome of heavenly blue
Suspended on the rainbow's rings ! Each brilliant star that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to Thee.
God of the rolling orbs above !
Thy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light. For every fire that fronts the sun,
And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne.
God of the world ! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return ; Her crumbling altars must deca}',
Her incense-fires shall cease to burn ; But still her grand and lovely scenes
Have made man's warmest praises flow, For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.— 1
PEACOCK, Thomas Love, an English novelist and poet, born at Weymoutli in 1785 ; died at London in 1866. He entered the service of tlie East India Company in 1818, and retired on a pension in 1856. He was one of the executors of Shelley, of whose life he has given some account. Among his novels the best are Headlong Hall C1816), Nightmare Abheg (1818), Maid Marian (1822), Misjm'tunes of Elphin (1829), in which occur seveial clever bits of verse, as also in the earlier Nightmare Abheg. His latest novel was Grgll Grange (1861). A complete edition of his Works., with a preface by Lord Houghton, was published in 1875.
ROBIN HOOD AND HIS MERRY MEN.
"Now, Lord Fitzwater," said the chief for- ester, "recognize 3'our son-in-law tliat was to have been, in the outlaw Robin Hood."
"Ay, ay," said the Baron, "I have recog- nized you long ago."
"And recognize 3'our young friend Gam- well," said the second, " in the outlaw Scarlet."
" And Little John the page," said the third, "in Little John the outlaw.''
" And Father Michael of Rubygill Abbey," said the Friar, "in Friar Tuck of Sherwood Forest."
"I am in fine company," said the Baron.
"In the very best of company," said the Friar; "in the high court of Nature, and in the midst of her own nobility. Is it not so ? This goodly grove is our palace; the oak and the beach are its colonnade and its canopy ; the sun and the moon and the stars are its everlasting lamps ; the grass and the daisy and the primrose and the violet are its many-colored floor of green, white, yellow, and blue ; the may- flower and the woodbine and the eglantine and the ivy are its decorations, its curtains, and its tapestry ; the lark and the thrush and th$
THOMAS LOVE TEACOCK.— 2
linnet and the nightingale are its unhired minstrels and musicians.
•'Robin Hood is the King of the Forest, both by the dignity of his birth, and by his standing army, to say nothing of the free clioice of his people. He holds dominion over the forest, and its horned multitude of citizen deer, and its swinish multitude, or peasantry, of wild-boars, by right of conquest or foice of arms. He levies contributions among them, by the free consent of his archers, their virtual representatives. What right had William of Normandy to England that Eohin of Lochsley has not to merry Sherwood ? William fought for his claim; so docs Eobin. With whom both ? With any tliat would dispute it. Wil- liam raised contributions ; so does Kobin. From whom both ? From all tliat they could or can nndxe pay them. \^ hy did any pay them to William ? Why do any pay them to Eobin ? For the same reason to both — be- cause they could not, or cannot, help it. Thej'^ differ, indeed, in tliis, that William took from the poor and gave to the rich ; and Kobin takes from the rich and gives to the poor ; and there- in is Robin illegitimate, though in all else he is true prince.
•' Scarlet and John, are they not Peers of the Forest — Lords Temporal of Sherwood ? And am I not Lord Spiritual ? Ami not Archbishop ? Am I not Pope ? Do I not consecrate their banner and absolve their sins ? Are they not State, and am not I Church ? Are they not State monarchical, and am not I Church militant ? Do I not excommunicate our enemies from venison and brawn ; and, by'r Lady, when need calls, beat them down under ray feet? The State levies tax, and the Church levies tithe. Even so do we. Mass ! We take all at once. W^hat then ? It is tax by redemption, and tithe by commutation. Your William and Richard can cut and come again ; but our Robin deals with slipper}- sub- jects that come not twice to his exchequer.
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.— 3
'•'What need we. then, to constitute a Court, except a Fool and a Laureate ? For the Fool, his only use is to make false knaves merry by art; and we are merry men who are true by nature. For the Laureate, his only office is to find virtues in those who have none, and to drink sack for his pains. We have quite virtue enough to need him not, and can drink oui sack for ourselves." — Maid Marian.
THE MEN OF GOTHAM.
Seamen three ! What men be ye ?
" Gotham's three Wise Men we be." Whither in your bowl so free?
" To rake the moon from out the sea. The bowl goes trim ; the moo-.i doth shine. And our ballast is old wine ; And our ballast is old wine."
Who art thou, so fast adrift ?
"■ I am he tliey call Old Care." Here on board we will thee lift.
" No ; I may not enter there." Wherefore so ? " 'Tis Jove's decree In a bowl Care may not be ; In a bowl Care ma}- not be."
Fear ye not the waves that roll?
"No: in charmed bowl we swim." AVhat the charm that floats the bowl ?
" Water may not pass the brim. The bowl goes trim ; the moon doth shine. And our ballast is old wine; And our ballast is old wine."
Nightmare Ahhey.
THE WAR-SONG OP^ DINAS VAWB.
The mountain sheep are sweeter,
But the valley sheep are fatter; We therefore deemed it meeter
To cari-y off the latter. We made an expedition ;
We met a host and quelled it; We forced a strong position,
And killed the men who held it.
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.— 4
On Dyfed'.s richest valley,
Where henls of kiiie were browsing, We made a mighty sail}',
To iuriiish uur carousing. Fierce warriors rushed to meet us ;
AVe met them and o'erthrew them. They struggletl hard to beat us,
But we conquered them, and slew them.
As we drove our prize at leisure,
The King marched fortli to catcli us; His rage surpasse<l all measure,
But his people could not match us. He fled to his hall-pillars,
And, ere our force we led off, Some sacked his house and cellars,
While others cut his head off.
We there, in strife bewildering,
Spilt blood enough to swim in; We orphaned many children,
And widowed many women. The eagles and the ravens
Were glutted with our foemen : The heroes and the cravens,
The spearmen and the bowmen.
We brought away from battle- -
And much their land bemoaned them — Two thousand head of cattle,
And the head of him who owned them : Ednyfed, King of Dyfed,
His head was borne before us; And his wine and beasts supplied our feasts,
And his overthrow our chorus.
Misfortioies of Elphin,
JOHN PEARSON.— 1
PEARSON, John, an English bishop, born in Snoring, Norfolk, Enghiud, in IGlo ; died in Chester, England, in 1686. He was educated at Kings College, Cambridge, of which he was made P'ellow^ in 1635. In 1639 he took orders, became prebendary of Ely, and Master of Jesus College in Cambridge in 1660; Professor of Divinity at Lady Margaret College in 1661 ; Master of Trinity in 1662 ; and was consecrated Bishop of Chester in 1672. He was the author of several works, the most important of whicii was the Exposition of the Creed (1659), which was frequently republished, abridged, and was translated into Latin by Arnold in 1691.
THE RESURRECTION.
Beside the principles of which we consist, and the actions which flow from us, the con- sideration of tlie things without us, and the natural course of variations in the creature, will render the resurrection j'et more highly probable. Every space of twenty-four hours teacheth thus much, in which there is always a revolution amounting to a resurrection. The day dies into a night, and is buried in silence and in darkness ; in tlie next morning it ap- peareth again and revivetli, opening the grave of darkness, rising from the dead of night; this is a diurnal resurrection. As the day dies into night, so doth the summer into winter; the sap is said to descend into the root, and there it lies buried in the ground ; the earth is covered with snow or crusted with frost, and becomes a general sepulchre ; when the spring appeareth, all begin to rise ; the plants and flowers peep out of their graves, revive, and grow, and flourish ; this is the annual resur- rection. The corn by which we live, and for want of which we perish with famine, is not- withstanding cast upon the earth, and buried in the ground, with a design that it may cor-
JOHN' I'I:AKS()X.-2
rn])t, and, being cornipted, may revive and inulti|)ly ; our bodies are fed by this constant experiment, and we continue this present life by succession of resurrections. Thus all things are repaired by corrupting, and preserved by ])erishing, and revived by dying; and can we think that man, the lord of all these things, wliich thus die and revive for him, should be detained in death as never to live again? Is it imaginable that God should thus restore all things to man, and not restore man to him- self? If there were no other consideration, but of the principles of human nature, of the liberty and remunerability of human actions, and of the natural revolutions and resurrec- tions of other creatures, it were abundantly sufficient to render the resurrection of our bodies highly probable.
We must not rest in this school of nature, nor settle our persuasions upon likelihoods ; but as we passed from an apparent possibility into a higli presumption and probability, so must we pass from thence into a full assurance of an infallil)le certaiiit}'. And of this, indeed, we cannot be assured but by the revelation of the will of God; upon His power we must con- clude that we ma\r, from His will that we shall, rise from the dead. Now, the power of God is known unto all men, and therefore all men may infer from thence a possibility; but the will of God is not revealed unto all men, and therefore all have not an infallible certainty of the resurrection. For the grounding of which assurance I shall show that God hath revealed the determination of His will to raise the dead, and that He hath not only delivered that inten- tion in His Word, but liath also several wa3's confirmed the same. — An Exposition on the Creed,
GEORGE WASHINGTON" PECK.— 1
PECK, George Washington, an American luimorist, born at Henderson. N. Y., in 1840. For several ye;i,rs he has been proprielor oi Peek's iSun, Milwaukee, of vviiich cily he was elected mayor in April, 1890. His books are : Peck's Com- pendium of Fun (1883), Peek's Suyishine (1884), Peek's Bad Boy (1885), Hoio George W. Peek put down the Rebellion (188t), and Peek's Boss Book (1888), all of which have been successful.
A TRYING SITUATION.
It was along in the winter, and the promi- nent church members were having a business meeting in tlie basement of the cliurcli to devise ways and means to pay for the pulpit furniture. The question of an oyster sociable had been decided, and they got to talking about oysters, and one old deaconess asked a deacon if he didn't think raw oysters would go further at a sociable than stewed oysters.
He said he thought raw oysters would go further, but they wouldn't be as satisfying. And then he went on to tell how far a raw oyster went once with him. He said he was at a swell dinner party with a lady on each side of him, and he was trying to talk to both of them, or carry on two conversations, on two different subjects at the same time.
They had some shell oysters, and he took up one on a fork — a large, fat one — and was about to put it in his mouth, when the lady on his left called his attention, and when the cold fork struck his teeth, and no 03'ster on it, he felt as though it had escaped, but he made no sign. He went on talking with the lady as though nothing had happened. He glanced down at his shirt bosom, and was at once on the trail of the oyster, though the insect had got about two minutes start of him. It had gone down his vest, under the waistband of his clothing, and h« was powerless to arrest ita progrees,
GEOIKiE WASmXGTOX PECK— 2
lie said he never felt how powerless he was until he tried to grab that oyster by placing his hand on his person outside his clothes ; then, as the ovster slipped around from one place to another, he felt that man was only a poor weak criMturi'.
The oyster, he observed, had very cold feet, and the more he tried to be calm and collected, the more the oyster seemed to walk round his vitals.
He says he does not know whether the ladies noticed the oyster when it started on its travels or not, but he thought, as he leaned back and tried to loosen up his clothing so it would hurry down towards his shoes, that they winked at each other, though they might have been wink- ing at something else.
The oyster seemed to be real spry until it got out of reach, and then it got to going slow as the slippery covering wore off, and by the time it had worked into his trousers'leg, if was going very slow, though it remained cold to the last, and he hailed the arrival of that oyster into the heel of his stocking with more delight than he did the raising of the American Hag over Vicksburg, after the long siege. — Pecli's Gonvpendium of Fioi.
SILVIO PELLICO.— 1
PELL 1 CO, Silvio, an Italian poet, born at tSalazzo iu 1789; died near Turin in 1854. While quite young he achieved a high reputation, especially by his dramatic poems, Lasdamia and Francesca da Rimini. He took part in the Carbonari movement, the object of which was to put down the Austrian domination in Italy. In 1820 he was arrested, brought to trial, and con- demned to death ; but the sentence was commuted to fifteen years' close confine- ment in a prison of state. His first [ilace of incarceration was at Milan, from which he was removed to an island near Venice, and finally to Spielberg, in Moravia. His health broke down under the hardships to which he was subjected, and in 1830, when apparently near the point of death, he was Unrated by Imperial order, and took up his residence at Turin. The year after his liberation he put forth Mij PriaouH. containing an account of his ten years' in- carceration. This was immediately trans- lated into sevei-al langniiges — into English by Thomas Roscoe. Pellico subsequently published several works in verse and prose ; one of the latest being a treatise on The Duties of Man. — Among his fellow-pri.>- oners at Spielberg was his friend Pietro Maroncelli.
THE DEAF-AND-DUMB BOY.
At tlie commencement of my captivity I was fortunate enougli to meet witli a friend. It was neitliertlie governor nor any of the Under- sailors, nor aii.y of the lords of tlie Process Chamber; but a poor deaf-and-dumb boy, five or six years old, the offspring of tliieves who had paid the penalty of the law. This wretched little orphan was supported by the police, with
SILVIO PELIJCO.— 2
several otlier boys in the same condition of life. They all dwelt in a room opposite my own, and were only permitted to go out at certain hours to breathe a little air in the yard. Little Deaf-and-Diimb used to come under my window, smiled, and made his obeisance to me. I threw him a piece of bread ; he looked, and gave a leap of joy ; then ran to his companions, divided it, and returned to eat his own share under a window. The others gave me a wist- ful look from a distance, but ventured no neai-er, while the deaf-and-dumb boy expressed signs of sympathy for me ; not, T found, affected, out of mere selfishness. Sometimes he was at a loss what to do with the bread I gave him, and made signs that he had eaten enough, as also had his companions. When he saw one of the undfci--jailers going into my room, he would give him what he had got from me, in order to restore it to me. Yet he continued to haunt my window, and seemed to rejoice whenevel* I deigned to notice him.
One day the jailer permitted him to enter my prison, when he instantly ran to embrace my knees, actually uttering a cry of joy. I took him up in my arms, and lie threw his little hands about my neck, and lavished on me the tenderest caresses, llow much affection in his smile and manner ! How eagerly I longed to liave him to educate, to raise him from his ab- ject condition, and snatch him, perhaps, from utter ruin. I never learned his name; he did not know himself tliat he had one. He seemed always liappv, and I never saw him weep except once, and that was on his being beaten, I know not why, by the jailer. Strange that he should be thus happy in a receptacle of so much pain and sorrow ; yet he was as light-hearted as the son of a grandee. From him I learned at least that the mind need not depend on situations, but may be rendered independent of external things. Govern the imagination, and we shall be well wherever we happen to be placed.
3fy Prisons,
SILVIO PELLK'O.— 3
THE HEKOISM OF MAROXCELLI.
Maroncelli wus far more unfortunate than myself. Altliougli iny sympathy for him caused me real pain and suffering, I was glad to be near him, to attend to all his wants, and to perform all the duties of a brother and a friend. It soon became evident that his ulcered leg would never heal. He considered his death as near at hand, and 3'et he lost nothing of his admirable calmness or his courage. The sight of all his suffering was at last almost more than I could bear.
Still, in this deplorable condition, he con- tinued to compose verses; he sang, he con- versed— and all this he did to encourage me by disguising a jjart of what he suffered. He lost his jjower of digestion, he could not sleep, was reduced to a skeleton, and very frequently swooned away. Yet the moment he was restored he rallied his spirits, and, smiling, told me not to be afraid. It is indescribable what he suf- fered during many months. At length a con- sultation was held. The head-physician was called in ; he approved of all his colleagues had done, and took his leave without express- ing any decided opinion. A few minutes after, the superintendent entered, and said to Ma- roncelli : —
" The head-phj'sician did not venture to ex- press his real opinion in your presence; he feared you would not have fortitude to bear so terrible an announcement. I have assured him, however, that 3-ou are possessed of courage."
" I hope,'- replied Maroncelli, *•' that I have given some proof of it in bearing this terrible torture without howling. Is there anything he would propose ? "
" Yes, sir — the amputation of the limb. Only, perceiving how much 30ur constitution is broken down, he hesitates to advise you. Weak as you are, could you support the operation ? Will you run the risk — "
" Of dying? And shall I not equally die if I go on, besides enduring this diabolical tor- ture ? "
SILVIO PELLICO.— 4
'' We will send off an account, then, direct to Vienna, soliciting ])ern]ission ; and the mo- ment it conies, you sliall have your leg cut off."
" What ! Does it require a permit for this ?"
" Assuredly, sir," was the rejjly.
In about a week a courier arrived from Vienna, with the permission for the amputa- tion. My sick friend was carried from his dungeon into a larger room. He begged me to follow him. "I may die under the knife," said he, "and I should wish, in that case, to expire in your arms." I promised, and was permitted to accompany him.
The iSacrament was first administei'ed to the prisoner ; and we then quietly awaited the arrival of the surgeon. Maroncelli filled up the interval by singing a hj'mn. At length they came. One was an able surgeon, sent from Vienna to superintend the operation ; but it was the privilege of our ordinary prison apothecary, and he would not yield it to the man of science, who must be contented to look on.
The patient was placed on the side of a couch, with his leg down, while I supported him in my arms. It was to be cut off above the knee. First an incision was made to the depth of an inch — then through the muscles ; and the blood flowed in torrents. The arteries were next taken up, one bj' one, and secnired by ligaments. Next came the saw. Tliis lasted some time; but Maroncelli never uttered a cr}'. When he saw them carrying his leg away he cast on it one melancholy look ; then, turning towards the surgeon, he said, " You have freed me from an enemy, and I have no monej' to give you." He saw a rose placed in a glass in a window, and said. '' Ma}' I beg you to bring hither that flower ?" I brought it to him, and he then offered it to the surgeon, with an in- describable air of good-nature: "See, I have nothing else to give you in token of \\\y grati- tude." The surgeon took it as it was meant, and even wiped away a tear. — My Prisons.
WILLIAM PENN.— 1
PENN, William, founder of the Colon) of reiinsylvania, bom at London in 1644 ; died in 1718. Of his public career we shall not speak further than to say that, although from about his twentieth year he was an earnest and consistent Quaker, he was one of the most accomplisiied gentle- men of his time, and was in liigh favor at Court during the latter part of the reign of Charles II., and the whole of that of James II. Macaulay, alone among historians, speaks in dis[)araging terms of his personal character ; but there is good reason to believe that the acts of turpitude with which Macaulay charges him were committed by a '^ i\lr. Penne," an altogether different'person. The Life of William Penn has been exhaustively written by Hejtworth Dixon (1872), with a special view to lelut- ing the aspersions of Macaulay. Penn was a voluminous writer. His jSelect Works occupy 5 vols, in the edition of 1782, and three stout volumes in the nioie compact edition of 1825. Most of them relate directly to the history and doctrines of the Quakers. Besides these are his iVb Cross, JVo Crown {1669), written during an eight months' imprisonment for the offence of preaching in public, and Fruits of a Father''s Lov<i, being wise counsels to his children, published eight years after his death.
ox I'liTDE OF NOBLE BIKTII.
That i^eople are generally proud of tlieir persons is too visible and troublesome, especially if they have any pretence eitlier to blood or beauty. ]>ut as to the first : What a pother lias this noble blood made in the world : antiquity of name or family' ; whose father or mother, great-grandfather or great-grandmother was best descended or allied ? What stock or of
WIIJJAM PENN. -2
wJKit flan tlicy cainc nf '.' What coat-of-arms tlicy liavi' ? Which had of right the [)recedeiu;e ? lUit, niethiiiks, notliiiig of man's folly lias less show of reason to palliate it. What matter is it of whom any one descended who is not of ill-fame; since 'tis his own virtue that must raise or vice depress him ? An ancestor's character is no excuse to a man's ill actions, but an aggravation of his degeneracy' ; and since virtue comes not by generation, I am neither tlie better nor the worse for my forefathers : no, to be sure not, in God's account ; nor should it be in man's. Nobody would endure injuries easier, or reject favors the more, for coming from the 4iands of a man well or ill descended.
I confess it were greater honor to have liad no blots, and with an hereditary estate to have had a lineal descent of worth. B«t that was never found ; not in the most blessed of families upon earth ; I mean pious Abraham's. To be descended of wealth and titles fills no man's head with brains, or heart with truth. Those qualities come from a higher cause. 'Tis vanity, then, and most condemnable pride, for a man of bulk and character to des])ise another of less size in the world and of meaner alliance, for want of them ; because the latter may have the merit, where the former has only tlie effects of it in an ancestor; and, though the one be great by means of a forefather, the other is so too, but 'tis by his own ; then, pray, which is the bravest man of the two? — JVo Cross, JVo Crovm.
PATERXAL COUNSELS.
Betake yourselves to some honest, industrious course of life : and that not of sordid covetous- ness, but for example, and to avoid idleness. And if you change j'onr condition and marry, choose with the consent of your mother, if living, or of guardians, or those who have the charge of yon. Mind neither beauty nor riches, but the fear of the Lord, and a sweet and amiable disposition, such as 3'ou can love above •fhis w-orldj and that may tnake your habit<vtwtl8
WILLIAM PENX.— 8
plea.-jant and desirable to you. And, being married, be tender, affectionate, patient, and nioek. Live in the fear of the Lord, and He will bless you and your offspring.
Be sure to live within compass ; borrow not, neither be beholden to any. Knin not your- selves by kindness to others ; f..i- that exceeds the due bounds of friendship, neither will a true frieiid expect it. Let your industry and your parsimony go no further than for a sufficiency f<jr life, and to make a provision for your children if the Lord gives you any, and tliat in moder- ation. I charge j'ou help the poor and needy. Let the Lord have a voluntarj- share of your in- come for the good of the poor, both in our society and others: f..r we are all his creatures ; remembering that he that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord. . . .
Be humble and gentle iu your conversation ; of few words, I charge you, but always pertinent when you speak ; hearing out before you attempt to answer, and theu speak as if you would persuade^ not impose. Affront none, neither avenge tlie affronts that are done tn you ; but forgive, and you shall i)e forgiven of your Pleavenly Father. Tn making frieiul.- consider well first ; and when you are fixed, be true, not wavering by reports, nor deserting in afidiction ; for that becometh not the good and virtuous. Read my JVo Cross, JVo Crown. There is instruction.
And as for you who are likely to be concerned in the government of Pennsylvania and my parts of East Jersey — especially the first — I do charge you before the Lord God and His lioly angels that you be lowly, diligent, and tender, fearing God, loving the people, and hating covet- ousness. Let justice have its impartial course, and the law free passage. Though to your loss, protect no man against it ; for yoi: are not above the law, but the law above you. Keep upou the square, for God sees you ; therefore do your duty, and be sure 3^0 vv see with your ■ own eyes, and- hear with ypi;{f pwnear*". — JF'ruUi qfa Father' % Lotie,
SAMUEL PEPYS.— 1
PEPYS, Samuel, an English writer, born in 1633, died in 1703. Though he was of an ancient family, his early years were passed in humble circumstances. When about twenty-seven he obtained a small post in the exchequer ; and he grad- ually passed from one position to a better one during the reigns of Charles II. and James II., becoming in the end Secretary to the Admiralty. He was also President of the Royal Society from 1684 to 1686. The accession of William III., in 1688, oc- casioned his I'etirement from public life. He left to Magdalen College, Oxford, his rare collection of prints, books, and manuscripts, Avhich is known as the *' Pepysian Library." He is known almost wholly by his Diary ^ kept ill short-hand from 1660 to 1669, when the failure of his eyesiglit compelled him to abandon it. This Diary was first partly deciphered about 1820, and portions of it were printed in 1825, edited by Lord Braybrooke. This, however, was greatly abridged, and even mutilated. Several editions, each more full than the preceding one, have subsequently been published. The Diary is simply a mass of pure gossip, but so naively told, as to be exceedingly readable. Indeed without it we should hardly be able to obtain a picture of life in England during the early years of the reign of Charles IL Among the earliest entries in the Diary is tlie following, made in 1660, when Pepys was just beginning to get his head fairl}' above water.
MRS. PEPYS GKTS A NEW PETTICOAT.
August 18, 1660. Towards Whitefriars by water. I landed my wife at Whitefriars, with £5 to buy her a petticoat, and my father per- suaded lier to buv a most fine cloth of 2Gs. a
SAMUEL PEPYS.— 2
yard, and a rich lace, that the petticoat will come to £5; but she doing it very innocentl}-^ I could not be angry. ... 19, Lord's Bay. This morning Sir W. Batten, Pen, and mysell went to church. We heard j\Ir. Mills, a very good preacher. Home to dinner, where my wife had on the new petticoat that she bouglit yesterday, which indeed is a very fine cloth and a fine lace ; but it being of a light color, and the lace all silver, it makes no great show.
Among the later entries is the following, dated May 1, 1069, which shows that Pepys was getting along in tlie world, and had indeed set up a coach.
MR. AND MRS. PEPYS TAKE A DRIVE.
Up betimes. Called by my tailor, and there put on a sunnuer suit the first time this year: but it was not my fine one of flowered tabby vest, and colored camelott tunique, because it was too fine with the gold lace at the bands, and I was afraid to be seen in it; but put on the stuff suit I made last year, which is now re- paired, and so did go to the office in it, and sat all the morning, the day looking as if it would be foul. At noon got home to dinner, and there find my wife extraordinary fine, with her flow- ered tabby gown that she made two 3'ears ago, now laced extremely pretty ; and, indeed, was fine all over, and mighty earnest to go, though the daj' was extremely lowering ; and she would have me put on my fine suit, which I did. And so anon we went alone through the town, with our iiew liveries of serge, and the horses' manes and tails tied with red ribbons, and the stand- ards gilt with varnish, and all clean, and green reins, that the people did mightilj' look upon us. And the truth is, I did not see any coach more prett^', though more ga}', than ours all that da}'.
lint we set out, out of humor — I because Bet- ty, whom I expected, was not come to go with us ; and my wife that I would sit on the same seat with her, which she likes not, being so
SAMUEL PErVS.— a
fine. And she tlicn expected to meet Slieres, wliicli we did sec in the i'ell Mell ; and, against my will, I was forced to take him into the coach ; but was sullen all day almost, and little com- j^laisant ; the day being unpleasing, though the Park full o/ coaches, but dusty, and windy, and cold, and now and then a little dribbling of rain. And what made it worse, there were so many hackney-coaches as spoiled the sight of the gentlemeirs; and so we had little pleasure. But here was Mr. VV. Batelier and his sister in a borrowed coach by themselves, and I took them and we to the Lodge ; and at the door did give them a syllabub, and other things ; cost me 12s., and pretty merry.
MR. PEPYS DOES NOT LIKE " HUDIBRAS."
December 26, 1G62. To the wardrobe. Hither come Mr. Battersby ; and we falling into discourse of a new book of drollery in use, called lludihras, I would needs go find it out, and met with it at the Temple: cost me 2s. 6cl. But when I come to read it, it is so silly an abuse of the Presbyter Knight going to the wars, that I am ashamed of it ; and, by-and- by meeting at Mr. Townsend's at dinner, I sold it to him for 18(/. Fthraarii 6. To Lincoln's Inn Fields ; and it being too soon to go to dinner, I walked up and down, and looked upon the outside at the new theatre building in Covent Gardens, which will be very fine. And so to a bookseller's in the Strand, and there bought Hudlbras again ; it being certainly some ill- humor to be so against that which all the world cries up to be the example of wit ; for which I am resolved once more to read him, and see whether I can find it or no. N'ooernber 28. To St. Paul's Churcli-yard. and there looked up- on the Second Part of Iludibras, which I buy not, but borrow to read, to see if it be as good as the first, which the w^orld cried so mightily up; though it hath not a good liking in me, though I had tried by twice or three times reading to bring myself to think it witty.
SAMUEL PEPYS.— 4
MR, PEPYS GETS A GLIMPSE AT KOYALTY.
Hearing that the King and Queen are rode abroad with the Ladies of Honor to tlie Park; and seeing a great crowd of galhmts sta3'ing there to see their return, I also staid, walking up and down. Bj-and-by the King and Queen, who looked in tliis dress — a white laced waist- coat, and a crimson short petticoat, and her hair dressed fWc« negligence — mighty pretty; and the King rode hand-iu-hand with her. Here was also my Lad}^ Castlemaine, who rode among the rest of the ladies ; but the King took, methought, no notice of her; nor when she 'light did anybody press — as she seemed to ex- pect, and staid for it — to take her down. She looked mighty out of humor, and had a yellow plume in her hat, which all took notice of, and yet is very handsome, but ver>^ melancholy ; nor did anybody speak to her, or she so much as smile or speak to anybody.
I followed them up into Whitehall, and into the Queen's presence, where all the ladies walk- ed, talking and fiddling with their hats and feathers, and changing and trying one another's by one another's heads, and laughing. But it was the finest sight to me, considering their great beauties and dress, that I ever did see in all my life. But, above all, Mrs. Stewart in this dress, with her hat cocked and a red plume, and her sweet eyQ, little Roman nose, and ex-r cellent taille, is now the greatest beauty I ever saw, I think, in my life ; and, if ever woman can, do exceed my Lady Castlemaine — at least in this dress. Nor do I wonder if the King changes, which I verily believe is the reason 0% his coldness to my Lady Castlemaiue,
JAMES GATES PERCIVAL.—l
PERCIX'AL, Jainiks Gates, an Ameri- can scholar and poet, born at Berlin, C^onn., in 179.3, tiled at Hazel Green, Wis., in 1856. lie graduated at Yale in 1815 ; was for a time engaged in teaching, then studied medicine at Philadelphia. In 1824 he was appointed Assistant Surgeon in the U. S. army, and was detailed as Professor of Chemistry in the Military Academy at West Point. In 1827 he took up his resi- dence at New Haven, and engaged in va- rious kinds of literaiy work. In 1835 hewas ap})ointed to make a geological and mineral survey of the State of Connecticut, but his Report did not appear until 1842. Be- tween 1841 and 1844 he contributed to dif- ferent journals metrical versions of Ger^ man and Slavic lyrics. In 1854 he was appointed Geologist of the State of Wis- consin. His first Report was published in 1855, and he was engaged in the prep- aration of his second Report at the time of his death. At various intervals be- tween 1821 and 1843 he put forth small volumes of poems. A complete edition of liis Poems was published in 1859 ; and his Life has been written by Rev. J. H. Ward (1866).
THE CORAL GROVE.
Deep in tlie wave is a coral grove, Where the piu'ple mullet and gold-fish rove; Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, That never are wet with the falling dew, But in bright and cliangeful beaut}' shine, Far down in tlie green and glassy brine. The floor is of sand like the mountain drift,
And the pearl-sliells spangle tlie flinty snow; From coral rocks the sea-plants lift
Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow.
The water is calm and still below,
JAMES GATES PERCIVAL. -2
'Fov tlie winds and waves are absent tliere,
xVnd tlie sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless depths of the upper air.
There, with its waving blade of green,
The sea-flag streams throiigli the silent water,
And th3 crimson leaf of tlie dulse is seen To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter.
There, with a light and easy motion,
The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep sea;
And the j-ellow and scarlet tufts of ocean
Are bending like corn on the upland lea.
And life, in rare and beautiful forms.
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, And is safe when the wrathful spirit of storms
Has made the top of tlie wave his own. And when the ship from his fury flies,
Wliere the myriad voices of ocean roar. When the wind-god frowns in the mui-ky skies,
And demons are waiting tlie wreck on shore; Then far below in the peaceful sea
The purple mullet and gold-fish rove, Where the waters murmur tranquilly,
Through the bending twigs of the coral grove
THE pleasurp:,s of the studext.
And wherefore does the student trim his lamp And watch his lonely taper, when the stars Are holding their high festival in heaven. And worshipping around the midnight throne ? And wherefore does he spend so patiently, In deep and voiceless thought, the blooming
hours Of 3-outli and joyance, while the blood is warm. And the heart full of buoyancy and fire ?
He has his pleasures; he has his reward: For there is in the company of books — The living- souls of the departed sage, And bard and hero ; there is in the roll Of eloquence and history, which speak The deeds of early and of better days : In these an4 in the visions that arise
JAMES GATES PEIiCIVAL.— 3
Sublime in luidniglit musings, aud array Ot)nceptions of the wise and good — There is an elevating influence Tliat snatciies us awhile from earth, and lifts The spirit in its strong aspirings, where Sui)erii)r beings till the court of heaven. And thus his fancy wanders, and has talk With bigli imaginings, and jjictures out Communion with the worthies of old times. . . .
With eye upturned, watching the many stars, And ear in deep attention fixed, he sits, Communing with himself, and with the world, The universe around him, and with all The beings of his memory and his hopes, Till past becomes reality, and jo^'s That beckon in the future nearer draw, And ask fruition. Oh, there is a pure, A hallowed feeling in these midnight dreams.
And there is pleasure in the utterance Of pleasant images in })leasant words, Melting like melody into the ear, And stealing on in one continual flow, Unruffled aud unbroken. It is joy Ineffable to dwell upon the lines That register our feelings, and portray. In colors always fresh and ever new, Emotions that were sanctified, and loved. As something far too tender, and too pure For forms so frail aud fading.
CHARLES PERRA.ULT.-1
PERRAULT, Charles, a French au- thor, born in Paris in 1628 ; died in 1703. When nine years of age he was sent to the College de Beauvais, his father assisting him in his studies. He liked exercises in verse and disputes with his teacher of phi- losophy better than regular study, and at length, accompanied by an admiring fellow- student named Beaurin. left the college halls for the gardens of the Luxembourg, where they laid out their own course of study, which they followed for three or four years.
A burlesque translation of the Sixth Book of the jEyieid was the first fruit of this self-appointed curiiculum, the young translator's brother Claude, architect of the Louvre, illustrating it with Lidia-ink drawings.
In 1651 Perrault was admitted to the bar; but, finding the law wearisome, he accepted a clerkship under his brother, the Receiver-General of Paris, This posi- tion he held for ten years, employing his abundant leisure in readinof and makingr verses, which were handed about among his friends and gained him considerable reputation. He also planned a house for his brother, and thus attracted the notice of Colbert, who, in 1663, procured his ap- pointment to the superintendence of the ro3-al buildings, which he exercised for twent}' years. On his retirement he de- voted himself to authorship, and to the education of his children. \\\ 1686 he pub- lished : Saint Paulin Evesque de Nole with an Ode aux Nouveaux Convertis. The next year he offended Boileau and others by com- paiing the ancient poets unfavorably with those of his own time, in a poem, Le Steele
CHARLES PERRAULT.— 2
de Louis XTV., read before the Academj', to which he had been adiuitted in 1671. Tlie "battle of ihe books"' raged furi- ously, and Perrault defended his position in Le Parallele des Anclens et des Mo- dei'nes (1688). His last work, Eloges des ITo)n>Hes Illustres du Siecle de Louis XIV., finely illustrated with })ortniits, was pul)- lished in two volumes (1696-1701). His fame rests u[)on none of these works. In 1604 he brought out a small volume of tales in verse, contributed, in the intervals of literary warfare, to a society paper of Paris and to a magazine published at the Hague. It was followed in 1697 bj' a vol- ume of prose tales entitled, Histoires et Contes du Temp Passe^ bearing on its title- page the name of Perrault's young son, P. Darmancour, and containing tiiose im- mortal favorites of childhood, TJce Sleep- ing Beauty in the Wood^ Little Red Riding' hood. Blue Beard., Puss in Boots., Cinder- ella. Riquet with the Tuft, and Hop o' Mg Tliumh. These tales, gathered from the lips of nurses and peasants, and told in a charming style for the amusement of child- hood, will keep Perrault's fame alive as long as there are ciiildren. As Andrew Lang has said : " By a curious revenge, Per- rault, who had blamed Homer for telling, in the Odyssey, old wives' fables, has found, in old wives' fables, his own im- mortality."
THK AWAKENING.
At the end of a hundred years the son of the reigning king, wlio belonged to another family than that of tlie sleeping princess, being out hunting in these parts, asked what tower it was that he saw rising out of a wide, dense wood not far away. Everybody answered ac-
CHARLES PERRAULT. 3
cording to what lie had heard — some that it was a haunted castle, otiiers tliat it was a meeting place for witches, others that it was the residence of an ogre, to which he carried all tlie children that he caught, in order that he might devour them at leisure, and without fear of being followed, since no one else could find a way through the forest. While the prince stood in doubt what to believe, an aged peasant spoke : " My prince,*' said he, " more than fif t}- years ago I heard my father say that the loveliest princess in the world lay asleep in that castle, and that when she had slept a hundred years she should be awakened by a king's son who was destined to be her husband." At these words the prince was on fire to see the end of the adventure. He instantly resolved to penetrate the forest whatever he might find there. Scarcely had he taken a step forward when the great trees, the thickets, and the thorns, parted to let him pass. He went towards the castle which stood at the end of a long avenue, and felt somewhat surprised when he saw that not one of his train had been able to follow him, the branches hav- ing sprung together again as soon as he had passed.
When he entered the courtyard he was for a moment chilled with horror. A frightful silence reigned; the image of death was everywhere ; what seemed the corpses of men and animals lay stretched upon the ground. The prince knew, however, by the pimpled noses and red faces of the porters, that they were only asleep, and he saw by the few drops of wine which still remained in their glasses, that they had fallen asleep while drinking. He passed through a large court paved with marble, as- cendecl the stairs, entered a saloon where the guards, with their muskets on their shoulders, stood in a row, snoring their loudest, traversed several rooms filled with ladies and gentlemen, some bolt upright, some seated, but all sound asleep, came to a chamber gilded everywhere, and saw upon a bed with parted curtains the
CHARLES PERRAULT.-4
most beautiful sight lie had ever beheld — a sleeping princess not more than fifteen or six- teen years old, and of dazzling, almost divine, loveliness. He approached her and fell upon his knees beside her. Then, the enchantment being ended, the princess awoke, and fixing her eyes tenderly upon him said: "Is it you, my Prince ? You have been awaited a long time." The prince, charmed by her words, and still more by the tone in which they were spoken, knew not how to manifest his joy and grat- itude : he assured her that he loved her better than himself. Their speech was broken ; the}' wept, there was little eloquence, a great deal of love. He was more embnrrassed than she, be- cause he was taken by surprise, while she had had time to think of what she should say to him ; for it seems (though we are not told how) that the good Fairy had filled her long sleep with pleasant dreams. They talked for four hours without saying half of what they had to say.
In the meantime the whole palace had awakened with the princess. Everybody re- sumed his work, but, as the others were not lovers, they were all dying with hunger. The first maid of honor became impatient, and called loudly to the princess that dinner was ready. The prince aided the princess to rise. She was magnificently dressed, but he kept it to himself that she was dressed like his grand- mother. Nevertheless she was not the less beautiful. The}' entered an apartment lined with mirrors and there supped. The officers of the princess's household served them, and the violins and hautboys played excellent old pieces, although it was a hundred years since they had played anything. — The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood.
NOEA PERET— 1
PERRY, NoEA, an American poet, born in Massachusetts in 1841. In eaiiy rears she removed to Providence, R. I., where her father was a merchant. Her educa- tion was received at home and in private schools. Ac the age of eigliteen slie beo-an to write, and her first serial story, i^o.sa^mt:? Neivcomh, appeared in Harper's 3Iagazine in 1859-60. For several years she was the Boston correspomleut for the Chicao-o Tribune and tlie Providence Journal. She is a frequent contributor to the St. Nicholas and otlier magazines, and is the author of After the Bull, and other Poems (1874, new ed. 1879), The Tragedy of the Unexpected, ayid Other Stories (1880), Book of Love Stories (1881), For a Woman (1885), Xeiv Sonr/s and Ballads (1886), and A Flock of Girls (1887).
AFTER THE BALL.
They sat and combed their beautiful hair,
Their long briglit tresses, one by one, As they laughed and talked in tlie chamber there,
After tlie revel was done. I'lly tliey talked of waltz and quadrille;
Idly they laughed, like other girls, Who, over the fire, when all is still,
Comb out their braids and curls. Robes of satin and Brussels lace,
Knots of flowers and ribbons too, Scattered about in every place.
For the revel is tlu'ough. And Maud and Madge in robes of white,
The prettiest nightgowns under the sun, Stock ingless, slipperless, sit in the night,
For the revel is done. Sit and comb their beautiful hair,
Those wonderful waves of brown and gold, Till the fire is out in the chamber there.
And the little bare feet are cold.
NORA PERRY.— 2
Then out of the gathering winter chill, All out of the bitter St. Agnes weather,
While the fire is out and the house is still, Maud and Madge together, —
Maud and Madge in robes of wiiite,
The prettiest nightgowns under the sun,
Curtained awaj'- from the chilly night. After the revel is done, —
Float along in a splendid dream, To a golden gittern's tinkling tune,
While a thousand lustres shimmering stream, In a palace's grand saloon.
Flashing of jewels and flutter of laces, Tropical odors sweeter than musk,
Men and women with beautiful faces. And eyes of tropical dusk;
Aud one face shining out like a star. One face haunting the dreams of each,
And one voice sweeter than others are. Breaking into silvery speech, —
Telling, through lips of bearded bloom.
An old, old stor^' over again, As down the royal bannered room,
To the golden gittern's strain,
Two and two, they dreamily walk, W^hile an unseen spirit walks beside.
And, all unheard in the lover's talk. He claimeth one for a bride.
0, Maud and Madge, dream on together. With never a pang of jealous fear!
I'or, ere the bitter St. Agnes weather Shall whiten another year,
Robed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb, Braided brown hair aiul golden tress,
There'll be only one of 3-ou left for the bloom Of the bearded lips to press, —
Only one for the bridal pearls.
The robe of satin and Brussels lace,
Onl}' one to blush through her curls At the sight of a lover's face.
NORA PERRY.— 3
O, beautiful Madge, in your bridal wbite,
For you the revel has just begun ; But for lier who sleeps in your arms to-nigbt,
The revel of life is done ! But, robed and crowned with your saintly bliss,
Queen of heaven and bride of tlie sua, O, beautiful Maud, you'll never miss
The kisses another hath won !
PROMISE AND FULFILMENT.
When the February sun Shines in long slant rays, and the dun Gray skies turn red and gold, And the winter's cold Is touched here and there With the subtle air That seems to come From the far-off home Of the orange and palm, With their breath of balm, And the bluebirds' throat Swells with a note Of rejoicing gay, Then we turn and saj', " Wh^', Spring is near ! "
When the first fine grass comes up
In pale green blades, and tlie cup
Of the crocus pushes its head
Out of its cliilly bed.
And purple and gold
Begin to unfold
In the morning sun,
While rivulets run
Where the frost had set
Its icy seal, and the sills are wet
With the drip, drip, drip.
From the wooden lip
Of the burdened eaves
Where the pigeon grieves,
And coos and woos,
And softly sues.
Early and late.
Its willing mate.
NORA PER 11 Y.— 4
Then, witli rejoicing gay, We turn to say,
"Why Sprii.g is here!"
When all the brown eartli lies, Beneath the blue, briglit skies, Clothed with a mantle of green, A shining, varying sheen, And the scent and sight of the rose, And the purple lilac-blows, Here, there, and everywhere. Meet one and greet one. till One's senses tingle and thrill With the heaven and earth-born sweetness, The sign of the earth's completeness. Then lifting our voices, we say, " Oil, stay, thou wonderful day 1 Thou promise of Paradise, That to heart and soul doth suffice. Stay, stay ! nor hasten to fly When the moou of thy month goes by. For the crown of the seasons is here,— June, June, the queen of the year ! "
HESTER BROWNE.
O, you are charming, Hester Browne, So do not, every time you pass The little looking-glass.
Find some disorder in your gown 1
In every ringlet of your hair,
In ever}' dini[)le of your cheek. Whene'er j'ou smile or smiling speak,
There lurks a cruel, charming snare. . . .
What use to preach of "better things," And tell her she is false as gay ? Be still, and let her have her day,
And count her lovers on her rings.
And let her break a hundred hearts,
And mend them with a glance again; Be sure the pleasure heals the pain
Of little Hester's cruel arts.
THOMAS SAUGEANT PERRY.— 1
PERRY, Thomas Sargeant, an Amer- ican author, born at Newport, K. I., in 1845. He is a grandson oi Oliver Hazard Perry, the famous naval hero, and through his mother a descendant of Benjamin Franklin. After graduation at Harvard in 1866, he studied at the Sorbonne and College of France, and at the Universit}'' of Berlin. From 1868 till 1872 he taught German in Harvard, and was instructor of English there from 1877 till 1881. lu 1872-4 he was editor of the North Ameri- {can RevieiD. His works include : Life and Letters of Francis Lieher (1882), English Literature in the Eighteenth Century (1883), From Opitz to Lessing (1885), The Evolution of the Snob (1887), and History of Grreek Literature (1888).
EVOLUTION IN LITERATURE.
There is a vague notion that the mysterious thing caHed genius is capable of evoking some- thing out of nothing by direct exercise of crea- tive power. While this idea has vanished from science, it still survives in those departments of human activity which have not yet come fully under scientific treatment, and poets and painters enjoy in the popular estimation a priv- ilege which has been denied to nature. For one thing, the fact that the Greek and Roman classics came down to us only in fragments — and tiu'se the best — confirmed those who studied oidy those two litei-atures in the belief that the great works of the Greeks were the result of a sort of lucky chance, and that the Romans, when they wanted a tragedy, or comedy, or epic, set a safe fashion by sitting down and co[)yiiig their predecessors. They had no better opportunity to observe the growth of literature than has the hasty traveller who studies the histor}- of painting in the Tribune of the Uffizi, in which the masterpieces are crowded together,
THOMAS SARGEANT PERRY.— 2
and the splendor of liuinaii ucliievenient strikes the diized and delighted spectator without the intrusion of any reminder of tlie toil by which it was attained, or of the forgotten failures that make it clear that not for us alone is success rare and difficult. In Greek literature, espe- cially, we have only the mountain-peaks, and not the expanse of plain, so that we cannot draw the map with all the fulness that is pos- sible when we have to do with modern countries. And, too, just as Darwin would never have hit upon his theory of evolution if the fauna he had seen had consisted of nothing but horses, cows, elephants, and dogs, so it would have been with the students of the classics. It was the blend- ing lines of the pigeons that first led him to observe the interchangeability of species ; and with all the evidence at our command in mod- ern literature, we detect the wonderful connec- tion between the writings of different coun- tries. The growth of the bourgeoisie in Eng- land was the inspiring cause of the family novel and the domestic drama. This advance in civilization spread to other countries, and with tlie same results. The English and Ger- man inntations of the "Spectator " carried the new feeling, which was furthered by the study of nature ; and to the eye of science there is nO material difference between a kin-g and a peas- ant— or at least since all discoveries are gradual — between a king and a respectable citizen. Love of the peasant was still a sentimental weakness, and, we may say, 3'et awaits the time when the peasant shall discover his own im- portance. The exaggerated insistence on purely national traits was not a fault of Les- sing's, who was too truly a man of the eighteenth centur}' not to perceive that civilization was a single task in which all European nations were allies. They all spoke one language, though in different dialects. Later, the feeling of na- tional differences was intensified by abhorrence of the superficiality of cosmopolitanism, and, distinctly, by the struggle for life against the
THOMAS SARGEANT PERRY.— 3
French ; but now we are learning once more the great lesson tliat we are all one family. Wi)en science has made this clear, we shall see that the leaven has again been working in literature, and meanwhile even a hasty exami- nation will show that there is free trade — in thought at least — throughout the civilized world.
The change from a drama that represented only kings and heroes of princely birth to one that concerned itself with human beings, was as inevitable a thing as is the change in gov- ernment from desi)otism to democracy, with the growth of the importance of the individual. There is a certain monotony in civilization which may be exemplified in a thousand wa\'s. The large gas-pipes, for instance, that are laid in every street, and have the smaller branches running into every house, which again feed the ramifying tubes that supply the single lights, may remind one of the advance from the gen- eral to the particular which characterizes every form of human tliought. The classical trag- edies presented a few acknowledged truths vividly and strongly. Their simplicity and universality were of great service in inculcat- ing a few general principles, and no one can easily overestimate the educational value of a code that repetition made familiar to every student. Tlie mere mention of Caesar's name brought with it a picture of ambition. Scipio stood for self-control ; Medea for the stricken mother. Lucretia became the incarnation of matronly honor ; Virginia, that of maidenly purit3\ Europe was civilized by the experi- ence of other races, and the study of the classics was a labor-saving device which deserves all the credit that is not a mere echo of what people imagine that they ought to say to show their cultivation. But in the last century' the time began to appear when authority' ceased to serve its long-lived purjiose as an educational means. What the classics — and especially the Latin classics — could teacth had been thoroughly
THOMAS SAKGEANT PEKRY.— 4
learned. We know that now it would be diffi- cult to oppose a tyrant by culling liini Tarquin, and we have as dim a feeling tor the Roman pro[>er names as we have after a bountiful din- ner on the twent3'-second of December fur the sufferings of the Pilgrim fathers. What Rome could do for the world had been assimilated, — to eradicate it would have been barbarous ; — but to go on repeating it as if it contained the whole truth that man could attain to would have been intellectual bondage. Consequently men simply left it on one side and took another path. There were several inviting them. The populace had already found pleasure in the con- templation of itself and of very unclassical heroes, and the habit spread. Moreover, with democracy in the air, what were kings but con- venient formulas? !N^ot in vain, as Boswell's father told Dr. Johnson, did Cromwell "gar kings ken that they had a lith in their necks;" and when kings could he robbed of their influ- ence, to sa}' notliing of their lives, by their people, it became evident that those who held the power were also objects of interest. The lessons they had to learn were not the vague truths that Rome could teach, but the applica- tion of these truths to modera couditious.— From. Oj[>itz io J^essing.
PE'rRARCII. -1
PETRARCH (Francesco Petrarca),
an Italian ecclesiastic, diplomatist, scliolar, and poet, boin at Arezzo in 1304 ; died at Arqua, near Padua, in 1374 After begin- ning the study of law, he entered the eccle- siastical profession, and in time was made Arclideacon of Mihm. Of tiie public career of Petrarch only a few words need here be said. During almost the entire years of liis manhood he was the associate of Doges, Princes, Kings, Emperois, and Popes, by whom he was repeatedly appointed to dis- charge important diplomatic functions in Italy, France, and Germany.
In his twenty-third year he first saw the laily whom he has immortalized as '' Laura," and conceived for her a love which not only lasted through the one-nnd-twenty years in Avhich she lived, but endured through the almost thirty remaining years of his life. It has been held by some that Laura was an altogether imaginarj' person- age ; but it is now pretty well ascertained that she was the daughter of a Provencal nobleman, was married not unliappily, and at the time of lier death was the mother of a lai'ge family. Beyond these facts we know little of her except what we gather from the Sonnets of Petrarch, in which it is quite probable that her beauty and her virtues are over-painted. There is not the sliglitest reason to suppose that she at all reciprocated tb.e intense passion with which she inspired him. But neither this passion nor his ecclesiastical profession prevented Petrarch from forming a permanent con- nection with another woman, who bore him several children (the eldest born when he was three-and thirty) for whom he cared as sedulously as if they had been born in lawful wedlock.
PETRARCH.— 2
Petrarch was one of the foremost scholars of liis age. He wrote and spoke Latin with perfect ease, and had a fair mastery of Greek. He may be said to have been one of the four creatois of the Itahan hmo-naofe — doino- for it much wliat Luther did for the German. Among his numer- ous Latin works'* aie several elhical essnys which Cicero miocht not liave been ashamed to have written, and Africa, an epic poem upon which he was occupied at intervals for many years, and wliicli he considered to be the work by wliich he would be remembered in after ages.
Of his Italian poems the longest is 1 Trionfi,'" The Triumphs " of Love, Chastity, Death, Fame, Time, and Eternity. The general purport of the poem is that Love triumphs over Man ; Chastity over Love ; Time over Chastity ; Fame over Time ; and Eternity over Fame. The otiier Italian poems are collected together under the title, Rima di Francesca Petrarca. They consist of some three liundred Sonnets^ most of which relate directlv to Laura, and some Uiy Odes.
The bibliography of Petrarch is very ex- tensive. As early as 1820 Marsano had collected a library of nine hundred vol- umes relating to Petrarch, and tlie number has since been much increased. The most pretentious of the English Lives of Petrarch is that of Thomas Campbell (2 vols., 1841), A very convenient edition of the Italian poems, consisting of translations by fully a score of persons, is to be found in "Bohn's Poetical Library " (1860), to which are prefixed, the most important portions of Campbell's Biography. Of the more than two hundred Sonnets relating to Laura we
PETKAKCH.— 3
give sufficient to afford a fair view of the entire series.
Laura's beauty and virtues.
The Stars, the Elements, and the Heavens have made,
With blended powers, a work beyond com- pare;
All their consenting influence, all their care, To frame one perfect creature lent their aid, Whence Nature views her loveliness displayed
W^ith sun-like radiance divinely fair;
Nor mortal eyes can that pure splendor bear: Love, sweetness, in unmeasured grace arrayed
The very air, illumed by her sweet beams, Breathes purest excellence ; and such delight.
That all expression far beneath it gleams. No base desire lives in that heavenly light,
Honor alone and virtue ! Fancy's dreams Never saw passion rise refined by rays so bright. Transl. o/'Capel Lopft.
ON THE death of LAURA.
Alas ! that touching glance, that beautiful face!
Alas ! that dignity with sweetness fraught I
Alas ! that speech which tamed the wildest thought ! That roused the coward glory to embrace ! Alas! that smile which in me did encase
That fatal dart, whence here I hope for nought !
Oh ! hadst thou earlier our regions sought, The world had then confessed thy sovereign
grace
In thee I breathed ; life's flame was nursed by thee, For it was thine ; and since of thee bereaved, Each other woe hath last its venomed sting; My soul's best joy ! when last thy voice on me In music fell, my heart sweet hope conceived ; Alas ! thy words have sped on Zephyr's wings.
Transl. of Wollastoj?.
PETRARCH.-
LAURA IX HKAVEX.
0 my sad e\'es ! our sun is overcast —
Nay, borne to lieaven, and there is shining,
Waiting our coining, and perchance repining At our (U'lay ; there shall we meet at last, And there, mine ears, lier angel words float past,
Those who best understand their sweet divining.
Howe'er, my feet, unto tlie search inclining, Ye cannot reach her in those regions vast,
Why do ye then torment me thus ? for oh ! It is no fault of mine that ye no more
Behold and joyful welcome her below ; Blame Death — or rather praise Him, and adore
Who binds and frees, restrains and letteth go. And to the weeping one can joy restore.
Transl. of Wrottkslky.
A noble poem is the magnificent Can- zone, or Ode addressed to the Princes of Italy, exhorting them to la.y aside their jealous and petty quarrels and make can- mon cause against the German "• Barhai-i- ans," whose hands were even then laid heavily npon Italy.
TO THE PRIXCES OF ITALY.
0 my dear Italy ! though words are vain
The mortal wounds to close, Unnumbered, that thy beauteous bosom stain,
Yet it may soothe my pain
To sigli forth Tiber's woes And Arno's wrongs, as on Po's saddened shore Sorrowing I wander and my numbers i)our. Ruler of Heaven ! b\- the all-pitying love
That coulil thy Godhead move To dwell a lonely sojourner on earth. Turn, Lord, on this th}' chosen land thine eye.
See, God of charity, From what light cause this cruel war hath birth, And the hard hearts by savage discord steeled.
Then, Father, from on high Touch by my humble voice, that stubborn wrath may yield.
PETEARCH.— 5
Ye, to whose sovereign hand the Fates confide
Of this fair land the reins — This land for which no pity wrings your breast — Wh}' does the stranger's sword her plains in- fest ?
That her green fields be dyed, Hope ye, with blood from the Barbarians' veins,
Beguiled by error weak ? Ye see not, though to pierce so deep ye boast, Who love or faith in venal bosoms seek :
When thronged your standards most, Ye are encompassed most b\' hostile bands, Of hideous deluge, gathered in strange lauds.
That rushes down amain, O'ersvhelms our every native lovely plain !
Alas I if our own hands Have thus our weal betrayed, what shall our cause sustain ?
Well did kind Nature — guardian of our State — ■
Rear her rude Alpine heights, A lofty rampart against German hate ; But blind Ambition, seeking his own ill,
With ever restless will, To the pure gates contagion foul invites.
Within the same strait fold The gentle flocks and wolves relentless throng, Where still meek innocence must suffer wrong:
And these — oh, shame avowed I Are of the lawless hordes no tie can hold.
Fame tells how Marius's sword
Erewhile their bosom gored ; Nor has Time's hand anght blurred their record
proud ! When they who, thirsting. stooj)ed to quaff
the flood, With the cool waters nursed, drank of a com- rade's blood.
Great Caesar's name I pass, who o'er our plains I'fMired forth the ensanguined tide
Drawn by our own good swords from out tlieir veins.
But now — nor know I what ill stars preside — Heaven holds thio land in hate !
PETRARCH. —6
Tor yoTi the thanks wliose hands control the helm !
You, whose rash feuds despoil Of all the beauteous earth the fairest realm ! Are you im[)elle(l by Judgment, Crime, or Fate,
To oppress tlie desohite ? From broken fortunes, and from humble toil,
The hard-earned dole to wring,
AVhile from afar ye bring Dealers in blood, bartering their souls for hire ?—
In truth's great cause I sing. Nor hatred nor disdain my earnest lays inspire.
jS^or mark ye yet — confirmed by proof on proofs- Barbarian's perfidy.
Who strikes in moekery, keeping Death aloof?
Shame worse than aught of- loss in honor's eye !
While ye, with honest rage, devoted pour Your inmost bosom's gore ! — Yet give one hour to thought.
And you shall learn how little he can hold
Another's glory dear, who sets his own at naught. 0 Latin blood of old!
Arise, and wrest from obloquy thy fame, Nor bow before a name
Of hollow sound, whose power no laws enforce ! For, if Barbarians rude Have higher minds subdued. Ours, ours the crime ! Not such.
Ah ! is not this the soil my foot first pressed ?
And here in cradled rest Was I not softly hushed ; here fondly reared ? Ah ! is not this ray country, so endeared
By every filial tie ; In whose lap shrouded both my parents lie!
Oh ! b}' this tentier thought — Your torpid bosoms to compassion wrought —
Look on this people's grief ! Who, after God, of yon expect relief.
And if ye but relent, Virtue shall rouse her in embattled might,
Against blind fury bent;
PETRA.RCH.--7
Kor long shall doubtful hang the unequal fight,
For no — tlie ancient flame Is not extinguislied yet, that raised the Italian name.
Marie, Sovereign Lords ! how Time, with pin« ion strong.
Swift hurries life along ! Even now behold ! Death presses on the rear : We sojourn but a day — the next are gone !
The soul disrobed, alone, [fear.
Must shuddering seek the doubtful pass we
Oh, at the dreaded bourne Abase the lofty brow of wrath and scorn (Storms adverse to the eternal calm on high!)
And ye, whose cruelt}^ Has sought another's harm, by fairer deed Of heart, or hand, or intellect aspire
To win the honest meed Of just renown — the noble mind's desire —
Thus sweet on earth the stay ! [way.
Thus to the spirit pure unbarred is Heaven's
My song! with courtesv, and number's sooth,
Thy daring reasons grace ; For tiiou the miglity, in their pride of place,
Must woo to gentle ruth, Whose haughty will long evil customs nurse, Ever to truth averse ! Thee better fortunes wait, Among the virtuous few, the truly great ! Tell them — but who shall bid my lessons
cease ? Peace ! Peace ! on thee I call ! Return, O heaven-born l^eace !
Transl. of Lady Dacre.
THE DAMSEL OF THE LAUREL.
Young was the damsel under the green laurel, Whom I beheld moi-e white and cold than snow By sun unsniitten, many, many years. I found her speech and l()vel3' face and hair So pleasing that I still before my eyes Have and shall have them, both on wave and shore.
PETRARCH.— rf
My thoughts will only then liave come to shore When one green leaf shall not be found on
laurel ; !Nor still can be my heart, nor dried my eyes, Till freezing fire appear and burning snow. So many single hairs make not my hair As for one day like this I would wait years.
But seeing how Time flits, and fly the years. And suddenly Death bringeth us ashore, Perhaps with brown, perhaps with hoary hair, I will pursue the shade of that sweet laurel Through the sun's fiercest heat and o'er the
snow Until the latest day shall close my eyes.
There never have been seen such glorious eyes, Either in our age or in eldest years ; And the^'^ consume me as the sun does snow: Wherefore Love leads my tears, like streams
ashore, Unto the foot of that obdurate laurel, Which boughs of adamant hath and golden hair.
Sooner will change, I dread, ray face and hair Than truly will turn on me pitying e^'es Mine Idol, v/hich is carved in living laurel: For now, if I miscount not, full seven years A-sighing have I gone from shore to shore. By night and day, through drought and through the snow.
All fire within and all outside pale snow, Alone with these my thoughts, with alter'd
hair, I shall go weeping over every shore, — Belike to draw compassion to men's eves, Not to be born for the next thousand years, If so long can abide well-nurtured laurel.
But gold and sunlit topazes on snow Are pass'd b}' her pale hair, above those eyea By which my years are brought so fast ashore. Transl. of Chakles Bagox Caylky.
THOMAS PEYTON— I
PEYTON, Thomas, an English poet, born in 1595 ; died, probably, about 1625. He was the t^on and heir of Thomas Peyton of Royston, Cambridgeshire ; studied at Camljridge, and at eighteen was entered as a stutlent of law at Lincoln's Inn, Lon- don ; but his father dying not long after, lie came into possession of the ample pa- ternal estates. Li 1620 lie put fui-th the First Pan of The G-lasne of Time, which was foUowed by a Second Part in 1623. At the close a continuation was promised; and as none ever appeared, it is inferred that the author died not long after the publication. The fate of tiie poem was somewliat sin- guhir. Its very existence was forgotten for well-nigh two centuries, until 1816, when the library of Mr. Brindley was sold. Li it was a copy of the Glasse of Time, which was purchased b}^ Lord Bolland for£21 17s. This copy is now in the British jVIuseum. It was read by a few persons, and in 1860 the North American Review contained an article embodying many extracts, and say- ing in conclusion : — " This book should be reprinted. Its usefulness would be mani- fold While it impressed more
deeply the thoughtful mind with the ma- jestic superiority of Milton, it would give to this obscure poet his rightful honor — that of having been the first to tell in epic verse the story of Paradise Lost.'' About 1870, Mr. John Lewis Peyton, of Virginia, then residing in London, caused a perfectly accurate copy to be made of the Glasse of Time, and this was finally pub- lished at New York in 1886. The [>oem in the original edition consists of two hand- some volumes, quite correctly printed, though somewhat defective in the matter
THOMAS PEYTON.— 2
of punctuation, and not perfectly uniform in spelliuf^. The full title is, The Glasse of Time, in the First and Second Ages. Divinely handled. By Thomas Pej/ton, of Lhieolnes Inne., Gent. Seene and Allowed. London : Printed hij Bernard Alsop, for Laivrence Chapman., and are to he sold at his Shop over against Staple Line. To the poem, which conuiiiis about 5,500 lines, are prefixed four long dedicatory " Inscriptions " — the first to King James I., the second to Prince Charles, soon to be King Charles I., the third to Francis Lord Verulam, Lord Chan- cellor of England, the fourth to Tlie Reader. From this last we take a few lines : —
•' Unto the Wise, Religious, Leanietl, Grave, JuLlicious lieatler, out this work I send, The lender sighted tliat small knowledge have, Can little lose, but much their weaknesse mend : And generous spirits which from Heaven are sent, May solace here, and find all true content. . . ,
" Peruse it well for in the same may lurke More (obscure) matter in a deeper sence. To set the best and learned wits on worke Than hath as yet in many ages since, AVitliin so small a volumne beene Or on the sudden can be found and seene." . . .
We question whether during the first half of the seventeenth century (or, say, be- tween 1615 and 1GG5), there was produced in the English language an}' other poem of merit equal to thQGlasse of Time. Its in- terest to us, liowever, lies mainly in the fact that it contains the seminal idea of Paradise L^ost. Let it be borne in mind that when TJie Glasse of Time was a new book, and easily to be had, young Milton was an eager buyer of books ; that Peyton's poem antedates that of Milton by more than forty years, and it will appear beyond question that much of the thought, and not a little of the expression of Paradise Lost
THOMAS PEYTON.— 3
was boiiovved, perhaps quite unconsciotisly, after so long an iuteivai, from The Grlasse of Time.
THE INVOCATION TO THE HEAVENLY MUSE.
Urania, soveraigne of the muses nine Inspire my tlioughts vvitli sacred works divine, Come down from heaven, within my Temples
rest. Inflame my heart and lodge within my breast, Grant me the story of this world to sing, The Glasse of Time upon the stage to bring, Be Aye within me by th^^ powerful might, Governe my Pen, direct my speech aright. Even in the birth and infancy of Time, To the last age, season ni}' holy rime : 0 lead me on, into my soul infuse Divinest work, and still be thou my muse, That all the world may wonder and behold To see times passe in ages manifold, And that their wonder may produce this end, To live in love their future lives to mend.
ADAM AND EVE IN PARADISE.
Now art thou compleut (Adam) all beside Ma}' not compare to this thy lovely bride, Whose radiant tress in silver rays do wave, Before thy face so sweet a choice to have, Of so divine and admirable mould More daintier farre than is the purest gold, And all the jewels on the earth are borne, With those rich treasures which the world adorn e. . . .
As the two lights within the Firmament, So hath thy God his glory to thee lent, Compos'd tliy body exquisite and rare. That all his works cannot to thee compare. Like his owne Image drawne thy shape divine, With curious pencil shadowed forth thy line: Within thy nosti-ihls blown his holy breath, Iinpal'd thy head with that inspiring wreath, Which binds thy front, and elevates thine eyes To mount his throne above the lofty skyes,
THOMAS PEYTON.— 4
Sumtnons his angels in tlieir winged order, About tliy browes to be a sacred bordei-: Gives them in charge to lionour tliis liis frame, All to admire and wonder at the same.
THE TEMPTATION AND THE FALL.
But Lucifer that soard above tlie skye, A'ld thought himself to e(|ual God on high, Envies th.y fortunes and tiiy glorious birth, In being fram'd but of the basest earth, Himself com[)acted of pestiferous fire, Assumes a Snake to execute liis ire, Winds him within that winding crawling beast, And enters first whereat thy strength was
least. . . . Adam what made thee wilfully at first, To leave thy olfspring, to this day accurst; So wicked foul, and overgrowne with sinne; And in thy j)erson all of it beginne? That hadst thou stood in innocence frani'd. Death, Sin, and Hell, the world and all thou
hadst tamed. Then hadst thou been a Monarch from thy
birth ; God's oid\' darling both in Heaven and Earth: The world and all at thy command to bend, And all Heaven's creatures on thee t'attend. Tlie sweetest life that ever man could live; What couldst thou ask but God to thee did give? Protected kept thee like a faithful warden. As thy companion in that ])leasant garden ; No canker'd malice once th\' heart did move ; Free-will thou liadst ondude from him above: What couldst tliou wish, all worlds content and
more ? Milton says that none of the fabled para- dises could compare with Eden ; not even —
" Mount Amara, tliough this by some supposed True Paradise, inider tlie Etliiop line By Nilus licail, enclose,;! with shining rock, A whole day's journey high."
Peyton has more than a hundred lines about ]\Iount Amara, not a lew of which are worthy even of Milton.
THOMAS PEYTON.— 5
MOUNT AMARA.
What may we think of tliat renowned hiTl, Whose matchless fame full all the world doth
fill: Within the midst of Ethiopia fram'd, In Africa and Amara siiW nam'd, [dine,
Wiiere all the Gods may sit them dovvji and Just in the east, and underneath the line, Pomona, Ceres, Venus, Juno cJiast, And all the rest their eyes have ever cast Upon this place so beautiful and neat, Of all the Earth to make it still their seat : A cristal river down to JVilus purl'd, Wonder of nature, glory of this world. . . . 0 Aniara which thus hast been beloved, Still to this day thy foot was never moved : But in the heat of most tempestuous warres, God hem'd thee in with strong, unconquered
barres.
But Peyton, foredating Milton, places Eden elsewhere than on Mount Amara. He is rather inclined to give it a more definite location than Milton has ventured. But the description of this possible Eden in The Glasse of Time will not suffer greatly by a comparison with the one in Paradise Lost.
THE TERRESTELVL PARADISE.
The goodly region in the Sirian land.
Is thought the place wherein the same did
stand Where rich Damascus at this day is built, And Ilabels blood by Caine was spilt : The wondrous beauty of whose fruitful ground, The groat content which some therein have
found. The sweet increase of that delightful soil. The damask roses and the fragrant flowei-s, The lovely fields and pleasant arbord bowers, And every thing that in al»undance breed, Have made some think this was the place in- deed e Where God at first did on the Earth abide. With holy Adam and his lovely bride.
THOMAS PEYTON.— 6
The expulsion from Paradise is told quite differently in The Grlasse of Time and in Paradise Lost. In the former it is marred by not a few trivial or uncouth illustrations. But omitting these — as we have done — the scene is certainly a strik- ing one.
THE EXPULSION FROM PAKADISE.
Adiini and Eve about the glistening walls Of P.iradise, witli mournful cries and calls, llepeiitiiig sore, lamenting much their sin, Longing but once to come againe within. In vaine long time about the walls did grope, Not in despair as those are out of hope, But all about in every place did feele, To find the Door with all their care and paine, To come within their former state againe. . . .
Even so is Adam in that urcked place, The flaming sword still blazing in his face, On every side the glistering walls do shine, Tlu' sun himselfe just underneath the line. The radiant s|)lendor of those Cherubims Dazles, amates, his tender ej'e sight dims. . . . When man}' daj's are past away and spent, Finding at last they mist of their intent : And that their toil and travell to their paine Was frustrate quite, their labour still in vaine : Much discontented for their sad mishap. Yet once againe upon the walls they rap. Then weepe and howle, lament, yearne, cry
and call, But still no helpe nor answer had at all. Porplext in mind, and dazled with the light, With grief and care distempered in their sight- Amazed both just as the wind them blew, To Paradise they had their last adieu : Like those are moapt, with wandering hither,
thither. From whence they went, themselves they knew
not whither.
EMILY PFEIFFER. -1
PFEIFFER, Emily, a British author, born in Wales; died in England in 1890. She married Mr. Pl'eiffer, a German, and settled in London. Her first volume published was Kaliinera^ a Midsummer Nlghis Dream. G-erarcVs Monument, and other PoeyuH appeared in 1873. It was followed by Poems (1876), Glan-Arlach : his Silence and Song (1877), Quarter- man's Grace, and other Poems (1879), Under the Aspens (1882), The Rhyme of the Lady of the Bock (1884), Sonnets (1887), Floivers of the Night (1889). Mrs. Pfeiffer also published a record of her travels, entitled Flying Leaves from Last and West (1885), and Women's Work (1888).
ORIENTAL COLOR.
But not arrayed in tliis lutninous pallor [inooiiliglit] does the scenery of this Eastern village most linger in the mind. I hope I may some day again feel satisfied with the color of the world as it is my every-day lot to see it; at i)resent 1 am driven to injurious comparison. The " decoration," all tliat is scenic in life and
its surroundings, is in so richly and so
variously tinted that after it the harmonies of an English spring appear monotonous. The mountains, near or far, take upon tliemselves so soft a depth of azure; that sea, still bhie, but ligliter and warmer in tone than tlie Medi- terranean, is like a turquoise melting iu the .sun; the lingering leaves of the planes and ma[)]es hang upon the distance in rich grada- tions of red and 3-ellow gold ; the oranges, amid their dark leaves, burn like colored lamps ; the darker obelisks of the cypresses rise solemnly in their places and soar into the thin blue air; the ruddy limbs of the pines glow as if with inward fire, while their m3'riad organ-pipes are thrilled aloft by the passing breeze ; the soft
EMILY PFEIFFER.— 2
flat tints of the feathery olive are a tender go- between, and harmonize all. This at midday; but there comes a sunset, and, later, a twilight hour, when the light which you thought had never been on land or sea or slcy, seems mys- teriously to overspread all. This would more often occur as we sat at close of day in the saloon opening upon the balcony. The sun, as he prepared himself for his plunge into the bay, would pass from glory to glory; upon a sky transparent as chrysolite, clouds would flash into sudden view, disappear, and re-form like molten jewels. Not the horizon alone, but the entire heaven to the zenith and beyond it, was alive and in motion with his parting mes- sage. It was as if. the work of the dav being done, be had taken this hour for his own delight. Then the words would die upon our lips as we watched, the glory would deepen, the clouds melt into the amber light, the tall spires of the cypresses grow solemnly dark, the outlines of the mountains become firm, their color mys- teriously blue. At this moment that window over the divan was as the background of a Holy Family by Lorenzo di Credi, and among the shadows which deepened around us the kneel- ing angels who took part in their evening wor- ship would not have seemed wholly out of place. — Flying Leaves from East and West.
PA.ST AND FUTURE,
Fair garden where the man and woman dwelt, And loved and worked, and where, in work's
reprieve, The sabbath of each day, the restful eve, They sat in silence with locked hands, and felt The voice which compassed them, a-near, a-far, Which murmured in the fountains and the
breeze. Which breathed in spices from the laden trees. And sent a silvery shout from each lone star. Sweet dream of Paradise ! and though a dream,
EillLT PFEIFFER.— 3
One that has helped us when our faith was weak ; We wake and still it holds us, but would seem
Before us, not behind, — the good we seek, — The good from lowest root which waxes ever, The golden age of science and endeavor.
THE CHILDBKN OF LIGHT.
All ye child-hearted ones, born out of time, Born to an age that sickens and grows old, Born in a tragic moment, dark and cold, Fair blossoms opening in an alien clime, Young liearts and warm, spring forward to your prime, But lose not that child-spirit glad and bold Which claims its heii'shipto that tenderfold Of parent arms, and, witli a trust sublime. Smiles in Death's face if only Love be near; Oh, worshipful young hearts that love can move, And loveless loneliness contract with fear.
Hold fast the sacred instincts which approve A fatherhood divine, that clear child eyes May light the groping progress of the wise.
AMOXG THE GLACIERS.
Land of the beacon-hills that flame up white. And spread as from on high a word sub- lime, How is it that upon the roll of time Thy sons have rarely writ their names in light ? Land where the voices of loud waters throng, Where avalanches sweep the mountain's
side, Here men have wived and fought, have worked and died. But all in silence listened to thy song. Is it the vastness of the temple frowning
On changing symbols of the artist's faith Is it the volume of the music drowning
The utterance of his frail and fleeting breath, That shames all forms of worship and of
praise, Save the still service of laborious days ?
JOHN JAMES PIATT.— 1
PIATT, John James, an American poet, born at Milton, Iiul., 1835. After serving an apprenticeship in a printing office he became connected with the Louis- ville Journal. In 1861 he received an ap- pointment in the Treasury De[)artment at Washington ; after six years he resigned this position, and became a journalist at Cincinnati. In 1871 he was made Librarian to the House of Representatives at Wash- ington, and in 1882 was appointed U. S. Consul at Cork, Ireland. In 1860 ap- peared a volume of Poems by Two Friends (J. J. Piatt and W. D. Howells). Among his other volumes are: The Nests at Wash- itu/ton (1861), Poems of Sunshine and Firelight (ISm), Western Windoivs (1869), Landmarks (1871), Poems of House and Home (1875), The Children out of Doors (1884), At the Holy Well (1887), Idylls and Lyrics of the Ohio Valley (1888).
THE MORNING STREET.
Alone I walk the morning street, 'Filled with the silence vague and sweet; All seems as strange, as still, as dead, As if unnumbered years had fled, Letting the nois\' Babel lie Breathless and dumb against the sky. The ligiit wind walks with nie alone, Where the hot day flame-like was blown, Where the wheels roared, the dust was beat; The dew is on the morning street.
Wliere are the restless throngs that pour Along this mighty corridor While the noon shines ? — the hurrying crowd, Whose footsteps make tlie cit}' loud — The mj-riad faces — hearts that beat No more in the deserted street ? Those footsteps in their dreaming maze- Cross thresholds of forgotten days j
JOHN JAMES PIATT.— a
Those faces brighten from the years In rising suns long set in tears ; Those hearts — far in the Past they beal^ Unheard within the morning street.
A city of the world's gray prime, Lost in some desert far from Time, Where noiseless ages, gliding through, Have only sifted sand and dew ; Yet a mysterious hand of man Lying on the haunted plan. The passions of the human heart. Quickening the marble breast of Art, Were not more strange to one who first Upon its ghostly silence burst Than this vast quiet, where the tide Of life, upheaved on either side, Hangs trembling, ready soon to beat With human waves the morning street.
Ay, soon the glowing morning flood
Breaks through the charmed solitude.
This silent stone, to music won,
Shall murmur to the rising sun;
This busy place, in dust and heat,
Shall rush with wheels and swarm with feet,
The Arachne-threads of Purpose stream
Unseen within the morning gleam ;
The Life shall move, the Death be plain ;
The bridal throng, the funeral train
Together, face to face, shall meet,
And pass within the morning street.
THE fisherman's LIGHT-HOUSE.
A picture in my mind I keep.
While all without is shiver of rain;
Warm firelit shapes forgotten creep Away, and shadows fill my brain.
I see a chill and desolate bay
That glimmers into a lonely woodj
Till, darkling more and more away, It grows a sightless solitude.
JOHN JAMES PIATT.— 8
No cheerful sound afar to hear, No cheerful siglit afar to see ; —
The stars are shut in heavens drear, The darkness liolds the world and mO.
Yt't, hark ! — I hear a quickening oar,
Tlie burden of a happy song, That echo keeps along tlie shore
In faint repeating cliorus long.
And whither moves he tlirougli the night, The rower of my twilight dream?
A com[)ass in his heart is bright, And all his pathway is a gleam !
No light-house leaning from the rock
To tell the sea-tossed mariner Where breakers, fiercely gathering, shock—
A liery-speaking messenger!
But see, o'er water lighted far,
One steadfast line of splendor Cornel- ls it in heaven the evening-star? The fisher knows his light at home !
And which is brighter — that which glows His evening star of faith and rest.
Or that which, sudden-kindled, goes To meet it from his eager breast ?
THE SIGHT OF AXGKLS.
The angels come, the angels go,
Through open doors of purer air ;
Their moving presence oftentimes we know, Jt tlirills us everywhere
Sometimes we see them ; lo, at night,
Our eyes were shut, but oj)en seem ; The darkness breathes a breath of wondrous light, And thus it was a dream.
I*oems of House and Home,
SARAH MORGAN PIATT. 1
PIATT, Sarah Morgan (Bryan), an Ameiicau poet, born at Lexington, Ky., in 1836. She is the grand-daughter of Mor- gan Bryan, an early settler in Kentucky. Slie was graduated at Henry Female Col- lege, Newcastle, Ky., in 1854, and married rhe poet, John James Piatt, in 1861. Her t-arly poems were printed in the Louisville Journal and in the Neiv York Ledger. Her writings include : A Woman s Poems (1871), A Voyage to the Fortunate IsleSy and Other Poems (1874), That New World, and Other Poems (1876), Poeins in Com- pany with Children (1877), Dramatic Per- sons and Moods (1879), An Irish Garland (1884), Selected Poems (1885), hi Prim- rose Time (1886), ChiUVs-World Ballads (1887), The Witch in the Glass (1889), and two books with Mr. Piatt, The Nests at Washington, and Other Poems (1864;, and The Children Out-of-Doors : a Book of Verses by Two in One House (1884).
OVKR A LITTLE BED AT KIGHT.
Good-bye, pretty sleepers of mine —
I Dever shall see 3'ou again ; Ah, never in shadow nor shine;
Ah, never in dew nor in rain ! In your small dreaming-dresses of white,
With the wild bloom you gathered to-day In your quiet shut hands, from the light
And the <lark you will wander away. Though no graves in the bee-haunted grass,
And no love in the boautiful sky, Shall take you as yet, you will pass,
With this kiss, through these tear-drops. Good-bye ! With less gold and more gloom in their hair,
When the bu.ls near have faded to flowers, Three faces may wake here as fair —
But older than yours are, by hours 1
SABAS MORGAN PlATT.— 2
Good-night, then, lost darlings of mine —
I never shall see you again; Ah, never in shadow nor shine ;
Ah, never in dew nor in rain.
A Wonian^s Poema.
IN PRIMROSE TIME.
(EAELY SPRING IN IRELAND.)
Here's the lodge-woman in her great cloak com- ing. And her white cap. What joy Has touched the ash-man ? On my word, he's humming A boy's song, like a boy ! He quite forgets his cart. His donkey grazes
Just where it likes, the grass. The red-coat soldier, with his medal, raises
His hat to all who pass ; And the blue-jacket sailor, — hear him whistle,
Forgetting Ireland's ills ! Oh, pleasant land — (who thinks of thorn or thistle ?) Upon your happy hills The world is out ! And, faith, if I mistake not. The world is in its prime (Beating for once, I think, with hearts that ache notj
In Primrose time.
Against the sea-wall leans the Irish beauty
With face and hands in bloom, Thinking of anything but household duty
In her thatclied cabin's gloom : — Watching the ships as leisurely as may be,
Her blue eyes dream for hours. Hush ! There's her mother — coming with the baby
In the fair quest of flowers. And her grandmother ! — -hear her laugh and chatter.
Under her hair frost-white !
SARAH MOiiGAN PIATT.— a
Believe nie, life can be a merry matter,
And common folli polite, And all the birds of heaven one of a feather,
And all their voices rhyme, — They singtheir merry songs, like one, together, In Primrose time.
The magpies fly in pairs (an evil omen
It were to see but one) ; The snakes — but here, though, since St Pat- rick, no man Has seen them in the sun ; The white lamb thinks the black lamb is his brother, And half as good as he ; The rival carmen all love one another.
And jest, right cheerily ; The compliments among the milkmen savor
Of pale gold blossoming ; And everybody wears the lovely favor
Of our sweet Lady Spring. And through the ribbons in a bright proces- sion Go toward the chapel's chime, — Good priest, there be but few sins for confession In Primrose time.
How all the tliildren in this isle of fancy
Whisper and laugh and peep I (Hush, pretty babblers ! Little feet be wary,
You'll scare them in their sleep, — The wee, weird people of the dew, who wither
Out of the sun, and lie Curled in the wet leaves, till the moon comes hither) —
The new made butterfly Forgets he was a worm. The ghostly castle.
On its lone rock and gray. Cares not a whit for either lord or vassal
Gone on their dusty way. But listens to the bee, on errands sunny.—-
A thousand years of crime May all be melted in a drop of honey la Primrose time.
SARAH M0K(;AN PIATT.— 4
AN EMIGRANT SIN<;ING FROM A SHIP.
Sing oil ; but there be lieavy seas between
The shores you leave and those Toward which you sail. Lonic back, and see how green, How green the shamrock grows; How fond your rocks and ruins toward you lean ; How bright the thistle blows, How red the Irish rose !
He waves his cap, and with a sorry jest,
Flees, singing like a bird That is right glad to leave its island nest.
I wondier if he heard. That time he kissed his hand back to the rest,
The cr}', till then deferred,
The mother's low last word.
Boy-exile, youth is light of heart, I ween;
And fairy-tales come true, Sometimes, perhaps, in lands we have not seen.
Sing on; the sky is blue. Sing on (I wonder what your wild words mean) ;
May blossoms strange and new
Drift out to welcome you !
Sing on, the world is wide, the world is fair,
Life may be sweet and long. Sing toward the Happy West — yet have a care
Lest Ariel join j-our song! (You loved the chapel-bell, you know a prayer ?)
If winds should will you wrong,
God's house is builded strong.
Sing on, and see how golden grain can grow,
How golden tree and vine. In our great woods ; how apple-buds can blow,
And robins chirp and shine And — in my country mav you never knoW;
Ah, me ! for yours to pine.
As I, in yours, for mine.
In Primrose Time.
SARAH MOKGAX PIATT.— 5
THE GIFT OF EMPTY HANDS.
There were two princes doomed to death 5 Each loved his beauty and liis breath : " Leave us our life, and we will bring Fair gifts unto our lord, the king."
They went together. In tlie dew, A charmed Bird before them flew. Through sun and storm one followed it: Upon the other's arm it lit.
A Rose whose faintest blush was worth All buds that ever blew on earth, One climbed the rocks to reach : ah, well, Into the other's arms it fell.
Weird jewels, such as fairies wear, When moons go out, to light their hair. One tried to touch on ghostly ground : Gems of quick fire the other found.
One with the Dragon fought, to gain The enchanted fruit, and fought in vain : The other breathed the garden's air. And gathered precious Apples there.
Backward to the imperial gate
One took his Fortune, one his Fate :
One showed sweet gifts from sweetest lands^
The other torn and empty hands.
At Bird, and Rose, and Gem, and Fruit, The King was sad, the King was mutej At last he slowly said, " My son, True pleasure is not lightly won.
"Your brother's hands, wherein youseo Only these scars, show more to me Than if a Kingdom's price I found In place of each forgotten wound."
FORGIVENESS.
Go show the bee that stung your hand The sweetest flower in all the land ;
Then, from its bosom she will bring The honey that will cure the sting.
JOHN PIEHl'ONT. I
PIERPONT. John, an American clergy- man and poet, born at Litchfield, Conn., ill 1785; died at Medford, Mass., in 1866. He graduated at Yale in 1801 : then went to South Carolina, where for four years he was tutor in a private faniil3\ • Returning to New England in 1809, he studied law and entered upon practice at Newbury- port, Mass. Subsequently he engaged in mercantile business at Baltimore in part- nersiiip with John Neal, who, in 1866, wrote a biographical sketch of him. This enterprise proving unsuccessful, he studied theology at Cambridge and in 1819 was ordained pastor of the Hollis Street (Uni- taiian) Church in Boston. He retired from this cliarge in 1845, and was subsequently minister of cliurchesat Troy, N. Y., and at Medford Mass., resigning the latter charge in 1856. At the outbreak of the civil war, although he had reached the age of seventy-six, he became chaplain of a Massa- chusetts regiment ; but he soon afterwards received an appointment in the Treasury Department at Washington, which lie held until his death. In 1816 he published the Airs of Palestine, the main purpose of which was to exhibit the power of music, combined with local scenery and national character in various countries of the world, more especially in Palestine. Most of his subsequent poems were composed for special occasions. He also prepared a series of Reading-Books for schools.
CLASSICAL AND SACRED THEMES FOR MUSIC.
Where lies our path ? Though many a vista
call, We may admire but cannot tread them all. Where lies our path ? — A poet^ and inquire
JOHN PIERPONT.— 2
What liills, what vales wliat streams, become
the lyre ? See, there Parnassus lifts his head of snow, See at his foot the cool Cephissus flow ; There Ossa rises, there Olj^mpus towers ; Between them Tempe breathes in beds of
flowers Forever verdant; and there Peneus glides Through laurels, whispering on his shady sides. Your theme is music. Yonder rolls the wave Where dolphins snatched Arion from his grave, Enchanted by his lyre. Cithseron's shade Is yonder seen, where first Amphion played Those potent airs that from the yielding earth Cliarmed stones around him, and gave cities
birth. And fast by Haemus Thraciaii Hebrus creeps O'er golden sands, and still for Orplieus weeps. Whose gor}^ head, borne by the streams along, Was still melodious, and expired in song. There Nereids sing, and Triton winds his
shell- There be thy path, for there the Muses dwell. No, no. A lonelier, lovelier path be mine : Greece and her charms I leave for Palestine. There purer streams through happier valleys
flow, And sweeter flowers on holier mountains blow I love to breathe where Gilead sheds hex
balm ; I love to walk on Jordan's banks of palm ; I love to wet my feet in Hermon's dews; I love the promptings of Isaiah's muse; In Carmel's holy grots I'll court repose. And deck m}^ mossy couch with Sharon's
4eathless rose.
Airs of Palestine.
DEDICATIOX HYMN.
[Writton for the dodifation of a now church in Plymouth, built upon the Rntuad occupied by the earliest Congre- gational Church in America.]
The winds and waves were roaring ; The Pilgrims met for prayer j
JOHK PIERP0NT.-3
And here, their God adoring^
They stood in open air. When breaking day they greeted,
And when its close was cahn, Tlie leafless woods rej)eated
The music of their psaloi.
Not thus, O God, to praise thee,
Do we, tliy children throng ; The temple's arch we raise Thee
Gives back our choral song. Yet on the winds that bore Thee
Their worship and their prayers. May ours come up before Thee
From hearts as true as tlieirs.
What have we, Lord, to bind us
To this the Pilgrim's shore ?— Their hill of graves beliind us,
Their watery way before ; The wintry surge that dashes
Against the rocks they trod; Their memory and their ashes :^
Be thou their guard, 0 God !
We would not. Holy Father,
Forsake this hallowed spot, Till on that shore we gather
Where graves and griefs are not } The shore where true devotion
Shall rear no pillared shrine. And see no other ocean
Than that of love divine.
THE DEPARTED CHILD.
I cannot make him dead !
His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study-chairj
Yet when my eyes, nOw dim
With tears, I turn to him, The vision vanishes ; he is not there.
I walk my parlor floor, And tlirough the open door I hear a footfall on tlie chamber stair;
JOHN PIERPONT.— 4
I'm stepping toward the hall To give the boy a call ; And then bethink me that he is not there.
I thread the crowded street;
A satchelled lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and colored hairi
And, as he's running by.
Follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that he is not there.
I know his face is hid
Under the coffin lid ; Closed are his eyes, cold is his forehead fair;
My hand that marble felt.
O'er it in prayer I knelt ; Yet my heart whispers that he is not there.
1 cannot make him dead !
When passing by the bed, So long watched over with parental care,
My spirit and my eye
Seek it inquiringly, Before the thought comes that he is not there
When, at the cool gray break Of day, from sleep I wake,
With m}' first breathing of tlie morning air, My soul goes up with joy To Him who gave my boy ;
Then comes the sad thought, that he is not there.
When at the day's calm close,
Before we seek repose, I'm, with his mothei-, offering up our prayer,
Whate'er I may be saying,
I am in spirit praying For our boy's spirit,, thougli he is not there.
Not there ! — Where, then, is he ?
The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear;
The grave that now doth press
Upon that cast-off dress Is but his wardrobe locked. He is not there.
JOHN PIEKPONT.— 5.
He livt's ! — 111 all the past
Pie lives ; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair;
In dreams I see him now,
And on his angel brow I see it written, ''Thou shalt see me there P'
Yes, we all live to God!
Father, Tliy chastening rod So help us, Thine aiilicted ones, to bear.
That, in the spirit-land,
Meeting at Thy right hand, 'Twill be our heaven to find that lie is there !
warren's address to the AMERICAN SOLDIERS.
Stand ! the ground's your own, my braves Will ye give it up to slaves ? Will ye look for greener graves ?
Hope ye mercy still ? What's the mercy despots feel ? Hear it in that battle-peal ! Head it on yon bristling steel I
Ask it, — ye who will.
Fear ye foes who kill for hire ? Will 3'e to your homes retire ? Look behind you ! they're a-fire 1
And, before you, see Who have done it ! — From the vale On they come ! — And will ye quail ?— Leaden rain and iron hail
Let their welcome be I
In the God of battles trust ! Die we may, — and die \ve must ; But, 0, where can dust to dust
Be consigned so well As wliere Heaven its dews shall shed On the martyred patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head.
Of his deeds to tell ! Airs of Palestine, and Other Poems,
PIERS PLOUGHMAN.— 1
PIERS PLOUGHMAN, the name given to a representative personage who appears in a poem of some 8,000 lines, the full title of wliich is The Vision of William concerning Piers Ploughman. The author was Wil- liam Langland, born in Shropshire about 1332 ; died about 1400. He was therefore a contemporary of Chaucer, being born four years later, but preceding him as a poet b}-- many years. Althougli the Vision was highly popular, vory little is known of the author. He seems to hive at least entered upon his novitiate as a monk, but he incidentally speaks of being married, so that he could not take Orders, although he wore the clerical tonsure. He appears for a while to have gained a precarious livelihood by sin^ino- the Penitential Psalms for the good of the souls of good people. The Vision was composed about 1362, and twice much enlarged some ten years later. It was the first considerable poem written 'in what may be strictly styled the English lan- guage. The distinguishing features of the versification are that it. is based upon the number of accented syllables ; that it is destitute of rhyme, but abounds in alliter- ation. We have called attention to this last feature by italicizing the alliterations, in the first three of the follo\Aing speci- mens, in which the original spelling is strictly retained. Piers Ploughman repre- sents himself as having fallen asleep among the Malvern Hills, where was presented to him a series of visions of the corruptions of society, especially among the religious orders. The poem was pj'intedfour times during the sixteenth century. It has been edited and printed three times during the present century, the last editor* being Professor Skeat.
PIERS PLOtlOHMAN-.— 2 Bkginxino of the vision.
In a somer 6'e.soii when ^oft was the 5oinie, I 6'Aope me in sAroudes as 1 a sAepe [lierd] were, In Aabit as a Aeremite iin/toly of werkes, TFent toyde in tliis ioor\d woudres to here. As on a Miiy movnyuge, on J/iiluerne hulles, Me b3^/el a/'erly of /airy, me thouhte; I was ?/;ery for^oandered, and loeut me to reste, Vnder a irode 6ank by a ioi-nes side ; And as I lay, and /ened, and /oked in the wateres, I sAjniber«Ml in a s^epyng, it swej-ed so mury. Then gan I meten a ;>/iarveloii.s sweven That I tviis in a ?oilderness, loist I never Wiere.
The personified Vices and Virtues come one after another, singly or in pairs, troop- ing before the sleeping Ploughman.
VISION OF MEKCY AND TRUTH.
Out of the i^est, as it toere, a i^ench as, me- thouhte, [looked;
Came icalking in the way to helle-?«ard she Jierc}'^ hight that maid, a mild thing withal, A full benign bind, and iuxom of speech. Her sister, as it .seemed, came softly walking ^ven out of the east, and westward she looked, A full comely creature, Truth she hight, I^ov the virtue that her /bllowed ajfeard was
she never. When these »«aidens metten, il/ercy and Truth Either axed of other of this great wonder, Of the dxw and of the c/arkness.
A SELLER OF INDULGENCES.
There preached a pardoner, as he a joriest
were ; And said that himself might assoilen heiu all Of/alse hede of /listing, of avowes y-broken. Xewed men /eked it well, and /iked his words; Comen up Znieeling to A'issen his bulls. He touched hem with his Jrevet, and Cleared
their eyen, [brooches,
And raught with his ragman, nnges, and
f lERS PLOUGHMAN".— 3
But the Vision foreshadows a speedy end to these ecclesiastical abuses.
THE COMING REFORMATION.
Ac now is Religion a rider a roamer about,
A leader of lovadays, and a loud-buyer,
A pricker on a palfrey from manor to manor;
An lieap of hounds as he a lord were.
And but if his knave kneel that shall his cope
bring, He lowred on him, and asketh him who taught
him courtesy ? Little had lords to done to give him lond from
her heirs To Religious, that have no ruth though it rain
on her altars. In many places they be Parsons by hemself at
ease ; Of the poor have they no pity ; and that is her
charity ! And they letten hem as lords, her londs lie so
broad. Ac there shall come a King and confess you,
Religious, And beat you, as the Bible telleth, for breaking
of your rule, And amend monials, monka, and canons, And put hem to her penance.
The Ploughman is a good Catholic. He admits the efhcacy of prayer, penances, masses, and papal pardons; but insists that, after all, well-doing is the one thing essen- tial to salvation.
WELL-BELIEVING AND WELL-DOING.
Xow hath the Pope power pardon to grant the
people, Withouten any penance, to passen into heaven? This is our belief, as lettered men us teacheth And so I leave it verily (Lord forbid else !) That pardon and penance and prayers don save Souls that have sinned seven sins deadly. But to trust to these triennales, truly me think-
eth
PIERS PLOUGHMAN.-4
Is nought so siclier for tlie soul, certes, as Do- well. Forthwith I rede you, reukes, thut rich ben on
this earth, Upon trust of your treasure triennales to have, Be ye never the balder to break the ten be- hests ; And namely the masters, mayors, and judges Tluit have the wealth of this world, and for
wise men ben holden. To purchase you pardon and the Pope's bulls, At the dreadful doom when dead shallen rise. And comen ail before Christ accounts to yield, How thou k'ddest thy life here and his laws
kept'st, And how thou diddest day by day the doom
will rehearse ; A poke full of pardons there, ne provinciales
letters, Though they "be found in the fraternity of all
the four orders, And have indulgences double-fold ; but if Do- well 3'ou help I set your patents and your pardons atone pese
hull !— Forthwith I counsel all Christians to cry God
mercy. And Mary his mother be our mene between. That God give us grace here ere we go hence, Such works to work while we ben here, That after our death-da}', Do-well rehearse At the day of doom, we did as he hight.
Thus closes Langland's poem. Not many- years later a writer, whose name is un- known, put forth a clever continuation — or, rather, an imitation — of the Vision, en- titled Piers the Ploughman^ s Creed. The Ploughman of Langland becomes a poor peasant, from whom the narrator receives that instruction in divine things which he had vainly sought from the clergy. The poem opens with an account of the first
PIERS PLOUGHMAN.— 5
meeting of the narrator and the Plqngh- maii. The spelling is heie modernized, and in a few cases obsolete words have been replaced by their current equivalents :
THE MEETING WITH THE PLOUGHMAN.
Then turned I me forth, and talked to myself Of the false heds of this folk, how faithless
they weren. And as I went by the way, weeping for sorrow, I see a simple man me by upon the plough
bongen.
His coat was of cloth that cary was y-called ;
His hood was full of holes, and his hair out ;
With his knopped shoon, clouted full thick.
His toes peeped out, as he the lond treaded ;
His hosen overhaugen his hock shins, on every side,
All beslomered in fen, as he the plough fol- lowed
His wife walked him with, with a long goad,
In a cutted coat, cutted full high,
Wrapped in a winnow-sheet, to waren her for
weathers, Barefoot on the bare ice, that the blood followed. And at the fiell's end lieth a little crumb-bowl. And thereon lay a little child lapped in clouts, And tweyn of twey years old upon another side, And they all soiigen ae song, that sorrow was
to hearen ; They cried all ae crj-, a care-full note, The simple man sighed sore, and said, ''Children,
be still ! '• This man looked upon me, and let the plough
stonden ; And said, "Simple man, why sighest thou 80
hard ? If thee lack lifehood, lend thee I will Such good as God hath sent: Go we, dear brother."
ALBERT PIKK. 1
PIKE, Alhkiit, an Aineiicaii journalist, lawyer, and poet, born at Boston in 18U9. He studied at Harvard, but did not com- plete the course ; and after teaching lor a while at Newburyport, set out in 1831 for the far West. At St. Louis he joined a caravan going to the Mexican territories, and visited the head-waters of the Red and Brazos rivers. He, with four others, sepa- rated from the i)arty, and travelled 500 miles on foot to Fort Smith, in Arkansas. In 1831 he became proprietor and editor of the Arkansas Gazette, published at Little Rock. After two years he was ad- mitted to the bar, gave up journalism, and devoted himself mainly to his profession. He served as a volunteer in the war with Mexico; and after the outbreak of our civil war, he organized a body of Cherokee Indians, at whose head he was engaged at the battle of Pea Ridge. He rose to a higli grade in the Order of Freemasons. Be- sides several professional works, he has published : Hi/mm to the Gods (1831, re- printed in BlackwoGcVs Magazine in 1889), Prose Sketches and Poems (1834), NugcB, a collection of poems, and two similar collections (1873-1882).
BUEN-A VISTA.
From the Rio Grande's waters to the icy lakes of Maine [again.
Let all exult ! For we have met the enemy
Beneath tlieir stern old mountains we liave met them in tlieir pride,
And rolled from Buena Vista back the battle's bloody tide,
Where the enemy came surging, like Missis- sippi's flood.
And the reaper. Death, was busy with his sickle red with blood.
ALBERT PIKE.— 2
Santa Anna boasted loiidlj^ that, before two
hours were past, His lancers through Saltillo should pursue us
thick and fast. On came his solid regiments, line marching
after line ; Lo ! their great standards in the sun like sheets
of silver shine ! With thousands upon thousands — yea with
more than four to one — A forest of bright bayonets gleams fiercely in
the sun !
Upon them with your squadrons. May ! — Out leaps the flaming steel ;
Before his serried column how the frightened lancers reel ! —
They flee amain. Now to the left, to stay their triumph there, [despair ;
Or else the day is surely lost in horror and
For their hosts are pouring swiftly on, like a river in the Spring ;
Our flank is turned, and on our left their can- non tliundering.
Now, brave artillery ! bold dragoons ! Steady, my men,. and calm !
Through rain, cold, hail, and thunder; now nerve each gallant arm !
What thougli their shot falls round us here, still thicker than the hail.
We'll stand against them, as the rock stands firm against the gale !
Lo ! their battery is silenced now ; our iron hail still showers.
They falter, halt, retreat ! Hurrah ! the glo- rious day is ours !
Now charge again, Santa Anna ! or the day is
surely lost ; For back, like broken waves, along our left your
hordes are tossed. Still louder roar two batteries; his strong
reserve moves on. More work is there before you, men, ere the
good fight is won !
ALBERT PIKE. -3
Now for your wives and cliildron stand !
Steady, my braves, once more ! Now for your lives, your honor, tiglit, as you
never fought before !
IIo ! Hardin breasts it biavely ! McKce and
IJisseil there Stand iirni before the storm of balls that, tills
the astonished air. Tlie lancers are upon them too ! The foe swarms
ten to one ; JIardin is slain ; McKee and Clay the last time
see the sun ; And many another gallant heart, in that last
desperate fray. Grew cold — its last thoughts turning to its
loved ones far away.
Still sullenly the cannon roared, but died away
at last ; And o'er the dead and dying came the evening
shadows fast ; And then above the mountains rose the cold
moon's silver shield, And ])atiently and pityingly looked down upon
tlie field ; And careless of his wounded, and neglectful of
liis dead, Despairingly and sullen, in the night, Santa
Anna fled.
PINDAR.— 1
PINDAR (Gr. PiNDAROs), a Greek iyric poet, born at Thebes, in Bceotia, about 520, B. c. ; died about 440, b. c. The extant poems of Pindar consist of triumphal odes, hymns to the gods, odes for public processions, convivial songs, dancing songs, dirges and panegyrics upon rulers. The only poems which have come down to us entire are the triumphal odes which were written in honor of victories won in the great national public games.
FROM THE FIRST PYTHIAN ODE.
Strophe. Golden lyre that Phcsbus shares with the Muses
violet-crowned, Thee, when opes the joyous revel, our frolic feet
obey. While thy chords ring out tlieir preludes, and
guide the dancers' way. Thou quenchest tlie bolted lighting's heat, And the eagle of Zeus on the sceptre sleeps, and
closes his pinion fleet.
Antistrophe.
King of birds ! His hooked beak hath a dark- ling cloud o'ercast,
Sealing soft his eyes. In slumber his rippling back he heaves.
By thy sweet music fettered fast,
Ruthless Ares's self the rustle of bristling^ lances leaves,
And gladdens awhile his soul with rest.
For the shafts of the Muses and Leto's son can melt an immortal's breast. Epotlf.
But, whom Zeus loves not, back in fear all sense- less cower, as in their ear
The sweet Pierian voices sound, in earth or monstrous oceans round.
So he, heaven's foe, that in Tartarus lies,
The hundred-headed Typho, erst
In famed Cilician cavern nurst —
P1KDAR.-2
Now, beyond CuniiP, pent below Sea-cliffs of kSjcily, o'er his rough breast rise Etna's pillars, skyward soaring, nurse of year- long snow !
Transl. of F. D. Maurice.
FROM THE THIRTEENTH OLYMPIC ODE.
The powers of Heaven can lightly deign boons
that Hope's self despairs to gain: And bold Bellerophon with speed won to his
will the winged steed, Binding that soothing spell his jaws around. Mounting all mailed, his courser's pace the dance
of war he taught to trace, And, borne of him, the Amazons he slew. Nor feared the bows their woman-armies drew, Chimtera breathing fire, and Solymi — Swooping from frozen depths of lifeless sky. Untold I leave his final fall ! — His charger passed to Zeus's Olympian stall ! . . , Well, ere now, my song hath told Of their Olympic victories ; And what shall be, must coming days unfold. Yet hope have I — the future lies With Fate — yet bless but Heaven still their line Ares and Zeus shall all fulfil ! For by Parnas-
sus's frowning hill, Argus, and Thebes, their fame how fair ! And,
oh, what witness soon shall bear, In Arcady, Lj^coeus's royal shrine ! Pellene, Sicyon, of them tell — Megara, and the
hallowed dell Of iEacids ; Eleusis ; Marathon bright ; And wealthy towns that bask near JEtna's
height ; Eubcea's island. Nay, all Greece explore — Than eye can see you'll find their glories more ! Through life, great Zeus, sustain their feet ; And bless with piety, and with triumphs sweet I Transl of F. D. Maurice.
EDWARD COATE PINKNEY.— 1
PINKNEY, Edward Coate, Amer- ican lawyer ajid poet, born in London in 1802, liis father, William Pinkney, being then minister to Great Britain ; died at Bal- timore in 1828. At the age of fourteen he became a midshipman in the U. S. navy, but resigned his commission in 1824, and entered upon the practice of law. In 1825 he published Modolph and other Poems.
A HEALTH.
I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone ;
A woman of her gentle sex the seeming para- gon;
To whom tlie better elements and kindly stars have giveU'
A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than heaven.
Her every tone is music's own, like those of
morning birds, And something more than melody dwells ever
in her words ; The coinage of her heart are they, and from her
lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee forth issue
from the rose.
Affections are as thoughts to her, the measures
of her liours ; Her feelings have the fragraucy, the freshness
of young flowers ; And lovely passions changing oft, so ^/ill her,
she appears The image of themselves by turns — the idol
of past years.
Of her bright face one glance will trace a
picture on the brain ; And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound
must long remain. But memory such as mine of her so very much
endears. When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be
life's, but hers.
EDWARD CO ATE riNKNEY.-2
I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness iiloiie ;
A woman of her gentle sex the seeming para- gon.
Her health ! and would on earth there stood some more of such a frame,
That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.
A SERENADE.
Look out upon the stars, my love.
And shame them with thine eyes, On which than on the stars above
There hang more destinies. Night's beauty is the harmony
Of blending shades and light ; Then, lady, up — look out, and be
A sister to the night !
Sleep not ! thine image wakes for aye
Within my watching breast. Sleep not! from her soft sleep should fly
Who robs all hearts of rest. Naj', lady, from tin' slumbers break,
And make this darkness gay With looks whose brightness well might make
Of darker nights a day.
PLATO.— 1
PLATO {Gr. Platon), a Greek phi- losopher, born probably at Athens about 429 ; died about 343 b. c. His original name was Aristocles ; but this in time was changed to Platon (" Broad "), possibly on account of the unusual breadth of his shoulders. While a young man he wrote epic, lyric, and dramatic poems, all of which he destroyed, only a few fragments, and these of doubtful authenticity, remain- ing. He was a pupil of Socrates during the last eight or nine years of that philoso- pher's life, and became thoroughly conver- sant with the Socra tic system of dialectics. After the death of Socrates, in 399 B. c. Plato traveled for some years in the Grecian states, also visiting Egypt. Legend, for which there seems no valid foundation, says that he even visited Syria, Babylonia, Persia, and India. Re- turning to Athens, he established a kind of open-air school in a grove which had belonged to a man named Academos, and was hence styled the Aeademeia. Here he orally expounded his philosophy, and com- posed the numerous works which have come down to us. Tiiese are mainly in the form of dialogues, Socrates being- made one of the interlocutors, usually as the exponent of Plato's own views. The works of Plato have found many transla- tors into all languages. Altogether the best translation into English is that of Jowett (1871), which is accompanied by elaborate analyses and introductions. Valuable also is Grote's Plato and the other Companions of Socrates (1865). The eschatology of Plato is best set forth in The Vision of Er, which forms the conclusion of The Republic, the longest but one, and, in.
PLATO.— 2
tlie view of Piof. Jowett, " the best of Plato's Dialogues."
THE VISION OF Kli, IN THK OTHEU WOULD.
Well — siiid Socrates — I will tell you a tale; not one of those tales which Odysseus tells to the hero Alciiious; yet this, too, is a tale of a brave man, Er, the sou of Arinenius, a Pam- phylian by birth. He was slain in battle, and ten days afterwards, when the bodies of the dead were taken up, already in a state of cor- ruption, his body was unaffected by decay, and carried home to be. buried. And on the twelftli day, as he was lying on the funeral pile, he returned to life, and told them what he had seen in the other world.
He said that when he left tho body his soul went on a journey with a great company, and that they came to a mysterious place at which there were two chasms in the earth ; they were near together, and over against them were two other cliasms in the heaven above. In the in- termediate space there were judges seated, who bade the just, after they had judged them, ascend b}' the heavenly way on the right hand, having the signs of the judgment bound on their foreheads. And in like manner the un- just were commanded by them to descend by the lower way on the left liand ; these also had the symbols of their deeds fastened on their backs. He drew near, and they told him that he was to be the messenger who would carry the report of the other world to men ; and they bade him hear and see all that was to be heard and seen in that place.
Then he l)eheld and saw on one side the souls departing ^t either chasm of heaven and earth when sentence had been given them ; and at the two other openings other souls, some ascending out of the eurth dusty and worn with travel, some descending out of heaven clean and bright. And always on their arrival they seemed as if they had come from a long journey 5 and they went
PLATO.— 3
out into the meadow with joy, and encamped as at a festival ; and those wlio knew one another embraced and conversed, the souls which came from the earth curiously inquiring about the things above, and the souls which came from heaven about the things beneath. And they told one another of what had hap- pened by the way —those from below weeping and sorrowing at the remembrance of the things whicli they had endured and seen in their journey (now the journey had lasted a thousand years), while those from above were describing heavenly delights and visions of in- conceivable beaut\-.
There is not time to tell all, but the sum is this : —
He said that for every wrong which they had done to any one the}- suffered tenfold ; that is to say, once in every hundred years — the thousand years answering to the hundred 3'ears which are reckoned as the life of man. If, for example, there were any vidio had been the cause of man\' deaths, or had betraj^ed or en- slaved cities or armies, or been guilty of any other evil behavior, for each and all of these they received punishment ten times over; and the rewards of beneficence and justice and holiness were in the same proportion. I need liardly repeat what he said concerning young children dying almost as soon as the}' were born. Of piety and impiety to gods and pa- rents, and of murders, there were retributions other and greater far, which he described.
He mentioned that he was present when one of the spirits asked another, " Where is Aridoeus the Great ? " (Now this Aridaeus lived a thou- sand years before the time of Er. He had been the tyrant of some citj' of Pampliylia, and had murdered his aged father and his elder brother, and was said to have committed many other abominable crimes.) The answer was, " He comes not hither, and never will come. For this was one of the miserable sights witnessed by us : We were approaching the mouth of the
PLATO. -4
cave, aud, having seen all, were about to re- ascend, when of a sudden Arid;ens -uiipeared, and several others, most of whom were tyrants ; and there were also, besides the tyrants, private individuals who had been great criminals. They were just at the mouth, being, as they fancied, about to return into the upper world; but the opening, instead of receiving them, gave forth a sound when any of these incurable or un- punished sinners tried to ascend; and then wild men of fiery aspect, who were standing by, and knew what that meant, seized and carried off several of them ; and Aridseus and others they bound head and hand, and threw them down, and flayed them with scourges, and dragged them along the road at the side, carding them on thorns like wool, and declaring to the passers- by what were their crimes, and that they were being taken away to be cast into hell." And of the many terrors which they had endured, he said that there was none like the terror which each of them felt at that moment lest they should hear the Voice ; and when there was silence, one by one they ascended with joy. " These," said Er, " were the penalties and retributions, and there were rewards as great." Now when the spirits which were in the meadow had tarried seven days, on the eighth day they were obliged to proceed on their journey ; and on the fourth day after, he said that the}' came to a place where they could see a line of light, like a column let down from above, extending right through the whole heaven and through the earth, in coloring re- sembling a rainbow, only brighter and purer. Another day's journey brought them to the place ; and there, in the midst of the light they saw reaching from heaven to the ends by which it is fastened. For this light is the belt of heaven, and holds together the circle of the universe, like the undergirders of a trireme. From these ends is extended the spindle of Necessity, on which all the revolu- tions turn ....
PLATO.— 5
The spindle turns on the knees of Necessity ; and on the upper surface of tlie eight circlea [which are described as the orbits of the fixed stars and the phmets] is a Siren who goes round witli them, hymning a single sound and note. The eight together form one harmony. And round about at equal intervals, there is another band, three in number^ each sitting upon her throne. These are the Fates, daughters of Necessity, who are clothed in white raiment, and have crowns of wool upon their heads — Lachesis and Clotho and Atropos — who ac- company with their voices the harmonies of the sirens ; Lachesis singing of the Past, Clotlio uf the Present, and Atropos of the Future ; Clotho now and then assisting with a touch of her right hand the motion of the outer circle or whole of the spindle, and Atropos with her left hand touching the inner ones, and Lachesis laying hold of either in turn, first with one hand and then with the other.
When Er and the spirits arrived, their duty was to go at once to Lachesis. But first of all there came a Prophet who arranged them in order. Then he took from the • knees of Lachesis lots and samples of life, and going up to a higli place, spake as follows : " Hear the words of Lachesis, the daughter of Necessity. Mortal souls, behold a new cycle of mortal life. Your Genius will not choose you, but you will choose your Genius ; and let him who draws the first lot first choose a life, which shall be his destiny. Virtue is free ; and as a man honors or dishonors her, he will have more or less of her ; tlie cliooser is answerable — God is justified."
When the Interpreter had thus spoken, he scattered lots among them, and each one took up the lot which fell near him — all but Er liimself (he was not allowed) — and each as he took his lot, perceived the number which he had obtained. Then the Interpreter placed on the ground before them the samples of lives ; and there were many more lives than the souls present; and there were all sorts of lives — of
PLATO— 6
every ainiual uud ol' inaii iu every coudi- tion.
And tliere were tynimiies tunoiig them, some ooiitiiming vvliile the tyrant lived, others whicli broke off in the middk^, and came to an end in poverty and exile and beggary. And there were lives of famous men ; some who were famous for their form and beauty as well as for their strength and success in games ; or, again, for their birth and the qualities of their ances- tors ; and some who were the reverse of famous for the opposite qualities; and of women like- wise. There was not, however, any definite character in them, because the soul must of necessity be changed according to the life chosen. But there was every other quality ; and they all mingled with one another, and also with elements of wealth and poverty-, and disease and health. And there were meau estates also.
And here — said Socrates — is the supreme peril of our human state; and therefore the utmost care should be taken. Let each one of us leave every other kind of knowledge, and seek and follow one thing only, if peradventure he may find some one who will make him able to learn and discern between good and evil, and so to choose always and everywhere the better life as he has opportunity. . . . For we have seen and know that this is the best choice both in life and after death. A man must take with him into the world below an adamantine faith in Truth and Right, that there, too, he may be undazzled by the desire of wealth or the other allurements of evil, lest, coming upon tyrannies and similar villainies, he do irremediable wrongs to others and suffer j'et worse himself. But let him know how to choose the mean, and avoid the extremes on either side, as far as pos- sible, not only in thi§ Hie, but in all that is to come. Fortius is the way to happiness.
And, according to the report of the messenger, this is exactly what the Prophet said at the time : " Even for the last comer, if he choosy
PLATO.— 7
wisely, and will live diligenth', there is ap- pointed a happy and not undesirable existence. Let not him who chooses first be careless, and let not the last despair."
And while the Interpreter was speaking, he who had the first choice came forward, and in a moment chose the greatest tyranny. His mind having been darkened by folly and sen- suality, he had not thought out the whole matter, and did not see at first that he was fated, among other evils, to devour his own children. But when he had time to reflect, and saw what was in the lot, he began to beat his breast and lament over his choice, not abiding by the proc- lamation of the Prophet; for instead of throw- ing the blame of his misfortune upon himself, he accused Chance and the Gods^ and every- thing rather than himself.
Most curious, said the messenger, was the spectacle of the election — sad and laughable and strange; the souls generally choosing with a reference to their experience of a previous life. There he saw the soul which had been Orpheus choosing the life of a swan, out of enmity to the race of women, hating to be born of a woman, because they had been his murderers ; he saw also the soul of Thamyras choosing the life of a nightingale ; birds, on the other hand, like the swan and other musicians, choosing to be men.
The soul which obtained the twentieth lot chose the life of a lion ; and this was Ajax the son of Telamon, who would not be a man — remembering the injustice which was done him in the judgment of the arms. The next was Agamemnon, who chose the life of an eagle, because, like Ajax, he hated human nature on account of his sufferings. About the middle was the lotof Atalanta; she, seeing the great fame of an athlete, was unable to resist the temptation. After her came the soul pf Epeus, the son of Panopeus, passing into the nature of a woman cunning in the arts. And, far away among the last who chose, the soul of the jester Thersites was putting on the form of a monkey.
PLATO. -8
There came also the soul of Odysseus having yet to make a choice, and his lot happened to be the last of them all. Now the recollection of his former toils had disenchanted liim of ambition, and he went about for considerable time in search of a private man who had no cares. He had some difficulty in finding this, which was lying about and had been neglected by everybody else; and when he saw it, he said he would have done the same had he been first instead of last, and that he was delighted at his choice.
And not only did men pass into animals, but I must also mention that there were animals, tame and wild, who changed into one another, and into corresponding human njitures — the good into gentle, and the evil into savage, in all sorts of combinations.
All the souls had now chosen their lives, and the}' went in the order of their choice to Lachesis, wdio sent with them the Genius whom they had severally chosen to be the guardian of their lives and the fulfiller of the choice. This Genius led the soul first to Clotho, who drew them within the I'evolution of the spindle impelled b}' her hand, thus ratifj'ing the choice ; and then, when they were fastened to this, carried them away to Atropos, who sjiun the threads and made them irreversible. Then, without turning round, they passed beneath the throne of Necessity. And when they had all passed, they marched on in a scorching heat to the plain of Forgetfulness, which was a barren waste destitute of trees and verdure; and then towards evening they encamped by the river of Unmindfulness, the water of which no vessel can hold. Of this they were all obliged to drink a certain quantity, and those who were not saved by wisdom drank more than was necessary ; and each one, as he drank, forgot all things. Now after they had gone to rest, about the middle of the night, there was a thunderstorm and earthquake ; and then in an instant they were driven all manner of ways,
PLATO.— 9
like stars shooting upwards to their birth. Er himself was liindered from drinking tiie water. But in what manner or by what means he re- returned to the bod" he could not saj ; only in the morning, awaking suddenly, he saw himself on the pyre.
And thus — says Socrates in conclusion — the tale has been saved, and has not perished, and will save us, if we are obedient to the word spoken ; and we shall pas$ safely ever the river of Forgetfulnes!?, and our soul will not be defiled. Wherefore, my counsel is, that we hold fast to the heavenly way, and follow after Justice and Virtue always, considering that the soul is immortal, and able to endure every sort of good and every sort of evil. Thus shall we live dear to one another and to the gods, both while re- maining here and when, like conquerors in the games who go round to gather gifts, we receive our reward. And it shall be well with us both in this life and in the pilgrimage of a thousand years which sva- have been reciting. — Transl. of
JOWKTT.
THE PHILOSOPHER.
Those who belong to this small class have tasted how sweet and blessed a possession philosophy is, and have also seen and been satisfied of the madness of the multitude, and known that there is no one who ever acts honestly in the administration of states, nor any helper who will save any one who main- tains the cause of the just. Such a Saviour would be like a man who has fallen among wild beasts, unable to join in the wickedness of his friends, and would have to throw away his life before he had done any good to himself or others. And he reflects upon all this, and holds his peace, and does his own business. He is like one who retires under the shelter of a wall in the storm of dust and sleet which the driving wind hurries along ; and when he sees the rest of mankind full of wickedness, he is content if only he can live his own life, and be pure from evil or unrighteousness, and depart in peace and goodwill, with bright hopes. — The JRepublic.
PLAUTtTS.-l
PLAUTUS (Titus Maccius), a Roman comic dramatist, born in the Umbrian district, about 254 b. c, died, probably at Rome, about 184 B. c. ; The name '' Plautus," by which he is known, was a mere nickname, meaning " flat foot." He was of humble origin, some say a slave by birth. He went to Rome at an early age, made a, little fortune which he soon lost in trade, after which he is said to have supported himself for a while by turning a hand-mill. While thus engaged he pro- duced three comedies which proved suc- cessful, and for the forty remaining years of liis life he was a popular playwright.. Varro, who lived a century and a half after Plautus, saj's that in his time there were extant one hundred and thirty pla3'S at- tributed to Plaiitus, though there were only twenty-one whicli he considered to be unquestionably authentic. The existing comedies of Plautus (all more or less corrupt) number about a score. Of the plays — if we may credit the assertion of Cicero — Pseudolus (^The Trickster') was the favorite of the author. In the following scene Balbus, a slave-dealer, enters, accom- parued b}' four flogging slaves, and followed by a gang to wiiom the master addresses himself, punctuating his objurgations b}'' a liberal use of the scourge — which we may be sure was great fun to the Roman play- goers.
AN^ IXDULGENTT MASTER.
JSalbus. — Come out here ! move! stirabout,
ye idle rascals ! The very worst bargain that man ever made. Not worth your keep ! There's ne'er a one of ye That has tliought of doing honest work. I shall never get money's worth out of your
hides,
PLAUTUS.— 2
Unless it be in this sort I Such tough hides too i Tlieir ribs have no more feeling than an ass's — You'll hurt yourself long before you'll hurt
them. And tliis is all their plan — these whipping-posts; The moment they've a chance, it's pilfer, plunder, Rob, cheat, eat, drink, and run away's tlie word. That's all they'll do. You"d better leave a wolf To keep the sheep than trust a house to them. Yet, now, to look at 'em, they're not amiss ; They're all so cursedly deceitful. — Xow — look
here ; Mind what I say, the lot of j-e ; unless You all get rid of these curst sleepy ways. Dawdling and maundering there, I'll mark your
backs III a very peculiar and curious pattern — With as many stripes as a Campanian quilt. And as many colors as an Egyptian carpet. I warned you yesterday, you"d each your
work ; But you're such a cursed, idle, mischievous crew That I'm obliged to let you have tids as a
memorandum. Oh ! that'?, your game, then, is it ? So you think Your ribs are hard as this whip is ? Now, just
look ! They're minding something else ! Attend to
this ; Mind t?ds now, will you? Listen while I
speak ! You generation that were born for flogging; D'ye think your backs are tougher than this
cow-hide ? Why, what's the matter? Does ithurt? 0
dear ! That'?, what slaves get when they won't mind their masters !
Transl of Vs. Lucas Collins.
Sometimes Cas in the Prologue to The S'hijyivreek) Plautus rises into poetry. Some critics will have it that in this the Roman playwright i^ translating from some
PLAUTUS.— 3
body — possibly from some Greek play. The Prologue is spoken in the character of Arcturus — a constellation whose rising and setting were supposed to have much to do with storms and tempests.
PKOLOGUK TO •• THK SHIPWRECK,"
Of his high realm wlio rules tlie eartli and sea, And all niaukind, a citizen ain I. Lo, as 3'ou see, a bright and shining star, Revolving ever in unfailing course Here and in heaven : Arcturus am I hight. liy night I shine in heaven, amidst the gods; I walk unseen by men on earth b}' day. So, too, do other stars step from their spheres, Down to this lower world : so willeth Jove, Ruler of gods and men. He sends us forth Each on our several paths throughout all lands, To note the ways of men and all the}' do : If they be just and pious ; if their wealth Be well employed or squandered harmfully ; Who in a false suit use false witnesses; Who, by a perjured oath forswear their debts ; — Their names do we record and bear to Jove. So learns He, day by day, what ill is wrought By men below ; who seek to gain their cause By perjury; who wrest the law to wrong; Jove's court of high appeal rehears the plaint. And mulcts them tenfold for the unjust decree. In separate tablets doth he note the good. And though the wicked in their hearts have said He can be soothed with gifts and sacrifice, They lose their pains and cost, for that the god Accepts no offering from a perjured hand.
Transl. of W. Lucas Collins.
PLINT THE ELDER.— 1
PLTNY (Caius Plinius Secundus), usually styled '^ Pliny the Elder," aRoinun author, born in 23 A. d., died in 79. Both Verona and Novum Comum, the modern Como, have been mentioned as his birth- place, but the general belief inclines to the latter town, as the family estates were there, and his nephew and adopted son, the younger Pliny, was born there. At the age of twenty-three he entered the arm}-, and served in Germany under L. Pompo- nius Secundus until the year 52, when he returned to Rome and became a pleader in the law-courts. Not succeeding in this capacity, he returned to his native town, and applied himself to authorship. In the intervals of military duty as commander of a troop of cavalry, he had composed a treatise on throwing the javelin on horse- back and part of a history of the Germanic wars. Several works were the fruit of his retirement, among them a grammatical treatise in eight books, entitled Diibius Sermo. Toward the close of Nero's reign he was a procurator in Spain. He returned to Rome in 7-3, and, being in favor witii Vespasian, divided his life between his duties to the emjDeror and his studies, which he prosecuted often in hours stolen from sleep. During the eruption of Ve- suvius in 79 he set out from Misenum with a fleet of galleys to relieve the sufferers from the eruption. His desire to study the phenomena of that mighty outburst led him to land at Stabise, where he was suffocated by the poisonous vapors from the volcano.
Two years before his death he pubh'shed the work by which he is best known, the Mistoria JSfaturalis, in thirty -seven books,
PLINY THE ELDER.— 2
embracing many 8iil)jects now not included as a part of natural liistoiy, — as astronomy, mineralogy, hotany, and the fine arts. Though a conipihition rather than the result of original investigation, the work is of great value as a storehouse of facts and speculations of which we have no other record.
So industrious was Pliny that lie left at his death a collection of notes filling one hundred and sixty volumes.
THE EARTH ITS FORM AXD MOTION,
That the earth is a perfect globe we learn from the name which has been uniformly given to it, as well as numerous natural arguments. For not only does a figure of tliis kind return everywhere into itself, requiring no adjust- ments, not sensible of either end or beginning in any of its parts, and is best fitted for that motion with which, as will appear hereafter, it is continually travelling round ; but still more because we perceive it, by the evidence of sight, to be in every part convex and central, which could not be the case were it of any other figure.
The rising and the setting of the sun clearly prove that this globe is carried round in the space of twenty-four hours in an eternal and never-ending circuit, and with incredible swift- ness. I am not able to say v/hether tlie sound caused by the whirling about of so great a mass be excessive, and therefore far beyond what our ears can perceive ; nor, indeed, whether the resounding of so many stars, all carried on at the same time, and revolving in their orbits may not produce a delightful harmony of in- credible sweetness. To us, who are in tlie in- terior, the world appears to glide silently along both by day and b}- night.
POSITION AND SIZE OF THE EARTH.
It is evident from undoubted argumeiit.s that vhe earth is in the middle of the universe j but
PLINY THE ELDER.— 3
it is most clearl^f proved by the equalitj'' of the days and tlie nights at tlie equinox. It is de- monstrated by the quadrant, which affords the most decisive confirmation of the fact, that unless the earth was in the middle, the days and the nights could not be equal ; for, at the time of the equinox, the rising and the setting of the sun are seen on the same line ; and at the winter solstice, its rising is on the same line with its setting at the summer solstice ; but this could not happen if the earth was not situated in the centre. . . .
Some geometricians have estimated that the earth is 252,000 stadia in circumference. That harmonical proportion which compels Nature to be alvvaj's consistent with itself, obliges us to add to the above measure 12,000 stadia, and thus makes the earth one ninety-sixth part of the whole universe. — Natural History, Book II.
ON MAN.
Our first attention is justly due to Man, for whose sake all other things appear to have been produced by Nature ; though, on the other hand, with so great and so severe pen- alties for the enjoyment of her bounteous gifts that it is far from easy to determine whether she has proved to him a kind parent or a merciless stepmother.
In the first place, she obliges him, alone of all animated creatures, to clothe himself with the spoils of the others ; while to all the rest she has given various kinds of coverings — such as shells, crusts, spines, hides, furs, bristles, hair, down, feathers, scales, and fleeces. Man, alone, at the very moment of his birth cast naked upon the naked earth, does she abandon to cries, to lamentations, and— a thing that is the case with no other animal — to tears ; this, too, from the very moment that he enters upon existence. But as for laughter, why, by Hercules ! to laugh, if but for an instant only, has never been granted to any man before the
PLINY THE KLDER.-^
fortieth day from liis birth, and then it is looked upon as a miracle of precocity.
Introduced thus to the light, man has fetters and swathings instantly placed upon all liis limbs — a thing that falls to the lot of none of the brutes even that are born among us. Born to such singular good-fortune, there lies the animal which is bound to command all the others : lies fast bound hand and foot, and weeping aloud : such being the penalty which he must pay on beginning life, and that for the sole fault of having been born.
The earliest presage of future strength, the earliest bounty of time, confers upon him naught but the resemblance to a quadruped. How soon does he gain the faculty of speech ? How soon is his mouth fitted for mastication ? How long are the pulsations of the crown of his head to proclaim him the weakest of all animated beings ? And then the diseases to which he is subject, the numerous remedies which he is obliged to devise against his mal- adies— and those thwarted every now and then by new forms and features of disease.
While other animals have an instinctive knowledge of their natural powers : some of their swiftness of pace, some of their rapidity of flight, and some of their power of swimming — man is the only one that knows nothing, that can learn nothing, without being taught. He can neither speak, nor walk, nor eat ; and, in short, he can do nothing, at the prompting of Nature onl}-, but to weep. For this it is that many have been of opinion that it were better not to have been born, or, if born, to have been annihilated at the earliest possible moment. — Natural History, Book VIII.
OiSr TREES.
The trees formed the first temples of the gods, and even at the present day, the country people, preserving in all their simplicity their ancient rites, consecrate the finest of tlioir trees to some divinity. Indeed, we feel ourselves
PLINY THE ELDER,— 5
inspired to adoration uot less by the sacred groves, and their very stiHness, than by the statues of the gods, resplendent as they are with gold and ivory. Each kind of tree re- mains immutably consecrated to some divinity : the beech to Jupiter, the laurel to Apollo, the olive to Minerva, the myrtle to Venus, and the poplar to Hercules ; besides which, it is our belief that the Sylvans, the Fauns, and the various kinds of goddess Nymphs have the tutelage of the woods, and we look upon those deities as especially appointed to preside over them by the will of heaven. In more recent times it was the trees that by their juices, more soothing even than corn, first mollified the natural asperity of man ; and it is from these that we now derive the oil of the olive that renders the limbs so supple, and the draught of wine that so effectually recruits the strength ; and the numerous delicacies which spring up spontaneously at the various seasons of the year, and load our tables with their viands. — Natural History, Book XII.
OF METALS.
We are now to speak of metals — of actual wealth, the standard of comparative value — ob- jects for which we diligently search within the earth in various ways. In one place, for instance, we undermine it for the purpose of obtaining riches to supply the exigencies of life -^searching for either gold or silver, electron or copper. In another place, to satisfy the requirements of luxury, our researches extend to gems and pigments with which to adorn our fingers and the walls of our houses. While in a third place we gratify our rash pn^peiisities by a search for iron which, amid wars and carnage, is deemed more desirable even than gold.
We trace out all the veins of the earth ; and yet, living upon it, undermined as it is beneath our feet, are astonished that it should occasion- 3,lly cleave asunder or tremble ; as though, for-
PLINY THE ELt)ER.-6
sooth, these signs could be luiy other than ex- pressions of the indignation of our sacred par- ent. We penetrate into her entrails, and seek for treasures even the abodes of the Shades, as though each spot we tread upon were not suf- ficiently bounteous and fertile for us.
And yet, amid all this, we are far from seek- ing curatives, the object of our researches ; and how few, in thus delving into the earth, have in view the promotion of medicinal knowledge ! For it is upon her surface, in fact, that she has presented us with these substances, equally with the cereals ; bounteous and ever ready as she is in supplying us with all things for our benefit. It is what is concealed from our view, what is sunk far beneath the surface — objects, indeed; of no rapid formation — that send us to the very depths of Hades.
As the mind ranges in vague specvdation, let us only consider, proceeding through all ages, as these operations are, what will be the end of thus exhausting the earth ; and to what point will avarice finally penetrate ! How innocent, how happy, how truly delightful even, would life be. if we were to desire nothing but what is to be found upon the surface of the eartli ; in a word, nothing but what is provided ready to our hands.— iVii<. Ilht., Book XXXIII.
After having traversed the whole field of Physical Science, as it was known in his Cic\y. Pliny concludes by giving a summary of the most important valuable products of the earth. It must be premised that in a few cases it is by no means certain what really are the substances which he enu- merates.
VALUABLK NATURAL PRODUCTS.
As to productions themselves, the greatest value of all among the products of the sea is attached to pearls. Of objects that be upon the surface of the earth it is crystals that are most highly esteemed. And of those derived
PLINY THE ELDER..— 7
from the interior, adamas, smaragdus, precious stones, and murrhine are the things upon which the higliest value is placed.
The most costly things that are matured by the earth are the kermes-berry and laser ; that are gathered from trees, nard and the seric tis- sues ; that are derived from the trunks ot trees, logs of citrus-wood ; that are produced by shrubs, cinnamon, cassia, and amomum ; that are yielded by tlie juices of trees or shrubs, amber, opobalsamum, mvrrh, and frankincense •, that are found in the roots of trees, the per- fumes derived from the costus.
The most valuable products furnished hy living animals on land are the teeth of the elephants ; bj' animals of the sea, tortoise- shell ; by the coverings of animals, the skins which the Seres dye, and the substance gathered from tile hair of the she-goats of Arabia, wliich we have spoken of under the name of ladannum; by creatures that are common to both land and sea, the purple of the murex.
With reference to birds, beyond the plumes for warriors' helmets, and the grease that is derived from the geese of Comagene, I find no remarkable product mentioned. We must not omit to observe that gold, for which there is such a mania with all mankind, hardly holds the tenth rank as an object of value ; and silver, with which we purchase gold, hardly the twentieth.
Hail to thee, Nature, thou parent of all things! And do thou deign to show thy favor unto me, who alone of all the citizens of Rome have in thj' every department thus made known thy praises. — Natural History , Con- clusion.
PL[XY THE YOUXGER.— 1
PLINY (Caius Plinius C.ecilius Secundus), a Uomaii author, styled " Pliny the Younger," to distinguish him froin his maternal uncle and adopted father, " Pliny the Polder." He was born at Como in 62 ; died about 107 a. d. He was caie- fully educuled under the best teachers, among wlujm was Quintilian. At the age of fourteen he composed a tragedy in Greek ; at nineteen he began to practice in the Roman courts ; passed through high civic offices, and was made Consul at thirty- eight. In 103 he was sent by Trajan as Proprietor to the important province of Pontus and Bythinia. He held this posi- tion for two years, after which he returned to Italy. His principal work consists of a series of epistles, written at various times to various persons. Some of these letters give a grajjhic account of the daily life (;f a Roman gentleman of good estate and de- voted to literary pursuits. In one of the epistles, addressed to Tacitus, the historian, he describes the great eruption of Vesu- vius, of wliicli he was an eye-witness from Misenum. He does not, however, de- scribe the destruction of Herculaneum and Pompeii, of which he could only know from hearsay.
THE ERUPTION- OF VESUVIUS, A. D. 79.
When m\'^ uncle liad started from Stabiop, I spent sucli time as was left in my studies. It was on this account, indeed, that I liad stop[)ed behind. There had been noticed for many days before a trembling of the earth which had, however, caused but little fear, because it is not unusual in Campanico. But that nTght it was so violent that one thought that everything was being not merely moved, but absolutely overturned. My mother rushed into my cham-
PLIXV THE YOUNGER. -2
ber. I Wiis in the act of rising, with the same intention of awaking her, should slie liave been asleep.
We sat down in the open court of the house, wliich occupied a small space between the buildings and the sea. And now— I do not know whether to call it courage or folly, for 1 was only in my eighteenth year — I called for a volume of Livy, read it as if I were perfectly at leisure, and even contrived to make some extracts which I had begun. Just then arrived a friend of ui}' uncle, and when he saw that we were sitting down, and that I was even reading, he rebuked m}' mother for her patience, and me for my blindness to the danger.
It was now seven o'clock in the morning, but the daylight was still faint and doubtful. The surrounding buildings were now so shattered that in the place where we were, which, though open, was small, the danger that they miglit fall on us was imminent and unmistakable. So we at last determined to quit the town. A panic-stricken crowd followed us, .and they pressed on us and drove us on as we departed, by their dense array. When we had got away from the buildings, we stopped.
There we had to endure the sight of many marvellous, man}' dreadful things. The car- riages which we had directed to be brought out moved about in opposite directions, though the ground was perfectly level ; even when scotched with stones, they did not remain steady in the same place. Besides this we saw the sea retire into itself, seeming, as it were, to be driven back by the trembling movement of the earth. The shore had distinctly advanced, and many marine animals were left high-and-dry upon the .sands. Behind us was a dark and dreadful cloud, which, as it was broken with rapid zig-zag flashes, revealed behind it vari- ousl3'-shai»ed masses of flame. These last were like sheet-lightning, though on a larger scale.
It was not long before the cloud that we saw b^gj^ii to d.esceud upon the earth md Qover the
PLIXY THE YOlTN'GER.— 3
eea. It li:ul ahead}- surrounded and concealed the island ui Cai)r'etie, and had made invisible the promontory of Misenuni. My mother be- sought, urged, even commanded me to fly as best I could. I might do so, she said, for ] was 3-oung; she, from age and corpulence, could move but slowly, but would be content to die if she did not bring death upon me. I replied that I would not seek safety except in her com- pany. I clasped her hand, and compelled her to go with me. She reluctantly obeyed, but continually reproached herself for delaying me. Ashes now began to fall, still however, in small quantities. I looked behind me ; a dense, dark mist seemed to be following us, spreading itself over the country like a cloud. "Let us turn out of the v.-?,y/' I said, "whilst we can still see, for fear that should we fall in the road we should be trodden underfoot in the darkness by the throngs that accompany us."
We had' scarcely sat down when night was upon us; not such as we have when there is no moon, or when the sky is cloudy, but such as there is in some closed room when the lights are extinguished. You might hear the shrieks of women, the monotonous wailing of children, the shouts of men. Many were raising their voices, and seeking to recognize, by the voices that replied, children, husbands, or wives. Some were loudly lamenting their own fate, others the fate of those dear to them. Some even prayed for death, in their fear of what they prayed for. JNEany lifted their hands in I)ra3-er to the gods; more were now convinc(>d that there were now no gods at all, and that the final endless night of which we have heard, liad come upon the world. There were not wanting persons who exaggerated our real perils with terrors imaginary or wilfully invented. I remember some who declared that one part of the promontory of Misenum had fallen ; that another was on fire. It was false, but they found people to believe them.
It now grew somewhat li^rht again. Wc
PLlNr THE YOUNGER.— 4
felt that this was not the liglit of day, but a proof that fire was approaching us. Fire there was, but it stopped at a considerable distance from us. Then came darkness again, and a thick, heavy fall of ashes. Again and again we stood up and shook them of; otherwise we should have been covered by them, and even crushed by their weight. I might boast that not a sigh, not a word wanting in courage, escaped me, even in the midst of peril so great, had I not been convinced that I was perishing in company with the universe, and the universe with me — a miserable and yet a mighty solace in death. At last the black mist I have spoken of seemed to shade off into smoke or cloud, and to roll away. Then came genuine da}*- light, and the sun shone out witli a lurid light, such as it is wont to bear in an eclipse. Our eyes, which had not yet recovered from the effects of fear, saw everything changed, every- thing covered with ashes, as if with snow.
We returned to Misenum, and, after refresh- ing ourselves as best we could, spent a night of anxiety, of mingled hope and fear. Fear, however, was still the stronger feeling ; for the trembling of the earth continued, while many terrified persons, with terrific jiredictions, gave an exaggeration, that was even ludicrous, to tlie calamities of themselves and of their friends. Even then, in spite of all the perils which we liad experienced, and which we still expected, we had not a thought of going away until we could hear news of my uncle.
News was received before long. The Elder Pliny had gnne to Stabi;e, whicli wjis nearor Vesuvius. Me tarried there too long, and in tr3nng to make his escape, being old and fat, he was unable to go far; fell down, and died, suffocated, as his nephew supposed, by the sidphurous fumes from the v(dcano.
When Pliny, in his forty-first year, was sent as Proprietor tu Ptmius. he found the
1>LINT rilE YOUNGEII.~5
Christians vei-\' numerous in the province. 'J'liey persistenily refused to sacrifice to the Jvtjnian gods and to burn incense before the statue of the emperor. This refusal, according to Roman views, was equivalent to treason, und must be punished. He writes to Trajan, setting forth the action he had taken, and asking for instruc- tions.
PLINY TO TRAJAN.
It is my invariable rule to refer to j'ou in all matters about which I feel doubtful : who can better remove my doubts or inform my igno- rance ? I have never been present at any trials of Christians, so that I do not know what is the nature of tlie cliarges against them, or what is the usual punishment ; whether any difference or distinction is made between the young and persons of mature years; whether repentance of tlieir fault entitles them to pardon ; whetlier the very pi-ofession of Christianity, unaccom- panied by any criminal act, or whetlier oidy the crime itself involved in the profession is a matter of punishment. On ail these points I am in great doubt.
Meanwhile, ns to those persons who have been charged before me with being Christians, I have observed the following methods : I asked them whether they were Christians; if they admitted it, I repeated the question twice, and tin-entened them with puinshment; if they persisted. I ordered them at once to be pun- ished. I could not doubt that, whatever might be the nature of their opinions, such inflexi- ble obstinacy deserved punishment. Some were brought before me, possessed with the same infatuation, who were Roman citizens. These I took care should be sent to Rome.
As often happens, the accusation spread from being followed, and various phases of it came under my notice. An anonymous information was laid before me, containing a great number of names. Some said they neither were and
PLINY THE YOUNGER. -6
never had been C'lii'i.>ti;iM> ; the}- repeated after me an invocation of the gods and offered wine and incense before your statue (which I ordered to be brought for that purpose together with those of tlie gods), and even reviled the name of Christ; whereas there is, it is said, no forcing tliose who are really Christians into any of these acts. Those I thought ought to be discharged. Some among them, who were accused by witness in person, at first confessed themselves Christians ; but immediately' after denied it ; the rest owjied that they had once been Christians, but had now (some above three years, others more, and a few above twenty years ago) renounced the profession. They all worshipped your statue and those of the gods, and uttered imprecations against the name of Christ. They declared that their of- fense or crime was summed up in this : that they met on a stated day before da^-break and addressed a form of prayer to Christ, as to a divinity, binding themselves by a solemn oath, not for any wicked purpose ; but never to com- mit fraud, theft, or adultery, never to break their word or to deny a trust when called upon to deliver it up. After which it was their castom to separate, and tlien to re-assem- ble, and to eat together a harmless repast. From this custom, however, they desisted, after the proclamation of m\' edict by which, accord- ing to your commands, I forbade the meeting of any assemblies.
In consequence of their declaration. I judged it necessary to try to get at the real truth by putting to the torture two female slaves, who were said to officiate in their assemblies ; but all I could discover was evidence of an absurd and extravagant superstition. And so I ad- journed all further proceedings in order to con- sult you.
It seems to me a matter deserving your con- sideration, more especially as great numbers must be involved in the danger of these prose- cutions, which have already extended, and are
PLIXY THK VOUXGER.— 7
still likely to extend, to persons of all ranks, ages, and of both sexes. The contagion of the sui)erstition is not confined to the cities; it has spread into the villages and the country. Still 1 think it may be checked. At any rate, the teni[)les, which were ahuost abandoned, again begin to be frequented; and the sacred rites, so long neglected, are revived ; and there is also a general demand fur victims for sacrilice, which till lately found few purchasers. From all this it is eas}' to conjecture what numbers might be reclaimed, if a general pardon were granted to those who repent of their error.
The reply of Trajan to this letter has also come down to us. Tlie two docu- ments are of high historical value. They are almost the only definite information which we have from any pagan source of the Christian community during the first century of its existence.
TRAJAN TO PLINY.
You have adopted the right course in invest- igating the charges made against the Christians who were brought before you. It is not pos- sible to lay down any general rule for all such cases. Do not go out of your way to look for them. If they are brought before you, and the offence is proved, you must punish them; but, with this restriction, that when the person denies that he is a Christian, and shall make it evident that he is not, by invoking the gods, he is to be pardoned, notwithstanding any former suspicion against him. Anonymous in- formations ought not to be received in any sort of prosecution. It is introducing a very danger- ous precedent, and is quite foreign to the spirit of our age.
PLUTAECH.— 1
PLUTARCH, a Greek author, the great- est biographer of ancient times, and unsur- passed in all ages, was born at Cljseronea, Boeotia, some time in the first century of the Christian Era. The precise dates of his birth and death are unknown. We learn from himself that in 66 he was a student of philosoph}^ at Delphi. He was living at Chaeronea in 106.
He is best known by his Parallel Lives, a series of biographical sketches of 46 Greeks and Romans, arranged in groups of two, a Greek and a Roman, the biographies of each pair being followed by a compar- ison between the two characters. Among the men thus linked together are : Theseus and Momulus, Alcihiades and Coriolanus, Pijrrhus and Marius, Alexander and Ccesar^ Demosthenes and Cicero. These biogra- phies have been equally and deservedl}'- popular in all times.
Plutarch's other works, embraced under the general title. Morals, consist of more than sixty essays, full of good sense and benevolence, and, apart from their merit in these respects, valuable on account of numerous quotations from other Greek authors, else lost to posterity. Among these essays are : On Bashfulness, On the Education of Children, On the Right Way of Hearing, On Having Many Friends, On Superstition, On Exile, On the Genius of Socrates, On the Late Vengeance of the Deity.
ON" BASHFULNESS.
Some plants there are, in their own nature wihl and harren, and imrtful to seed and garden- sets, which yet among able husbandmen pass for infallible signs of a rich and promising soil. lu like manner some passious of the
PLUTARCH. -2
mind, not good in themselves, yet serve as first shoots and promises of u disposition whicli is natnrally good, and also ca})able of improve- ment. Among tliese I rank Jiashfulness — the subject of our present discourse: — no ill sign ; but is the cause and occasion of a great deal of liarm. For the bashful oftentimes run into the same enormities as the most hardened and im- pudent ; with this difference only, that the former feel a regret for such miscarriages, but the latter take a pleasure and satisfaction therein.
The shameless person is without sense of grief for his baseness, and the bashful is in distress at the very appearance of it. For bashfulness is only modesty in the excess, and is aptly enough named Dysopla — "the being put out of countenance " — since the face is in some sense confused and dejected with the mind. For as that grief which casts down the eyes is termed Dejection, so that kind of modesty that cannot look another in the face is called Bash- fulness. The orator, speaking of a shameless fellow, said: he " carried harlots, not virgins, in his eyes." On the other hand, the sheepishly bashful betrays no less the effemiacy and soft- ness of liis mind in his looks, palliating his weakness, which exposes him to the mercy of impudence, with the specious name of Modesty.
Cato, indeed, was wont to say of young persons that he had a greater opinion of such HS were subject to colm* than of those that turned pale; teaching us thereby to look with greater a[>prehension on the heinousness of an action than on the reprimand that might follow, and to be more afraid of the suspicion of doing an ill thing than of the danger of it. How- ever, too nnich anxiety and timidit}- lest we may do wrong is also to be avoided ; because many men have become cowards, and been deteri'e(l from generous undertakings, no less from fear of calumny and detraction than by the danger or diflHcult}- of such attempts.
While, therefore, we must not suffer the
PLUTARCH.— 3
weakness in the one case to pass unnoticed, iieitli'jr must we abet or countenance invinci- ble impudence in the other. A convenient mean between both is rather to be endeavored after by repressing the over-impudeut, and ani- mating the too meek-tempered. But as this kind of cure is difficult, so is the restraining such excesses not without dangers. Nurses who too often wipe the dirt from their infants are apt to tear their flesh and put tliem to pain ; and in like manner we must not so far extir- pate all bashful ness from youth as to leave them careless or impudent. — Morals.
ON THE LOVE OF WEALTH.
From what other evils can riches free us, if they deliver us not even from an inordinate desire of them ? It is true indeed that by drinking men satisfy their thirst for drink, and by eat- ing they satisfy their longings for food; and he that said, "Bestow a coat on me, the poor cold Hipponax," if more coats had been heaped on him than he needed, would have thrown them off, as being ill at ease. But tlie love of money is not abated by having silver and gold ; neither do covetous desires cease by possessing still more. But one may say to wealth, as to an insolent quack, " Th}' physic's nought and makes my illness worse."
When this distemper seizes a man that needs only bread and a house to put his head in, ordi- nary raiment and such victuals as come first to hand, it fills him with eager desires after gold and silver, ivory and emeralds, hounds and horses ; thus seizing upon the appetite and carrying it from things that are necessary after things that are troublesome and unusual, hard to come by arid unprofitable when attained. For no man is poor in respect of what nature requires, and what suffices it, No man borrows money on usury to buy meal or cheese, bread or olives. But you may see one man run into debt for the purchase of a sumptuous house ; another for an adjoining olive-orchard ; auotbei'
PLUTARCH.— t
for corn-fields or vineyards ; another for Ga- liitiiin luules ; and anotlier, by a vuin expense for line lioi'ses, has been plunged over head and ears into contracts and use-money, pawning and nioi'tgages. Moreover, as tliey that are wont to drink after tliey have quenched their tliirst, and to eat after their hunger is satisfied, vomit up even what they took when they were athirst or hungry, so they that covet things useless and superfluous, enjoy Jiot even those that are necessary. This is the character of these men. — Morals.
ON PUNISHMENTS.
Is there uofc one and the same reason to com- pany the Providence of God and the Immor- tality of the tSoul 'i* Neither is it possible to admit the one if you denj' the other, Now then, the soul surviving after the decease of the body, the inference, is the stronger that it partakes of punishment and reward. For dur- ing this mortal life the soul is in a continual conflict like a wrestler ; but after all these con- flicts are at an end, she then receives according to her merits. But what the punishments and what the rewards of past transgressions, or just and laudable actions, ai'e to be while the soul is yet alone by itself is nothing at all to us who are alive ; for either they are altogether con- cealed from our knowledge, or else we give but little credit to them.
But those punishments that reach succeed- ing posterity, being conspicuous to all that are living at the same time, restrain and curb the inclinations of many wicked persons. Now I have a story which I might relate to show that there is no punishment more grievous, or that touches more to the quick, than for a man to behold his children, born of his body, suffer for his crimes; and that if a soul of a wicked and lawless criminal were to look back to earth and behold — not his statues overturned and his dignities reversed — but his own children, his friends, or his nearest kindred ruined and over-
fLUTARCH.— 5
whelmed witli calamity — such a person, were he to return to life again, would rather choose the refusal of all Jupiter's honors than abandon himself a second time to his wonted, injustice and extravagant desires. — Morals.
ON EATING FLESH.
You ask me for what reason it was that Pythagoras abstained from the eating of flesh. 1, for my part, do much wonder in what humor, with what soul or reason, the first man with his mouth touched slaughter, and reached to his lips the flesh of a dead animal ; and having set before people courses of ghastly corpses and ghosts, could give those parts the names of meat and victuals, that but a little before lowed, cried, moved, and saw ; how his sight could endure the blood of the slaughtered, flayed, and mangled bodies ; how his smell could bear their scent ; and how the very nasti- ness liappened not to offend the taste.
And truly, as for those people who first ven- tured upon the eating of flesh, it is very prob- able that the whols reason of their doing so was scarcity and want of other food ; for it is not likely that their living together in lawless and extravagant lusts, or their growing wan- tonness and capriciousness through the excessive varietj' of provisions then among them, brought them to such unsociable pleasures as these against Nature. Yea, had they at this instant but their sense and voice restored to them, I am persuaded they would express themselves to this purpose : —
Oh, happy you, and highly favored of the gods ! Into what an age of the world j'ou have fallen, who share and enjoy among you a plentiful portion of good things ! What abun- dance of things spring up for your use I What fruitful vineyards you enjo}' ! AVhat wealth you gather from the fields ! What delicacies from tree and plants, which you may gather ! As for us, we fell upon the most dismal and affrightening part of time, in which we were
PLITTARCH.-6
exposed, at our first production, to mani- fold and inextricable wants and necessities. There was then no production of tame fruits, nor any instruments of art or invention of wit. And hunger gave no time, nor did seed-time then stay for the yearly season. What wonder is it if we made use of the beasts, contrary to Nature, when mud was eaten and the bark of wood ; and when it was thought a happy thing to find either a sprouting grass or the root of any plant. But whence is it that you, in these happy days, pollute yourselves with blood since you have such an abundance of things necessary for your subsistence ? You are indeed wont to call serpents, leopards, and lions sav- age creatures ; but yet you yourselves are defiled with blood, and come- nothing behind them in cruelty. What they kill is their ordi- nary nourishment ; but what you kill is your better fare."
For we eat not lions and wolves by way of revenge; but we let these go, and catch the liarmless and tame sort, and such as have neither stings nor teeth to bite with, and slay them which, may Jove help us, Nature seems to have produced for their beauty and comeliness only. But we are nothing put out of countenance by the beauteous gayety of the colors, or by the charmingness of their voices, or by the rare sagacity of the intellects, or by the cleanliness and neatness of diet, or by the discretion and prudence of those poor unfortunate animals ; but for the sake of some little mouthful of flesh, we deprive a soul of the sun and light, and of that proportion of life and time it had been born into the world to enjoy. And then we fancy the voices it utters and screams forth to us are not inarticulate sounds and noises, but the sevei-al deprecations, entreaties, and pleadings of each of them, as it were, saying, "I deprecate not thy necessity — if sucli there be — but thy wanton- ness. Kill me for thy feeding, but do not take me off for thy better feeding," — Morals.
EDGAR ALLAX POE.— 1
POE, Edgar Allan, an American author, born at Baltimore in 1811 ; died there in 1849. His father and mother were both members of the theatrical pro- fession, and appeared upon the stage in the [)rincipal towns of the United States. They died at Richmond, Va., at nearly the same time, leaving three orphans altogether unprovided for. Edgar, the younger son, was adopted by Mr. Jolin Allan, a wealthy and childless merchant i)i Richmond. His adoptive father took the boy to England in his fifth year, and placed him at a school near London, where he remained about five years. Some time after his return to Richmond lie was entered as a student at the University of Virginia, where he gained notice for his mai-ked ability, and notwith- standing his' slight figure, for his physical power and endurance. But he had formed irregular habits, and he was dismissed from the university. He went home for a while to Mr. Allan ; then there was a quarrel, and Poe disappeared. It is said that he went to Europe with the design of taking part with the Greeks in their struggle against the Ottoman power. The story goes on to say that Poe, while on his way to Greece, found himself in great straits, at St. Petersburg, where he was relieved by the American Minister, who furnished liiui with means of getting home again. One of liis biographers tells us that Poe went abroad, and passed a year in Europe, the history of which would be a singular curibsit}'- if it could be recovered. Whatever may be the truth in regard to this part of his life, one date, and one fact may be set down as well authenticated. Poe still liad liis liome with Mr. Allan,
EDGAR ALLAN POE.— 2
who sLiccecdtid iu obtaining for him an appointment as cadet in the Miiitaiy Academy at West Point. A year had not passed before he was expelled from the Academy. Mr. Allan, now a widower past middle age, married again. Poe deported himself in a manner that led to a complete rui)ture between him and his adoptive Fatiier. Here occurs an alniost total l)lank of tlu-eo years in our knowlege of the life of Poe. The one certain thing is that in 1829 he put forth at Baltimore a little volume entitled El Aaraaf, Tamer- lane^ and Minor Poems. In 1833 we find him living at Baltimore. The proprietor of a newspaper had offered a prize of a hundred dollars for the best prose tale, and another prize for the best poem. Both prizes were awarded to Poe. The tale was the MS. found in a Bottle. The poem was the following on The Coliseum, which cer- tainly bears very slight resemblance to any other production of the author.
THE COLISEUM.
Vastness ! and Age ! and memories of Eld I Silence ! and Desolation I and dim night ! I feel ye now — 1 feel ye iu your strength — 0 spells more sure than e'er Judean king Taugiit in tlie garden of Gethsemane ! O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee Ever drew dow)i from out the quiet stars.
Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat ! Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded
hair Waved to the wind, now wave the weed and
thistle ! Here, where on golden throne the monarch
lolled, Crlides, spectre-like, into his marble hom^^
EDGAR ALLAN POE.— 3
Lit by the warm light of the horned moon, The swift and silent lizard of the stones !
But stay ! these walls, — these ivy-clad
arcades — These mouldering plinths — these sad and
blackened shafts — These vague entablatures of this crumbly
frieze — These shattered coruices — this wreck — this
ruin — These stones — alas ! these gray stones — are they
all. All of the famed and the colossal left By tlie common Hours to fate and me ?
"Not all ! " the Echoes answer me; ''not
all ! " Prophetic sounds and loud arise forever. From us and from all Ruin, unto the wise As melody from Memnon to the Sun. We rule the hearts of mightiest men ; we rule With a despotic sway all giant minds. We are not impotent, we pallid stones. Not all our power is gone — not all our fame — Not all the magic of our high renown — Not all the wonder that encircles us — Not all the mysteries that hang upon, And cling around about us as a garment, Clothing us in a robe of more than glory ! "
Regular literary occupation was soon thrown in Poe's way. He was employed in an editorial capacity for a couple of years upon the Southern Literary Messenger at Richmond; then upon two Philadelphia mag-azines. All of these positions he lost. There is a visual defect known as •' color- blindness" in which the eye is incapable of distinguishing between tlie most dis- similar colors. Poe seems to have been Right-and-Wrong-blind. It was not merely that he did wrong things, but he never seemed to have dreamed that there was any such thing as the Right or the Wrong.
EDGAR ALLAN POE. 4
How fartliis moral deficiency was the cause or the effect of his habits of intoxication may fairly be questioned. We are told, on the one hand, tliat intoxication was almost his normal condition ; and, on the other hand, that the periods were rare and occurring at long intervals. But in either case the result was in one respect the same. While in this condition he lost all regard noc only for the amenities but even for the common decencies of conduct. The Donatello of Hawthorne's Marble Faun might be re- garded as a mental and moral study of Poe. Like Donatello, Poe had lovable qualities. We are glad to believe that his conduct to- wards his young invalid wife and her mother, who was to him all that a mother could have been, was altogether irreproach- able. Some worthy men liked him. More than one woman, as highly gifted, as pure and noble as any in the land, more than liked him.
In 1844, Poe took up his residence in New York, where he engaged in some journalistic labor. He published several works, by which he came into much note, and endeavored at one time or another to set up a magazine or journal of which he should have the entire control. Only one of tiiese, the Broadway Journal^ came into actual being, and this had but a brief existence.
Late in the summer of 1849, Poe set out upon a lecturing tour in Maryland and Virginia. He took the tem})erauce pledge, and at Richmond renewed his acquaintance with a lady of considerable fortune. An engagement for a speedy marriage was entered upon, and Poe set out for New York to make the requisite preparations.
EDGAR ALLAN POE.-d
He reached Baltimoieon the 2d of October. It would be a couple of hours before the railroad train was to start for Philadelphia. He stepped into a restaurant, where it is said that he fell in with some former acquaint- ances. On the second morning afterward he was found in the streets in a lialf-coii- scious condition. He was taken to a public hospital, where he died on Sunday, October 7, at the age of thirty-eight. Tlie spot of his burial was unmarked for more than a quarter of a century, when a monument was erected over his remains. Poe's criti- cal papers and biograi^hical sketches are in the main utterly wortliless. They are usually ill-tempered and unjust. Some of his tales show marked genius. Among the best are : The Fall of the House of Usher^ Jjigeia, and The Gold Bug. His reputation rests upon a few poems, none of which much exceed a hundred lines.
THE BELLS. I.
Hear the sledges with the bells — Silver bells —
What a world of merriment their melody fore- tells ! How they tinkle, tiidcle, tinkle, In tile icy jiir of jiight ! While the stars that overspriiikle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crj'stalline delight; Keeping time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells,— From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II.
Hear the mellow wedding-bells-— Golden bells !
EDOAR ALLAN POE.— 6
What a world of liai>[)iiiess their harmony fore- tells ! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens while she gloats On the moon !
Oh, from out the sounding cells, Wiiat a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! How it swells ! How it dwells
On the Future ! How it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— To the rhj-ming and the chiming of the bells !
III.
Hear the loud alarum-bells —
Brazen bells !
Wliat a tale of terror, now, their turbulency
tells ! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune,
In a clamorous appeal to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and
frantic fire. Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire^ And a resolute endeavor Now — -now to sit, or never, Bv the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! What a tale their terror tells Of Despair !
How they clang, and crash, and roar ! What a horror they outpour
EDGAi; ALLAN POE.— 7
Oq the bosom of the palpitating air !
Yet the ear, it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows ;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells.
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of
the bells — Of the bells
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells — - In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IV.
Hear the tolling of the bells —
Iron bells !
What a world of solemn thought their monody
compels ! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone : For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan.
And the people — ah, the people, They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone.
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory, in so rolling Oti the human heart a stone : They are neither man nor woman— They are neither brute nor human— They are Ghouls ; And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls
A paean from the bells ! And his merry bosom swells With the pa3an of the bells! And he dances, and he yells;
EDCiAK ALLAN rOE.-8
Keeping time, time, time,
111 a sort of Runic rliyme,
To tlie pioaiis of the bells ;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the til robbing of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells —
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time.
As lie knells, knells, knells.
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells —
Of the bells, bells, bells ;
To the tolling of the bells —
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
The poem upon which Poe's reputation most distinctively rests is Tlie Raven^ which was originally published in February, 1845, in the American Kevieu\ a short-lived peri- odical issued at New York. We do not think that tliere is in our language any other poem of barely a liandred lines which has won for its author a fame so great.
THE KAVKX.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary.
Over many a quaint and curious volume of for- gotten lore ;
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one genth' rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor." I muttered, '' tapping at my chamber door —
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak
December, And each separate dying ember wrought its
ghost upon the tloor.
EDGAR ALL AX POE.— 9
Eagci-Iy I vvislied the morrow ; vainly I liail
fiouglit to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for
tlie lost Lenore — For the rare and radiant maiden whom tho
angels name Lenore —
Nameless here forever more.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each
purple curtain Thrilled me with fantastic terrors never felt
before ; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I
stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my
chamber door ; Some late visitor entreating entrance at my
chamber door ;
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgive- ness I implore ;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently came your rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at m}' chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you " — here I opened wide the door : —
Darkness there, and nothing more !
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing.
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before ;
But the silence was unbroken, and the still- ness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whis- pered word, " Lenore !"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word " Lenore !
Merely this," and nothing more.
EDGAR ALLAN POE.~10
Back into my chamber tiuniug, all my soul within me burning,
8oon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said 1, '' surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore —
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mys- tery explore ; —
'Tis the wind, and nothing more! "
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many
a flirt and flutter. In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly
days of yore ; Not the least obeisance made he ; not an instant
stopped or stayed he ; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above
ray chamber door — Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above ray
chamber door —
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling ray sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the counte- nance it wore,
" Thougli thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, '• art sure no craven.
Ghastly, grim and ancient Haven, wandering from the Nightly shore —
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore ! '*
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainlj' fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning — little rele- vancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door —
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door.
With such name as "Nevermore."
lEDGAR ALLAX POE.— 11
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid
bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word
he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered— not a feather
then he fluttered — Till I scarcely more than muttered, ''Other
friends have flown before — On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, " Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so
aptly spoken, " Doubtless," said I, '' what it utters is its only
stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom un- merciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs
one burden bore — Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ' Never — nevermore.' " But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul
into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of
bird, and bust, and door ; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself
to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous
bird of yore — What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking ''Nevermore." Thus 1 sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable
expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into
my bosom's core ; This, and more, I sat divining, with my head
at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp- light gloated o'er. But whose violet velvet lining with the lamp- light gloating o'er,
SJie shall press, ah, never more !
EDGAR ALLAN POE.— 12
Tlien, niethouglit, tlie air grew denser, pcr- fiiiiied from an nii.seeii censer
Swung by seru[)liini whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
•• Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee— by those angels he hath sent thee
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy mem- ories of Lenore !
Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore ! "
Quotii the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet! " said I, "thing of evil! — prophet
still, if bird or devil ! — Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest
tossed thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land
enchanted — On this home by Horror haunted — tell me
truly, I implore — ■ Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — •
tell me, I implore !"
Qnoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil — prophet
still, if bird or devil ! By that Heaven that bends above us — by that
God we both adore — Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the
distant Aidenn, It shall clasp asainted maiden whom the angels
name Lenore — Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the
angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or
fiend! " I shrieked upstarting — "Get thee back into the tempest, and the
Night's Plutonian shore ! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy
soul hath spoken ! Leave my loneliness unbroken ! quit the bust
above my door ! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take
thy form from off my door! "
Quoth the Haven, " Nevermore."
EDGAR ALLAN TOE. — 18
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting,
still is sitting On the pullid bust of Pallas just above my
chamber door ; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's
that is dreaming. And the hunplight o'er him streaming throws
his shadow on the floor ; And my soul from out that shadow that lies
floating on the floor
Shall be lifted — nevermore !
ANNABEL LEE.
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea : But we loved with a love that was more than love —
I and mj' Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee ; So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom b\' the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me — Yes I — that was the reason (as all men know.
In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night|
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
EDGAR ALLAN POE.— 14
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we —
Of many far wiser than we — And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea. Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee :
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the
side Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride. In the sefiulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.
THK HOUSK UK USHKR.
During the whole of a <lall. dark, and sound- less da}' in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country ; and at length found myself, as the shades of the even- ing drew on. within view of the melancholj' House of Lusher. I know not how it was — but with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded un* spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was uiu'elieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usualh' receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me — upon the mere house, and the simple land- scape features of the domain — upon the bleak walls — upon the vacant e3"e-like windows — upon a few rank sedges — and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees — with an utter depres- v;ion of soul which I can comnare to no earthly
EDGAR ALLAN POE.— 15
sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller u[)ou opium — the bitter lapse into every-day life — the hideous drop[)ing-off of the veil. There was an ioiness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart — an unredeemed dreari- ness of thought which no goading of the im- agination could torture into aught of the sub- lime. What was it — I paused to think — what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher ? It was a mystery all unsohible; nor could I grapple with the shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory conclusion that while, beyond doubt, there are combinations of very simple natural objects which have the power of thus affecting us, still the analysis of this power lies among considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, I reflected, that a mere different arrangement of the particulars of the scene, of the details of the picture, would be sufficient to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for sorrowful impression ; and, acting upon this idea, I reined my horse to the precipitous brink of a black and lurid tarn that lay in un- rufified luster by the dwelling, and gazed down — but with a shudder even more thrilling than before — upon the remodeled and inverted images of the gray sedge, and the ghastly tree- stems, and the vacant and eye-like windows. . . . I have said that the sole effect of my some- what childish experiment — that of looking <lown within the tarn — had been to deepen the first singular impression. There can be no doubt that the consciousness of the rapid in- crease of my superstition — for why sliould I not so term it ? — served mainly to accelerate the increase itself. Such, I have long known, is the paradoxical law of all sentiments having terror as a basis. And it might have been for this reason only that, when 1 again uplifted my eyes to the house itelf, from its image in the pool, there grew in my mind a strange fancy — a fancy so ridiculous, indeed, that I
EDGAR ALLAN POE.— 16
but mention it to sliow the vivid force of the sensations wliich oppres^sed me. I had so worked upon my imaginatiou as really to believe that about the whole mansion and domain there hung an atmosphere peculiar to themselves and their immediate vicinity — an atmosphere which had no affinity with the air of heaven, but which had reeked u[) from the decayed trees, and the gray wall, and the silent tarn— a pestilent and mystic vapor, dull, slug- gish, faintly discernible and leaden-hued.
Shaking off from my spirit what nmst have been a dream, I scanned more narrowly the real aspect of the building. Its principal feature seemed to be that of an excessive antiquity. The discoloration of ages had been great. Minute fungi overspread the whole exterior, hanging in a fine tangled web-work from the eaves. Yet all this was apart fi'ora any extraordinary dilajiidation. No portion of the masonry had fallen ; and there appeared to be a wild inconsistency between its still perfect adaptation of parts, and the crumbling condition of the individual stones. In this there was much that reminded me of the specious totality of old wood-work which has rotted for years in some neglected vault, with no disturbance from the breath of the exter- nal air. Beyond this indication of extensive deca}', however, the fabric gave little token of instability. Perhaps the eye of a scrutinizing observer might have discovered a barely per- ceptible fissure, which, extending from the roof of the building in front, made its way down the wall in a zigzag direction, until it became lost in the sullen waters of the tarn.
ROBERT POLLOK —1
POLLOK, Robert, a Scottish clergyman and poet, born in Renfrewsliiie in 1799; died at Southampton, Enghmd, in 1827. He graduated at the University of Glas- gow, where he also studied theology, and in 1827 became a licentiate of the United Secession Church. A puhnonary affection had ah-eady begun, and he set out for Italy, hoping for benefit from a niiUler climate, but died just before he was to have sailed. While a student he published anonymously three tales which were iiil833 republished under the title : Tales of the Covenanters. His literarj' reputation rests wholly upon The Course of Time (1827), a poem in blank verse, which at the time was widely popular, being placed by some quite as high as Paradise Lost., to which it bears a general resemblance ; the best pas- sages being imitations of Milton.
OPENING INVOCATION.
Eternal Spirit ! God of truth ! to whom All things seem as they are ; Thou who of old The prophet's eye unsealed, that nightly .saw. While heavy sleep fell down on other men, In holy vision tranced, the future pass Before him, and to Judah's harp attuned Burdens which made the pagan mountains
shake, And Zion's cedars bow : inspire my song; My e\'e unscale ; me what is substance teach, And shadow what; while I of things to come, As past rehearsing, sing the Course of Time, The Second Birth, and final Doom of Man.
The Muse that soft and sickly wooes the ear Of love, or chanting loud in windy rhyme Of fabled hero, raves through gaudy tale Not overfraught with sense, I ask not; sue A strain befits not argument so hi<j^h. Me thought and phrase, severely sifting out The whole idea, grant; uttering as 'tis
ROBERT POLLOK.— 2
The essential truth : Time gone, the righteous
saved, The wicked damned, and Providence approved
TKUE HAPPINESS.
True Happiness had no localities,
No tones provincial, no peculiar garb.
Wiiere Duty went, she went; with Justice
went ; Add went with Meekness, Charity, and Love. Where'er a tear was dried, a wounded heart Bound up, a bruised spirit with the dew Of sympathy anointed, or a pang Of honest suffering soothed; or injury Repeated oft, as oft by love forgiven ; Where'er an evil passion was subdued, Or virtue's feeble embers fanned ; where'er A sin was heartilv abjured and left ; Where'er a pious act was done, or breathed A pious prayer, or wished a pious wish : — Tliere was a liigh and holy place, a spot Of sacred light, a most religious fane, Where Happiness, descending, sat and smiled.
HOLY LOVE.
Hail, holy love ! thou word that sums all bliss ; Gives and receives all bliss, fullest when most Thou givest ! Spring-head of all felicity, Deepest when most is drawn ! Emblem of God ! O'erflowing most when greatest numbers drink ! Essence that binds the uncreated Three ! Chain that unites creation to its Lord ! Centre to which all being gravitates! Eternal, ever-growing, happy love! Enduring all, hoping, forgiving all; Instead of law, fulfilling ever}' law; Entirely blessed, because it seeks no more; Hopes not, nor fears; but on the present lives, And holds perfection smiling in its arms ! Mysterious, infinite, exhaustless love ! On earth m3'3terious, and mysterious still In heaven ! Sweet chord, tliat harmonizes all The harps of Paradise ! The spring, the well. That fills the bowl, and banquet of the sky !
ALEXANDER POPE.— 1
POPE, Alexander, an English poet, born at Loudon in 1688; dieil at Twick- enliam, then a rural suburb of the metrop- olis in 1744. His father, the son ut aii. Anglican clergyman, enibracedthe Catiiolic faith, in which the son was reared, and which he never aljandoned. The father, having acquired a moderate competence as a linen-draper, left business, and letired to Binfield in Windsor forest, where the childhood of the poet was passed. He was of delicate constitution, and liis figure was slight and considerably deformed. He early manifested unusual capacity, espe- cially in versifying. As he said of himself, "he lisped in numbers, for the numbers came." His Ode on Solitude^ written be- fore he had reached the age of twelve, is of much higher merit than any other poem of which we know, composed by one so young. He destroyed most of his earlier pieces, among which were a comedy^ a tiaged}', and an unfinished e[)ic. Before he had reached the age of sixteen he had come to be known among the literati as a poet of rare genius. His first considerable work, the Pastorals, was published when he was twenty-one ; but was written some five years earlier. His Messiah, a Sacred Eclogue, first appeared in 1712 in Addison's Spectator. He had a decided taste for art ; in 1713 went to London, and for a year and a half studied painting under Jervas, a pupil of Reynolds ; but his defective eyesight dis- abled him from going on in the profes- sion.
Li 1714 he issued proposals for publish- ing a translation of the Iliad in six volumes at a guinea a volume. The first volume appeared in 1715, tlie last in 1720. For
ALEXANDER POPE.— 2
this he received from the publisher £5,320 besides hirge presents from individuals, the King giving .£200 and the Prince of Wales £100. In all he must have received for this translation not less than X6,000 ; and as the purchasing value of money was then about three times greater than at pres- ent, his receipts maybe estimated at about 90,000 dollars. With a part of tiie money thus earned he purchased the lease of a villa, with about five acres of ground, at Twickenham, Avhich continued to be his residence during the remainder of his life, though he spent much of his time in Lon- don. His later days were mainly devoted, in conjunction with Warburton, to the preparation of a complete edition of his works, of which, however, he lived only to supervise the Essay on Criticism, the Essay on 3Ian, and tlie Dimciad, to the last of which he made considerable additions. He was buried at Twickenham.
The following is a list of Pope's prin- cipal works, with the approximate date of their composition ; but the dates are not always strictly accurate, as he not unfre- quently kept pieces for years before pub- lishing them : Pastorals (1709), Essay on Criticism (1711), The Messiah (1712). Rape of the Lock (1714), Translation of tlie Iliad (1715-18), Epistle of Eloise to Ahelard (1717), Edition of Shakespeare (1725), Translation of the Odyssey (11 26)^ The Dunciad (1728 ; but considerably modified, and much enlarged, in 1742), Epistle to the Earl of Burlington (1731). On the Abuse of Riches (1732), Essay on Man (1732), Imitations of Horace (1733- 37), Epistle to Lord Cohham (1733), Epistle to Arbuthnot (1735). What was
ALEXANDER POPE.— 3
meant to be a complete edition of his Works was put together by his literary executor, Bishop Warburtou (9 vols. 1751). But very considerable additions — especially of his voluminous Correspondence, have since been made. Perhaps the most com- plete of the recent editions is that com' menced by J. W, Croker, and completed by the Rev. W. Elwin (1861-1873).
NUMBERS IN VERSE.
The most by numbers judge a poet's song. And smooth or rough, with them, is right or
wrong. In the bright Muse, though thousand charms
conspire, Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire, Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, ]Not mend their minds; as some to church re- pair, Not for tlie doctrine, but the music there. These equal sj'llables alone require, Though of the ear the open vowels tire ; While expletives their feeble aid do join, And ten low words oft creej) in one dull line; While the_y ring round the same unvaried
rh3'mes : Where'er you find "the cooling western breeze," In the next line it "whispers through the
trees ; " If crystal streams "with pleasing murmurs
creep," The reader's threatened (not in vain) with
" sleep," Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needlc'-'s Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow
length along. Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes,
and know What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow, And praise the easv vigor of a line.
ALEXANDER POPE.— 4
Where Denliarn's strength and Waller's sweet- ness join. True ease in writing comes from art, not
chance, As those move easiest who have learned to
dance. 'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, The sound must seem an echo to the sense. Soft is the strain when Zephyr gentl}' blows, And the smootli stream in smoother numbers
flows ; But when loud surges lash tlie sounding shore, The lioarse, rough verse should like the torrent
roar. When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to
throw, The line too labors, and the words move slow ; Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along
the plain. . . . Avoid extremes, and shun the fault of such Who still are pleased too little or too much. At every trifle scorn to take offence. That always shows great pride or little sense. Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best Which nauseate all, and notliing can digest. Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move ; For fools admire, but men of sense approve. As things seem large which we through mists
descr}'', Dullness is ever apt to magnify.
Essay on Criticism.
The Rape of the Lock is styled " aHeroi- Coniical Poein." The noble lover of Be- linda surreputiously cut from her liead one of the long locks of hair which were tlie pride of her heart. Thereupon ensued a quarrel which became the talk of the town. tJpon the slight canvas of this incident tlie poet has embroidered the gaj-est fan- cies. Belinda, unknown to herself, is at- tended by a troop of sylphs and sprites
ALEXANDER POPE.— 5
eager to do her service. They attend at her toiler, and see to it that she gets a good hand at "ombre," aud perform nu- merous kindred offices.
BELINDA AT HER TOILET.
And now unveiled the toilet stands displayed, Each silver vase in mystic order laid. First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores, With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers : A heHven]3- hnage in the glass appears — To that she bends, to that her eya^ she rears,
The inferior priestess, at her altar's side, Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride; Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here The various offerings of the world appear; From each she nicely culls with curious toil. And decks the goddess with the glittering
spoil. This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, And all Arabia breathes fn-m ^'onder box. The tortoise here and elephant unite, Transformed to combs — the speckled and the
white. Here files of pins extend -their shining rows ; Puffs, [)Owders, ])atclies, bibles, billet-doux. Now awful beauty puts on all her arms j The fair each moment rises in her charms, Rejtairs her smiles, awakens every grace, And calls forth all the wonders of her facr j See, by degrees, a purer blush arise, And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. The busy sylphs surround their darling care. These set the head, and these divide the hair; Some fold the sleeve, while others plait w**
gown ; And Betty's praised for labors not her own. Jiape of the Lock, Canto I,.
BELINDA AT THK "WATER-PARTY.
Not with more glories in the ethereal plain The sun first rises o'er the purjde main. Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beatiia,
ALEXANDER POPE.- G
Launched on the bosom of the silver Tharaes, Fair nymphs and well-drest youths around her
shone, But ever3'- eye is fixed on her alone. On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, Wliich Jews might Idss, and infidels adore. Her lively looks a spriglitly mind disclose, Quii'k as her eyes, and as unfixed as those; Favors to none, to all she smiles extends ; Oft she rejects, yet never once offends. Briglit as the sun, her eyes on gazers strike, And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. ypt graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to
hide ; If to her share some female errors fall. Look on her face, and you'll forget them all.
This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, Nourislied two locks which graceful hung
behind In equal cnrls, and well conspired to deck With sliining ringlets the smooth ivory neck. Love in these labyrinths his slave detains. And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. With hair}- springes we the birds betraj', Slight lines of liair surprise the finny prey. Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare And beauty draws us with a single hair. The adventurous Baron the bright locks ad- mired ; He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired. Resolved to win, he meditates the way, By force to ravish, or by fraud betray ; For when success a lover's toil attends. Few ask if fraud or force attained his ends. Rape of the Lock, Canto II.
THE SEIZURE OF THE LOCK.
The peer now spreads the glittering forfex
wide. To inclose the lock : now joins it, to divide. Even then, before the fatal engine closed, A wretched sylph too fondly intei'posed. Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in
twain
ALEXANDER POPE.— 7
(But airy substance soon unites again), The joining joints the sacred hair dissever From the fair liead, forever, and forever! Then flashed the livid lightning from her eyes, And screams of horror rend the affrighted
skies. Not louder shrieks to pitying heavens are cast When husbands or when lap-dogs breathe their
last ; Or when rich china vessels, fallen from high. In glittering dust and painted fragments lie. " Let wreaths of triumph now m}' temples
twine," The victor cried, "the glorious prize is mine! While fish in streams, or birds delight in air, Or in a coach-and-six the Britisli fair; As long as Atalantis shall be read, Or a small pillow grace a lady's bed; While visits shall be paid on solemn days, When numerous waxlights in bright order
blaze ; While nymphs take treats or assignations
give, So long my honor, name, and praise shall live I " Hape of the Zock, Canto IV.
BOKING RHYMESTERS.
Shut, shut the door, good John I fatigued, I
said, Tie up the knocker ; say I'm sick, I'm dead. The dog-star rages I nay 'tis past a doubt, All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out. Fire in each eye, and papers in each haiid, They rave, recite, and madden through the
land. What walks can guard me, or what shades can
hide ? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they
glide ; By land, by water, they renew the charge. They stop the chariot, and they board the
barge ; No place is sacred, not the church is free, Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me.
ALEXANDER POPE.— 8
Then from the ^lint walks forth the man of
r])yine, Happy ! to catch im% just at dimier-time.
Is there a parson much be-mused in beer, A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, A clerk foredoomed liis father's soul to cross, Who pens a stanza, when he should engross ? Is there who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls [walls ".'
With desperate charcoal round his darkeniMl All fly to Tvvit'nam, and in humble strain Appl}' to me to keep them mad or vain. Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, Imputes to me and my damned works the
cause. Poor Corn us sees his frantic wife elope. And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope,
Friend to my life (which did j'ou not pro- long, The world had wanted many an idle song) ; What drop or nostrum can this plague re- move ? Or which must end me — a fool's wrath or love ? A dire dilemma ! either way I'm sped, If foes, they write ; if friends, they read me
dead. Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I, Who can't be silent, and who will not lie ! To laugh were want of goodness and of grace, And to be grave exceeds all power of face. I sit with sad civility. I read W^ith honest anguish and an aching head ; And drop at last, but in unwilling ears. This saving counsel, " Keep your piece nine years." " Nine years!" cries he, who high in Drury Lane, Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken
pane, Rh\'mes ere he wakes, and prints before Term
ends, Obliged by hunger and "request of frieinls : ' " The piece, you think is incorrect ? whv, take it.
ALEXANDER POPE.— 9
Fm all submission — what you'll have it, mate it." Three tilings anotlier's modest wishes bound: My friendsliij), and a prologue, and ten pound. Pitholeon sends to me : " Y(Hi know his Grace ; I want a patron ; ask liim for a place.'*' Fitholeou libelled me — "But here's a letter, Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew' no
better. Dare you refuse him ? Curll invites to dine; He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine." . . . Why did I write ? What sin to me un- known Dipt me in ink — my parents', or my own ? As j-et a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. I left no calling for this idle trade. No dut}' broke, no father disobeyed ; The Muse but served to ease some friend, noi
wife, To help me through this long disease — my
life. To second, Arbuthnot, thy art and care, And teach the being you preserved to bear. . , . 0 Friend ! ma}' each domestic bliss be thine ; Be no unpleasant melancholy mine. Me let the tender office long engage, To rock the cradle of reposing age 5 With lenient arts extend a mother's breath, Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of
death ■; Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, And keep awhile one parent from the sky. On cares like these, if length of days attend. May heaven to bless these days preserve my
friend : Preserve hira social, cheerful, and serene. And just as rich as when he served a Queen. Whether that blessing be denied or given, Thus far was right ; the rest belongs to Heaven.
Epistle to Arbuthnot.
ALEXANDER POPE.— 10
TRUST IN PUOVIDENCE.
Heaven from all creaturos liides tlie book of fate, All but the page prescribed — tlieir present
state ; From brutes what men, from men what spirits,
know ; Or wlio could suffer, being here below ? Till' Iamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, Had he thy reastm, would he skip and play? Pleased to the hist, he crops the llowery food, And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. 0 blindness to the future ! kindly given, That each may lill the circle marked by
Heaven ; Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish, or a sparrow fall ; Atoms or systems into ruin hurled, And now a bubble burst, and now a world. Hofte humbly then ; with trembling pin- ions soar ; Wait the great teacher, Death, and God adore. What future bliss, he gives thee not to know. But gives that hope to be tin' blessitig now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast; Man never is but always to he blest. The soul (uneasy, and confined) from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Essay on 3Ian.
THE UNIVERSAL CHAIN OF BEING.
All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose bod}' Nature is, and God the soul; That changed through all, and yet in all the
same ; — Great in the earth as in the ethereal frame; Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze. Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees ; Lives through all life, extends through all
extent. Spreads undivided, operates unspent; Breatiies in our soul, informs our mortal part; As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns. As the I'apt seraph that adores and burns.
ALEXANDS^R POPE.-n
To lii'm DO high, no low, no great, no small ; He fills, he t>ouiids, connects, and equals all. Cease then, nor cvrder imperfection name j Our proper bliss depends on what we hlamev Know thy own point : This kind, this diae degree Of blindness, weakness, Heaven be&tiows on.
thee. Submit. — In this or any other sphere, Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear; Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, Or in the natal or the mortal hour. All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee ;: All Chance, direction, which thou canst siotse'e } All Discord, harmony not understood ; All partial evil, universal Good ; And spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite, One truth is clear, Whatever it;, is right.
Essay on Man.
The Essa>i on Man appears in the form of epistles to Bolingbroke. Lord Bathurst, who was apparently in a position to know', is said to have said that the work was really writen by Bolingbroke ; that is, it was written by Bolingbroke in prose, which Pope merely put into verse. However tliis ra-iiy be, there is no question as to the manner in which the Mennah was put together by Pope, in his twenty-fourth year. Virgil, in his " Fourth Eclogue," addressed to Pollio, hails the expected birth of a babe for whom the poet predicts a magnifi- cent future — a prediction which does not appear to have had any fulfillment. Pope takes this Eclogue, applies the thought of it to Christ, engiafting upon it images borrowed from Isaiah. The best two passages in the Messiah are one near the commencement and the magnificent close.
TUK COMING MliSSI.Vn.
Rapt into future times the bard begun : —
A vir<rin shall conceive — a virgin bear a son I
ALEXANDEK POPE. -12
P'runi Jesse's root behold a Branch arise Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the
skies ! The ethereal Spirit o'er its leaves shall move, And on its top descends the mystic Dove. Ye heavens! from high the dewy nectar pour, And ill self-silence shed the kindly shower! The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid — From storm a shelter, and from heat a shade. All crimes shall cease, and ancient frauds shall
fail ; Returning Justice lift aloft her scale. Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, And white-robed Innocence from heaven de- scend. Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn ! Oh, spring to light! Auspicious Babe be born.
Messiah.
THE REIGN OF MESSIAH.
Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem rise! Exalt thj' towery head, and lift thine eyes! See a long race thy spacious courts adorn ; See future sons and daughters yet unborn, In crowding ranks on ever}' side arise, Demanding life, impatient for the skies! See barbarous nations at thy gates attend, Walk in thy light, and in th\' temple bend; See thy bright altars thronged with prostrate
kings. And heaped with products of Sabean springs ! For thee Idume's spicy forests blow. And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. See heaven its sparkling jiortals wide display, And break upon thee in a flood of day ! No more the rising sun shall gild the morn, Kor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays, One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze, O'erflow thy courts. The Light Himself shall
shine Revealed, and God's eternal day be thine ! The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away;
A LEX A N'DEi; POPE. -13
But fixed His word, His saving power remains ; Thy realm forever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns !
Messiah. THK UNIVERSAL PRAYER : deo. Opt. max.
Father of all! in every age,
In every clime adored, — By saint, b}- savage, or by sage —
Jehovali, Jove, or Lord !
Thou first great Cause, least understood, Wlio all my sense confined
To know but this : that Tiiou art good, And that myself am blind ;
Yet gave me in this dark estate,
To see the good from ill ; And binding Nature fast in Fate,
Left free the human Will.
Wliat conscience dictates to be done,
Or warns me not to do, This teach me more than hell to shun,
That more than heaven pursue.
What blessings thy free bounty gives
Let me not cast away : For God is paid when man receives;
To enjoj^ is to obey.
Yet not to earth's contracted spaa Thy goodness let me bound,
Or Thee the Lord alone of man.
When thousand worlds are round.
Let not this weak, unknowing hand Presume Thy bolts to throw.
And deal damnation round the land On each I judge Thy foe.
If I am right, Thy grace impart
Still in the right to stay ; If I am wrong, oh teach my hear!;
To find that better way.
ALEXANDER POPE. -14
Save me alilce from foolish pride
Or impious discontent, At aught Thy wisdom has denied.
Or aught Tiiy goodness lent.
Teach me to feel another's woe,
To hide the fault 1 see; That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.
Mean though I am, not wholl}' so, Since quickened by Thy breath;
Oh, lead me, wlioresoe'er I go.
Through tliis day's life or death.
This day be bread and peace my lot :
All else beneath the sun Thou k no west it best, bestowed or not.
And let Thy will be done !
To Thee, whose temple is all space, Whose altar, earth, sea, skies,
One chorus let all being raise ; All Na^ture's inceuse risd.
JANE PORTER.— I
PORTER, Jane, a British novelist, born in Ireland in 1776 ; died at Bristol in 1850. Her fatlier, an officer in the army, died when his children were all young, and they were taken by their mother to Edinburgh, where the family resided several years, but subsequently made their hc^me iii London. Jane Porter, the eklest child, wrote several novels, two of whicli, Thaddeus of Warsaw (1803), and The Scottish Chiefs (1810), had a high reputation in their day, and are still read. They may properly be con- sidered as the beginning of the English *• historical novels." The chief character in The Scottish Chiefs is the idealized William Wallace ; Thaddeus Sobieski, in Thaddeus of Warsaw is the ideal Polish exile. " We have, alas ! " says Mrs. Oli- phant, " no such heroes now-a-days. The riice has died out ; and we fear that a pala- din so magnanimous might call forth the scoffs rather than the applause of a public accustomed to interest themselves in shabby personages of real life."
Anna Maria Porter (1780-1832) was a much more prolific writer than lier elder sister. She published some fifty volumes of tales and verses ; of her novels The Hungarian Brothers (1807) and Don Sebastian^ or the House of Braganza (1810), are the best. Their brother,' Sir Robert Ker Porter (about 1775-1842), was a clever artist and author of works of travel.
THADi>EUS OF WAKSAW AVOWS HIS LOVi;.
Thaddeus saw all this, and with a Hittins: hope, instead of surrendering the liand he had retained, he made it a yet closer prisoner by clasping it in b(jth his. Pressing it earnestly to his breast, lie said, in a Inu-ried voice, whilst liis earnest e3-es poured all their beams upon her averted cheek : —
JANE PORTER.— 2
"Surely, Miss Beaufort will not deny me thei aearest JKipplness 1 possess — tlic ])rivilege of being grateful to her."
He paused ; his soul vyas too full for utter- ance; and raising Mary's hand from his heart to liis lips, he kissed it fervently. Alntosfc fainting, Miss Beaufort leaned her liead .against a tree of the thicket wliere they were standing.- >She thought of the confession whicli Pembroke had extorted from her, and dreading that its fullness might have been imparted to him, and that all this was rattier the tribute of gratitude than of love, she waved her other hand in sign for hi 111 to leave her,
Such extraordinary confusion in her mannef palsied the warm and blissful emotions of the' Count. Pie, too, began to blame the sanguine representations of his friend; and fearing that he had offended lier — that she' might suppose he had presunied on her Isindne?!? — he stood for a Woment in silent astonishment j then dropping on his knee (hardly conscious of i'^'^' action), declared in an agitated voice his sense of having given this offense; at the same time he ventured to repeat, with equally modest; energy, the soul-devoted passion he had so long endeavored to seal u{) in his lonely breast.
''But forgive me,'' added he, with increased earnestness, '''forgive me injustice to 3'our own virtues. In what has just passed, I feel that I ought to have expressed thanks to 3'our good- ness to an unfortunate exile; but if my words or manner have obeyed the more fervid im- pulse of my soul, and declared aloud what is its glory in secret, blame my nature, most rC' spected Miss Beaufort, not my presumption. I have not dared to look steadily on anj' aim. higher than your esteem."
Mary knew not how to receive this address.. The position in which he uttered it, his counte- nance when she turned to answer him, were both demonstrative of something less equivocal than his speech. He was still grasping the drapery of her cloak, and his eyes, from which.
JANE PORTER.— 3
the wind blew back liis fine hair, were beaming upon her full of that piercing tenderness which at once dissolves and assures the soul. She passed her hand over her eyes. Her soul was in a tumult. She too fondiy wished to believe that he loved her, to trust the evidence of what she saw. His words were ambiguous ; and that was suffi'iient to fill her with uncertainty. -Jealous of that delicacy which is the parent of love, and its best preserver, she checked the overflowing of her heart; and whilst her con- cealed face streamed with tears conjured him to rise. Instinctively she held out her hand to assist him. He obe\'ed ; and, hardly conscious of what she said, she continued :
"You have done nothing, Count Sobieski, to offend me. I was fearful of my ow-n conduct- that you might have supposed — 'I mean, unfor- tunate appearances might have led you to sup- pose that I was influenced — was so far forget- ful of myself "
''Cease, Madam! Cease, for pity's sake!" cried Thaddeus, starting back, and dropping her hand; everj- emotion which failed on her tongue liad met an answering pang in Ins breast. Fearing that he had set his heart on the possession of a treasure totally out of his reach, he knew not how high had been his hope until he felt the depth of his despair. Taking up his hat, which lay on the grass, with a countenance from which every gleam of joy was banished, he bowed respectfully, and in a lower tone continued:
"' The dependent situation in which 1 ap- peared at Lady Dundas's being ever before my ej-es, I was not so absurd as to suppose that any lady could then notice me from any other sentiment than humanity. That I excited this humanity where alone I was proud to awaken it, was in these hours of dejection my sole com- fort. It consoled me for the friends I had lost ; it repaid me for the honors that were no more. But that is past. Seeing no further cause for compassion, you deem the delusiou no longer
JANE PORTEK— 4
necessary. Since 3^011 will not allow nie an individual. distinction in having attracted 3'our benevolence — though I am to ascribe it all to a charitv as ditfiised as effective, yet I must ever acknowledge with the deepest gratitude that I owe my present home and ha|)piness to Miss Beaufort. Further tlian tiiis I shall not — I dare not — presume."
These words shifted all the Count's anguish to Mary's breast. She perceived the offended delicacy which actuated each syllable as it fell ; and, fearing to have lost everything bv her cold, and what might appear haught\', reply, she opened her lips to say what might better express iier meaning ; but her heart failing her, she closed them again, and continued to walk in silence by his side. Having allowed her opportunity to escape, she believed tliat all ho[)es of exculpation were at an end. Xot dar- ing to look up, slie cast a despairing glance at Sobieski's graceful figure as he walked, equallv silent, near her; his hat pulled over his fore- head, and his long dark eyelashes, shading his downward eyes, imparted a dejection to his whole air which wrapped her weeping heart round and round with regretful pangs. '•' (3h," thought she, "though the offspring of but one moment, they will pi'ey on my peace forever."
At the foot of a little wooded knoll, the mute and pensive pair heard the sound of some one on the other side approaching them through the dry leaves. In a minute after, Sir Richard Somerset appeared. — Thaddeus of Warsaw.
NOAH PORTEK. -1
PORTER, Noah, an American scholar born at Fuiniington, Conn., in 1811. He graduated at Yale in 1831 ; taught a grammar school at New Haven until 1833, when he became tutor at Yale, at the same time studying tlieology. He was pastor of Congregational churches at Milford, Conn., and Springfiekl, Mass., from 1836 to 1816, when he became Professor of Moral Phi- losophy at Yale. In 1871 he succeeded Tiieodore D. Woolsey as President of Yale College, still retaining his Professorship. His principal works are : The Educational Systems of the Puritans and the Jesuits (1851), The Human Intellect (1868), Books and Reading (181 0~), American Colleges and the American People (1871), The /Science of NatvA'e versus the /Science of Man (1871), Science and Sentiments (1882), Elements of the Moral Sciences (1883), Kant's Ethics (1886), Fifteen Years in the Pulpit of Yale College (1888).
THE IDEAL CHRISTIAN COLLEGE.
It may be argued that in the present divided state of Cliristendo.Ti a college which is pos- itively Christian must in fact be controlled by some religious denomination, and this must, necessarily narrow and belittle its intellectual and emotional life. We reply — A College need not be administered in the interests of Any religious sect, even if it be controlled by it. We have contended, at length, tlint science and culture tend to liberalize sectarian narrowness. VV"e know that Christian history, philosophy, and literature are eminently catholic and liberal. No class of men so profoundly regret the divi- sions of Christendom as do Christian scholars : and, we add, their liberality' is often in propor- tion to their fervor. While a college may be, and sometimes is, a nurser}' of petty prejudices and a hiding-place for sectarian bigotry, it is
NOAH POUTER.— 2
untrue to all the lessons of Christian thought- fulness if it fails to honor its own nobler charity, and will sooner or later outgrow its narrowness. It may be still further urged that a Christian College must limit itself in the selection of its instructors to men of positive Christian belief, and may thus deprive itself of the ablest in- struction. We reply — Xo positive inferences of this sort can be drawn from the nature or duties of a Christian College. The details of administration are always controlled by wise discretion. A seeker after God, if he has not found rest in faith, may be even more de- vout and believing in his influence than a fie r 3' dogmatist or an uncompromising polemic. And yet it may be true that a teacher who is careless of misleading confiding youth, and who is fertile in suggestions of unbelief, may, for this reason, and this onl}-, be disqualified from being a safe and useful instructor in any; that a Christian college to be worth}- of the name, must be the home of enlarged knowledge and varied culture. It must abound in all the appliances of research and instruction ; its librar}' and collections must be rich to affluence; its corps of instructors must be well trained and enthusiastic in the work of teaching. For all this, money is needed ; and it should be gathered into great centres — not wasted in scanty fountains, nor subdivided into insignif- icant rills. Into such a temple of science the Christian spirit should enter as the shekinah of old, ])urifying and consecrating all to itself. In such a college the piety should inspire the science, and the culture should elevate and re- fine the piet}', and the two should lift each the other upward toward God, and speed each other outward and onward in errands of bless- ing to man. . . .
We conclude — That no institution of the higher education can attain the highest ideal excellence, in which the. Christian faith is Jiot exalted as supreme; in which its truth is not asserted with a constant fidelity, defended with
NOAH PORTER.— 3
unremitting ardor, and enforced with a fervent and devoted zeal, in which Christ is not honored as the inspirer of man's best affections, the model of man's highest excellence, and the master of all human duties. Let two instruc- tions be placed side by side, with equal advan- tages in other particulars ; let the one be pos- itively Christian, and the other be consistently secular — and the Christian will assuredly sur- pass the secular in the contributions which it will make to science and culture, and in the men which it will train for the service of their kind. — Fifteen Years in the Chapel of Yale College.
PROGRESSIVE CHARACTER OF CHRISTIANITY.
Christianity, both as a law and force, has the capacity and promise of a progressive renewal in the future. It has the capacity for constant development and progress. It can never be outgrown, because its principles are capable of being applied to every exigency of human speculation and action. It can never oe dis- pensed with, because man can never be in- dependent of God, the living G-od ; and in the fierce trials which are yet before him, he may find greater need than ever of God as revealed in Christ. That such trials are to come, we do not doubt. We cannot predict what new strains are to be brought upon our individual or social life. There are signs that the bonds of faith and reverence, of order and decency, of kindliness and affection, which have so long held men together, are to be weakened, per- haps withered, by the dry-rot of confident and conceited speculation, or consumed by the fire of human passion. — Fifteen Years in the Chapel of Yale College.
ROSA MURRAY-PRIOR PRAED.-l
PRAED, Rosa Murray-Prior, an
English author, born at Bromelton Station, Queenshind, xVusLiaUa, in 1852. She is descended from CoL Mnrraj'-Prior who served in tlie 18th Hussars at Waterloo, and her father was an Australian squatter, who took active part in political life in Queensland. Mrs. Praed spent lier early life in Australia, and was married in 1872 to Campbell Mackworth Praed, a nephew of the poet Praed. In 1876 she went to London, where she now resides. Her first book was An Australian Heroine (^1880). It w^as followed by Policy and Passion, Nadine, Moloch, Zero, Affinities, The Head Station, Australian Life, Black and White, Miss Jacohsons Chance, and The Bo7id of Wedlock, also dramatized by the author and produced on the stage in 1888. Mrs. Praed hasalso written, in collaboration with Justin ]McCarthy, The Right Honorable, The Rebel Rose (now published as The Rival Princess), The Ladies" Gallery, and an edition de luxe of sketches of the Thames, entitled The Grey River.
AFFIXITIES.
INIrs. Borlase was joined in her temporary studio by Esnie C'olqiihoun. She had asked liiiii to come. Her attitude was one of expect- ancy. She stood by tlie fireplace, her face turned sideways to him as he entered, liolding a screen of featliers between lier cheeks ami tlie blaze. Her rohe of pale-green plush, confined at the waist with an old enameled girdle, and with soft lace falling away from the neck and arms, suited the almost girlish lines of her figure, while its color harmonized with her golden hair and dead-white skin. There was a luxuriousness in her dress, in the subdued light, the rich draperies of the chiinney-piece. the iaintly scented atmosphere, which was more
ROSA MURRAY-PRIOR PR A ED. —2
than pleasing, in contrast with the bleak wintry landscape from which a little while before they had entered.
Upon a little table near her there stood in a blue china bowl the crushed bouquet of hot-house blossoms, still fragrant, which she had carried upon the previous niglit. Esme Colquhoun took up the bouquet, which was cuniposed almost entirely of yellow roses, and drew forth one of the flowers with a preoccupied air.
" I have hurtj'ou," he repeated with remorse in his voice. And tlien he rose and looked down yearningly upon her. "Christine are you still so proud ? Will you always face the woi-Id with your frank cynicism — your high-spirited independence — artist and woman of the world in one, giving just so much and giving no more ? Christine, will you accept no sacrifice ? Will you make none — not even now ? "
Christine returned his gaze unshrinkingly; but a tear rose and lay on her lower lashes, held there glittering.
" Xo, Esme — not even now. There can never be any question of sacrifice between you and me."
" There should be none. You are right. Love should be a free sacrament, and its own justification." . . .
She lauglied a little joyous laugh. " How much more so if you were confined in a prison ! Applause and adulation are the breath of exist- ence to you. The love and loyalty of one woman would never satisfy your nature, except under conditions which would enable you to take impressions from numerous other sources. You will secure for yourself these conditions. I want you to love your wife. I want you to have the world's incense as well, I want you to touch every point possible in existence. You are the true creature of your own philosophy. You require a tliousand sensations in quick succession, and you must anah'^ze each before you can decide whether it is worth experiencing. You profe.^s to worship the ideal ; but in reality
ROSA MtJRRAY-PRIOR PRAED.— 3
yon are an utter materialist. You liave all the weakness, all the iiicotisistency, all the greatness of a poetic nature. The greatness and the firo kindle in my intellect a spark of the incense you crave. The weakness and the inconsistency toucli my woman's heart and make me love you. Being what we both are, sorrow and evil can only come from indulging in our love. This; I pointed out to you before you went away; and now I am going to place it beyond our power of indulgence."
" That is impossible. You can not crush down your love for me, nor can I, married or free, prevent myself from loving you. I would not try to do so. You are my inspiration. You are to me the ideal woman,"
She was silent for several moments, and her head dropped upon her breast. • Presently she looked up with a strange smile upon her lips and a bright light in her eyes.
•' I will remain so. An ideal love is a great and glorious possession. An ideal love is divine ai>d actual, and it exists, it must exist, apart from material life. Are not love, faith, will, force more potent than brute strength ? Ah, my Esme ! you, a poet and an artist, know as I do that the realities of existence are not the things we se(* and touch. Human passion is but the stream in which pure, divine passion is reflected. The more muddy the stream the more distorted the image. Draj^ down the star and it dis- appears. Oh. teach the world this truth in your books I Let me try to show it dimly forth in my pictures. It is the force of our inner lives. It is the pearl of great price, which has been given to us artists. Let us cherish the Ideal." . . .
Her voice vibrated with a passionate tremor. She rose and moved away from him, all the time her gaze never forsaking his face. An exceeding softness and beauty crept over her features, and she went on in a more gentle tone. " I will be your ideal, Esme. When you need sympathy in your work, ask it from me. When
KOSA MURRAY-PEIOR PRAED.-4
you have beautiful dreams, tell them to me. When tlie fire burns within you, come to me and I will fun it into flame. Give your love to Judith Fountain, She has attracted you already. In time, she will captivate you com- pletely; for she has a subtle charm that must appeal to your artistic perceptions. She can reinstate you in popular favor. She is rich, and can supply the sensuous atmosphere — of dim rooms, Oriental perfumes, soothing music, with- out which you have often said to me your muse is dumb. But give /?^e your soul."
Colquhoun seemed infected by her enthu- siasm. His dramatic instinct seized theconcep- tion of a sublime role. The poet is a paradox. In a moment, he may ascend from the depths of earth to the heights of heaven. His mind seems the tenement of some fantastic Protean spirit with a passion for impersonation, to which truth and falsehood are of equal value. His potentialities appear capable of manifesting themselves in either good or evil as the wind blows or the sun shines.
" You are a noble woman," he said slowly. " You are very strong. If we could have been married we might have conquered the world to gether. What is it that you are going to do ? "
" I am going away in a day or two. I shall leave you here with Judith Fountain."
" And I— what am I to do ? "
"What \'our impulses prompt," she answered with the least touch of bitterness. " It is not for me to guide them."
" I think," he said, after a minute's pause, " that perhaps your enthusiasm gilds merely trite facts and commonplace sentiment. That is the way with us — we artists. Is your star an3-thing higher than the respect of the world ?"
" Oil ! " she cried. "You can't see. You don't comprehend. It is my own self-respect. It is your love. If 3'ou were a god, Esme — instead of being a poet; and I an angel, and not a battered, hardened woman of the world, we would fly aloft and seek our star,"
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.— 1
PR A ED, WiNTHROP Mackworth, an
English poet, born at Loudon in 1802; died in 1839. He was educated at Eton and at Trinity College, Canibiidge, where lie won many prizes lor Greek odes and epigrams, and for clever verses in English. He was called to the bar in 1829, and in 1830 was returned to Parliament for St. Germain, in Cornwall, and subsequently for several other constituencies. His poet- ical works were written rather for amuse- ment than as serious efforts ; but they man- ifest keen wit and a great mastery in vers- ification. A complete edition of them was issued in 1864, edited by his sister. Lady Young, with a Memoir by Derwent Cole- ridge. Praed wrote many charades which are among the cleverest in our language.
charade: "camp-bell."
Come from my First, ay, come ;
The battle dawn is nigh, And the screaming trump and the thundering drum
Are calling thee to die. Fight, as thy father fought ;
Fall, as thy father fell. Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought j
So forward, and farewell.
Toll ye my Second, toll ;
Fling higli the flambeiui's light; And sing the hymn for a parted soul
Beneath the silent night; The helm upon his head,
The cross upon his breast; Let the prayer be said, and the tear be ehed:
Now take him to his rest.
Call ye my Whole: go call
The lord of lute and lay, And let him greet tlie sable pall
With a noble song to-day.
WIKTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.2—
Ay, call him by his name;
No litter hand may crave To light the flame of a soldier's fame
On the turf of a soldiers grave.
CHARADE : " KNIGHT-HOOD."
Alas for that unhappy day
When chivalry was nourished, When none but friars learned to pray.
And beef and beauty flourished ! And fraud in kings was held accurst,
And falsehood sin was reckoned, And mighty chargers bore ni}^ Firsts
And fat monks wore my Second.
Oh, then I carried sword and shield,
And casque with flaunting feather, And earned my spurs on battle-field.
In winter and rough weather ; And polished many a sonnet up
To ladies' eyes and tresses, And learned to drain my father's cup.
And loose my falcon's jesses.
But dim is now my grandeur's gleam;
The mongrel mob grows prouder; And everj'thing is done by steam,
And men are killed by powder; And now I feel my swift decay.
And give unheeded orders. And rot in paltry state away,
With Sheriffs and Eecorders.
The following is a good example of Praed's more serious productions :
THK VICAR.
Some years ago, ere Time and Taste
Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, When Darnel Park v.'as Darnel Waste,
And roads as little known as scurvy, The man who lost his way between
Saint Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, Was always shown across the green,
And guided to the Parson's wicket.
WINTHROP MACKWORTII PRAED.— 3
Back flew the bolt of lissom lat^li ;
Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, Led the lorn traveler up the path,
Through clean-clipped rows of box and myv tie; And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,
Upon the parlor-steps collected, Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say,
'' Our master knows you — you're exjiected."
Uprose the Reverend Doctor Urown,
Uprose the Doctor's winsome marrow; The lad}' laid her knitting down,
Her husband clasped liis ponderous Barrow. Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed —
Pundist or Papist, Saint or Sinner — He found a stable for his steed.
And welcome for himself, and dinner.
If, when he reached his journey's end,
And warmed himself in Court or College, He had not gained an honest friend.
And twenty curious scrajis of knowledge; — If he departed as he came,
With no new light on love or liquor, Good sooth, the traveller was to blame.
And not the Vicarage, nor the Vicar.
His talk was like a stream, which rua
With rapid change from rocks to roses j It slipped from politics to puns;
It passed from Mahomet to Moses ; Beginning with the laws which keep
The planets in their radiant courses, And ending with some precept deep
For dressing eels or shoeing horses.
He was a shrewd and sound Divine,
Of loud Dissent the mortal terror; And when, by dint of page and line,
He 'stablisiied Truth, or startled Error, The Baptist found him far too deep,
The Deist sighed with saving sorrow, And the lean Levite went to sleep.
And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow.
WINTHROP MACKWOKTH PRAED— 4
His sermon never s;iid or sliowed
That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious Without refreshment on the road
From Jerome or from Athanasius. And sure a righteous zeal inspired
The heart and hand that planned them; For all who understood admired,
And some who did not understand them.
He wrote too, in a quiet way,
Small treatises and smaller verses, And sage remarks on chalk and clay,
And "hints to noble lords and nurses; True histories of last year's ghost,
Lines to a ringlet or a turban, And trifles for the " Morning Post."
And nothings for " Sylvanus Urban."
He did not think all mischief fair.
Although he had a knack for joking; He did not make himself a bear,
Although he had a knack for smoking. And when religious sects ran mad,
He held, in spite of all his learning, That, if a man's belief is bad,
It will not be improved by burning.
And he was kind, and loved to sit
In the low hut or garnished cottage, And praise the farmer's homely wit,
And share the widows' homelier pottage. At his approach complaint grew mild;
And when his hand unbarred the shutter The clammy lips of fever smiled
The welcome which they could not ntter.
He always had a tale for me
Of Julius Cassar or of Venus ; From him I learned the Eule of Three,
Cat's-cradle, Leap-frog, and Qum genu9, I used to singe his powdered wig,
To steal the staff he put such trust in, And make the pupi)y dance a jig
When he began to quote Augustine,
wiNriniop 3iAcKW()Hrii imakd.-o
Alack tin; cliaii!2,c 1 In vain I look
For haunts in which my boyliood trifled — The level lawn, the trickling brook,
The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled. The church is larger than before ;
You reach it by a carriage-entry ; It holds three hundred people more.
And pews are fitted for the gentry.
Sit in the Vicar's seat : you'll hear
The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, Whose hand is wliite, whose tone is clear.
Whose phrase is very Ciceronian — Where is the old man laid ? — Look down,
And construe on the slab before you, '■'■ Hie jacet Gvlielmvs Brown,
Vir 11011 donandas lauru,
QUINCE.
T found him at threescore and ten
A single man, but bent quite double; Sickness was coming on him then
To take him from a world of trouble. He prosed of sliding down the hill.
Discovered he grew older daily ; One frosty day he made his will.
The next he sent for Dr. Baillie.
And so he lived, and so lie died ;
When last I sat beside his pillow, He shook my hand : " Ah me! " he cried,
" Penelope must wear the willow ! Tell her I hugged her rosy chain
While life was flickering in the socket, And sayth at when I call again
I'll bring a license in my pocket.
"I've left my house and grounds to Fag —
I hope his master's shoes will suit him I — And I've bequeathed to you my nag.
To feed him for my sake, or shoot him. The vicar's wife will take old Fox ;
She'll find him an uncommon mouser ; And let her husband have my box,
My Bible, and my Assmanshauscr.'' . , .
ELLA PIJATT.— 1
PRATT, Ella (FAiiMAN),an American author, born in the State of New York in 18 . She has been tiie editor of the juvenile magazine, The Wide Awake, from its establishment. Among her books are : A Little Woman (1873), Arma Maylie (1873), A airVs Money (1874), A White Hand (1875), The Cooking Club of Tu- whit Holloiv, and Mrs. Hard's Niece (1876), G-ood-for-nothing Polly (1877), and How Two airls Tried Farminy (1879).
PLANNING.
Louise did not wait for my mysterious three days to expire. The afternoon of the second she came down to the scliool-house. It was just after I had "dismissed."
" Now, Miss Dolly Shepherd ! " demanded she.
Well, I had gone through the new plan in detail, had thought and thought, read and read, had found there was no sex in brains ; for out of the mass of agricultural reading I saw that even I, should I have the strength, could, in one way or another, reduce whatever was pertinent to practice. I resolutely had cast money- making out of the plan, but I believed we could raise enough for our own needs ; and I had thought, "Oh, Lou Burney, if we should be able to establish the fact that women can buy land and make themselves a home, just as men do, what a ministry of hope even our humble lives may become ! "
In my earnestness I had tried various ab- surd little experiments. In my out-of-door strolls T think I had managed to come upon every farming implement on the place. Out of observation, I had lifted, dragged, turned, flourished, and pounded. I had pronounced most of them as manageable by feminine muscles as the heavy kettles, washing-machines, mat- tresses, and carpets that belong to a woman's indoor work. 1 had hoed a few stray weeds back of the tool-house, a nnillcin and a burdock
ELLA 1 R ATT.— 2
(wliich throve finely tiiereaftei), and found it ud eusy us sweeping, and far daintier to do than dinner-dish-wasliiug — and none of it was to be done " over the stove ! " To be sure tliere was the hot sun, but tliere was also tlie fresh air. 1 felt prepared to talk.
*• ^Vell, Lou," I said, "we will try the out- of-doors plan, and very much as we at first talked. \Ve will even have some berries. Only we will, from the very first, make our daily bread and butter the chief matter, and just do whatever else we can ; meanwhile, I don't see, any more than you, how these women who have done so well with fruit-raising managed whilst. But this is the way J have planned for us for whom there shall be no dreary whilst, as we will begin at once :
" We will take our monej-s " — I liad three liundred of my own — " and go up into the great Northwest and make the best bargain we can for a little farm, which, however, shall be as big as possible, for, from the very begin- ing, we must keep a horse, and a cow, and a pig, and some hens. Don't open your eyes so wide, dear — I got it all from you. It is your own idea — I liave only put it into jtractical working order. Keeping a cow, you know, will enable us to easily keep the pig; so keep- ing a cow means smoked ham and sausage for our table, our lard, our milk, our cream, and our butter. As j'ou said, we must either have such things, or else have something to sell right awaj'. There will also be, as I have planned it, butter, eggs, and poultr}' with which to pro- cure groceries, grains, and sundries. There will also be, in the winter, a surplus of pork to sell. We shall also raise some vegetables. We can also the first year grow corn to keep our animals, and for brown bread for ourselves. We will, among the first things we do, set out an orchard and a grape arbor, make an aspara- gus bed, and have a row of bee-hives. ]\[ean- while, having thus secured the means of daily life, I have other and greater plans for a com- fortable old asre."
ELLA PRATT.— 3
These I also disclosed. She made no com merit upon them, but reverted gravely to the animals.
"I should think we might do it all. Dolly, only the horse ; do we need a horse ? Be sure, now, Dolly, for a horse would be a great under- taking. You know we would have to keep a nice one, if we kept any, not such a one as women in comic pictures always drive. Be very sure, now, Dolly."
" I am. For we must cultivate our own corn and potatoes. I can see that, in small farming, hiring labor would cost all the things would come to, just as business women have told us it is in other work, you know. Besides, how could we ever get to mill, or church, or store. Only by catching rides ; our neighbors would soon hate us."
" And who would drive ? " asked Lou.
I paused. " You would have to, I suppose," I said at last. I felt she could; and I also felt that I couldn't. Lou nodded,
" Yes, because you will have to be the one to go to the neiglibors to borrow things," she said, as if balancing our accounts.
" We shall live within ourselves," said I. "What we don't have we will go without."
Lou said there would be some comfort in that kind of being poor, and grew jolly and care-free presently, and said " we would go at once." — How Two Girls Tried Farming.
GEORGE DENISON PRKNTICE.— 1
PRENTICE, Georgk Dexisox, an American jouinalist, born at Preston, Conn., in 1802 ; died at Louisville, Ky., 1870. He graduated at Brown University in 1823, and in 1828 established the New England Weekly Reviea\ at Hartford, Conn., which he conducted for two years, wiien he went West, and soon became editor of the Louisville Journal. He wrote many poems whicli appeared in his own journal and other periodicals, but no com- plete collection of them has been made. A volume entitled Prenticeiana ; or Wit and Humor in Paragraphs, was published in 18G0 ; and an enlarged edition, with a Memoir, in 1870.
THE FLIGHT OF YEARS.
Gone ! gone forever ! — like a rushing wave Another year has burst upon the shore Of earthly being; and its last low tones, Wandering in broken accents on the air, Are dying to an echo. . . .
Yet, wliy muse Upon the Past with sorrow ? thougli the year Has gone to blend with tlie mysterious tide Of old Eternity, and borne along Upon its heaving breast a thousand wrecks Of glor}' and of beauty — .yet. why mourn That such is destiii}- ? Another year Succeedeth to the past; in their bright round The seasons come and go, and the same blue
arch That hath hung o'er us, will hang o'er us yet ; The same pure stars that we have loved tc
watch Will blossom still at twilight's gentle hour. Like lilies on the tomb of Day : and still Man will remain to dream as he hatli dreamed. And mark the earth with passion. Love will
spring From the lone tomh nf old Affections; Hope And Joy and great Ambition will rise up
GEORGE BEXI80X PRENTICE.— 2
As they have risen, and their deeds will be
Brighter than those engraven on the scroll
Of parted centuries. Even now the sea
Of coming years, beneath wliose miglity waves
Lifes great events are heaving into birth,
Is tossing to and fro, as if tlie winds
Of heaven were prisoned in its soundless depths,
And struggling to be free.
Weep not that Time Is passing on ; it will ere long reveal A brighter era to the nations. Hark ! Along the vales and mountains of the earth There is a deep, portentous murmuring. Like the swift rush of subterranean streams, Or like the mingled sounds of earth and air, Wlien the fierce Tempest, with sonorous wing. Heaves his deep folds upon the rushing winds, And hurries onward with his might of clouds Against the eternal mountains. 'Tis the voice Of infant Freedom ; and her stirring call Is heard and answered in a thousand tones From every hill-top of her Western home : And, lo ! it breaks across old Ocean's flood, And " Freedom ! Freedom ! " is the answering
shout Of nations starting from the spell of years. The Day-spring ! — see, 'tis brightening in the
heavens ! The watchmen of the night have caught the
sign : From tower to tower the signal-fires flash free ; And the deep watch-word, like the rush of seas, Is sounding o'er the earth. Bright years of
hope And life are on the wing! Yon glorious bow Of freedom, bended by the hand of God, Is spanning Time's dark surges. Its high
arch A t^'pe of Love and Mercy on the cloud Tells that the many storms of human life Will pass in silence, and the sinking waves, Gathering the forms of glory and of peace, Reflect the undimmed brightness of the
heavens.
ELIZABETH PRE>^ri.SS.— 1
PRENTISS, Elizabeth (Payson), an
Ameiicaii autlior, born at Portland, Me., in 1818 ; died at Dorset, Vt., in 1878. She was a daugliter of the Rev. Edward Payson, pastor of the Congregational Church in Portland from 1807 until 1827. After re- ceiving her education in Portland and Ipswich, she taught for several years, and in 1845 was married to George Lewis Pren- tiss, pastor of the Church of the Covenant in New York city from 1862 till 1873, and afterwards Professor of Theology and Church Polity in Union Theological Sem- inary. After the death of her two children, Mrs. Prentiss devoted herself to writing. Her chief book, Stepping Heavenivard^ which was published first in the Chicago Advance in 1869, has been translated into various languages. Her other works are : the Little S'usg Series (1853-6), The Flower of the Family (1854), Only a Dandelion^ and Other Stories (1854), Fred, Maria, and Me (1868), The Percys (1870), The Home at G-reylock (1876), Pemaquid ; a Story of Old Times in New England (1877), and Avis Benson, tvith Other Sketches (1879).
LAST WORDS.
Everybody wonders to see me once more in- terested in my long-closed Journal, and becom- ing able to see the dear friends from whom I have been in a measure cut off. We cannot ask the meaning of this remarkable increase of strength.
I have no wish to choose. But I have come to the last page of my Journal, and living or dying, shall wrire in this volume no more. It closes upon a life of much childishness and great sinfulness, whose record makes me blusli with shame, but I no longer need to relieve my heart with seeking sympathy in its unconscious
ELIZABETH PRENTtSS.— 2
pages, nor do I believe it well to go on analyzing it as I have done. I have had large experience of both joy and sorrow; I have seen the naked- ness and the emptiness, and I have seen the beauty and sweetness of life. What I have to say now, let me say to Jesus. What time and strength I used to spend in writing here, let me spend in praying for all men, for all suf- ferers, for all who are out of the way, for all whom I love, and their name is Legion, for I love everybod3^ Yes, I love everybody ! That crowning joy has come to me at last. Christ is in m}"^ soul ; He is mine ; I am as conscious of it as that my husband and children are mine ; and His spirit flows forth from mine in the calm peace of a river, whose banks are green with grass and glad with flowers. If I die, it will be to leave a wearied and worn body and a sinful soul, to go joyfully to be with Christ, to be weary, and to sin no more. If I live, I shall find much blessed work to do for Him. So, living or dying, I shall be the Lord's. But I wish, oh, how earnestly, that whether I go or sta}^, T could inspire some lives with the joy that is now mine. For many years I have been rich in faith ; rich in an unfaltering confidence that I was beloved of my God and Saviour. But something was wanting ; I was ever groping for a mysterious grace, the want of which made me often sorrowful in the very midst of my most sacred joy, imperfect when I most longed for perfection. It was that per- sonal love to Christ of which my precious mother so often spoke to me, which she had often urged me to seek upon my knees. If I had known then, as I know now, what this priceless treasure could be to a sinful human soul, I would have sold all that I had to buy the field wherein it laj'^ hidden. But not till I was shut up to prayer and to the study of God's word by the loss of earthl}' joj's — sickness destroying the flavor of them all — did I begin to ])enetrate the mystery that is learned under the cross. And, wondrous as it is, how simpl<j
ELIZABETH PREN'TISS.- :i
is this mystery ! To love Christ, and to know tliat I love Him — this is all.
And when I entered upon the sacied 3'et oft- times homely duties of married life, if this love had been mine, how would that life have been transfigured ! The petty faults of my husband under which I chafed would not have moved me ; I should have welcomed Martha and her father to m\' home and made them happy there ; I should have had no conilicts with my servants, shown no petulance to my children. For it would not have been I who spoke and acted, liut Christ who lived in me.
Alas ! I have had less than seven years hi which to atone for a sinful, wasted past, and to live a new and Christ-like life. If I am to have yet more, thanks be to Him who has given me the victory that life will be Love. Not the love that rests in the contemplation and adoration of its object ; but the love that gladdens, sweetens, solaces other lives. — /Ste2)- ping Heavenward.
WILLIAM HICIvLIXG PRESCOTT.— 1
PRESCOTT, William Hicklixg, an
American historian, born at Salem, Mass., in 1796 ; died at Boston in 1859. He graduated at Harvard in 1814 ; but in tlie last year of his college life a fellow-student playfully threw a crust of bread at him, striking one of his eyes, which was ren- dered almost sightless. Inflammation set in in the other eye, resulting in almost total loss of vision. He visited Europe, mainly with the hope of receiving benefit from eminent oculists. But practically for nearly all the remainder of his life his eyes were of little use in reading or writing. Returning to Boston in 1819, he resolved to devote the next ten years to the study / of ancient and modern literature, and the ensuing ten years to the composition of a history. His studies in literature led to the publication of several essays in the North American Review^ which were in 1815 collected into a couple of volumes entitled 3IisceUa7iies.
As early as 1825 he had fixed upon the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain as the subject of his first historical work. The history of the Reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, after fully ten j^eai-s of con- tinuous labor, was published in 1837. The next six years were devoted to the History of (he Conquest of Mexico (1843), and the four subsequent ^'ears to the History of the Conquest of Peru (1847). After a visit to Europe, he set himself to writing the history of the Reign of Philip II. of Spain, for which he had already nnule an extensive collection of documents. Of this work Volumes I. and II. ap[)eared in 1855, and Volume III. in 1858. The work was to have consisted of six volumes, but the
WILLIAM HK KLIXG PRESCOTT— 2
remaining tliree were never written. In Fehrnary, 1858, he experienced a slight sli"ck of paralj'sis. Eleven months after- wards, while at work in his library with his secretary, he was struck speechless by a second shock, and died within an hour. — A revised edition of Prescott's Works, edited by John Foster Kirke, who had been his secretary for more than ten years, was published in 1875. The Life of Prescott has been written by George Ticknor Curtis (18(34).
EXPULSION OF THE JEWS FROM SPAIN".
The edict for the expulsion of the Jews was signed hy the Spunish sovereigns at Granada, March 30, 1492. The preamble alleges, in vin~ dication of the measure, the danger of allowing further intercourse between the Jews and their Christian subjects, inconsequence of the incor- rigible obstinacy with which the former persisted in their attempts to make converts of the latter to their own faith, and to instruct them in their heretical rites, in open defiance of every legal prohibition and penalt}-. When a college or corporation of any kind — the instrument goes on to state — is convicted of any great or detest- able crime, it is right that it should be dis- franchised ; the less suffering with the greater, the innocent with the guilty. If this be the case in temporal concerns, it is much more so in those which affect the eternal welfare of the soul.
It finally decrees that all uid>aptized Jews, of whatever age, sex or condition, should depart from the realm by the end of July next ensu- ing ; prohibiting them from returning to it on any pretext whatever, under penalty of death and confiscation of property'. It was moreover interdicted to every subject to harbor, succor, or minister to the necessities of any Jew after the expiration of the term fixed for his departure. The persons and property of
WILLIAM HICKLINft PRESCOTT.— 3
the Jews, in the meantime, were taken under tlie roj'al protection. Tliey were allowed to dispose of their effects of every kind on their own account, and to carry the proceeds along with them, in bills of exchange, or merchan- dise not prohibited, but neither in gold nor silver. . . .
While the gloomy aspect of their fortunes pressed heavily on the hearts of the Israelites, the Spanish clergy were indefatigable in the work of conversion. They lectured in the synagogues and public squares, expounding the doctrines of Christianity, and thundering forth both argument and invective against the Hebrew heresy. But their laudable endeavors were in a great measure counteracted by the more authoritative rhetoric of the Jewish Rab- bins, who compared the persecutions of their brethren to tliose which their ancestors had suffered under Pharaoh. They encouraged them to persevere, representing that the pres- ent afflictions were intended as a trial of their faith by the Almighty, who designed in this way to guide them to the promised land, by opening a path through the waters, as he had done to their fatliers of old.
The more wealthy Israelites enforced the ex- hortations by liberal contributions for the relief of their indigent brethren. Thus strength- ened, there were found but very few, when the day of their departure arrived, who were not prepared to abandon their country rather than their religion. This extraordinary act of a whole people for conscience's sake may be thought, in the nineteenth century, to merit other epithets than those of '' perfidy, in- credulity, and stiff-necked obstinacy," with which the worthy curate of Los Palacios, in the charitable feeling of that day, has seen fit to stigmatize it.
When the period of departure arrived, all the principal routes through the country might be seen swarming witii emigrants — old and young, the sick, men, women, ^nd. chiidrea.
WILLIAM HICKLIXG PRESCOTT.— 4
mingled promiscuously together — some mount- ed on horses or mules, but far the greater part undertaking their painful pilgrimage on foot. The sight of so much misery touched even the Spaniards witii pity, though uone might succor them ; for the Jjand-inquisitor, Tor(juemada. enforced the onli nance to that effect, by denouncing heavy ecclesiastical cen- sures on all who should presume to violate it.
The fugitives were distributed along various routes, being determined by accidental circum- stances much more than any knowledge of the respective countries to which they were bound. Much the largest division — amounting, accord- ing to some estimates to 80,000 souls, passed into ]*ortugal, whose wise monarch, John the Second, dispensed with his scruples so far as to give them a free passage through his domin- ions, on their way to Africa, in consideration of a tax of a cruzado a head. He is even said to have silenced his scruples so far as to allow certain ingeriious artisans to establish them- selves permanently in the kingdom. . . .
The whole number of flews expelled from Spain by Ferdinand and Isabella is variously computed from IGO.OOO to 800,000 souls ; a discrepanc}' indicating the paucity of authentic data. Most modern writers, with the usual predilection for startling results, have assumed the latter estimate ; and Dorente has made it the basis of some important estimates in his History of the Inquisition. A view of all the circumstances will lead us without much hesita- tion to adopt the more moderate computation. There is little reason for supposing that the actual amount would suffer diminution in the hands of either Jewish or Castilian authority ; since the one might naturalh' be led to exag- gerate in order to heighten sympathy with the calamities of his people ; and the other to magnif}', as far as possible, the glorious triumph of the Cross.
The detriment incurred by the state, how- ever, is not founded so much on any numerical
■^i^Tr.LIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT.— 5
estiin.ae as on the subtraction of the mechan- ical skill, intelligence, and general resources of an orderlj^, industrious population. In this view, the mischief was incalculably greater than that inferred by the mere number of the exiled. And although even this might have been gradually repaired in a country allowed the free and healthful development of its energies, yet in Spain this was so effectually counteracted by the Inquisition, and other causes in the following century, that the loss may be deemed irretrievable. . . .
It cannot be denied that Spain at this period surpassed most of the nations of Europe in religious enthusiasm or, to speak more correctly, in bigotry. This is doubtless imputable to the long war with the Moslems, and its recent glorious issue, which swelled every lieart with exaltation, disposing it to consummate the tri- umplisof the Cross by purging the land from a heresy which, strange as it may seem, was scarcely less detested than that of Mohammed. Both the sovereigns partook largely of these feelings. With regard to Isabella, moreover, it must be borne constantly in mind that she had been used constantly to surrender her own judgment, in matters of conscience, to those spiritual guardians, who were supposed in that age to be its rightful depositaries, and the only casuists who could safely determine the doubt- ful line of duty. Isabella's pious disposition, and her trembling solicitude to discharge her duty, at whatever cost of personal indignation, greatly enforced the i)recepts of education. In this way her very virtues became the source of lier errors. Unfortunately she lived in an a^i-e and station which attached to these errors the most momentous consequences. — Ferdinand and Isabella.
IN SIGHT OK THE VALLEY AXD CITY OF MEXICO.
The Spaniards, refreshed by a night's rest, succeeded in gaining the crest of the sierra of Ahualco, which stretches like a curtain between
WILLIAM 1IICKLIN(; I'UlvSf'OTT.— 6
tlie two great inountaiiis on tlic north aii<l soutli. Their progress was now comparatively easy, and they marclied forward with a buoyant step, as they felt they were treading the soil of Mon- tezuma. They had not advanced far when, turning an angle of the sierra, they suddenly came on a view wliicli more than compensated the toils of the preceding day. It was that of the valley of Mexico — or Tenochitlan, as more commonly called by tlie natives — which, with its picturesque assemblage of water, >'oodland, and cultivated plains, its sliining cities, and shadowy hills, was spread out like some gay and gorgeous ])anoratna before them.
In the highly rarefied atmosphere of these upper regions, even remote objects have a brilliancy of coloring and a distinctness of outline which seeins to annihilate distance. Stretching far away at their feet were seen uoble forests of oak, sycamore and cedar; and, beyond, yellow fields of maize and the towering mague}^, intermingled with orchards and bloom- ing gardens; for flowers — in such demand for their religious festivals — were even more abun- dant in this populous valley than in other parts of Anahuac. In the center of the great basin were beheld tlie lakes, occupying then a much larger portion of the surface than at present ; their borders thickly studded with towns and hamlets, and in the midst — like some Indian empress with her coronal of pearls — the fair city of Mexico, with her white towers and pyramidal temples, reposiiig, as it were, on the bosom of the waters — the far-famed " Venice of the Aztecs."
High over all rose the royal hill of Chapol- tepec, the residence of the Mexican monarchs, crowned with the same grove of gigantic cy- presses which at this day fling their broad shadows over the land. In the distance, beyond the blue waters of the lake, and nearly screened by intervening foliage, was seen a shining speck — the rival capital of Tezcuco ; and, still further on, the dark belt of porphyry girdling the valley
WILLIAM HirKLlXG PRESCOTT.— 7
around, like a ricli setting which Nature has devised for the fairest of her jewels.
Such was the beautiful vision which broke on the eyes of the Conquistadors. And even now, when so sad a cliange has come over the scene; when the stately forests have been laid low ; and the soil, unsheltered from tlie fierce radiance of a tropical sun, is in many places abandoned to sterility, when the waters liave retired, leaving a broad and ghastly margin white with the incrustation of salts, while the cities and hamlets on their borders have mould- ered into ruins ; even now that desolation broods over the landscape, so indestructible are the lines of beauty which Nature has traced on its features, that no traveller, however cold, can gaze on them with any other emotions than those of astonishment and rapture. What then must have been the emotions of the Spaniards when, after working their toilsome way into the upper air, the cloudy tabernacle parted before their eyes, and they beheld all these fair scenes in their pristine magnificence and beauty ! It was like the spectacle which greeted the eyes of Moses from the summit of Pisgah ; and, in the warm glow of theirfeelings, they cried out, "It is tlie Promised Land ! "
But these feelings of admii'ation were very soon followed by others of a very different com- plexion, as they saw in all this the evidences of a civilization and power far superior to any- thing they had yet encountered. The more timid, disheartened by the prospect, shrunk from a contest so unequal, and demanded — as they had done on some former occasions — to be led back again to Vera Cruz. Such was not the effect produced on the sanguine spirit of tlie General. His avarice was sharpened by the display of the dazzling spoil at his feet; and if he felt a natural anxiety at the formidable odds, his con- fidence was renewed as he gazed on the lines of his veterans, whose weather-beaten visages and battere<l armor told of battles won and difficulties surmounted; while his bold barba-
WILLIAM inCKLI]S"a PRESCOTT.— 8
riaiis, with appetites whetted by the view of their enemies' country, seemed like eagles on the mountains, ready to pounce upon their prey. By argument, entreaty, and menace, Cortes endeavored to restore the faltering courage of the soldiers, urging them not to think of retreat, now that they had reached the goal for which they had panted, and the golden gates were o[)ened to receive them. In these efforts he was well seconded by the brave cavaliers, who lield honor as dear to them as fortune ; until the dullest spirits caught somewlnit of the enthu- siasm i)f their leaders, and the (xenenil had the satisfa(;tion to see his hesitating columns, with their usual buoyant step once more on their march down the slopes of the sierra. — Con- (J nest of Mexico.
THE LAST OF THE INCAS.
Elevated high above his vassals came the Inca Atahuallpa, borne on a sedan, or open litter, on which was a sort of throne made of massive gold of inestimable value. The pal- anquin was lined with the richly-colored plumes of tropical birds, and studded with shining plates of gold and silver. Hound the monarch's neck was suspended a collar of emeralds of un- common size and brillianc}'. His sliort hair was decorated with golden ornaments, and the imperial borla encircled his temples. The bearing of the Inca was sedate and dignified ; and from his lofty station he looked down on the multitudes below with an air of composure, like one accustomed to command. As the leading lines of the procession entered the great square, the}' opened to the right and left for the royal retinue to pass. Everything was conducted with admirable order. The monarch was per- mitted to traverse the plaza in silence, and not a Spaniard was visible. When some five or six thousand of his people had entered the plaza, Atahuallpa halted, and, turning round with an inquiring look, demanded, '" Where ar© the strangers ? "
WILLIAM mCKLIXG PKESCOTT.— 9
At this moment Fray Vincente de Valverde, a Dominican friai*, Pizarro's chaplain, and afterwards Bishop of Cuzco, came forward with his Breviary (or, as other accounts say, a Bible), in one hand and a crucifix in the other, and ap- proaching tlie Inca told him that he came by order of his commander to expound to him the doctrines of the true faith, for which purpose the Spaniards had come from a great distance to his country. The Friar then explained, as clearly as he could, the m\'sterious doctrine of the Trinity ; and, ascending higli in his ac- count, began with the creation of man, thence passed to his Fall, to his subsequent Redemp- tion, to the Crucifixion, and the Ascension when the Saviour left the Apostle Peter as his vicegerent upon earth.
This power had been transmitted to the suc- cessors of the apostle — good and wise men who, under the title of Popes, held authority over all Powers and Potentates on earth. (3ne of the last of these Popes had commissioned the Spanish Emperor — the most mighty monarch in the world — to conquer and convert the natives in this western hemisphere ; and his general, Francisco Pizarro, had now come to execute this important mission. The Friar concluded with beseeching the Peruvian mon- arch to I'eceive him kindly, to abjure the errors of his own faith, and embrace that of the Chris- tians now proffered to him — the only one by which he could lioi)e for salvation ; and, fur- thermore to acknowledge himself a tributary of the Emperor Charles the Fifth who, in that event, would r-id and protect him as his loj'al vassal.
The eyes of the Indian monarch flashed fire, and his daik brow grew darker, as he replied, "I will be no man's tril^utary! I am greater than any prince upon earth. Your Emperor may be a great prince ; I do not doubt it, when I see that he has sent his subjects so far across the waters; and I am willing to hold him as a brother. As for the Pope of whom you speak^
WILLIAM lIlCKLlXa PRESCOTT.— 10
he iiiusr l)t' crazy lo talk of giving u\va_y coun- tries wliirli do not belong to him. Fur my faith,'" he continued, " I will not change it. Your own God, as you say, was put to deatli by the very men whom he created. But mine," lie concluded, pointing to his deity — then alas! sinking in glory behind the mountains — " my God still lives in the heavens, and looks down on his children."
He then demanded of Valverde by what au- thority he had said these things. The Friar pointed as authority to the book which he held. Atahuallpa, taking it, turned over the pages a moment ; then, as the insult which he had received probably flaslied across his mind, he threw it down with vehemence and exclaimed, " Tell your comrades that they shall give me an account of their doings in my land. I will not go from here till they have made me full satisfaction for all the wrongs they have committed."
The Friar, greatly scandalized by the indig- nity offered to the sacred volume, staved only to pick it up, and hastening to Pizarro in- formed him of what had been done, e.xclaiming at the same time, " Do you not see that while we stand here wasting our breath in talking with this dog, full of pride as he is, the fields are filling with Indians ? Set on at cice ! I absolve yon."
Pizarro saw that the hour had come. He waved a white scarf in the air — the appointed signal. The fatal gun was fired from the for- tress. Then, springing into the square, the Spanish captain and Ins followers sliouted the old war-cry of " St. Jago and at tliem ! " It was answered by the battle-cry of every Spaniard in the city, as rushing from the avenues of the halls in which they were concealed, they poured into the plaza, horse and foot, each in his own dark c()lumn, and threw themselves into the midst of the Indian crowd. The latter, taken by surprise, stunned by the r(>port of artillery and muskets, the echoes of which re-
WILLIAM HICKLIXG PRESCOTT.— 11
verberated like chunder from tlie sui-rounding buildings, and blinded by the smoke whicli rolled in sulphurous volumes along the square, were seized with a panic. They knew not whither to fly for refuge from the coming ruin. Nobles and commoners all were trampled down under the fierce charge of the cavahy, who dealt their blows right and left without sparing ; while their swords, flashing fire throngh the thick gloom, carried dismay into the hearts of the wretched natives, wlio now for the first time saw the horse and his rider in all their terrors.
They made no resistance, as indeed they had no weapons with which to make it. Every avenue to escape was closed, for the entrance to the square was choked up with the dead bodies of men who had perished in vain efforts to fly ; and such was the agony of the surviv- ors under the terrible pressure of their assail- ants, that a large body of Indians, by their convulsive struggles, burst through the wall of stone and dried clay which formed the bound- ary of the plaza. It fell, leaving an opening of more than a hundred paces, through which multitudes now found their way into the country, still hotly pursued by the cavalry who, leaping the fallen rubbish, hung on the rear of the fugitives, striking them down in all di- rections.
Meanw-liile the fight — or rather massacre — continued hot around the Inca, whose person was the great object of the assault. His faithful nobles, rallj'^ing about him, threw themselves in the way of the assailants, and strove, by tearing them from their saddles, or at least by offering their own bosoms as a mark for their vengeance, to shield their beloved master. It is said by some authorities that they carried weapons concealed under their clothes. If so, it availed them little, as it is not pretended that they used them. But the most timid aninial will defend itself when at bay; that the}' did not so in the present instance is proof that they had
WILLIAM HTCKLIVQ PRF-SCOTT.— 12
no weapons to use. fit they still continued to lorce back the cavaliers, clinging to their horses with dying grasp, and as one was cut down another taking the place of a fallen comrade with a loyalty truly affecting.
The Indian monarch, stunned and bewil- dered, saw his faithful subjects falling round him witliout hardly comprehending his situa- tion. The litter on which he rode heaved to ui)d fro as the mighty press swayed backwards liud forwards ; and he gazed on the overwhelm- ing ruin like some forlorn mariner who, tossed about in his bark by the furious elements, sees the lightning's flash and hears the thunder bursting around him, with the consciousness that he can do nothing to avert his fate. At length, weary of the work of destruction, the Spaniards, as the shades of evening grew deeper, felt afraid that the royal prize might, after all, elude them ; and some of the cavaliers made a desperate effort to end the fray at once by taking AtahauUpa's life. But Pizarro, who was nearest his person, called out with stentorian voice, ''Let no one who values his life strike at the Inca," and stretching out his arm to shield him, received a wound on his own hand from one of his own men — the only wound received by a Spaniard in tlie action.
The strugrgle now became fiercer than ever around the royal litter. It reeled more and more, and at length, several of the nobles who supported it having been slain, it was over- turned, and the Indian prince would have come with violence to the ground, had not his f.all been broken by the efforts of Pizarro and some of his cavaliers who caught him in their arms. The imperial borl((, was instantly snatched from his temples b}' a soldier named Estete, and the unhappy monarch, strongly secured, was removed to a neighboring building, where he was carefully guarded. — Conquest vf F&ra.
Harriet waters prestox.— i
PRESTON, HAiiiuET Waters, an American author, born at Duuvers, Mass., in 1843. She had made many translations from the French, esi)ecially from St. Beuve and De Musset ; among her own works are : -Aspendale (1870), Love in the Nineteenth Century (1874;, Troubadoum and, Trouveres (1876;, Is That All? (1878), A Year in JEden (1886), A Question of Identity (1887), The Gruardians (1888). For several years she has resided in England, and has fur- nished critical essays to American period- icals, notable among which is an article upon " Russian Novelists," in the Atlantic Monthly.
COUNT LEO TOLSTOI.
The re-reading and readjustment of Chris- tianity proposed by Count Leo Tolstoi in his Ma Rellfjioii has its fantastic features. It re- calls the earliest presentation of that doctrine, at least in this, that it can hardly fail to prove a ''stumbling-block" to one half of the well- instructed world, and an epitome of foolishness to the otlier. It consists merely in a perfectly literal interpretation of the fundamental prin- ciples, Resist not evil ; Be not angry; Commit no adultery ; Swear not ; Judge not. Even the qualification which our Lord himself is supposed to have admitted in the passage, " Whosoever is angry with his brother vnthotit a cause,'" and in tlie one excepted case to the interdict against divorce, our amateur theologian rejects as tlie glosses of uncandid commentators, or the concefision.s of an interested priesthood.
He then proceeds to show that the logical results of his own rigid interpretations, if they were reduced to practice, would he something more than revolutionary. They would involve the abolition of all personal and class distinc- tions ; the effacement of the bounds of empire ; the end alike of all the farce of formally ad-
HAEKIET WATEKS PRESTON.— 2
ministered justice, ;iirI of tlie violent nioiistrns- ity of war; tlio annihilation of so much even of the sense of individuality as is implied in the expectation of personal rewards and punish- ments, here or hereafter. For all this he pro- fesses himself ready. The man of great posses- sions and transcendent mental endowments, the practiced magistrate, the trained soldier, the consummate artist, the whilom statesman, hav- ing found peace in the theoretic acceptance of unadulterated Christian doctrine, as he con- ceives it, offers himself as an evidence of its perfect ])racticabilit3'.
3Ia lielhjion was given to the world as the literary testament of the author of Guerre et Paix and Anna Karenine. From the hour of the date that was inscribed upon its final page — Moscow, February 22, 1884 — he disap- peared from the field of his immense achieve- ments and the company of his intellectual and social peers. He went away to his estates in Central Russia, to test in his own person his theories of lowly-mindedness, passivitv, and universal equality. He undertook to live hence- forth with and like the poorest of his own peas- ants, by the exercise of a humble handicraft. Those who knew him best say that he will in- evitably return some day ; that this phase will pass, as so many others have passed with Tol- stoi; and that we need by no means bemoan ourselves over the notion that he has said his last word at fifty-seven. Indeed, he seems to have foreshadowed such a return in his treat- ment of the characters of Bezouchof and Le- nine, with both of whom we instinctively understand the author himself to be closely identified. We are bound, I think, to hope that Tourgueneff's last prayer may be granted — those of us at least who are still worldly- minded enough to lament the rarity of great talents in this hist quarter of our century.
And yet, there is a secret demurrer; there are counter-currents of sympathy. A suspi- cion will now and then arise of sometliing
HARRIET WATERS PRESTON.— 3
divinely irrational; something — with all rev- ereuce be it said — remotely Messianic in the sacrifice of tliis extraordinary man. The Seig- neur would become a slave, the towering intel- ligence a folly, if by any means the sufferer may be consoled, the needy assisted. Here, at any rate, is the consistency of the apostolic age. And is it not time, when all is said, when we have uttered our impatient protest against the unconditional surrender of the point of honor, and had our laugh out, it may be, at the fla- grant absurdity of any doctrine of non-resist- ance, a quiet inner voice will sometimes make itself heard with inquiries like these : " Is there anything, after all, on which you yourself look back with less satisfaction than your own self- permitted resentments, your attempted repri- sals for distinctly unmerited personal wrong? What is the feeling with which you are wont to find yourself regarding all public military pageants and spectacles of warlike preparation ? Is it not one of sickening disgust at the ghastly folly, the impudent anachronism, of the whole thing?'' — In Europe, at all events, the strain of the counter-preparations for martial destruc- tion, the heaping of armaments on one side or the other, has been carried to so preposterous and oppressive a pitch that even plain, practical statesmen like Signor Bonghi at Rome are be- ginning seriously to discuss the alternative of general disarmament, the elimination altogether of the appeal to arms from the future interna- tional policy of the historic states. — Russian, Novdists,
MAU(JAI!KT riJKSTON. 1
PRESTON, Makgauet (Juxkix), an American poet, born at Philadelpliia iu 1825. Her father, Rev. George Juukiu (1790-18H8), was the founder of Lafayette College, Easton, Peiin., and became [)resi- dent of Wasliington Ct)llege, Lexington, Va., being succeeded by Gen. R. E. Lee. The daughter married Prof. John T. L. Preston, of the Military Institute at Lexing- ton, and her sister became the wife of "Stonewall" Jackson, then a Professor in the Listitute. hi 1856 Mrs. Preston pub- lished Silverivood ; a Book of Memories; subsequently she has written mainly in verse, contributing frequently to periodi- cals Nortii and Soutli. Her collected poems are : Beeehejihrook (1865), Old Songs and New (1870). Cartoons (1876), For Love's Sake : Poems of Faith and Com- fort (1886), Colonial Ballads, Sonnets, and Other Verses (1887).
DEDICATION TO OLD SOXfJS AND NEW.
Day-duty done — I've idled forth to get
An hour's light pastime in the shady lanes, And liere and there have plucked with care- less pains These wayside waifs — sweet-brier and violet And such-like simple things that seemed
indeed Flowers — though, perhaps, I knew not flower from weed.
What shall I do with them ? They find no place In stately vases where magnolias give Out sweets iu which their faintness could uot live ; Yet, tied with grasses, posy-wise, for grace, I have no heart to cast them quite away, Though their brief bloom should not outlive the day.
MAUGAKET TRESTON. -2
Upon the open pages of your book I lay them down. And if witliin your eye A little tender mist I niaj- descry,
Or a sweet sunshine flicker in j^our look, Right happy shall I be, tho\igli all declare No eye but love's could find- a violet there.
THE MORKOW.
Of all the tender guards that Jesus drew About our frail humanity to stay The pressure and the jostle that alway
Are ready to disturb whate'er we do,
And mar the work our hands would carry through. None more than this environs us each day
With kindly wardenship : — " Therefore I say,
Take no thought for the morrow." — Yet we pay The wisdom scanty heed, and, impotent
To bear the burden of the imperious Now, Assume the Future's exigence unsent.
God grants no overplus of power ; 'tis shed Like morning manna. Yet we dare to bow
And ask — " Give us to-day our Morrow's bread ! "
MORNIKG.
It is enough. I feel this golden morn,
As if a royal appanage were mine,
Through Nature's queenlj' warrant of divine Investiture. What princess, palace-born, Hath right of rapture more, when skies adorn
Themselves so grandly ; when the mountains shine
Transfigured ; when the air exalts like wine; When pearly purples steep the yellowing corn ?
So, satisfied with all the goodliness Of God's good world — ni}- being to its brim
Surcharged with utter thankfulness no less Than bliss of beauty, passionately glad
Through rush of tears that leaves the land- scape dim —
^'Who dares," I cry, "in such a world be sad ? "
MARGARET PRESTON — 3 NIGHT.
I press my clieek against the window-pane, Aud gaze abroad into the blauk, blank space, Where earth and sky no more have any phice, Wiped from existence by the expujiging rain ; And as 1 liear the worried winds complain, A darkness, darker than the murk whose
trace Invades the curtained room, is on my face, Beneath which life and life's best ends seem vain ; My swelling aspirations viewless sink As yon cloud-blotted hills ; hopes that shone
bright As planets yester-eve, like them to-night
Are gulfed the impenetrable mists before. '' O weary world," I crj', "how dare I think Thou hast for me one gleam of gladness more ? "
SAINT CECILIA.
Haven't you seen her ? and don't you know
Why I dote on the darling so ?
Let me picture her as she stands
There with the music-book in her hands,
Looking as ravishing, rapt, and bright
As a baby Saint Cecilia might.
Lisping her bird-notes — that's Belle White.
Watch as she raises her e3'es to 3'ou — Half-crushed violets dij)ped in dew. Brimming with timorous, coy surprise (Doves have just such glistening eyes); But, let a dozen of years have flight. Will there be then such harmless light Warming these luminous eyes — Belle White ?
Look at the pretty, feminine grace.
Even now, on the small young face;
Such a consciousness ns she speaks,
Flushing the ivory of her cheeks ; Such a maidenly, arch delight That she carries me captive quite. Snared with her daisy chain — Belle White.
MARGARET PREST0N,-~4
Mafiy ail aiubuslied smile lies hid Under that iiinoceiit, downcast lid; Arrows will Hy, with silver}' tips, Out from the bow of those ai'ching lips, Parting so guilelessly, as she stands There with the music-book in her hands, Chanting her bird-notes, soft and light. Even as Saint Cecilia might, Dove with folded wings — Belle White !
A GKAVE IN HOLLYWOOD CEMETERY, RICH MOND, VA.
[./. R. T.—Died 1872.] I read the marble-lettered name,
And half in bitterness I said, *'As Dante from Ravenna came
Our poet came, in exile — dead J" And yet, had it been asked of him
Where he would rather la}^ his head, This spot he would have chosen. — Dim
The city's hxim drifts o'er his grave.
And green above the hollies wave Their jagged leaves, as when, a boy.
On blissful summer afternoons
He came to sing the birds his runes. And tell the river of his joy.
What dreams that in his wanderings wide, By stern misfortunes tossed and driven His soul's electric strands were riven
From home and country? — Let betide
What might, what would, his boast, his pride. Was in his stricken Mother-Land,
That could but bless, and bid him go, Because no crust was in her hand
To stay her children's need. We know The mystic cable sank too deep
For surface-storm or stress to strain,
Or from his answering heart to keep
The spark from flashing back again.
Think of the thousand mellow rhymes
The pure idyllic passion-flowers, Wherewith in far-gone happier times,
MARGARET PRESTON.— 6
He garlanded tliis South of ours. Proveii9al-like he wandered long
And sang at man}' a stranger's board ;
Yet 'twas Virginia's name that poured The tenderest pathos through his song.
We owe the I'oet praise and tears Whose ringing ballad sends the brave
Bold Stuart riding down the years : — What have we given him ? — Just a grave.
god's patikxck.
Of all the attributes whose starry raj's
Converge and centre in one focal light Of luminous glory, such as angels' sight Can only look on with a blench'd amaze, None crowns the brow of God witli purer blaze. Nor lifts His grandeur to more intinite height, Than His exhaustless patience. Let us praise With wondering hearts this strangest, teuderest grace, Remembering, awe-struck, that the aveng- ing rod Of Justice must have fallen, and Mercy's plan Been frustrate, had not Patience stood between, Divinely meek. And let us learn that man.
Toiling, enduring, pleading — calm, serene, For those who scorn and slight, is likest God.
SAMUEL IliEN^US PKIME.— 1
PRIME, Samuel Iren^us, an Ameri- can journalist and author, born at Balls- ton, N. Y., in 1812 ; died at Bennington, Vt., in 1885. He graduated at Williams College in 1829, studied at the Princeton Theological Seminary, and entered the Presbyterian ministry. His voice having partially failed, he retired from pastoral labor in 1840, and became connected with tiie NetvYork Observer^ a religious journal, of which he subsequently became editor and proprietor. For several years he also conducted the department known as the " Editor's Drawer " in Harper s Mayazine. He made several foreign tours, and pub- lished Travels in Europe and the East (1855), Letters from Switzerland (1860), The Alhamhra and the Kremlin (1873). He wrote many woilis of a devotional character, and several series of his news- pai)er contributions have been collected and published separately under the title of The Irenceiis Letters.
SAMUEL HANSOX COX.
His faculty of using large words was remark- able. It was attributed tea slight impediment in liis speech, which led him to take a word that he could utter without difficulty in prefer- ence to a smaller one on which he was inclined to stumble; but that was not tlie reason. In writing he had the same habit : and, if possible, he made use of larger words than he did in public speech. He was as natural as he was brilliant; and he was the most brilliant clergy- man of his generation. As flashes of light- ning vanish in an instant, so the coruscations of his splendid genius were transient; beauti- ful, magnificent for the moment, but gone as suddenl}^ as they came. There is melancholj'' in the thought that the best and brightest things he ever said are not on record, and, with
SAMUEL IREN/EUS PUIME. -2
his contemporaries will pass from the memory of man. They jjassed even from his own mem- ory, most of them, as soon as they were spoken.
He was always ready — or, as he would sa)', semper pa rat us, and was never taken at a dis- advantage. The best illustration of his readiness js hi;; famous address before the Bible Society in London, which I will not repeat, it is so familiar. But it is haruiy jjrobable that a more splendid example of extemjjore rhetoric can be found in the whole range of English literature.
lu the later years of his life, when his powers were not at their best and brightest, he went into St. Paul's Methodist Church in New York, to worship there as a stranger. He- was recognized by a gentleman, who went to the pulj^it and informed the preacher that Dr. Cox was in the congregation. He was invited to preiich ; and taking a text, which he gave in two or thn-c languages, he preached two hours with such a variety of learning, copi- ousness of illustiation, and felicity of diction, as to entertain, delight, instruct, and move the assembly. This habit of long preaching grew upon him, and he bet;ame tedious in his old age ; man}' others do likewise. It is the last infirmitv of great preachers.
Especially is this true of those who, like Dr. Cox, are fond of preaching expository sermons. There is no convenient stopping-place for a man who takes a chapter, and attempts a ser- mon on each clause and word. Dr. Cox rarely approved of the translation of the Bible before him. His Greek Testament was alwa3's at hand, and after a severe, and sometimes a fierce denunciation of the text in thelvcceived Version. he would give his own rendering, and enforce that with the ardor of geiiius and the power of Christian eloquence. — The Irenceus Z,etters.
WILLIAM COWPER PIlBIE.— I
PRIME, William Cowper, an Ameri- can lawyer and author, brother of Samuel l. Prime, born at Cambridge, N. Y., in 1825. He graduated at Princeton in 3843 ; stud- ied law, and after having been admitted to the bar in 184G, practiced in New York until 1861, wl)en he became one of the editors of the New York Journal of Com- merce. In 1855 lie visited Egypt and the Holy Land, and in 1857 published Boat Life in Eyypt and Nuhla^ and Tent Life hi the Holy Land. He has put forth several volumes, partly made up from his articles in periodicals. Among these are : The Owl- Creek Letters (1848), The Old House hy the River (1858), / Go a-Fishing (1873). He has devoted much attention to archse- ology, numismatics, and ceramics, and has published, Coins, Medals., and Seals (1861), Pottery and Porcelain of all Times and Nations (1878), and an annotated edition of the hymn '' O Mother dear, Jerusalem." He was the literary executor of Gen. George B. McClellan, editing 3IcClellan''s Own Story., to which he prefixed a bio- graphical sketch (188G).
PISCATORIAL MEDITATIONS.
While I listened to the wind in the pine-trees, the gloom had increased, and a ripple came steal- ing over the waters. There was a flapping of one of the lil^'-pads as the first wave struck them ; and then, as the breeze passed over us, I threw two flies on the black ripple. There was a swift rush, a sharp dash and plunge in the water. Both were struck at the instant, and then I had work before me that forbade me listening to the voice of the pines. It took five miiuites to kill my fish, tvvo splendid specimens, weighing each a little less than two pounds. Meantime the rip had increased, and tlie breeze came fresh and steady. It was too dark now
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME.— 2
to see the opposite shore, and the fish rose at every cast ; and when I liad half a dozen of tlie same sort, and one that lacked only an ounce of being full four pounds, we pulled up the killeck and paddled homeward round the wooded point.
The moon rose, and the scene on the lake became magically beautiful. The mocking laugh of the loon was the only cause of complaint in that evening of splendor. Who can sit iu the forest in such a nigiit, when earth and air are full of glory — when the soul of the veriest blockiiead must be elevated, and when a man begins to feel as if there were some doubt whether he is even a little lower than the angels — who, I say, can sit in such a scene and hear that fiendish laugh of the loon, and fail to remember Eden and the Tempter ? Did you ever hear that laugh ? If so, you know what I mean. That mocking laugh rang in my ears as 1 reeled in my line, and Ij'ing back in the bottom of the canoe, looked at the still and glorious sky.
" Oh, that I could live just here forever," I said, " in this still forest home by the calm lake, in this undisturbed companionship of earth and sky ! Oh, that I could leave the life of labor among men, and rest serenelj' here, as mj' sun goes down in the sky ! ''
" Ho ! ho ! ha ! ha ! " laughed the loon across the lake, under the great rock of the old Indian. Well, the loon was right ; and I was, like a great many other men, mistaken in fanc,ying a hermit's life, or wh.at I rather desired — a life in the country, with a few friends — a> preferable to life among crowds of men. There is a certain amount of truth, however, in the idea that man made cities and God made the country.
Doubtless we human creatures were intended to live upon the products of the soil, and the animal food which our strength or sagacity would enable us to procure. It was intended that each man should, for himself and those de-
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME.— 3
pendent upon him, receive from the soil of the earth such sustenance and clotliing as he could compel it to yield. But we have invented a sj-stem of covering miles square of ground with large flat stones, or piles of brick and mortar, so as to forbid the product of any article of nourishment, forbidding grass or grain or flowers to spring up, since we need the space for our intercommunication with each other in all the ways of traffic and accumulating wealth, while we buy for monej-, in what we call markets, the food and clothing we should have procured for ourselves from the common mother earth. Doubtless all this is a perversion of the original designs of Providence. The perversion is one that sprang from the accumulation of wealth by a few, to the excluding of tlie many, which in time resulted in the purchasing of tlie land by the few, and the supply of food in return for an tides of luxury manufactured by artisans who were not cultivators of the soil. But who would listen now to an argument in favor of returning to the nomadic mode of life ? — 1 Go a-Fishing.
O MOTHER DEAR, JERUSALEM !
This old hymn needs no words of praise to commend it. It is a grand poem, and one or another portion of it will reach eve rj' heart with its power and beauty. It has been a comfort and a joy to very many people, both in this form and in the numerous variations, abbreviations, and alterations in which it has from time to time appeared among the sacred poems of the Chris- tian world It was sung by the
martyrs of Scotland in the words we have here. It has been sung in triumphant tones through the arches of mighty cathedrals ; it has been chanted by the lips of kings, and queens, and nobles; it has ascended in the still air above the cottage roofs of the poor; it has given utter- ance to the hopes and expectations of the Chris- tian in every continent, by ever}^ seashore, in hall and hovel, until it has become in one or another of its forms the possession of the whole C!hristiaa world.
THOMAS PRIXGLE.— 1
PRTNGLE, Thomas, a Scottish author, born in Teviotdiile in 1789 ; tlied in 1834. He graduated at the University of Edin- burgh, and was appointed to a small ])Osi- tion under tlie government. In 1817 he commenced the publication of the Edin- hur(jh MontJily 3faf/azine, out of which subsequently grew Blackwood's Magazine. This and other literary enterprises which he had undertaken proving unsuccessful, he, with his father and several brothers, emi- grated to South Africa in 1820, and estab- lished a little settlement among the Kafirs. He soon went to Cape Town, the capital of tlie Cape Colony, where he set up a private school, and became the editor of the South African Journal. This paper was discontinued in consequence of the censorship of the Colonial Governor. Pringle returned to Great Britain in 1826, and became secretary to the African So- ciety. His Narrative of a Residence in South Africa was published in 1835, soon after his death ; and a collection of his Poems., edited by Leitch Ritchie, appeared in 1838.
AFAK IN THE DESERT.
Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-bo}'^ alone by my side : When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, And, sick of the Present, I turn to the Past ; When the e\'e is suffused with regretful tears, Prom the fond recollections of former years ; And the shadows of things that long since have
fled Flit over the brain like the gliosts of the dead ; And ni}' native land, whose magical nauip Thrills to the heart like electric flame ; The home of my childhood — the haunts of my
ijrime ;
THOMAS PKINGLE. —2
All the passions and scenes of that rai^turoua
time When tlie feelings were young, and the world
was new, Like tlie fresh flowers of Eden unfolding to
view : — All, all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone, And I, a lone exile, remembered of none ; My high aims abandoned, my good acts un- done, A-weary of all that is under the sun ; With that sadness of heart which no stranger
may scan, I fly to the desert, afar from man ! . . .
Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side ; Away, away from the dwellings of men, By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's
glen ; By valleys remote where the oribi plays, Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest
graze, And the koodoo and eland unhunted recline By the skirts of gray forests o'erhung with
wild vine ; Where the elephant browses at peace in the
wood. And the river-horse gambols unscared in the
flood, And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will In the fen where the wild-ass is drinkine his
fill. ^
Afar in the desert I love to ride. With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side ; O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating cry Of the springbock's fawn sounds plaintively ; And tlie timorous quagga's whistling neigh Is lieard 1)3'' the fountain at twilight gray; Where the zebra wantonlj-- tosses his mane, With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain ; And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, Hieing away to the home of her rest. Where she and her mate have scooped their
nest.
THOMAS PPJNGLE.— 3
Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view, In the pathless depths of the parched karroo.
Afar in the desert I love to ride, AVith the silent Bush-boy alone hy my side ; Awa}', away in the wilderness vast, Where the white man's foot hath never passed, And the quivered Coranna and Bechuan Hath rarel}' crossed with his roving clan ; A region of emptiness, howling and drear, Which man hath abandoned from famine and
fear ; Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, AVith the twilight bat from the yawning stone; AVliere grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot ; And the bitter melon, for food and drink Is the pilgrim's fare hy the salt lake's brink : A region of drought, where no river glides, Xor rippling brook with osiered sides ; Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, Appears to refresh the aching eye ; But the barren earth, and the burning sky, And the blank horizon, round and round, Spread — void of living sight or sound.
And here, while the night-winds round me sigh. And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky. As I sit apart by the desert stone, Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone, A still small voice comes through the wild (Like a father consoling his fretful child), Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, Sayiug, " Maa is distaut, but God is near * "
MATTHEW PRIOR.— 1
PRIOR, Matthew, an English politician and poet, bom in 1G64 ; died in 1721. In 1686 he graduated at Cambridge, where he formed an intimacy with Charles Montague, afterwards Earl of Halifax. He held va- rious civil and diplomatic positions ; was returned to Parliament in LTOl. In 1711 he was made Ambassador at Paris ; but when the Whigs came into power, in 1711, he was recalled, and imprisoned on a charge of treason. After his release he publisiied by subscription a folio volume of his Poems, from which he realized 4,000 guineas — equivalent to some 60,000 dollars at the present time. Lord Harley added an equal sum for the purchase of an estate. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, where a monument was erected to his memory, for which he left .£500 in his will. Prior's attempts at serious verse are of little value ; but some of his lighter poems are graceful, and there are a few clever epigrams.
TO A VERY YOUNG LADY OF QUALITY.
Lords, Knights, and 'Squires, the numerous band
That wear the fair Miss Mar3''s fetters, Were suramoned by lier high command
To show their passion by their letters.
Mj' pen among the rest I took,
Lest those briglit eyes that cannot read
Should dart their kindling fires, and look Tlie power they ])ave to be obeyed.
Nor quality nor reputation
Forbid me yet my flame to tell ; Dear five-year-old befriends my passion,
And I ma\' write till she can spell.
For, while she makes her silk-worms' beds With all the tender things I swear;
Whilst all the house my passion reads In papers round her baby's hair;
MATTHEW PRIOR.- 2
She may receive and own my flame,
For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,
And I for an unhappy poet.
Then too, alas! when she sliall tear The lines some younger rival sends,
She'll give me leave to write, I fear. And we shall still continue friends.
For, as our different ages move,
'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall b'^ past making love,
When she begins to comprehend it,
FOR HIS OWN MONUMENT.
As doctoi's give physic by way of prevention. Matt, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care ;
For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention May haply be never fulfilled by bis heir.
Then, take Matt's word for it — tbe sculptor is paid ; That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye ; Yet credit but lightly what more may be said, For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.
Yet, counting as far as to fifty his years.
His virtues and vices were as other nien's are ; High hopes he conceived, and he smothered great fears. In a life parti-colored — half pleasure — half care.
Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, He strove to make int'rest and freedom agree ; In public employments, industrious and grave. And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he.
Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot, Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust;
MATTHEW PRIOR. -3
And whirled in the round as the wheel turned about, He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.
TLis verse, little polished, though mighty sin- cere. Sets neither his titles nor merit to view ; It says that his relics collected lie here ;
And no mortal yet knows if this may be true. . . .
If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air, To fate we u.ust yield, and the thing is the same ; And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear, He cares not: — yet prithee, be kind to his fame.
EPIGRAMS.
To John I owed great obligation ;
But John unhappily thought fit To publish it to all the nation : —
Sure, John and I are quit.
Yes, every poet is a fool ;
By demonstration Ned can show it: Happy, could Ned's inverted rule
Prove every fool to ha a poet.
Nobles and heralds, by your leave.
Here lies what once was Matthew Prior,
The son of Adam and of Eve :
Can Stuart or Nassau claim higher ?
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.— 1
PROCTER, Adelaide Anne, an Eng- S^nh poet, daughter of " Barry Cornwall," born at London in 1825 ; died there in 1864. Early in 1853, Household Words ^•eceived a poem, bearing the signature *' Mary Berwick," which Charles Dickens, the editor, thought "very different from the slioal of verses perpetually setting Shrough the office of such a periodical, and possessing much more merit." The author was requested to send more ; and ishe soon became a frequent contributor. It was not until nearly two years after that Dickens learned that '' Mary Ber- wick " was Adelaide Procter, whom he had known from childhood, and who was the daughter of one of his oldest literary friends. With the exception of a few early verses, a little volume, entitled, A Chaplet of Ferses, published in 1862 for the benefit of a charitable association, all of her poems originally appeared in period- icals edited by Dickens, who prefixed a biographical introduction to a complete edition issued shortly after her death.
A LKGEXD OF BREGEXZ.
Girt round with ru<ro;ed mountains the fair
Lake Constance lips ; In her blue heart reflected shine back the
starry skies ; And, watching each white cloudlet float silently
RTid slow, You think a piece of Heaven lies on our earth
below. Midnicrht is there: and Silence, enthroned in
Heaven, looks down Upon her own calm mirror, upon a sleeping
town. For Brecjenz, that quaint city upon the Tyrol
shore. Has stood above Lake Constance a thousand
years and more.
ADELAIDE ANNE PKOCTEii. -2
Her battlements and towers, from off their
rocky steep Have cast tlieir trembling shadows for ages o' r
the deep. Mountain, and lake, and valley, a sacred legend
know, Of how the town was saved, one night, three
hundred 3' ears ago.
Far from her home and kindred a Tyrol maid
had fled, To serve in the Swiss valleys, and toil for daily
bread ; And every year that fleeted so silently and
fast, Seemed to bear further from her the memory
of the Past.
She served kind, gentle masters, nor asked for
rest or change ; Her friends seemed no more new ones, their
speech seemed no more strange ; And when she led her cattle to pasture every
Jay-
She ceased to look and wonder on which side Bregenz lay.
She spoke no more of Bregenz with longing
and with tears ; Her Tyrol home seemed faded in a deep mist
of years ; She heeded not the rumors of Austrian war
and strife ; Each day she rose contented, to the calm toils
of life.
Yet when her master's children would cluster- ing round her stand,
She sang them ancient ballads of her own native land ;
And when at morn and evening she knelt be« fore God's tlirone,
The accents of her childhood rose to her lips alone.
ADELAIDE AXNE PROCTER.— 3
And so she dwelt : — the valley more peaceful
year by year, When suddenly strange portents of some great
deed seemed near. The golden corn was bending upon its fragile
stalk, "While farmers, heedless of their fields, paced
up and down in talk.
The men seemed strange and altered, with
looks cast on the ground; With anxious faces, one by one, the women
gathered round. [away;
All talk of flax, or spinning, or work, was put The very children seemed afraid to go alone to
One day, out in the meadow, with strangea's
from the town. Some secret plan discussing, the men walked
up and down ; Yet now and theii seemed watching a strange,
uncertain gleam, That looked like lances "mid the trees that
stood below the stream.
At eve they all assembled; theu care and doubt were fled ;
With jovial laugh they feasted; the board was nobly spread. [hand,
The Elder of the village rose up, his glass in.
And cried, "We drink the downfall of an ac- cursed land !
"The night is growing darker; ere one more
day is flown, Bcegenz, our foemen's stronghold, Bregenz
shall be our own ! "' — The women shrank in terror (3^et Pride too had
her part ;) But one poor Tj-rol maiden felt death within
her heart. .,
Before her stood fair Bregenz; once more her
towers arose : What were the friends around her ? — only her
country's foes !
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.— 4
The faces of her kinsfolk, the days of child- hood flown,
The echoes of her mountains, reclaimed her as their own.
Nothing she heard around her — though shouts
rang t'ortli again ; Gone were tlie green Swiss valleys, the pasture,
and the plain. Before her eyes one vision ; and in her heart
one cry, That said, " Go forth, save Bregenz, and then,
if need be, die ! "
With trembling haste and breathless, with noiseless step, she sped. [shed ;
Horses and weary cattle were standing in the
She loosed the strong white charger that fed from out her hand ;
She mounted, and she turned his head towards her native land.
Out — out into the darkness ; faster, and still more fast ;
The smooth grass flies behind her, the chestnut- wood is past.
She looks up; clouds are heav_Y : Why is her steed so slow ? —
(Scarcely the wind beside them could pass them as they go.)
" Faster ! '' she cries, " Oh faster ! " — Eleven
the church-bells chime : "O God," she cries, "help Bregenz, and bring
me there in time!" [kine.
But louder than bells' ringing, or lowing of the Grows nearer in the midnight the rushing of
the Rhine.
Shall not the roaring waters their headlong
gallop check ? — The steed draws back in terror; she leans upon
his neck To watch the flowing darkness. The bank is
high and steep ; One pause — he staggers forward, and plunges
in the deep. 61
ADELAIDE ANNE rilOCTER.--5
She strives to pierce the blackness, and looser
throws tlie rein ; Her steed must breast the waters that dash
above his mane. How galliintl3',liow nobly, he struggles through
the foam ; And see : in the far distance shine out the
lights of home !
Up tlie steep banks he bears her; and now they
rusli again Towards tlie heights of Bregenz, that tower
above the plain. They reach the gates of Bregenz, just as the
midnight rings ; And out come serf and soldier to meet the
news she brings.
Bregenz is saved ! Ere dajdight her battle- ments are manned :
Defiance greets the army that marches on the land.
And if to deeds heroic should endless fame be paid,
Bregenz does well to honor the noble Tyrol maid.
Three hundred years are vanished ; and yet
upon the hill An old stone gate-way rises, to do her honor
still. And there, when Bregenz women sit spinning
in the shade, They see in quaint old carving the charger and
the maid.
And when, to guard old Bregenz, by gate-
wa\', street, and tower. The warder paces all night long, and calls each
passing hour ; " Nine ! " '- Ten ! '' " Eleven ! " he cries aloud,
and then — Oh crown of fame ! — When midnight pauses in the skies, he calls
the Maiden's name.
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.— 6
A woman's questiox.
Before I trust my fate to thee, or place my
hand in thine. Before I let thy Future give color and form to mine, Before I peril all ior thee, Question thy soul to-night for me.
I break all slighter bonds, nor feel a shadow of
regret : Is there one link within the Past that holds tliy spirit yet ? Or is thy faith as clear and free As that which 1 can pledge to thee ?
Does tliere within thy dimmest dreams a pos- sible Future shine, Wherein thy life should henceforth breathe, untouched, unshared by mine ? If so, at any pain or cost, Oh, tell me, before all is lost.
Look deeper still. If thou canst feel within
thy inmost soul That thou hast kept a portion back, while I have staked tlie whole ; Let no false pity spare the blow, But in true merc_y tell me so.
Is there within thy heart a need that mine can- not fulfill ? One chord that any other hand could better wake or still ? Speak now — lest at some future day My whole life wither and decay.
Lives there within thy nature hid the demon- spirit Change, Shedding a passing glory still on all things new and strange ? — It may not be thy fault alone ; But shield my heart against thy own.
ADELAIDE AJS'NE PliOOTEll.— 7
Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day. and
answer to my claim That Fate, and that to-day's mistake — not thou — had been to blame ? — Some soothe their conscience thus ; but
thou Wilt surely warn and save me now.
Nay, answer not — I dare not hear — the words
would come too late. Yet I would spare thee all remorse; so com- fort thee, my Fate — Whatever on my heart may fall — Remember, T would risk it all.
LIFE AND DEATH.
" What is Life, father I "
"A battle, my child. Where the strongest lance may fail,
Where tlie wariest eyes may be beguiled,
And the stoutest heart may quail, Where the foes are gathered on every hand,
And rest not day or night, And the feeble little ones must stand
In the thickest of the tiecht."
« What is Death, father ? "
" The rest, my child. When the strife and toil are o'er;
The angel of God, who, calm and mild,
Says we need fight no more ; Who, driving away the demon band,
Bids the din of the battle cease ; Takes banner and spear from our failing hand.
And proclaims an eternal peace."
BRYAX WALLER PROCTEE.— 1
PROCTER, Bryan Waller, an Eng- lish lawyer and poet, born in London iu 1790; died there in 1874. He is best known by his worn de ■plume "Barry Corn- wall," an anagram of his real name. He was educated at Harrow, was for a while employed in the office of a solicitor in the country, from which he went to London, entered Gray's Lin, and was called to the bar in 1881. From 1832 to 1861 he was a commissioner of lunacy. Mr. John Kenyon died in 1857, and left legacies, amounting in all to X140,000 to his per- sonal and liturary friends. Elizabeth Bar- rett Browning received .£4,000, Robert Browning- and Procter <£6,o00 each. '' Barry Cornwall " commenced liis literary career in 1819 by the publication of Dra- matic /Scenes, and Other Poems. This was followed by several other volumes, lyrical and dramatic. He also wrote Life of Edmund Kean (1835), and Life of Charles Lamb (1866). Li 1851 he put forth a collection of Essays and Tales in Verse. He is, however, best known by his numer- ous lyrics, of which Mr. Gorse says : " They do not possess passion or real pathos, or any very deep m:igic of melody; but he has written more songs tiiat deserve tlie com- parative praise of good than any other modern writer except Shelley and Tenny- son.*'
THE SEA.
The Sea ! the Sea ! the open Sea 1
The blue, the fresli, tlie ever free !
Without a mark, witliout a bound,
It runneth the earth's wide regions round;
It I>hi3's with clouds, it mocks the skies,
Or like a cradled creature lies.
I'm on the Sea ! I'm on the Sea I I am where I would ever be ;
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER.— 2
With the blue above, and the blue below, And silence wheresoe'er I go; If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter ? / shall ride and sleep.
I love (oh, how I love) to ride On the tierce, foaming, bursting tide, When every mad wave drowns the moon, Or whistles aloft his teraiiest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the southwest blasts do below.
I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great Sea more and more, And backwards flew to her billowy breast, Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest : And a mother she was and is to me. For I was born on the open Sea.
The waves were white, and red the morn.
In the noisy hour when I was born ;
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold ;
And never was heard such outcry wild
As welcomed to life the Ocean-child.
I've lived since then, in calm and strife. Full tift^' summers a sailor's life, With wealth to spend and power to range But never have sought or sighed for change; And Death, whenever he comes to me, Shall come on the wide, unbounded Sea I
INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN.
Kest ! This little Fountain runs
Thus for nye ! It never stays For the look of summer suns
Nor the cold of winter days. Whosoe'er shall wander near
When the Syrian heat is worst, Let him hither corae, nor fear
Lest he may not slake his thirst. He will find this little river Running still, as bright as ever. Let him drink and onward hie Bearing but in thought that I—
B1{YAX WALLER PROCTER.-j8
Erotas — bade tlie XaiaJ fall,
And thank the great god Pan f or alL
A PETITION TO TIME.
Touch us gently, Time !
Let us glide adown thy stream Gentlj- — as we sometimes glide
Tlirough a (juiet dream ! Humble voyagers are we, Husband, wife, and children three ; (One is lost — an angel, fled To the azure overhead.)
Touch us gently, Time !
We've not proud or soaring wings } Our ambition, our content,
Lies in simple things. Humble voyagers are we, O'er Life's dini, unsounded sea, Seeking only some calm clime. Touch us gently, gentle Time !
LIFE.
We are born ; we laugh ; we weep, We love, we droop, we die !
Ah, wherefore do we laugh or weep ? Why do we live or die ?
Who knows that secret deep ? — Alas, not I !
Why doth the violet spring
Unseen by human eve ? Why do the radiant seasons bring
Sweet thoughts that quickly fly ? Why do our fond hearts cling
To things that die ?
We toil through pain and wrong;
We fight and fly ; We love ; we lose ; and then, ere long,
Stone-dead we lie. 0 Life ! is all thy song
" Endure and — die?*
BRYAN WALTEli PKOCTER— 4
TO ADELAIDE I'ROCTER.
Child of my heart ! iny sweet beloved First- born ! Thou dove, who tidings bringst of calmer
hours ! Thou rainbow, who dost shine when all the showers Are past, or passing! Hose which hath no
thorn, No spot, no blemish — pure and unforlorn ! Untouched, untainted ! O my Flower of
flowers ! More welcome than to bees are summer bowers, To stranded seamen life-assuring raorn !
Welcome — a thousand welcomes! Care, who clings Round all, seems loosening now its serpent fold; New liope springs upward, and the bright
world seems Cast back into a youth of endless Springs ! Sweet mother, is it so ? or grow I old. Bewildered in divine Elysian dreams?
COME, LET us GO»TO THE LAND.
Come ; — let us go to the land Where the violets grow !
Let's go thither hand in hand,
Over the waters and over the snow, To the land where the sweet, sweet violets grow !
There, in the beautiful south, Where the sweet flowers lie.
Thou shalt sing, with thy sweeter mouth, Under the light of the evening sky, That love ncvor fades, though violets die I
EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.— 1
PROCTOR, Edna Deax, an American poet ; born at Henniker, N. H.. in 18 — . Sl)e received her earl}- education at Con- cord, N. H., subsequently taking up her resi- dence at Brooklyn, N, Y. In 1858 she put forth a volume of Life Thoughts^ consist- ing mainl}^ of passages from the discourses of Henry Ward Beecher. She became a frequent contributor to periodicals, and in 1867 published a volume of Poems, Na- tional and MisceUa7ieous. Sliortly after- wards she accompanied a party of friends on an extensive foreig-n tour, visiting Egypt and the Holy Land, traversing every country in Europe except Portugal. In Russia she travelled b}' routes not usually taken by tourists ; of this portion of her tour she gave a poetical account in her Russian Journey (1873).
MOSCOW
Across the Steppes we journeyed,
The brown, fir-darkened plain, That rolls to east and rolls to west
Moved as the billowy tnaiu ; When, lo. a sudden splendor
Came shining through the air, As if the clouds should melt, and leave
The height of heaven bare. — A maze of rainbow domes and spires
Fall glorious on the sky, With wafted chimes from many a tower,
As the south-wind went by; And a thousand crosses, lightly hung,
That shone like morning-stars : — 'Twas the Kremlin's wall ! 'twas Moscow,
The jewel of the Czars !
A Russian Journey.
THE RETURN OF THE DEAD.
Low hung the moon, the wind was still, And slow I climbed the midnight hill, 4.nd passed the ruined garden o'er,
EDN'A DEA.N PROCTOR.— 2
And gained the barred and silent door Sad welcomed by the lingering rose, That, startled, shed its waning snows.
The bolt flew bade with sudden clang,
I entered — wall and rafter rang,
Down dropped the moon, and clear and high
Se[)teml>er*s wind went wailing by ;
*•■ Alas ! '' I sighed, "the love and glow
That lit this mansion long ago !"
And groping up the threshold stair.
And past the chambers cold and bare,
I sought the room where, glad of yore,
AVe sat the blazing fire before,
And heard the tales a father told,
Till glow was gone and evening cold. . . •
My hand was on the latch, wlien, lo ! '"Twas lifted from within ! I know I was not wild, and could I dream ? AYithin, I saw the wood-fire gleam, And, smiling, waiting, beckoning there, My father in his ancient chair !
0 the long rapture, perfect rest,
As close he clasped me to his breast ! Put back the braids the wind had blown, Said I had like my mother grown. And bade me tell him, frank as she. All the long years had brought to me.
Then, by his side his, hand in mine,
1 tasted joy, serene, divine,
And saw my griefs unfolding fair As flowers, in June's enchanted air, So warm his words, so soft his sighs, Such tender lovelight in his eyes ! " . . ,
And still we talked. O'er cloudy bars Orion bore his pomp of stars ; Within, the wood-fire faintly glowed, Weird on the wall the shadows showed. Till in the east a pallor born, Told midnight melting into morn. ...
'Tis true, his rest this many a year Has made the village churchyard dear J
EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.— 3
'Tis true, his stone is graA-en fair, "Here lies, remote from mortal care." I cannot tell how this may be, But well I know he talked with me.
HEAVEN, O LORD, I CANNOT LOSE.
Now summer finds her perfect prime ;
Sweet blows the wind from western calms ; On every bovver red roses climb ;
The meadows sleep in mingled balms. Xor stream nor bank the wayside by
But lilies float and daisies tlirong, Xor space of blue and sunny sky
That is not cleft with soaring song.
0 flowery morns, 0 tuneful eves. Fly swift ! my soul ye cannot fill!
Bring the ripe fruit, the garnered sheaves,
Tlie drifting snows on [)lain and hill. Alike to me fall frosts and dews ; But Heaven, 0 Lord, I cannot lose !
Warm hands to-day are clasped in mine ;
Fond hearts ray mirth or mourning share j And over Hope's horizon line,
The future dawns serenely fair. Yet still, though fervent vow denies,
I know the rapture will not stay ; Some wind of grief or doubt will rise,
And turn my rosy sk}' to gray.
1 shall awake, in rainy morn,
To find my hearth left lone and drear. Thus half in sadness, half in scorn,
I let my life burn on as clear, Though friends grow cold or fond love wooes ; But Heaven, 0 Lord, I cannot lose !
In golden hours the angel Peace
Comes down and broods me with her wings J I gain from sorrow sweet release,
I mate me with divinest things. When shapes of guilt and gloom arise,
And far the radiant angel flees, My song is lost in mournful sighs,
My wine of triumph left bu>t lees.
EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.— 4
In vain for me her pinions shine, And pure, celestial daj's begin ;
Earth's passion-flowers 1 still must twine, Nor braid one beauteous lily in,
Ah ! is it good or ill I choose ?
But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose !
TAKK HKAUT.
All day the stormy wind has blown From oft' the dark and rainy sea; No bird has past the window flown. The only song has been the moan The wind made in the willow-tree.
This is the summer's burial-time ;
She died when dropped the earliest leaves; And cold upon her rosN' prime Fell down the Autumn's frosty rime ;
Yet I am not as one that grieves.
For well I know o'er sunny .<ea.«
The bluebird waits for April skies ; And at the roots of forest trees The May-flowers sleep in fragrant ease, And violets hide their azure eyes.
0 thou, by winds of grief o'erblown
Beside some golden summer's bier, Take heart ! Thy birds are only flown, Thy blossoms sleeping, tearful sown, To greet thee in the immortal year 1
EICHARD ANTHONY PROCTOE.— 1
PROCTOR, Richard Anthony, an English astronomer, born at Chelsea in 1837; died at New York in 1888. He graduated at St. John's College, Cambridge, in 1860, and devoted himself especially to the study of astronomy, and to elucidating its leading facts and principles, frequently in popular lectures. He visited America for this purpose several times, and in 1885 became a citizen of the United States. He had passed the summer of 1888 in Florida; where the yellow fever broke out with great violence. He had not been in any disti'ict supposed to be infected, andset out for New York with the purpose of sailing to England ; but he had only reached New York, when the disease manifested itself, and he died on the day on which he had expected to embark. Amonghis most im- portant astronomical works are : Saturn and its Sy^^tem (1865), Handbook of the Stars (1866), Half-hours with the Telescope (1868), Other Worlds than Ours (1870), M//ths and Marvels of Astronomy (1877), Old ayid New Astronomy (1888). He also put forth several works of a semi-scientific character, among which are: Light Science for Leisure Hours^ three series (1871, 1873, 1878), The Great Pyramid; Observatory^ Tomb, Temple (1883), How to Play Whist (1885), Chance and Luck (1887), and numerous Essays upon miscellaneous topics.
BETTING ox THK ODDS IX HORSE-RACIXG.
Suppose there are two horses (among others) engaged in a race, and that the odds are 2 to 1 against one, and 4 to lap^ainstthe other — wliat are the odds that one of tlie two horses will win the race ? This case will doubtless remind the reader of au amusing sketch by Leech, en-
KICHARD ANTHONY PROCTOR.— 2
titled, " Signs of the Commission." Three or four uiider-gniduates are at a " wine," discussing matters equine. One propounds to liis neighbor tlie following question : " I say. Charley, if the odds are 2 to 1 against liataplan, and 4 to 1 against Quick JIarc/i, what's the betting about the pair?" " Don't know, I'm sure," replies Charley; "but I'll give you G to 1 against them."
The absurdity of the reply is, of course, very obvious ; we see at once that the odds cannot be heavier against a pair of horses than against either singly. Still there are many who would not find it easy to give a correct reply to the question. What has already been said, how- ever, will enable us at once to determine the just odds in this or any similar case. Thus, the odds against one horse being 2 to 1, his chance of winning is equal to that of drawing one white ball out of a bag of three, one only of which is white. In like manner, the chance of the second horse is equal to that of drawing one white ball out of a bag of ^five, one oidy of which is white. Now we have to find a number which is a multiple of both the numbers three and five. Fifteen is such a number. The chance of the first horse, modified after the principle already explained, is equal to that of drawing a white ball out of a bag of fifteen of which Jioe are white. In like manner the chance of the second is equal to that of drawing a white ball out of a bag of fifteen, of which three are white. Therefore the chance that one of the two will win is equal to that of drawing a white ball out of a bag of fifteen balls of which eight (five added to three) are white. There remain seven black balls, and there- fore the odds are 8 to 7 on the pair.
To impress the method of treating such cases, on the mind of the reader, we take the betting about three horses — say 3 to 1, 7 to 2, and 9 to 1 against the three horses respectivel}'. Then their respective chances are equal to the chance of drawing (1) one white ball out oifour, one only
RICHARD ANTHONY PROCTOR.— 3
of which is white; (2) u white ball out of nine of which two only are white ; and (3) one white ball out of ten, one only of which is white. The least number which contains four, nine, and ten, is 180 ; and the above chances, modified accord- ing to the principle already explained, become equal to the chance of drawing a white ball out of a bag containing 180 balls, when 45, 40, and 18 (respectively) are white. Therefore, the chance that one of the three will win is equal to that of dr.nving a white ball out of a bag con- taining 180 balls, of which 103 (the sum of 45, 40, and 18) are white. Therefore the odds are 103 to 77 on the three.
One does not hear in j^ractice of such odds as 103 to 77. But betting men (whether or not they apply just principles of computation to such questions is unknown to us) manage to run vevy near the truth. For instance, in such a case as the above, the odds on the three would probably be given as 4 to 3; that is, instead of 103 to 77 — or, which is the same thing, 412 to 308— the published odds would be 412 to 309.
It is often said that a man maj' so lay his wagers about a race as to make sure of gaining money whichever horse wins the race. This is not strictly the case. It is of course possible to make sure of winning if the bettor can only get persons to lay or take the odds he requires to the amount he requires. But this is precisely the problem which would remain insoluble if all bettors were equally experienced. Suppose, for instance, that there are three horses engaged in a race with equal chances of success. It is readily shown that the odds are 2 to 1 against each. But if a bettor can get a person to take even betting against the first (A), a second person to do the same about the second horse (B), and a third to do the like about the third horse (C), and if all the bets are made to the same amount — -say £1,000 — then, inasmuch as only one horse can win, the bettor loses £1,000 on tliat horse (say A), and gains the same amount on each of the two horses C and B. Thus, on the whole.
TUCIIAltD ANTHONY PUCCTOR.— 4
he gains £1,000 — the sum Uiid out on each horse. If the layer of the odds had laid the true odds to the same amount on each liorse, he would neither have gained nor lost. Suppose, f r iu«tan-::e, that he had laid £1,000 to £500 against each horse, and A won ; then he would have to pay £1,000 to the backer of A, and to receive £500 from each of tlie backers of B and C. In li'.e manner a person who had ha(tked each horse to the same extent would neither losen or gain by the event. Nor would a backer or layer who had wagered different sums neces- sarily gain or lose according to the event. This will at once be seen on trial.
Let us take the cise of horses with uiicqual })rospects of success; for instance, take the case of four horses against which the cdds were re- spectively 3 to 2, 2 to 1, 4 to 1, and 14 to 1. Here suppose the same sum laid against eiich, and for convenience let tliis sum be £84 (be- cause 84 contains the numbers 3, 2. 4, and 14). The layer of the odds wagers £84 to £56 against tlie leading favorite, £84 to £42 against the second liorse, £84 to £21 against the third, and £84 to £0 against the fourth. Whichever horse wins, the layer has to pay £84, but if the favorite wins, he receives only £42 (»n one horse, £21 on another, and £6 — that is £09 on all ; so that he loses £15. If the second horse wins, he has to receive £56, £21 and £0 — or £83 in all ; so that he loses £1. If the third horse wins, he receives R,h^, £42, and £6 — or £104 in all ; and thus gains £20. And lastly if the fourth horse win , he has to receive £56, £42, and £21 — or £119 in all ; so that he gains £35. He cleai'ly risks much less than he lias a chance (however small) of gaining. Itisalso clear that in all such cases the worst event for the layer of the odds is that the favorite should win. Accordingly, as professional book-makers are nearly always the layers of odds, one often finds the success of a favorite spoken of in the papers as "a great blow for the book-makers," while the success of a rauk outsider will be
RICHARD ANTHONY PROCTOR.— 5
described as a " misfortune to backers." — • Light Science for Leisure Hours.
PRAYER AND WEATHER.
Some say, " The weather maj' be change*! in response to prayer, not by controlment of tlie Laws of Nature, but by means of them." Let tliem try to tliink wliat they really mean by this, and they will see what it amounts to. What sort of law do they understand by a Law of Nature ? Do they suppose that somewhere or other in the chain of causation, on which weather and weather-changes depend, there is a place where the Laws of Nature do not operate in a definite way, but might act in one or other of several diffei'ent ways ? This would corre- spond to the belief of the savage, that an eclipse of the sun is not caused by the operation of definite natural laws. In point of fact — speak- ing from the scientific point of view — praj'er that coming weather may be such and such, is akin to prayer that an unopened letter may contain good news. So regarded, it is proper enough. But prayer proceeding on the as- sumption that, in the natural order of things, bail weather would continue, and that in re- sponse to prayer it will be changed, is im- proper and wrong for all who consider and understand what it implies. What real differ- ence is there between praying that weather may change, and pra^'ing that a planet or comet may take a specified course, except that we have not yet mastered the laws according to which the weather varies, while we have mas- tered those which govern the movements of the heavenly bodies ?
The savage who sees the sun apparently en- croached upon, or, as he thinks, devoured, prays lustily that the destruction of the great lumi- narj' may be prevented. He would doubtless regard an astronomer who should tell him that the sun would disappear in a very little while — let hira pray his hardest — as a ver\' wicked person. One who was not quite so well in-
mCHAKD ANTHONY PROCTOR.— 6
formed as tlie astronomer, but not quite .<o ignorant as the savage, might not know how near tlie eclipse would be to totality, yet he would see tlie absurdity of praying for what he knew to be a natural phenonieTion. He would reason that, if the eclipse was not going to be total, prayer that it might not be so must be useless, unless a miracle was to be performed in response to it. The meteorologist of to-day is in somewhat the position of our supposed middle-man : he knows the progress of a bad season is a natural phenomenon, and that to pray for any change, however desirable the change ma}' be, is to pray for what is either bound to happen, or bound not to happen, un- less a miracle is prayed for. . . .
The possible influence of praj-er in modify- ing the progress of events is a purely scientifn* question. On the other hand, the propriety of the prayerful attitude— which really expresses only desire, coupled with submission is a relig- ious question on which I have not touched at all. As a scientific question the matter has been debated over and over again, with no par- ticular result, because the student of science can have only one opinion on the subject. Good old Benjamin Franklin was asked whether he did not think it sinful to devise methods for changing the predestined course of God's light- ning.— MisQdlancoaa £ssays.
SULLY PRUDHOMME.— 1
PRUDIIOMME, Sully, a French poe<, born at Paris in 1839. He was educated at the Lyc^e Bonaparte, and was a brilliant student. Having taken his degrees of Bachelor of Science and of Literature, he entered the manufactory at Creuzot. Com- pelled by ophthalmia to abandon engi- neering, he studied law ; law proving dis- tasteful to him, he chose literature as his profession. His first volume, Stances et Foemes (1865), was highly praised by Sainte-Beuve. Among his later volumes of poetry are : Les Epreuvea (1866), Les Solitudes (1869), Les Destins (1872), La France (1874), Les Vaines Tendresses (1875), La Justice (1878), La Bonheur (1888).
Prudhomme has been called the French Matthew Arnold. Graceful translations of several of his poems have been given by K. and R. E. Prothero in the English illustrated Magazine of June, 1890.
THE MISSAL.
A Missal of the first King Francis' reign, Rusted by years, with many a yellow stain, And l)lazons worn, by pious fingers pressed — VVitliiii wliose leaves, enshrined in silver rare, Hy some old goldsmith's art in glory di'essed, Speaking his boldness and his loving care, This faded tlower found rest.
Mow very old it is! You plainly mark IJlMin the page its sap in tracery dark. '• I'fM-haps threo hundred years ? " What need
be said ? It has but lost one shade of crimson dye; Before its death, it might have seen that flown ; Needs naught save wing of wand'ring butterfly To toucli the bloom — 'tis gone.
It has not lost one fibre from its heart. Nor seen one jewel from its crown depart;
SULLY PRUDIIOMME.— 2
The page still wrinkles where tin- ih-w onco dried.
AVhen tlmt liust mora was sad with other weep- ing;
Deatli wouUl not kill — ouly to kiss it tried,
In loving guise above its brightness (u-eeping, Xor blighted as it died.
A sweet, but mournful, scent is o'er me steal- ing,
As when with Memory wakes long-buried feel- ing ;
That scent from the closed casket slow ascend- ing
Tells of long years o'er that strange herbal sped.
Our bygone things have still some perfume blending,
And our lost loves are paths, where Koses' bloom.
Sweet e'en in death, is shed.
At eve, when faint and sombre grows the air. Perchance a lambent heart may flicker there, Seeking an entrance to the book to iind. And, when the An gel us strikes on the sky, ' Praying sonie hand may that one page unbind, Where all his love and homage lie — The flower that told his mind.
Take comfort, knight, who rode to Pavia's
plain. But ne'er returned to woo your love again; Or you, young page, whose heart rose up on
high To Mar\^ and thy dame in mingled pra^'or ! This flower which died beneath some unknowii
eye Three hundred years ago — you placed it there,
And there it still shall lie." Les Epreuver^. Transl. of E. and K. E. Prothebo.
SAMUEL PURCHAS. -1
PURCHAS, Samuel, an English cleigy- man and author, born in 1577 ; died in 1628. He was educated at Cambridge, and in 1G04 became Vicar of Eastwood ; subsequent!}^ went to London, where he was made Rector of St. Martin's and chaij- lain to the xVrchbishop of Canterbury. He busied liiinself in the compilation of a vast series of vo3'ages and travels, mau}^ of which would otlierwise hav-ebeen lost. His prin- cipal works are : Purchas, his Pilgrimage ; or Relations of the Worlds and tlie Religions Observed in all Ages and Places Discovered unto this Present (1613), Hakluytus Post- humus ', or, Purchas, his Pilgrims, contain- ing a Hist org of the World in Sea Voyages and Land Travels, hg Englishmen and Others (5 vols. loL, 1625), Microcosmus, or the History of Man ; a Series of Meditations on Man in all Ages and Stations (1627). In the Preface to his first Collection he gives an account of the materials of which he had made use.
PURCHAS'S AUTHORITIES.
This, my first Voyage of Discovery, besides mine own poor stock laid thereon, hatli made me indebted to above twelve hundred authors, of one or otlier kind, in I know not how many lumdreds of tlieir treatises, epistles, relations, and histories, of divers subjects and languages, borrowed by mj'self ; besides what (for want of authors themselves) I have taken upon trust of other men's goods in their hands.
The following, from the Pilgrims, is a good example of Purchas's own style.
THE SEA.
"Sow for the services of the sea, they are in- numerable. It is the great purveyor of the world's commodities to our use ; conveyer of the excess of rivers ; uniter, by traffic, of all
SAMUEL PURCHAS.— 2
nations. It presents the eye with diversified colors and motions ; and is, as it were with ricli brooches, adorned with various islands. It is an open field for nierchaTidise in peace ; a rich field for the most dreadful fights of war. It yields diversity of fish and fowls for diet; materials for wealth, medicine for health, simples for medicines, pearls and other jewel.^ for ornament, amber and ambergris for delight; "the wonders of the Lord in the deep " for in- struction, variety of creatures for use, multi- j)licity of natures for contemplation, diversity of accidents for admiration ; compendiousness to the way, to full bodies healthful evacuution, to the thirsty earth healthful moisture, to dis- tant friends pleasant meeting, to weary persons delightful refreshing; to studious and religious minds a map of knowledge, mystery of temper- ance, exercise of continence ; school of prayer, meditation, devotion, and sobriety ; refuge to the distressed, portage to the merchant, passage to the traveller, customs to the prince ; s])rings, lakes, rivers to the earth. It hath on it tem- pests and calms to chastise the sins, to exercise the faith of seamen ; manifold affections in itself to affect and stupef}^ the subtlest philos- opher ; sustaineth movable fortresses for the soldiers; maintaineth (as in our island) a wall of defence and watery garrison to guard the state ; entertains the sun with vapors, the moon with obsequiousness, the stars also with a natural looking-glass, the sk}- with clouds, the air with temperateness, the soil with sup- pleness, the rivers with tides, the hills with moisture, the valle\'s with fertility ; containeth most diversified matter for meteors, most mul- tiform shapes, most various, numerous kinds; most immense difformed, deformed, unformed monsters. At once (for why should I detain you ?) the sea yields action to the body, medi- tation to the mind ; the world to the world, all parts thereof to each part, by this art of arts — navigation.
HOWARD PYLE. — 1
PYLE, Howard, an American author, and artist, born at Wilmington, Del., in 1853. He received a good education, studied art in Philadelphia, and removed to New York in 1876, where he wrote and illustrated for magazines. Tn 1879 he returned to Wilmington, where he now (1890) resides. He is one of the best authors in juvenile fiction, and has adopted a quaint style for the designs of his illus- trations. He is the author of the text and drawings of The Merry Adventures of Rohln Hood (1883), Pepper and Salt (1885), Within the Capes (1885), The Wonder Clock (1887), The Rose of Paradise (1887), and Otto of the Silver Hand (1889).
THE TKEASUKE KESTOKED.
• I canuot tell the bitter disappointment that took possession of me when my search proved to be of so little avail ; for I had felt so sure of finding the jewel or some traces of it, and had felt so sure of being able to secure it again, that I could not bear to give up my search, but continued it after every hope had expired. When I was at last compelled to acknowledge to myself that I had failed, I fell into a most unreasonable rage at the poor, helpless, fever- stricken wretch, though I had but just now been doing all that lay in my power to aid him and to help him in his trouble and sickness. " Why should I not leave him to rot where he is?" I cried in my anger; '"why should I continue to succor one who has done so much to injure me and to rob me of all usefulness and honor in this world ? " I ran out of the cabin, and up and down, as one distracted, hardly knowing whither I went. But by-and- by it was shown me what was right with more clearness, and that I should not desert the poor ajid helpless wretch in his hour of need : wherefore I went back to the hut and fell to work making a broth for him against he should
HOWARD PYLE.— li
awake, for I saw that the fovor was broken, and tliat he was like to get well.
J (lid not give over my search for tlio stone in one day, nor two, nor three, but continued it wlienever the opportunity offered and the pirate was asleep, but witli as little success as at first, thougli I hunted ever3^where. As for Captain England himself, he began to mend from the very day upon which I came, for he awoke from his first sleep with his fever nigh gone, and all the madness cleared away from his head; but he never once, for a long while, spoke of the strangeness of my caring for him in his sickness, nor how I came to be there, nor of my I'easons for coming. Nevertheless, from where he la}^ he followed me with his eyes in all my motions whenever I was moving about the hut. One daj', however, after I had been there a little over a week, against which time he was able to lie in a rude hammock, which I had slung up in front of the door, he asked me of a sudden if any of his cronies had lent a hand at nursing him when he was sick, and 1 told him no.
'• And how came you to undertake it ? " says he.
"' Why," said I, " I was here on business, and found you lying nigh dead in this place."
He looked at me for a little while, in a mightily strange way, and then suddenly burst into a great loud laugh. After that he lay still for a while, watching me, but present!}' he spoke again. '' And did yon find it ? " sa^'s he.
••Find what?" I asked, after a bit, for 1 was struck all aback by the question, and could not at first find one word to saj'. But he only burst out laughing again.
" Why," sa3's he, '• you psalm-singing, Bible- reading, straitlaced Puritan skippers are as keen as a sail-needle ; you'll come prying about in a man's house looking for what you would like to find, and all under pretence of doing an act of humanity, but after all you find an honest devil of a pirate is a match for you."
HOWARD PYLE.— 3
I made no answer to this but my heart sank witliin me; for I perceived, what I might have known before, that he had observed the object of my coming thither.
He soon became strong enough to move about the place a little, and from that time I noticed a great change in him, and that he seemed to regard me in a very evil way. One evening when I came into the hut, after an absence in the town, I saw that he had taken down one of his pistols from the wall, and was loading it and picking the flint. He kept that pistol by him for a couple of days, and was forever fingering it, cocking it, and then lowering the hammer again.
I do not know why he did not shoot me through the brains at this time ; for I verily believe that he had it upon his mind to do so, and that more than once. And now, in looking back upon the business, it appears to me to be little less than a miracle that I came forth from this adventure with my life. Yet, had I cer- tainly known that death was waiting upon me, I doubt that I should have left the place ; for in truth, now that I had escaped from the Lavinia, as above narrated, T had nowhere else to go, nor could I ever show my face in England or amongst my own people again.
Thus matters stood, until one morning the whole business came to an end so suddenly and so unexpectedly that for a long while I felt as though all might be a dream from which I should soon awake. We were sitting together silently, he in a very moody and bitter humor. Me had his pistol lying across his knees, as he used to do at that time.
.Suddenly he turned to me as though in a fit of rage. '"' Why do you stay about this accursed fever-hole ? " cried he ; " what do you want here, with your saintly face and your godly
airs
?"
" I stay here," said I, bitterly, " because I have nowhere else to go."
" And what do vou want ? " said he.
HOWARD PYLE.— 4
"What, you know," said I, "as well as I myself."
"And do you thiuk," said he, "that I ^fill give it to you ?"
" No," said I, " that I do not."
" Look'ee, Jack Mackra, " said he, very slowly, "you are the only man hereabouts who knows anything of that red pebble " (here he raised his pistol, and aimed it directly at mj- bosom) ; " why shouldn't I shoot j'ou down like a dog, and be done with you forever ? I've shot many a better man than you for less than this."
I felt every nerve thrill as I beheld the pistol set against my breast, and his cruel, wicked eyes behind the barrel ; but 1 steeled myself to stand steadily, and to face it.
" You may shoot if you choose, Edward Eng- land," said I, "for I have nothing more to live fur. I have lost my honor and all except my life, through you, and you might as well take that as the rest."
He withdrew the pistol, and sat regarding me for a while with a most baleful look, and for a time I do believe that my life hung in a balance with the weight of a feather to move it either way. Suddenlv he thrust his hand into his bosom, and drew forth the ball of ^^arn which I had observed, amongst other things, in his pocket. He flung it at me witli all his might, with a great cry as though of rage and anguish. "Take it,' he roared, "and may the devil go with you ! And now, away from here, and he quick about it, or I will put a bullet through 3'our head even yet."
I knew as quick as lightning what it was that was wrapped in the ball of yarn, and leap- ing forward I snatched it up and I'an as fast as I was able awa}'^ from that place. I heard another roar, and at the same time the shot of a pistol and the whiz of a bullet, and nn' hat went spinning off before me as though twitched from off my head. I did not tarry to pick it up, but ran ou without stoppng; but even yet,
HOWARD PYLE.-5
to this day, I cannot tell whether Edward Eii'- land missed me through purpose or through the trembling of weakness ; for he was a dead- shot, and I myself once saw him snap the stem of a wine-glass with a pistol bullet at an ordi- nary in Jamaica.
As for me, the whole thing bad happened so quickly and so unexpectedly that I had no time either for joy or exultation, but continued to run on, bareheaded, as though bereft of my wits; for I knew I held in my hand not only the great ruby, but also my honor, and all that was dear to me in my life.
But although England had .>^o freely given me the stone, I knew that I n)ust remain in that place no longer. I still had between five and six guineas left of the money which I had brought ashore with me when I left the Lavinia. With this I hired a French fisherman to trans- port me to Madagascar, where I hoped to be able to work my passage either to Europe or back to the East Indies.
As fortune would have it, we fell in with an English bark, the Kensitu/ton, bound for Cal- cutta, off the north coast of that land, and 1 secured a berth aboard of her, shipping as an ordinary seaman ; for I liad no mind to tell my name, and so be forced to disclose the secret of the great treasure which I had with me. — The Hose of Paradise.
PYTHAGORAS. -1
PYTHAGORAS, a Grecian philosopher, the founder of the Italic School of Philos- ophy (so called because he promulgated it at the Greek cit}^ of Crotona in Southern Italy), born, probably on the island of Sa- mos, about 570 b. c. ; died about 504 b. c. Beyond these bare facts we know almost notliing of his life, except that he travelled widely, going at least as far as P^gypt. It is altogether uncertain whetlier the doc- trine of metempsychosis and some others propounded by the later Pythagoreans, were taught by him. What we really know of his teachings is their ethical phase. They are embodied in the thirty-nine Sym- bols (" Ensigns " or "■' Watch-words ") of Pythagoras ; and, although there is no good reason for supposing that he ever com- mitted his teachings to writing, it may be fairly assumed that the Symhoh are tlie words of . Pj^thagoras, handed down from generation to generation of his followers. In some of these Symbols the meaning in- tended to be conveyed is clearly shown by the words themselves, though leaving much room for amplification and comment. In others, while tlie words are perfectly intelligible, and convey a meaning, this is wholly different from the real esoteric meaning, which could be known only by an interpretation. Our Saviour was wont to employ both these modes of presenta- tion ; the parable of " The Wheat and the Tares " is an example of the latter mode. We present sufficient of these Symhols to show their genei'al character ; when neces- sary appending the interpretations given by several ancient writers to certain enigmat- ical passages. The whole of this is taken — with large condensations — from Thomas Stanle3'*s History of Philosophy.
PYTHAGORAS.— 2
THE " SYMBOLS ' ' OF PYTHAGOKAS.
Symbol 1. — When you go to the Temple, worship ; neither do nor say anything con- cerning your life.
Symbol 4. — Decline the highioays, and take the footpaths.
Symbol 6. — Above all things, govern your tongue when you worship the gods.
Symbol 7. — When the winds blov\ worship the noise. — " This," says lamblichus, '' implietli that we ought to love the similitude of divine nature and powers ; and when they make a reason suitable to their efficiency, it ought to be exceedingly honored and reverenced."
Symbol 8. — Cut not f re vnth a sword.
Symbol 10. — Help a man to take up a bur- then, but not to put it down.
Symbol 16. — Wijje not a seat with a torch. — This is interpreted to mean : "We ought not to mix things proper to Wisdom with those which are proper to Animality. A torch, in respect of its brightness, is compared to Philos- ophy ; a seat, in respect of its lowness, to Ani- mal'ity."
Symbol 19. — Breed nothing that hath crooked talons.
Symbol 24. — Look fiot in a glass by candle- light.
' Symbol 25. — Concerning the gods, disbelieve nothing wonderful; nor concerning divine doctrines.
Symbol 34. — Deface the print of a pot in the ashes. — This is variously interpreted. Ac- cording to lamblichus, "It signifies that he who applies his mind to Philosophy must for- get the demonstrations of Corporeals and Sen- sibles, and wholly make use of demonstrations of Intelligibles ; by ashes are meant the dust or sand in mathematical tables, where the demonstrations and figures are drawn." But Plutarch gives a much more simple interpreta- tion. He says, '' It adviseth that upon the reconcilement of enmities, we utterly abolish, and leave not the least priat or remembrauce of them."
PYTHAGORAS. — ^
Symbol 37. — Abstain from beans. — This Symbol has received almost innumerable ex- planations. According to lanibliclius, "It ad- viseth to beware of everything that may corrupt our discourse with the gods and [)roscience." — • Aristotle gives wide room for choice of inter- pretation. He says: "Pythagoras forbade beans, for that they resemble the gates of Hades ; or, for that they breed worms ; or. for that they are oligarchic, being used in suffrages.'' This last is the explanation accepted by Plu- tarch, who tells us that "The meaning is Ab- stain from suffrages, which of old were given b}' beans." Clemens Alexandrinus agrees with Plutarch. — But far more exhaustive is the ex- planation of Porphyrus, the Syrian, who lived well nigh a thousand years after Pythagoras, ■who says : " He interdicted beans, because the first begiuning and generation being confused, and many things being commixed and con- crescent together and compulsified in the earth by little and little, the generation and discre- tion broke forth together, and living creatures being produced together with plants, then out of the same pulsification arose both men and beans; whereof he alleged manifest arguments. For if any one should chew a bean, and having mixed it small with his teeth, lay it abroad in the warm sun, and so leave it for a little time, returning to it, he shall pei-ceive the scent of human blood. Moreover, if at any time when beans sprout forth the flower, one shall take a little of the flower, which then is black, and put it into an earthen vessel, and cover it close, and bury it in the ground ninety days, and at the end take it up and take off the cover, he shall find either the head of an infant or gunaikos oidoion."'
Symbol 39. — Abstain from, flesh.
The Golden Verses of Pythagoras, or rather of the Pythagoreans, are of ver)'' ancient, though of altogether uncertain, date. One might style them the Nicene
PYTHAGORAS.— 4
Creed of Pytliagoreaiiisni, in its puiely ethical aspect.
THE GOL,l>EN VERSES.
First, ill their ranks, the luiniortal Gods adore — Thy oath keep; next great Heroes; then im- plore Terrestrial Daemons, with due sacrifice. Thy parents reverence, and near allies. Him that is first in virtue make thy friend, And with observance his kind speech attend ; Nor, to thy power, for light faults cast him
^y- . .
Thy power is neighbor to Necessity.
These know, and with attentive care pursue ; But anger, sloth, and luxury subdue :
In sight of others, or thyself, forbear What's ill; but of tin-self stand most in fear. Let Justice all thy words and actions sway ; Nor from the even course of Wisdom stray ; For know that all men are to die ordained.
Crosses that happen by divine deci-ee (If such thy lot) bear not impatiently; Yet seek to remedy with all thy care. And think the Just have not the greatest share. 'Mongst men discourses good and bad are
spread ; Despise not those, nor be by these misled. If any some notorious falsehood say. Thou the report with equal judgment weigh. Let not men's smoother promises invite, Nor rougher threats from just resolves thee
fright. If aught thou should'st attempt, first ponder
it — Fools only inconsiderate acts commit ; Nor do what afterwards thou may'st. repent : First know the thing on which thou'rt bent. Thus thou a life shalt lead with joy replete.
Nor must thou care of outward health forget. Such temperance use in exercise and diet. As may preserve thee in a settled quiet. Meats unprohibited, not curious, chuse; Decline what any other may accuse.
PYTHAGORAS.— 5
The rash expense of vanity detest, And sordiduess: a lueiin in all is best.
Hurt not thyself. Before thou act, advise ; Xor suffer sleep at night to close thy eyes Till thrice thy acts tluit day thou hast o'errun : How slipped '' what duty left undone ? — Thus, thy account suninied up from first to
last, Grieve for the ill, joy for what good hath past.
These study, pi'actice these, and these affect ; To Sacred Virtue these thy steps direct: — Eternal Nature's fountain 1 attest, Who the Tetractis on our souls imprest. Before thy mind thou to this study bend. Invoke the gods to grant it a good end. These, if thy labor vanquish, thou shalt then Know the connexure both of gods and men ; How everything proceeds, or by what stayed ; And know (as far as fit to be surveyed) Nature alike throughout; that thou may'st
learn Not to hope hopeless things, but all discern : And know those wretches whose perverser Avills Draw down upon their hearts spontaneous ills. Unto the good that's near them deaf and blind ; Some few the cure of these misfortunes find. Tliis only is the Fate that harms, and rolls Thr<High miseries successive human souls. Within is a continual hidden sight, Which we to shun must study, not excite.
Great Jove ! how little trouble should we know, If thou to all men wouldst their Genius sliow ! — • Hut fear not thou — man come of heavenly race. Taught by diviner Nature what to embrace. Which, if pursued, thou all I named shall g;iiii. And keep thy soul clean from thy body's stain. In time of prayer and cleansing, ineats denie<l Abstain from ; thy mind's reins let Reason
guide; Then, stripped of flesh up to free ;ether soar, A deathless god — divine — mortal no more.
Transl. o/" Thomas Stanley.
FRANCIS QUAKLES.— 1
QUARLES, Francis, an English poet born in 1592 ; died in 1644. He was for a while cup-bearer to Elizabeth, daughter of James I., and wife of the Elector of the Palatinate, who was subsequently for a few months the nominal King of Bohemia. Through her the English crown devolved upon tlie House of Planover, after the de2)o- sition of the Stuarts. Quarles afterwards went to Ireland as secretary to Arch- bishop Usher. Still later he became chro- nologer to the city of London. When the troubles broke out between the Parliament and King Charles I., Quarles embraced the ro3\alist cause, and suffered severely in consequence. He was a favorite poet in his day. His principal works are the Biv'nte Emblems (1635), and the Enchiridion (1641). His son, John Quarles (1624- 1665), was the author of several works somewhat in the quaint manner of his father.
DELIGHT IX GOn OXLV.
I love (and have some cause to love) the earth : She is my Maker's creature — therefore good : She is my motlier, for slie gave me birth ; She is mj' tender nurse — she gives me food :
But wliat's a creature, Lord, compared with Thee,
Or what's ni}' mother or my nurse to me ?
I h>V(! tlie air : lier dainty sweets refresh
]Mv drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me :
Tier fnll-niouthed quire sustain me with their
flesli, And with their polyphonian notes delight me: But what's tlie air, or all the sweets that
she Can bless my soul withal compared to Thee?
I love the sea : she is my fellow-creature ; My careful ])urvi-yor ; she provides me store;
FRANCIS QUAKLES.-2
She walls me round ; she makes mj diet
greater ; She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore : But, Lord of oceans, when com2>ared with
Thee, What is the ocean or her wealth to me ':'
To heaven's high city I direct my journey. Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye ; Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney, Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky : But what is heaven, great God, compared
to Thee '! Without Tiiy presence heaven's no heaven to me.
Without Thv presence, earth gives no reflection,
Without Thy presence, sea affords no treasure;
Witliout Thy presence, air's a rank infection ;
Without Thy presence heaven itself no pleasure: If not possessed, if not enjoj'ed in Thee, What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me?
The brightest honoi's that the world can boast Are subjects far too low for my desire ; The brightest beams of glory are at most But dying sjiarkles of Thy living fire :
The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be But nightlv glow-worms, if compared to Thee.
Without Thy presence, wealth is bag.'s of cares ; Wisdom, but folly; joy, disquiet sadness : Friendshi[) is treason, and (h.'lights are snares; Pleasures but pains, and mirth l)nt iileasing madness : j^they be
Without Thee, Lord, things be not what Nor have they being when compared with 1 nee.
In having all things, and not Thee, what have T ? Not having Thee, what have my labors got? Let me enjoy but Thee, what further crave I ?
And having Thee alone, what have I not? I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be Possessed of heaven — heaver, unpossessed of Thee.
JOSIAH QUlNCY.-l
QUINCY, JosiAH, an American states- man and scliolar, born at Boston in 1772 : died at Quincy, Mass., in 1864. He grad- uated at Harvard in 1790, and soon after- ward entered npon tlie practice of law in Boston. In 1804 he was elected to Con- o-ress, holding tliat position till 1813, wlien he declined a re-election ; and was thei'e- ii[)on chosen to the State Senate, of which he was a member until 1820. He was Mayor of Boston for six years, ending in 1828, when he declined a re-election. In 1829 he was called to the Presidency of Harvard University, a position wliich he resigned in 1845. On September 17, 1830, that being tlie close of the second century from the iirst-settlement of Boston, Mr. Quincy delivered in that city a Bi-Qenten- tiial Address.
THE LESSON.S TAUGHT BY NEW ENGLANP HISTORY.
What lessons has New Eiiglaud, in every period of her history, given to the world • What .lessons do her condition and example still give ! She has .proved that all the variety of Christian sects may live together in harmony under a government which allows equal privi- leges to all, exclusive pre-eminence to none. She has proved that ignorance among the ninh titude is not necessary to order; but that the surest basis of order is the information of tlie jx'ople. She has proved the old maxim to be fiilse that "no goverinuent except a despotism, with ;i standing arm\', can subsist where the I)eo[)le have arms.'' . . .
Such are the true glories of the institutions of our fathers. Such the natural fruits of that patience in toil, that frugality of disposition, that temperance of habit, that general diffusion of knowledge, and that sense of religious re- ponsibility, inculcated b}' the precepts and ex-
.TOSIAII QUIXr'V.-2
liibited in tlie exiunple nf every geiicr.iHon of our ancestors. . . .
What then, in conclusion, are the elements of the libert}', prosperity, and safety which the inhaltitants of New England at this day enjoy ".' In what language, and concerning what com- prehensive trutlis, does the wisdom of former times address the inexperience of the future ? These elements are simple, obvious, and fa- miliar.
Every civil and religious blessing of New England — all that here gives happiness to human life, or security to human virtue — is alone to be perpetuated in the form and under the auspice.s of a free Commonwealth. — The (Jommonwealth itself has no other strength or hope than the intelligence and virtue of the individuals that com{>ose it. — For the intelli- gence and virtue of individuals there is n(» other human assurance than laws providing for the education of the whole people. — These laws themselves have no strength or efficient sanction except in the moral and accountable nature of man disclosed in the records of the Christian faith; the right to read, to construe, and to judge concerning which belongs to no class or caste of men ; but exclusively to the individual, who must stand or fall by his own acts and his own faith, and not by those of anotber.
Tlie great comprehensive truths, written in letters of living light on every page of our histor}' — the language addi'essed by every past age of New England to all future ages, is this : Human happiness has no perfect security but freedom ; freedom none but virtue ; virtue none but knowledge ; and neither freedom nor virtue nor knowledge has any vigor or immortal hope, except in the principles of the Christian faith, and in the sanction of the Christian religion.
Men of Massachusetts I Citizens of Boston ! descendants of the early emigrants ! consider your blessings ; consider your duties. You have an inheritance acquired by the labors and
.TOSIAH QUixr;Y.— n
sufferings of six successive generations of an- cestors. Thej founded the fabric of your pros- perity^ in a severe and masculine morality, having intelligence for its cement, and religion for its groundwork. Continue to build on the same foundation, and by the same principles ; let the extending temple of your country's freedom rise in the spirit of ancient times, in proportions of intellectual and moral ai'chitec- ture — just, simple, and sublime. As from the first to this day, let New England continue to be an example to the world of the blessings of a free government, and of the means and capacity of man to maintain it. And in all times to come, as in all times past, may Boston be among the foremost and the boldest to exemplify and uphold whatever constitutes the prosperity, the happiness, and the glorj' of New England. — From the Boston lii- Cen- tennial.
Besides his Speeches in Congress and the Legislature, and Orations delivered on various occasions, Mr. Quincy published several books, among which are : Life of Josiah Quincy^ Jr.., his father (1825), His- tory of Harvard University (1840), History of the Boston Athenceum (1851), Life of John Quincy Adams (1858), Essays on the Soiling of Cattle (1859).
QUINTILIAN.— 1
QUINTILIAN (Marcus Fabius QuiNTiLiANUS), a Roman rhetorician, born in Spain about 40 A. D., died about 118. He was educated at Rome, where he became an advocate and teacher of oratory, and opened a school which flourished for more tlian twenty years under his charge. Among his pupils were the younger Pliny and two grand-nei>hews of Domitian, who invested him with the consular dignity. He also had a large allowance from the imperial treasury, granted by Vespasian, the father of Domitian. He has come down to after ages b}^ his Institutiones Oratorice. This work, which is divided into twelve books, comprises a complete system for the training of a j'oung orator from the time when he is phiced in the care of a nurse, through school, and his strictly professional studies, until he is fairly launched into practice. It contains instructions as to the method of examining witnesses, sifting testimon}^ and preparing the plea. The cardinal idea running thi'ough the whole is that the true orator must be a good man. This principle is enunciated at the very outset, is continu- ally repeated, and is emphatically set forth in the closing paragraphs. Our quota- tions are in the translation of Patsall.
THE PERFECT ORATOR.
The perfect orator must be a man of integ- rity— a good mail — otherwise he cannot pre- tend to that cliaracter ; and we therefore not only require in him a consummate talent for speaking, hut all the virtuous endowments of the mind. An honest and upriglit life cannot, in my opinion, be restricted to Philosophers alone, for the man who acts in a I'eal civil capacit}' — who has talents for the admiuistra-
QUINTTLIAX.— 2
tion of public and private concerns, who can govern cities by his counsels, maintain them by bis laws, and meliorate them by his judg- ments— cannot be anything but the Orator.
Though' 1 shall use some things contained in books of philosophy, I assert that they l>elong by right to our work, and in a peculiar manner to the art of Oratory. And if often I must discuss some (juestions of moral philoso- phy— sucli as Justice, Fortitude, Temperance, and the like — scarce a cause being found in which there may not be some debate or other upon these subjects — and all requiring to be set in a proper light by invention and elocution — shall it be doubted that wherever the force of genius and a copious dissertation are re- quired, there in a particular degree is pointed out the business of the Orator ? — Institutiones, Book T.
HIXTS FOR THE EARLIEST TRAINING OF THE ORATOR.
Nurses should not have an ill accent. Their morals are first to be inspected ; next the prop- er px'onunciation of their words ought to be at- tended to. These are the first the child hears, and it is their words his imitation strives to form. We are naturally tenacious of the things we imbibe in our younger years. New vessels retain the savor of things first put into them ; and the dye by which the wool loses its primitive whiteness cannot be effaced. The worse things are, the more stubbornly they adhere. Good is easily changed into bad ; but when was bad ever converted into good? Let not the child, even while an infant, accustom himself to a manner of speech which he must; unlearn. — TnstittUiones, Book T.
HOW SOON EDUCATION SHOULD BEGIN.
Some were of opinion that children under seven years of age ought not to be made to learn, because that early age can neither con- ceive the meaning of methods, nor endure the
QUINTILIAX— 3
restraints of study. But I agree with those — as Cluwsippus — wlio think tliat no time ought to be exempted from its proper care ; for tliough lie assigns tliree 3'ears to the nurse, he judges tliat even then instruction ma\'^ be of singular benefit. And wh}- may not years, which can be mended by manners, be improved also by learning. I am not ignorant that one year will afterwards effect as much as all the time I speak of will scarce be able to compass. What better can they do, when once they can speak ? They must necessarily do something. Or why must we despise this gain, how little soever, till seven years have expired ? For, though the advantage of the first years be in- considerable, a boy will, notwithstanding, learn a greater matter that very year in which he has learned a less. Such yearly' advances will a^ length make up something considerable ; and the time well spent and saved in infancy will be an acquisition to youth. The following yeai's may be directed by the same precepts, that whatever is to be learned may not be learned too late. Let us not, therefore, lose this first time ; and the rather because the ele- ments of learning depend upon meniorj', which most commonly is not only very ripe but also very retentive in children. — lnstUuti07ies. Book I.
THE TRAINING IN BOYHOOD.
As the boy grows up, he must insensibly be weaned from all infantile toj-s and indulgences, and begin to learn in earnest. Let the future orator, who must appear in the most solemn assemblies, and have the eyes of a whole repub- lic fixed upon him, earlj' accustom himself not to be abashed at facing a numerous audience; the reverse of which is a natural consequence of a recluse and sedentary life. His mind must be excited, and kept in a state of constant elevation ; otherwise I'etreat and solitude will force it to droop in languor. It will contract rust, as it were, in the shade ; or, on the con-
QUINTILIAN.-4
trary, become puffed up viith the vanity of self- love ; for one that compares himself with none, cannot help attributing too much to himself. Afterwards, when obliged to make a show of his studies, he is struck mute; he is blind m daylight ; everything is new to him ; and the reason is because he has breathed only the air of his cabinet, and learned in private what he was to transact before the world. — Institu- tiones, Book I.
EMULATION TO BE ENCOURAGED.
1 remember a custom observed b\' mj' masters, not without success. They distributed the pupils into classes, and everj'' one declaimed in his place, which was more advanced, according as he had excelled others, and made a greater progress. Judgment being to be passed on the performances, the contention was great for the respective degrees of excellence ; but to be the first of the class was esteemed something very grand. This was not a division to con- tinue always. Every thirtieth day renewed the CMiitest, and made the vanquisjied more eager for again entering the lists. He who had the superiority slackened not his care; and he who was worsted was full (>i hopes to wipe off his disgrace. 1 am persuaded that this gave us a more ardent desire and a greater passion for learning than all the advice of masters, care of tutors, and wishes of parents. — Taatitationei^, Kook I.
Much the greater portion of the Institu- flones is devoted to instructions and sug- gestions to the orator, for the performance of his duties after he had entered upon his cai-eer of an advocate, which it is assunied was the one for which he had heen prepar- ing himself.
EXAMINING WITNESSES.
A principal constituent of the interrogation is to have a knowledge of the nature of the
QUINTILIAN.-5
witness. If lie is timid, terrify liiin ; silly, lead him into deception ; ambitious, ])uff up ; tedious, make liiin more disgustful by liis pro- lixity. But if the witness should be found [)rudent and consistent with himself, he is either to be set aside instantly as an obstinate enemy ; or is to be refuted, not In' (questioning liim inform, but by holding some short dialogue with him. Or, if possible, his ardor i.s to be cooled by some pleasantry ; and if some handle can be made of his vicious conduct in life, he may on that account be charged home, and branded with infamy. Honest and modest wit- nesses should meet with mild treatment; for, often proof against rude behavior, they relent bv affability and complaisance. — Institutiones, ](ook IV.
ARGUMENTS DERIVED FROM THE PERSONALITY OF A PARTY.
Arguments are often to be drawn from the person — all questions being reducible to thin<f.^ (Did persons. I shall touch only upon such as affoi'd places for argument. These places are : —
Birth '. For children are generally believed to be like their parents and ancestors; and hence are derived the causes of their honest or scandalous lives. — Nation : For all nations have their peculiar manners; and the same is not probable in a Barbariaii, lloman, or Greek. — Country: Because there is some difference in the constitution of government, laws, and usages of every state. — Sex: As robbery is more probable in man, poisoning in woman, — A(/e : Because all degrees of age are cliaracter- ized by what are suitable to them. — Education and jDiscipline : As it is of some consequence by whom and how every one is brought up. — JTahit of Body : Because comeliness or beauty of person is frequently suspected of a propen- sity to lust, as is strength of rude carriage. The opposite qualities are differently thought of. — Fortune : The same is not credible in u
QUINTILIAN.— 6
rich and a poor man ; in one that has many friends and dependants, and another destitute of all these blessings. — Conditioyt, : For it much signifies whether one is of an <Miiiiient or mean occupation ; a magistrate or a private man ; a father or a son ; a denizen or alien ; a free man or a slave ; a married man or a bache- lor; a father of children or childless. — Pan- sions and Inclinations : For avarice, angei-, severit}', and the like, determine often to the belief or disbelief of many occurrences. — The Way of Linincj : Whether it be luxurious, frugal, or sordid. — Professions or Occupa- fions : The peasant, citizen, merchant, soldier, seaman, physician, think and act differently. — Institutiones, Book V.
WHEN A GOOD MAX MAY DKFEN'D A BAD CAUSE.
It cannot be doubted, if the wicked can be reclaimed and brought to abetter course of life — as it is granted they sometimes may — that it would be more to the advantage of the com- mon wealth to have them saved than punished. If, therefore, the orator is convinced that the delinquent will approve himself for the future a man of integrity, will he not use his best endeavors to save him from the rigor of the law ; and still come within our definition that "an Orator is an honest man, skilled in the art of speaking? ''....
It is not less necessary to teach and to be informed how things difficult to be proved ought to be treated; as frequently the best causes resemble bad ones ; and a man may be accused unjustly', though all aj^pearances are against him. In a case of this sort, the defense is to be conducted as if there was no real guilt. There are also many things common to good and bad causes — as witnesse.s, letters, suspicions, prejudices; and probabilities are corroborated and refuted in much the sann; wa\- as truth. Therefore, everything may be made to tend in the pleading to the good of the cause, and so far as it will be able to bear; yet alwaA's with
QUINJ'UJA.V.— 7
a I'eserve to tlu- purity of iiiteiitiuii. — Justitfi- tlonen, liouk XII.
( ()N( Ll^JSlU-N 1>K THK ■• 1 .NSTI Tl TI< INKS."
1 1 is difficult to perfect so gri;iii :i work as becoming the Orator, and none yet liave brought it to perfection. Yet one shouhl tliink it a fully sufficient inviteinent to tiie study of sciences that there is no negation in nature against the practicability of a thing wliich has not hitherto been done; since all the greatest and most admirable works have had some time or other in which they were lirst brought to a degree of [lerfection. For by how much Poetry is indebted for its lustre to Homer and Virgil, by so much Eloquence is to Demosthenes and Cicero. And, indeed, what is now excellent was not so at first. Jsow, though one should de- spair of reaching to the height of perfection — a groundless despair in a person of genius, health, talents, and who has masters to assist him — yet it is noble, as Cicero saN's, to have a place in the second or tliii-d rank.
Let us, therefore, with all the affections of our heart, endeavor to attain the very majesty of Eloquence, than which the immortal gods have not imparted anything better to mankind ; and without which all would be mute in nature, and destitute of the splendor of a present glory and future remembrance. Let us likewise always make a continued progress towards per- fection ; and by so doing we shall either reach the height, or at least shall see many beneath us.
This is all, as far as in me lies, T could con- tribute to the perfection of the art of eloquence ; the knowledge of which, if it does not prove of any great advantage to studious youtli, will at least — what 1 more ardently wish for — give them a more ardent desire for doing well.^ Institutionts, Book XII.
RABELAIS.— 1
RABELAIS, Francois, a Frencli eccle- siastic and humorist, born at Chinon about 1490 ; died at Paris in 1553. He was educated at monastic schools, and was ordained as priest in 1511. In 1524 he received papal permission to enter a Benedictine monastery ; six years after- wards lie abandoned the monastic life, studied medicine, and entered upon prac- tice at Lyons. In 1536 his former school- fellow", Jean du Bellay, Bishop of Paris, and afterwards a Cardinal, was made French Ambassador at Rome. He en^ gaged Rabelais as his physician, and ob- tained for him from the Pope a remission of the ecclesiastical penalties which he had incurred by abandoning his orders. Sub* sequently he became a member of the Abbey of St. Maur des Fosses at Paris, where lie remained until 1542, when he received the comfortable living of Meudon. He faithfully performed his ecclesiastical duties ; but devoted all his leisure to the enlargement of his most notable work, Les Fails et Diets du Geant Gargantua et de son Fils Pcmtagruel^ some portions of which had appeared as early as 1533. This work, like Swift's Gulliver^ is partly a political and social satire, though author- ities are not fully agreed as to many of the characters depicted. It is, however, pretty well settled that Gargantua is meant for King Francis I ; Pantagruel is his son Henry II. ; Panurge is the Cardinal de Lorraine ; Friar John des Entommeures is the Cardinal du Bellay. Rabelais and Swift are often classed together; but the distinguishing characteristic of Gargantua is its exuberant fun and jollity, and the total lack of that cvnicism which runs
RABELAIS. -2
through every page of Gulliver. Bacon lias fitly styled Rabelais " the great jester of France " ; others, less appositely, style him •' the prose Homer."
THE IXFANT GARGANTUA.
It (lid one good to see him, for he was a fine hoy witli about eight or ten chins, and cried very little. If it happened that he was put out. angry, vexed, or cross — if he fretted, if he wept, if he cried — if drink was brought to him, he wouhl be restored to temper, and suddenly become (juiet and joyous. One of his gover- nesses toUi me that at the ver}'^ sound of pints and flagons he would fall into an ecstasy, as if he were tasting the joys of paradise ; and upon consideration of this, his divine complexion, tliey would every morning, to cheer him, play with a knife upon the glasses, or the bottles with their stoppers, and on the pint-})ots with their lids; at the sound whereof he became gay, would leap for joy, and would rock him- self in the cradle, lolling with his head and monochordizing with his Ungers. — Transl. of AValter Besant.
the abbey ok thelema.
All their life was spent not by statutes, law, or rules, but according to their free will and pleasure. They rose when they thought good; they ate, drank, worked, slept when the desire came to them. No one woke them up ; no one forced them to eat, drink, nor to do any other thing whatever. So had Gargantua established it. In their Rule there was but this one clause : "Fat/ ce que voiddras — Do what you will.'' Ry this liberty they entered into a laudable emulation to do all of them what they saw pleased anybody else. If one of them — either a monk or a sister — said, " Let us play," the}' all pla3'ed ; if one said, '' Let us go and take our pleasure in the fields," they all went. . . .
So nobly were they taught that there was
RABELAIS.— 3
not one amoug them but could read, write, sing, play upon musical instruments, speak five or six languages, and compose in them, either in verse or measured prose. Never were seen knights more valiant, more gallant, more dex- terous on horse or toot, more vigorous, more active, more skilled in the use of arms than these. Xever were seen ladies so handsome, le.ss whimsical, more ready with hand, with needle, or with every honest and free womanly action than these. For this reason when the time came that any mafi of said xYbbey had u mind to go out of it, he carried along with him one of the ladies, and they were married tt;- gether. And if they had formerly lived in Thelema in good devotion and amity, they continued therein, and increased it to a greater height in their state of matrimony ; so that they entertained that mutual love till the end of their days, just as on the day of their mar- riage.— Trunsl. of Walter Besant.
MONKS AND MOXKEY.S.
"If,'" said Friar John, "you understand why a monke}' in a famil}' is always mocked and worried, j'ou will understand why monks are abliorred of all, both old and young. The monkej- does not watch the house like a dog ; he does not drag the cart like the ox ; he gives no wool like the sheep ; he does not carry burdens like the horse. 80 with the monk. He does not cultivate the soil like the peasant; he does not guard the land like the soldier; he does not heal the sick like the physician ; he does not teach like the evangelical doctor or the schoolmaster; he does not import goods and necessary things like the merchant."
" But the monks pra}- for all," objects Grand- goosier.
" Nothing less,'' says Uargantua. '"' They only annoy the neighborhood with ringing their bells."
" Trul}'," sa^'s Friar John, '-a mass, a matin, and a vesper with many are half said. They
RABELAIS. -4
mumble great store of legends and psalms of whicli they understand nothing. They count plenty of Paternosters and Ave IVEarias, with- out tiiinking and without understanding; and that I call mocking God, and not making prayers. But God help them if they pray for us and not for fear of losing their fat soups. — Transl. Waltkr Bksant.
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