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THE  LIBRARY 

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THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 
FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 


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ALDEN'S  CYCLOPEDIA 


Universal   Literature 


PUESEXTINO 


mOORArillCAl,  AND  CKITICAI.  NUTICKK.  AND  SPECIME.NS 

FRO.M  THE  WllITlXCiS  OI'  KMINENT  AITHOUS 

OF  ALL  AGES  AND  ALL  NATIONS 


VOL.    V 


NEW  YORK 

JOHN    B.     ALDEX,     PUBLISHER 
188G 


CopjTij!>t,  IfXXJ, 

nY 

JCHN    D.    ALDEN. 


f/V 


CONTEXTS   OF  VOLUME  V 


TAOE 

Claukk,  Maiiy  Victoria  Cowdex,  (£ii<;/.,  1603  .» -Th? 
Family  (iovcrnnient  of  Polonius,  ....      9 

CuvuSK,  Rebecca  Sophia,  {Amer.,  18-  .*— -^  Spring 
Kivshet. 11 

Clarxk,  Samirl,  (Entj!.,  1G75-I?i9.>— Pioposilioiis  in  Tlu-- 
olofry— ^''''^'■8  o"  lli*>  Trinity.— Upon  Higbt  and 
VVronfr, 1< 

CijiKK'suK.  Thom-IS,  {Engl.,  lT0O-l8lC.)-Appeal  to  tli«' 
Purchasers  of  Africans, l^^ 

Ci.AY,  C'assics  Makcellis.  uli'K'i-.  If'lO-        .>    -        -        •    ~l 

Clav.  Hkxry,  (.li-itr,  1777-1852.)— The  Emancipation  of 
the  South  AuuTican  States —On  Niilliflc.ition.- On 
the  Abohtitiii  of  Slavery.— On  Violations  of  the  Fugi- 
tive Slave  Ijiw.  -  -- 

Ci.F.M'r.N.s,  S.*Mfi:L  Lanquor.s'e,  (Auter.y  1835-  .>-  Italian 
(iiii.lcs— The  Tomb  of  .Vdani.— The  Grnngerfords" 
I'iciuie^, ■-''* 

C'LKM  .MER,  Mary.  (.lmei\.  1830-1881. )-A  Perfect  Day— My 
Wife  and  I. -WailiiiK— An  Army  Nurse,       -       -       -35 

Cloic.ii  (cluf).  Arthir  Hugh.  (Engl.,  1S10-18C1.)— Before 
the  Battle.— Qua  Cursuni  Veiitus  — .V  River  Pool  — 
Souie  Future  Day.— The  Stream  of  Life —Qui  labnrat, 
oral. ^iJ 

CoBnE  icoli^,  Frances  Power.  (Brit.,  18CJ-  ..—The 
Value  of  a  True  Religious  Faith, 45 

Cod'bktt,  William,  [Engl..  176C-18;lo.)— On  Field  Sports. 
—Late  Recollections  of  Early  Days,        ■       •       •        -    43 

Coffin,  Charles  Carlton.  (Amer.,  1833-  .i-'Tbe 
Shot  heard  round  the  World," o'i 

Coffin.  Robert  Barry,  KAiner.,  18iC-lS36.)— The  Missing 
Papers. ■">•"> 

Co-len'.so.  John  William,  (fwigr.  181 1-1883.)       -       -       -    57 

Cole'ridge.  Hartley.  (Engl.,  1796-1849.)— The  Opposing 
.•Vruiies  on  Maiston  Moor.— Address  to  certain  Gold- 
fishes.—To  Shakespeare.— To  Wordsworth.— Still  a 
Child.— Gray  Hairs  and  Wisdom.— To  a  Newiy-inai- 
ri.-d  Friend —The  Waif  of  Nature.  -        -        -        -    59 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor.  (Eugl,  177-3-K31.)— The 
Preaching  of  Coleridp:e.— Ilis  Epitaph  for  Himself.— 
Hymn  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni  — Ode  to  the  Depart- 
ing Year.— To  Liberty.— Praj-er  for  Britain.— The 
Adieu  of  the  Ancient  Mariner.- We  make  our  own 
World.— The  Great  Good  Maa.— To  Wordsworth,  on 


GS'iesi 


4  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 
liiR  "  Prcliid?.."— V.'orl:  M-iMiont  TTopc— Ob?.rurity  vs. 
liKittciiiion.— Tlie  Woiiii  and  I'licf  of  Knovvlcilge. — 
Weiicliing  and  Valuing  Trutli  and  Krror.— Truili  per- 
manent, Error  transient.— The  (irowlli  of  Civil 
Older.— Aim  of  the  Aids  to  llelleclioii.— For  whom 
tlie  Aids  were  wrilteu.— Introdiictow  Aphorisms  to 
ilie  Aids.— General  Object  of  all  his  Works.         -       -    64 

C'o:,E'niDc:s,  Sxra.  (KnrjI..  1S(>,'-1S.V2  )-Sara  C.leridgent 
Twenty-six.— On  tlie  Death  of  Ulani-o  Wliiio.       -        -    92 

Collier (col'yor),  Jekemy,  ^KntjL,  liJ.'>0-ir-,'G.)— The  Comic 
Drama  of  the  Restoration,        -  -       -       -       -    94 

Collier  (col'yer),  John  Pay.ve,  (EitQls  17S9-1S83.)— The 
Audit'nce  in  an  old  Tln'atre, 95 

Collier  (eol  yen,  Uobert  Lai:id,  {Anier.,  18."3r-  .V-An 
niiforlunate  Brother, 93 

Col'lins,  Mo;tTiMEU.  (&II/?.,  lSi7-lS"G.>— The  Londoner.- 
On  Eyes.— Jly  Tlirusli.— A  Mountain  Apart.— la  View 
of  Death.— Last  Verses, 99 

Col'lins,  William,  ^Engl  ,  1781-1759.)- Ode  to  Evening.— 
Ode  on  tlie  I'assious, 103 

Col'lins,  William  Wilkik,  {Enyl.,  1H24-  .)— The  Count 
and  Countess  Fosco.— The  Wreck  of  the  Timber-ship.  108 

Coll'veu,  KoBKRT,  ( Joie;--.,  18i3-  ■)—A.  Lesson  from  a 
Leaf. 117 

Co-LONNA.  ViTTORiA.  ■«<(/.,  149C-1.^47.)— A  Trayer.    -       -119 

Col'ton,  Caleb  Charles.  (Engl.,  1 780-1 8-"J2.") — Human 
I.,ife.— True  Genius  always  united  to  Reason.— ^lys- 
teiy  and  Intrigue. — Magnanimity  in  humble  Life.- 
Avarice, 120 

CoT'TON,  Calvin,  (Amer.,  1780-1857.)— Henry  Clay  in  laV),  125 

Combe  (eoam  or  coom),  Andrew,  (Scot.,  1797-1317.)- 
Effects  of  a  monotonous  Life, 127 

Combe  i,coani  or  coom).  George.  (S;cot..  1788-18.^5.)--Larpe 
and  Small  Brains.— Relation  of  Natural  Laws  to  Jlan.  128 

Combe  (coain  or  coom),  AVilliam.  [Engl.,  1741-1BJ3.)— Tlie 
Smoking  Soliloquy.— Oliver  Goldsmith.        -        -        •  131 

CoMTK  (co)(f>.  ArousTE,  iFr.  1^98-1857.)— Conite's  Plans 
at  Twenty.— Comte  as  a  Writer.— The  Great  Being.— 
Comte's  Philosophical  Theoi"T. 134 

Co'NANT.  Sami-el  Stillman.  (.4nier.,  1831-1885.)— Release. 
—A  German  I.ove  Song.— A  Spanish  Song,   -        -        -  130 

Co'NANT,  Thomas  Jefferson.  (Amer..  1S02-        .).      -        -  HI 

CoNDiLLAC  (coH-de-yakK  Etienne.  iFr.,  171.5-1780.) — Of 
Sensations —The  Necessity  of  Signs,      -        -        -        -142 

CoNDORCET  (con-dor'say).  Jean  Antoine.  (Fr.,  1743-1794.) 
— Equality  of  Instruction  a  Means  of  Progress,    -        -  146 

CoN-FU'ci-rs,  {Chinese.  549-479  B.C.)— The  Great  Learn- 
ing—The Doctrine  of  the  Mean.— The  Analects.  -  150 

CON'OREVE,  WiLLTAM.  (Engl.,  1G72-1729.)— Scaiidal  and  Lit- 
erature in  High  Life.— Almeria  and  I.«onora  in  the 
Cathedral. 162 

CON'RAD,  Robert  T.,  (Amer,  1 810-1  S5S.)—Say,  Clifford, 
and  Buckingham.— Gone  before, 1C8 

CfoNScnENuE    fcoji'se  a?is>.    Henhs.    (Fhm.,    1S12-1683.>— 


CONTENTS.  S 

PAGE 

Drawn  for  thn  Army.- -Writing  a  Letter.— Coming  to 

an  Unilcrstnndiiig. It- 

Co.N.-jTANT  (cou'stajo,  He.sri  Bknjamin,  (Fi:,  1Vj~-1S30.)— 

The  Perfcciibiliiy  of  thu  Human  Race.  -        -        -  1S4 

CoN'wAY.    MoNCUKE    Daniel,    (Ainer.,    18-3'J-       .)— Tlie 

Ideal.     -  ' 188 

CoNYDEARE  (co'iic-been.   William  Daniel,  {Engl.,  1789- 

1857.)— The  English  Pennine  Cluiiii,         -        -        -        -190 
C'o.N'YBEARE    (co'ne-l)eer),   William  Juns,    (Engl.,    1800- 

]6:)7.)— Tiie  Varied  Lile  of  St.   I'aul.— Differences  iu 

Ueiiui'Jiis  Parties, -  191 

Cook,  Clarence.  {Amev..  182S-       .)— Abram  and  ZiTuri,  I'.rt 

Cook.  Dctton,  (Eiu/}.,  lt«-,;-lS)i3), UKJ 

Cook,  Eliza,  (Enyl.,  1817-       .)— Buttercups  and  Daisies. 

—A  Home  in  ihe  Heart.— The  Old  Arm-cliair,      -        -  196 
Cook,  Jame.s,  {Enf/I.,  l7J8-177'.t.)- Results  of   his  second 

VoyuRe.— His  Sanitary  Precauii.ms,      -       -       -        -  199 
Cook,  Joseph,  (A)iuy.,  183S-       .)~Tlie   Unity  of   Con- 
sciousness.   203 

C'OOKK,  John  Esten.  iAvier.,  ISriO-lRSCI- The  Hm-ricane 

commences.— Tlie  Death  of  Hunter-Juhn  —May,         -  305 
CooKK,  PuiLiP  Pendleton.  (.1/iier.,  1810-1800.)— Eloivnee 

Vane, -Xd 

Cooke.    Uose    Terry.    (Amer.    1827-       .■)— Aunts    .nnd 

Nepliew.— Another  Dautrliter.- Pai-'ion  Turkei-'s  ?Iar- 

riage    Exhortation. -Trailing   Arbutus.— It    is  more 

Iflessed.— Indolence. 211 

Coo  I'KR.  James  Fenimore.  (Amer..  i;89-1851.)— The  Es- 

eapo  of  Wharton  with  Harvey  Birch.— The  Ariel  on 

the  Shuals.  — Encounter  with  a  Panther.— Mabel  in  the 

Ulock  house. 221 

Coo'PEH,  Susan  Fenimore,  (.-imer.,  1825-       .)— The  Woods 

in  Autumn.  - S.VJ 

Cooper.  Thomas.  (EdflZ..  180.)-       .)— Christmas  time.     -253 
Cop'le  STON,  Edward,  (Eugl.,    177G-18J9.)    Restraint   in 

Education. 2.'4 

CocjVEKEL  icok'rcli,  Athanase,  \,Fr.,  1820-1875  )— My.stery 

of  Free  Will, 256 

Corneille  icor-nail'),  Pierre.  (^>..  1000-1084  )- From  the 

Cid.— From  Cinna. 2.">9 

CoRNEiLLK     (cor-nairi,    Thomas,    (Fi:,    1025-1709 )— The 

Grief  of  Ariailne, 209 

Cos'TEL  Lo,  Louise  Stuart,  (WnV.,  1799-1870.)— The  Veiled 

Figure  at  Le  Mans. -  -271 

CoTTiN    I  cot-tan';,    Sophie,    {Fr..    177.3-1807.)— A  Weary 

.loinuiey.       -        -        -        - 27'i 

Cot'tle.  Joseph,  (Engl..  1770-1853.)- The  Pantisocracy.   -  277 
COT'TON.  Charle.=;.  (Engl..  1^30- tOS7.'i— Invitation  to  Izaalc 

Walton.— No  Ills  but  what  we  make,       •        -        -        -230 
COT'TON,  Nathaniel.  (Engl..  1707-1788.)— The  Fireside — 

To-morrow.  ..----.---  i.'82 
Cousin  (coo-sati').  Victor.  (Fr.,  1792-lSGT ) — Analysis  of 

Free  Action. -j^ 

CoVley,  Abraham,    'En<r/l.   1016-1007.  i— On  Myself.— A 


G  CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

Free  Life.— Mark  that  Swift  Arrow.— On  the  Deal\i  of 
Richaiil  Crashaw.— Heaven.— The  Grasshopper.— Ou 

Obsoulty, 380 

CowPER  ic'ow'per  or  coo'per).  William,  ( Kn>jL.  1T31-1800  ) 
—Lines  wriiteii  during  liisaniti-.— Cowper's  third 
Period  of  Insanity.  —  Liglit  shining  in  Darkncs-s. 
—The  two  Castaways— Lord  Che.stHrni-ld.— The 
I'ious  CottaRer  and  Voltaire. —Whitf!)i.'id.— John 
Howard.- Genesis  of  tlieSofa.— On  Slavery  —Domes- 
tic Happiness.— To  Winter.-The  Games  of  Kings  — 
True  Liberty.— Tlie  Future  Golden  Age.— Conclusion 
of  "The  Task. '"—Nose  ?s.  Eyes.-The  Nightingale  and 
Glow  worm— Yanlley  Oak.— On  his  Mothers  Picture.  295 
Cox,  CriHisTOPHER  CHKisTi.ix,  (.-Imcr.,  ISIC-       .^— One 

Yf  iir  Ago, Sn 

Cox,  Sin  Gkorob  William.  (Engl.,  1837-  .)— Character- 
istics of  Gi-^-ek  Mythology.        8:^2 

Cox,  Sami-el  Hanson,  (.4mer.,i:&3-1880. )— Chalmers  in  the 

Pulpit, 8:5 

Cox.  Samuel  SfLLiVAX.  (.-Imer..  mU-       .)-The  City  of 

Miliiuiali.      .       -       -  836 

CoxK,  AuTHi'R  Cleveland,  (Amer.,  ISI*-  .>— Watch- 
words.—Tlie  Hearts  Song.— Marching  Onward  —Saul 

on  Carmel.    -       - 337 

CoxE,    William.    {KikjI.,  1717-1838.)— Warienstein.—G us- 

tavws  Adolphus, '^ 

Coz'zKNs.  Fkederick  SwARTWOrT_/.4m<T..18r^'Tfi69).--Mr. 
Spanowgras'*  chirps  a  littlev— A  Country  Home  for 

nu'.— Thert-fore, 831 

Crabbe,  Geouok.  (£.'<ir7f .  1751-18J2.)^Isaac  Ashford— Tbo 
Gip.sies.— .\  Mother's  Burial— .\n  Autumn  Sketch.— 
Gradual  Approaches  of  Age  — Th6  Betrothed  Lovei-s,  337 
Craio-Knox.  Isabella,  {Scot..  l*il-       .)— The  Brides  of 

Qnair. — Going  out  and  Coming  In,  •        -       -       -317 

Craik,  Dinah  Maria  Milock.  (Enfil.,  1*J6-  .)— The 
Death  of  Minifl— Christian's  Confession.— Edna  and 
her  Boys  —  .\  Mother's    Yearning.— Too  Late —To  a 

Winter  Wind —Philip,  my  King, 350 

Craik.  Gkorge  Lii.lie,  tBrit..  1799-186C.>— Education  of 
the  Early  P'nt'lish  Dramatists.— English  Prose  of  the 

Sixteenth  Centurj' 303 

Craik.  (jeoroiana  TIariox,  (Enyl.,  1831-  .)— An  Ab- 
sent Father, 3t*3 

Crancu,  Christopher  Pearse.  (.4iJ(er  ,  1813-  .i — Mar- 
garet Fuller  O.ssnli — Two  Singi'in. —Knowing  -  -307 
C'R.i.sn'A'w,  Richard,  iEnql ,  IGl-'V-lCoO. )— Lhies  on  a 
PrayiM--boi)k.— Two  Similes.— Two  went  up  to  thn 
Temple  to  pray.— Living  according  to  Nature. — 
Death  of  the  Nightingale.— The  Abotle  of  Satan.  -  S70 
Craw'ford.  Francis  Marion,  lAmer..  Ifi^.V  .} — In  the 
Pantheon   at   Night.— Horace    Bellingham.— In    the 

Himalayas, -       -  876 

C.nEA'sY.  Sir  Edward  Shepherd,  {Engl..  1812-1878.1— 
\Vuat  constitutes  a  Decisive  Battle.— The  Battle  of 


CONTENTS.  7 

PAGE 

Marathon. — Consequences  of  ihc  American  Victory 
at  Saratoga. 379 

Cnu'KEii.  John  Wilson,  (Brit ,  1T80-1857.)— Eulogy  upon 
Swift.— Kf-ats's  PJudyniiou.—Macaulay  as  a  Historian.  389 

Cito'KEU.  'I'homas  Crofton,  (Irish,  17'J8-1854. )— The  L»is.t  of 
the  Irisli  Strpeuts. .303 

Cro'ly,  George.  (Brit.,  1780-1660  »— Tarry  thou,  till  I 
conin.— The  Combat  in  the  Arena. — The  Banishment 
of  Catiline.— To  Spain. — Thermopylae.— The  Genius  of 
Death.— Jacob's  Dream -       -  395 

Cros'bv,  How.vkd,  (.Imer.,  1836-  .)— The  Preacher  of 
Desert. 407 

Crosi'weli.,  William,  (Amei:,  18(M-1851.)— De  Profuiulis. 
—Clouds, -IIO 

Crowe,  Catherine  Stevens,  {Engl.,  1^00-1676.)— An  Op- 
portune Kscape.— Prophetic  Dreams,    -        -        -        -411 

Ci'D'LiP,  Anne  Thomas,  (Kngl.,  18.JtJ-  .)— Clever  Miss 
Conway, .        -        .        -  415 

CrowoRTH,  U.Ki.pnj  Ell  (jl  .16l7-108H.)-Go(l  Incomprelieu- 
sible,  but  not  Inconceivable. — Creaii'in,        .        -        -  417 

Clm  ber-land.  Richard,  ^Enyl.,  173i-l6ll.^— Scenes  from 
"  The  West    Imlian."— An  Act  of  Charily,        -        -  4-1 

CiM'wiNG.     John.    (Brit.,    1«10-1861.)— Where    dwelletli 

Hi(ihleousness, 4'J8 

CiM'MisQ,  Hdi-aleyn  Gordon,  (Scot.,  1820-1800.)— The 
Vi>ice  of  the  Lion, 4iI9 

Cum'uiss,  31ai!IA  S  ,  {Amer.,  1837-1806.}— Gerty  i-e-os- 
Mired.— A  Funeral  Traill.  ......  430 

Ci'x'NiNH-HAM,  AL-..AS.  (Scot.,  17S0-1842  )— Ifs  Hume,  and 
its  Hame.  — .V  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea— The 
Spriig  of  the  Year.— Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  at  Home,  431 

Cur'rv.  OrwAY.  (Amer.,  1804- 1855.) -The  Lo.st  Pleiad.— 
Kinploin  Come,  ..-.-...  43 

CfRTis.  George  Ticknor.  (.4m<'r.,  1812-  .)— The  Con- 
slitution  of  ihe  United  States.— Attitude  in  which 
Mr.  Buchanan  left  th«  Government,      ....  441 

Ci'r'tis,  George  William,  (Amer.,  18-.24-  .)— The 
Dr.icrouian.— Jerusalem.— Nia;;ar.a.— Our  Best  .Socit'ty. 
—The  Potipliars  in  Paris.  — My  Castles  in  Spain.— 
Charles  Stunner. — Wendell  Phillips. — The  Sumnierof 
]«C:i.—El)l)  and  Flow- Major  and  .Minor,      -        -        -445 

CuKTii-s  (koor'tse-oos),  Ern.'^t.  (Oerm..  1814-  .)— The 
Platao.ans  break  through  the  Investment.— The 
Youthful  Pericles, 462 

CiviER  'kii  vyu>.  Georges,  (Fr.,  1769-1S.32.)  -Con-elations 
in  Anim.Tl  Structure, 466 

Cuyler  (.ky'leri,  Theodore  Ledyard,  (Amer.,  1822-  .) 
—Eloquence  in  the  Puljiit. 472 

diTRiAN-  (sip'ri  an).  Tuask-^  C^cilics,  (Rom.,  200-258.)— 
TheUnity  of  theChui-ch.         .....  474 


CYCLOPEDIA 


OF 


UNIVERSAL    LITERATURE. 


CLARKE,  Mary  Victoria  Cowden,  an 
English  author,  born  in  London,  June  22, 
1809.  She  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  Vin- 
cent Novello,  the  musician.  Wlieu  very 
young,  she  began  to  write  for  magazines;  to 
which  she  has  contributed  many  articles  on 
dramatic  literature.  She  is  best  known  by 
her  Complete  Concordance  of  Shakespeare, 
begun  soon  after  her  marriage  to  Charles 
Cowden  Clarke,  and  published  in  1845.  Mrs. 
Clarke  has  alio  published  The  Adventures  of 
Kit  Baiim,  Mariner  {iS-iS);  TJie  Girlhood  of 
Shakespeaj'e's  Heroines  (1S52);  TJie  Iron  Coits- 
in,  a  novel  (1851);  The  Song  of  a  Drop  of 
Wather,  by  Henry  Wandsworth  Shortfellow 
(1850);  World-noted  Women  (1857);  The  Life 
and  Labors  of  Vincent  Xovello  (1864);  TJie 
Trust  and  the  Remittance,  two  stories  (1873); 
A  Rambling  Story  (1874) ;  a  volume  of  verses, 
Honey  from  the  Wood  (1881);  and  an  edition 
of  Shakespeare,  with  a  full  glossary.  In  con- 
junction with  her  husband  she  also  published, 
in  18G9,  an  Annotated  Edition  of  Shake- 
speare. 

THE  FA^HLY  GOVERNMENT  OF  POLONITS. 
Instead  of  openly  forbidding  or  reprehending 
certain  deeds,  be  would  lay  snares  for  discovering 
whether  they  had  been  committed  ;  and  while  the 


10  MARY  COWDEN  CLARKE. 

process  was  going  on,  his  penetration  was  baffled 
by  the  artless  behavior  of  the  children.  His  guile 
was  futile  against  their  candor ;  and  Avas  more 
frequently  proved  at  fault  than  they.  His  sagaci- 
ty was  alwaj-s  aiming  at  detection,  where  no  de- 
linquency existed  ;  ever  l)ent  on  discovering  some 
concealment,  where  there  was  notliing  to  conceal. 
It  was  almost  comic  to  see  the  searching  frown  he 
would  Ijend  on  one  of  those  clear  open  countenanc- 
es held  up  to  him  in  confident  unreserve,  conscious 
of  no  shadow  of  blame.  The  questioning  eye,  the 
shrewd  glance,  the  artfully  put  enquiry,  seemed 
absurd,  directed  against  such  transparent  honesty. 
In  consequence  of  tiiis  system  of  their  father's,  his 
praise  was  sometimes  as  mysterious  and  unexpected 
to  the  young  Laertes  and  Oplielia  as  his  reproof.  'On 
one  occasion,  he  called  tliem  to  him  and  com- 
mended them  highly,  for  never  having  been  into  a 
certain  gallery  which  he  had  built  out  into  his 
garden  for  the  reception  of  some  pictures,  be- 
queathed to  him  by  a  French  nobleman,  a  friend 
of  his — lately  dead. 

Seeing  a  look  of  surprise  on  their  faces,  he 
added: — "Ah,  you  marvel  how  I  came  to  know 
so  certainly  that  you  never  went  in.  But  I  have 
methods  deep  and  sure — a  little  bird,  or  my  little 
finger — in  few,  you  need  not  assure  me  that  you 
never  entered  that  gallery  ;  for  I  happen  to  be 
aware  beyond  a  doubt  that  you  never  did.  And  I 
applaud  your  discretion." 

"  But  we  did  go  in  ; "  said  Ophelia. 

"What,  child?  Pooh,  impossible!  Come  to 
me ;  look  me  full  in  the  face." — Not  that  she 
looked  down,  or  aside,  or  any  thing  but  straight  at 
him :  but  he  always  used  this  phrase  conventionally, 
when  he  conducted  an  examination.  "  I  tell  you, 
you  never  went  into  that  gallery  ;  I  know  it  for  a 
fact.  There  's  no  use  in  attempting  to  deceive 
your  fatlier.  I  should  have  discovered  it,  had 
you  gone  into  that  room  without  my  permission." 

"  But  did  you  not  wish  us  to  go  there?  I  never 
knew  you  forbade  it,"'  said  Laertes.  "  If  we  had 
known  you  had  any  objection,  neither  Ophelia 
nor  I  would  have " 


REBECCA  SOPHIA  CLARKE.  11 

"  I  never  forbade  it,  certainly,"  interrupted  his 
father  ;  "  but  I  had  strong  reasons  for  wishing 
that  you  should  not  go  into  the  room  till  the  pic- 
tures were  hung.  You  might  have  injured  them. 
No,  no  ;  I  knew  better  than  to  let  heedless  cliil- 
dren  play  tliere  ;  so  1  took  means  to  i)revent  j'our 
entering  the  gallery  without  my  knowledge." 

"But  we  did  play  there,  every  day,  father," 
said  Laertes. 

"  Yes  ;  '■  said  Ophelia. 

"  And  I  tell  you,  impossible  I  Listen  to  me  ;  I 
fastened  a  hair  across  the  entrance,  The  invisi- 
ble barrier  is  yet  unbroken.  So  that  you  see.  you 
could  not  have  passed  through  that  door  without 
my  knowledge." 

"But  we  didn't  go  through  the  door,  papa; 
we  got  in  at  the  window ! "  exclaimed  both  the 
children.  We  didn  't  know  you  wished  us  not  to 
play  there  ;  so,  finding  a  space  which  the  builders 
bad  left,  in  one  of  the  windows  that  look  into  the 
garden,  we  used  to  creep  in  there,  and  amuse  our- 
selves with  looking  at  the  new  jiietures.  We  did 
no  harm  ;  only  admired." — Tlte  Girlhood  of 
Shakespeare's  Heroines. 

CLARKE,  Rebecca  SoPHi.\  (''Sophie May" 
pseud),  <tn  American  author  born  at  Norridge- 
wock,  Maine.  She  has  written  many  excel- 
lent stories  for  young  people.  Among  them 
are  The  Doctors  Daughter;  Quinnebasset 
Girls:  Janet;  The  Asbury  Twins;  Dotty 
Dimple  Stories;  Little  Prudy  Stories;  Little 
Priidy's  Flyaway ;  Our  Helen  ;  Flaxie  Friz- 
zle; Little  Folks  Astray ;  and  Yejisie  Walton. 

A   SPRING  FRESHET. 

In  another  moment  Dr.  Prescott  was  out  again 
in  the  wildness  of  the  storm  ;  but  now  the  wind 
had  changed,  and  was  blowing  from  north  to 
south,  dropping  its  voice  occasionally,  as  if  it  had 
half  a  mind  to  give  up  the  contest,  then  raging 
again  with  renewed  force. 

"It  will  clear  away  before  midnight,"  thought 
the  doctor,  as  he  walked  his  horse  over  the  trem- 


12  REBECCA  SOPHIA  CLARKE. 

bling  bridge.  "Glad  of  tliat.  A  spring  freshet 
would  give  these  timbers  a  heavy  strain."  Then 
driving  on  up  the  hill,  he  reflected  that  the  ice 
was  likeh- to  "go  out  weak  this  year/' and  there 
was  not  as  much  danger  as  usual  of  the  old  bridge. 
But  all  the  while  the  rain  was  falling  steadily. 

]\Iarian,  alone  with  Benjie.  found  the  afternoon 
dull.  Night  set  in.  and  her  father  had  not  return- 
ed. That  w;-s  nothing  very  strange  ;  imt  where 
was  Eo'iert.  tiiat  he  did  not  come  witii  the  inail  ? 

She  kept  Benjie  awake  long  after  his  usual  bed- 
time, Ix'cause  slie  dreaded  the  lonesome  hush 
which  would  creej)  over  the  house  when  he  should 
be  asleep.  She  sent  him  for  apph-s,  and  he 
came  back  shouting  gleefully, — "Cellar's  afloat! 
Tubs  a-swimming  I '' 

"Is  it  possible?  Well,  if  we  can't  have  apples, 
little  brother,  we'll  have  something  better." 

So  they  boiled  molasses  candy  in  a  basin  over 
the  coals,  and  little  brother  helped  pull  it  with 
his  awkward  fingers,  leaving  sticky  traces  on 
his  face  and  jacket.  Then  they  played  at  back- 
gammon, a  long  game,  for  Benjie  was  learning, 
and  could  count  imt  slowly.  But  still  Rolx'it  did 
not  come.  The  clock  struck  nine.  Benjie  curled 
down  upon  the  rug,  to  listen  to  the  story  of  Jack 
and  the  Beanstalk,  and  in  two  minutes  was  fast 
asleep.  Marian  put  more  wood  on  the  fire,  choos- 
ing beech  sticks  because  they  wouhl  crackle  socia- 
bly, and  went  to  the  window  to  look  out.  Nothing 
but  blackness.  Over  the  gate  the  elm  tree  writh- 
ed like  a  distracted  goblin  ;  she  could  fancy  it 
wringing  its  hands.  She  dropi)ed  the  curtain,  laid 
Benjie  on  the  sofa,  and  came  back  to  her  seat  in 
her  mother's  low  rocking-chair.  The  mail  was 
probably  delayed  bj'  the  storm.  Robert  would  be 
in  presently.  He  never  failed  to  call  on  his  way 
to  the  post-office.  There  was  no  sense  in  being 
nervous :  but  the  wildness  without  and  the  still- 
ness within  combined  to  be  very  oppressive. 

"  Cellar's  afloat.     Tubs  a-swimming." 

Why.  it  must  be  a  freshet.  Marian  hated  the 
dull,  monotonous  sound  of  the  water  pouring  into 
the  cistern.     It  called  to  mind  the  ocean,  which 


REBECCA  SOPHIA  CLARKE.  18 

roared  between  her  mother  and  home,  and  the 
familiar  vase  on  the  mantle— an  alabaster  hand 
holdin<^  up  a  shell— made  her  shudder,  an  if  it 
were  her  mother's  hand  rising  from  the  sea. 

The  clock  struck  ten.  It  was  clear  that  Robert 
was  not  coBiiufj: :  he  never  did  come  as  late  as  ten. 
Marian  stirred  the  tire,  and  wrapping  herself  in  a 
shawl,  lay  down  beside  Benjie  on  the  wide,  old- 
fashioned  sofa.  Not  that  she  felt  sleepy  ;  but  in 
the  dreary  emptiness  of  the  room,  it  was  a  com- 
fort to  have  the  little  fellow  in  her  arms.  She 
would  not  put  him  in  bed  yet.  Her  father  would 
be  sure  to  come  soon.  Strange  what  had  kept 
RolKrt;  he  diil  n"t  usually  mind  storms.  But 
while  she  wailed  and  wondered,  that  "  little  sprite 
from  the  laml  of  Nowhere"  glided  in  ami  pen-hed 
upon  her  eyelids.  She  no  longer  heard  the  wind, 
though  it  still  shook  the  house  ;  nor  the  clock, 
though  it  never  ceased  to  pace  off  the  tiuie  with 
slow  strides.  It  struck  eleven,  then  twelve.  The 
fire  burned  low.  A  brand  rolled  out  upon  the 
hearth,  and  charred  a  small  hole  in  the  rug.  Still 
Marian  slept.  W.hy  not?  What  signal  of  danger 
ct)uld  Lome  to  her  dulled  ears  through  those  thick, 
close-drawn  curtains  f 

Suddenly  there  fell  a  great  calm.  The  North 
Wind  stopped  and  held  his  breath.  It  may  have 
been  for  horror  at  the  ruin  he  had  wrouglit :  it 
may  have  been  to  listen  to  the  hoarse  roar  of  many 
waters.  The  river,  which  had  been  oidy  little 
Bassett  yesterday,  sleeping  under  a  counterpane  of 
snow,  had  swollen  now  to  monstrous  size,  and 
was  rushing  headlong  over  his  banks.  On,  on 
with  the  might  of  a  conqueror,  gathering  force  as 
he  goes,  the  mad  river  dashes  and  takes  to  himself 
all  that  comes  m  his  way.  Great  sheets  of  ice 
from  far  up  stream  he  seizes,  tears  rudely,  and 
piles  against  the  piei-s  of  the  bridge,  tier  above 
tier.  Now,  like  the  wind,  Basset  stops  and  holds 
his  breath.  lie  has  defeated  himself,  and  built  up 
a  wall  of  frozen  masonry  which  lie  cannot  pass 
over. 

But  a  powerful  reenforcement  arrives.  Me- 
dumpscott  stream,  two  miles  away,  breaks  through 


14  SAMUEL  CLARKE. 

a  strong  dam,  and  Inirries  to  the  rescue.  Now  for 
a  revel.  Great  logs,  and  shattered  mills,  and  up- 
torn  trees  hatter  against  tlie  frozen  wall,  and  it 
gives  way.  Tlic  passage  is  clear  now  for  Basset, 
the  conqueror,  the  demon.  He  and  Me«himpscott 
rush  thundering  down  stream,  hearing  their  spoils, 
and  among  them  the  pour  old  tremulous  hridge. 

Boom  I  Crash  I  They  go,  shrieking,  "  Out  of 
our  way  !  It 's  .1  night  of  revel  I  The  law  can't 
touch  running  water.  Follow  us — if  —  you  — 
dare  !'' — The  Doctor's  Daughter. 

CLARKE,  Samukl,  an  English  divine, 
Bcholnr.  and  nu'tajthy.-^ician,  born  in  107.").  died 
in  17;iS>.  Hocntoreil  Cuius  College.  Cambridge, 
in  IGIU.  whore  he  soon  became  distinguished 
in  almost  every  department  of  study.  Hav- 
ing received  Holy  Ordei-s,  he  became  chaplain 
to  the  Bishop  of  Norwich,  who  proseTited  him 
to  a  rectorehip  near  Norwich,  and  procured 
for  him  a  pari.'^h  in  that  city.  In  1704  he  was 
appointed  to  the  Boyle  I^ectureship.  Ho  took 
for  the  subject  of  these  lectures,  Tlie  Being 
and  Attributes  of  God:  being  appointed  to 
tlie  same  position  in  the  following  year,  he 
took  for  his  theme  The  Evidences  of  Nat- 
ural and  Revealed  Reli<jion.  The.se  two 
courses  of  lectures  were  subsequently  publish- 
ed in  a  volume  entitled  ADisvonrse  concerning 
the  Being  and  Attributes  of  God,  the  Obliga- 
tions of  Xatural  Religion,  and  the  Certainty 
of  the  Christian  Revelation.  The  main  views 
of  Dr.  Clarke  are  set  forth  by  him  in  the  fol- 
lowing propositions: 

PROPOSITIONS  IN"  THEOLOGY. 
(1.)  Something  has  existed  from  eternity. — 
(2.)  There  has  existed  from  eternity  some  one 
immutable  and  independent  Being. — (3.)  That 
juimiual'le  and  independent  Being,  which  lias  ex- 
isted from  eternity,  without  any  external  cause 
of  its  existence,  must  be  self-existent — tliat  is, 
liocessarily  existing. — (4.)    What  the  substance  or 


SAMUEL  CLARKE.  15 

essence  of  tliat  Being,  which  is  self-existent  or 
necessarily  existing,  is,  we  have  no  itlea  ;  neither 
is  it  at  all  possible  for  us  to  comprehend  it.— (5.) 
Though  the  substance  or  essence  of  the  self-exist- 
ent Being  js  of  itself  absolutely  incomprehensible 
to  us,  yet  many  of  the  essential  attributes  of  his 
nature  are  strictly  demonstrable,  as  well  as  his  ex- 
istence :  and.  in  the  lirst  place,  that  he  )nust  be  of 
nec-essity  eternal.— (6. )  The  Self-Existent  umst 
be  of  necessity  Infinite  and  Onmipotent.— (7.) 
Must  be  but  One.— <8.)  ilust  be  an  Intelligent 
Being.— (9.)  Must  be  not  a  Necessary  Agent,  but 
a  Being  indue<l  with  Liberty  and  Choice. — (10.) 
Must  uf  necessity  have  Infinite  Power.— (U.)  Must 
be  Iiilinitely  Wise.— (I'.}.)  Must  uf  necessity  btMi 
Being  of  Inlinite  (Juodncss.  Justi(  i-.  and  Truth, 
and  all  other  moral  perfections,  such  as  become 
tlie  Supreme  Govenor  and  Judge  of  the  world. 

In  1699-1702  he  put  forth  A  Paraphrase 
ov  the  Four  Evangelists,  which  has  been  sev- 
eral times  reprinted.  In  1712  he  published 
The  Scrij^titre  Doctrine  of  the  Trinity,  a  work 
which  gave  rise  to  a  protracted  controversy, 
in  which  many  eminent  divines  took  part. 

HIS   VIEWS  ON   TIIF.  TRINITY. 

"  The  sentiments  of  Ckirke  on  this  jwint,"  saya 
Cunningham,  '"were  undoubtedly  Arian  ;  but  it 
was  an  Arianism  which  approached  as  clo.sely  aa 
possible  to  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity.  He  re- 
garded the  Son  and  Holy  Spirit  as  emanations 
from  the  Father,  endowed  by  liim  with  every 
attribute  of  Deity,  self-existence  alone  except- 
ed."  .  .  .  "The  writings  of  Dr.  Clarke  on  the 
Ti-inity."  says  Orme,  •'  contain  a  great  deal  of 
discussion  respecting  the  meaning  of  the  Scripture, 
and  occasioned  a  very  extended  controversy  in 
England.  He  seems  to  have  lieen  led  to  tlie  senti- 
ments ado})ied  and  defended,  by  his  metaphysic- 
al tone  of  mind,  ami  by  pui-suing  improperly  the 
language  of  human  creeds  respecting  the  genera- 
tion of  the  Son  of  God.  Tlie  controversy  tended 
greatly  to  spread  Arianism  over  the  country.'' 


16  SAMUEL  CLARKE. 

During  his  lifetime  Clarke  published  a  col- 
lection of  fourteen  »5<:'rmo/?.s,' and  he  left  at 
his  death,  ready  for  the  press,  An  Exjwsition 
of  the  Catechism,  consisting  of  lectures  which 
he  read  every  Thursday  morning,  for  some 
months  during  the  year,  at  St.  James's 
Church.  This  was  published,  soon  after  his 
death,  by  his  brother,  John  Clarke,  Dean  of 
Sarum,  who  also  edited  eight  additional  vol- 
umes of  the  Sermons  of  Sanniel  Clarke. 

Besides  his  theological  works  he  performed 
a  vast  amount  of  literary  and  scientific  labor. 
In  170G  he  made  a  translation  of  Newton's 
Optics,  in  acknowledgment  of  which  the 
author  presented  him  with  £500.  In  1728  he 
published  in  the  Philosophical  T)'ans(ictions. 
"A  letter  from  Dr.  Clarke  to  Benjamin 
Hoadley,  F.  R.  S.,  occasioned  by  the  contro- 
versy relating  to  the  Proportion  of  the  Veloc- 
ity and  Force  of  Bodies  in  Motion."  In  1712 
he  put  forth  a  carefuU}'  revised  and  annotated 
edition  of  Caesar's  Commentaries.  In  1729, 
just  before  his  death,  appeared  his  edition, 
with  notes  and  a  translation,  of  the  first 
twelve  Books  of  Homer's  Iliad,  the  remain- 
ing Books  being  soon  after  issued  under  the 
charge  of  his  son.  Clarke  received  from  time 
to  time  several  valuable  church  preferments, 
and  in  1727,  upon  the  death  of  Sir  Isaac  New- 
ton, he  was  offered  the  place  of  Master  of  the 
Mint,  worth  from  £1,200  to  £1,500  a  year;  a 
secular  preferment  which  he  absolutely  de- 
clined. The  following  is  a  fair  specimen  of 
his  metaphysical  theories :' 

UPON   RIGHT  AND  WROXG. 

The  principal  thing  that  can,  with  any  color  of 
reason,  seem  to  countenance  the  opinion  of  those 
who  deny  the  natural  and  essential  difference  of 
good  and  evil,  is  the  difuculty  that  may  some- 
times bo  to  define  exactly  the  bounds  of  Right 


SAaiUEL  CLARKE.  17 

and  Wrong ;  the  variety  of  opinions  that  have  ob- 
tained, even  among  understanding  and  learned 
men,  concerning  certain  questions  of  Just  and 
Unjust,  especially  in  political  matters,  and  the 
many  contrary  laws  that  have  been  made  in  di- 
vers ages  and  in  different  countries  concerning 
these  matters. 

But  as,  in  painting,  two  very  dilTerent  colors, 
by  diluting  each  other  very  slowly  and  gradually, 
may,  from  tiie  highest  intenseness  in  either  ex- 
treme, terminate  in  the  midst  insensibly,  and  so 
run  one  into  the  other,  that  it  shall  not  be  possi- 
ble even  for  a  skilful  eye  to  determine  exactly 
where  tlie  one  ends  and  the  other  begins  ;  and  yet 
the  colors  may  really  differ  as  nuich  as  can  be, 
not  in  degree  only,  but  entirely  in  kind— as  red 
and  blue,  or  white  and  black  :  so  though  it 
may  perhaps  be  very  dillicult  in  some  nice  and 
perplexed  cases — which  are  yet  very  far  frona  oc- 
curring freijueutly — to  define  exactly  the  bounds 
of  Right  and  Wrong,  Just  and  Unjust — and  there 
may  be  some  latitude  in  the  judgment  of  different 
men,  and  the  laws  of  divers  nations — yet  Right  and 
Wrong  are  nevertheless  in  themselves  totally  and 
essentially  different ;  even  altogether  as  niuch  as 
white  an<l  black,  light  and  darkness. 

The  Sp:irtan  law,  perhaps,  which  permitted 
their  youth  to  steal, may — as  absurd  as  it  was — bear 
much  dispute  whether  it  was  absolutely  unjust  or 
no  ;  because  every  man  having  an  absolute  right 
in  his  own  goods,  it  may  seem  that  the  members 
of  any  society  may  agree  to  transfer  or  alter  their 
own  jiroperties  upon  what  conditions  they  shall 
think  lit.  But  if  it  could  be  supposed  that  a  law 
had  been  made  at  Sparta,  or  at  Rome,  or  in  India, 
or  in  any  other  part  of  the  world,  whereb}""  it  had 
been  commanded  or  allowed  that  an}'  man  might 
rob  by  violence,  and  murder  whomsoever  he  met 
with,  or  that  no  faith  should  be  tept  with  any 
man,  nor  any  equitable  compacts  performed — no 
man,  with  any  tolerable  use  of  his  reason,  what- 
ever diversity  of  judgment  might  be  among  them 
in  other  mattei-s,  would  have  thought  that  such  a 
law    could  have    been    authorized    or    excused; 


18  THOMAS  CLARKSON. 

much  leas  have  justifietl  such  actions,  and  have 
made  tlieiu  good  :  lit^caiise  it  i-t  plainly  uoi  in 
men's  power  lo  ni;da>  falsehood  le  truth,  ihoujjh 
they  may  alter  tin-  jiroperty  of  their  gocnis  as  they 
please. 

Now  if,  in  flagrant  casi's,  the  natural  and  essen- 
tial difference  between  Good  and  Evil,  Kigiit  and 
wrong,  cannot  hut  be  confessed  to  be  plainly  and 
undeniably  evident,  the  dilffrence  between  them 
must  l)o  also  cfvsential  and  unalterable  in  all,  even 
the  smallest,  and  nicest,  and  most  intricate  cases, 
though  it  be  not  easy  tobe  discerne<l  and  accurate- 
ly distinguished.  For  if,  from  tlu-  difficulty  of  de- 
termining exactly  the  bounds  of  Right  and  Wrong 
in  many  jx-rploxed  c.ises  it  could  trul)'  be  conclud- 
ed that  Just  and  Unjust  were  not  essentially  dif- 
ferent by  nature,  but  only  by  positive  constitution 
and  custom,  it  wouM  follow  equally,  that  they 
were  not  really,  essentially,  and  unalterably  tlif- 
ferent— even  the  most  flagrant  cases  that  can  be 
supposed  :  whi(.h  is  an  assertion  ho  very  absurd, 
that  Mr.  Hobl>cshimse!f  could  hardly  vent  it  with- 
out blushing  ;  and  discovering  ])lainly  by  liis  siiift- 
ing  expressions,  liis  secret  self-condemnation. 
There  are  therefore  certain  necessary  and  eternal 
dilTerences  of  things,  and  certain  litnes.ses  or  un- 
fitnesses of  the  application  of  dilferent  things,  or 
different  relations  one  lo  another,  not  depending 
on  any  positive  constitutions,  but  founded  un- 
changeably in  the  nature  and  reason  of  things,  and 
unavoidably  arising  from  the  tlifTerence  of  the 
things  themselves. — TJic  Beimj  and  Attribiitesi  of 
God. 

CLARKSOxX,  Thomas,  an  English  philan- 
thropist and  author,  born  in  1760,  died  in 
1840.  Ho  -was  educated  at  Cambridge.  Dur- 
ing his  stay  there,  the  questicjii.  Is  Involun- 
tary Servitude  justifiable  i  was  assigned  as 
the  subject  of  a  Laliu  prize  essay,  and  Clark- 
son  became  so  much  interested,  that  after 
completing  his  essay,  which  was  successful, 
he  resolved  to  devote  his  life  to  the  abolition 


THOMj\JS  CLARKSON.  19 

of  the  slave  trade.  He  secured  the  ro-oixra- 
tion  of  Mr.  Wilberforce,  -who  presented  the 
subject  to  Parliament  in  1787;  and  after  a 
struggle  of  twenty  years  procured  the  pas- 
sage of  a  bill  suppressing  the  monstrous  traf- 
fic. During  the  next  year,  1808,  Clarkson 
published  a  History  of  the  Rise,  Progress, 
and  Accomijlishment  of  the  Abolition  of  the 
African  Slave-Trade.  In  1823  he  J)ecain(Miii 
active  nifmber  of  the  Society  then  formed 
for  the  abolition  of  slavery  in  the  West  Ind- 
ies, the  object  of  which  was  attained  in  1833. 
Clarkson's  Latin  essay  On  the  Slavery  ay\d 
Conimeree  of  the  Human  Species,  was  trans- 
l;»ted  into  English,  and  had  a  wUlo  circulation. 
He  also  published -V(/fy»a  C/ior/rt  of  Africa 
(1807i;  Portraiture  of  (^hiakerism,  Memoirs 
of  the  Life  of  William  Penn  (1813);  and  Re- 
searches  concerning  God  and  Religion  (1836;. 

APPEAL  TO  THE   PURCHASKRS  OF  AFRICANS. 

It  reniuins  only  now  to  examine  by  what  argu- 
ments thope.  who  receive  or  purcluise  their  fel- 
low-creaturt'S  into  slavery,  defend  the  commeri-f. 
Tlu'ir  tirs^t  jjIl-u  i.s  "tliat  they  receive  those,  with 
propriety,  who  are  convicted  of  crimes.  l>ecaiise 
they  are  delivered  into  tiieir  hands  by  their  own 
magistrates."  But  what  is  this  to  you  receivers? 
Have  the  unfortunate  convicts  been  guilty  of  in- 
jury to  you.^  Have  they  broken  your  treaties? 
Have  they  jilundered  your  ship::?  Have  they 
earned  your  wives  and  children  into  slavery,  that 
you  should  thus  retaliate?  Have  they  offended 
you  even  by  word  or  gesture? 

But  if  the  African  convicts  are  innocent  with 
respect  to  you  ;  if  you  have  not  even  the  shadow 
of  a  claim  upon  their  persons  ;  by  what  right  do 
you  receive  them  ?  "  By  the  laws  of  the  Africans." 
you  will  say  ;  '•  by  which  it  is  positively  allowed." 
— But  can  laws  alter  the  nature  of  vice?  They 
may  give  it  a  function,  perhaps  :  it  will  still  be  im- 
mutably the  same,   and,  thouirh  dressed  in   the 


20  THOMAS  CLARKSON. 

outward  habiliments  of  honor,  will  still  be  intrin- 
sicall}'  base. 

But  alas  !  you  do  not  only  attempt  to  defend 
yourselves  by  these  arj^uments.  but  even  dare  to 
give  your  actions  the  appearance  of  lenity,  and 
assume  merit  from  your  baseness  !  and  how  first 
ought  you  particularly  to  blush,  when  you  assert 
'"that  prisoners  of  war  are  only  purchased  from 
the  hands  of  their  confjuerei-s,  to  deliver  them 
from  death."'  Ridiculous  defence  !  can  the  most 
credulous  believe  it?  You  entice  the  Africans  to 
war ;  you  foment  their  (juarrels ;  you  supply 
them  with  arms  and  ammunition,  and  all — from 
the  motives  of  beiwvulence.  Does  a  man  set  fire 
to  an  house,  for  the  purpose  of  rescuing  the  inhab- 
itants from  the  flames?  But  if  they  are  only  pur- 
chased to  deliver  them  from  death,  wliy,  when 
the}'  are  delivered  into  your  hands,  as  protectors, 
do  you  torture  them  with  hunger?  Why  do  you 
kill  them  with  fatigue  ?  Why  does  the  whip  de- 
form their  bodies,  or  tiie  knife  their  limbs?  Why 
do  you  sentence  them  to  death?  to  a  death  infi- 
nitely more  excruciating  than  that  from  which  3'ou 
so  kindly  saved  them?  What  answer  do  you 
make  to  this?  for  if  you  had  not  humanely  pre- 
served them  from  the  hands  of  their  conquerors, 
a  quick  death,  perhaps,  and  that  in  the  space  of  a 
moment,  had  freed  them  from  their  pain  :  but  on 
accoimt  of  your  favor  and  benevolence,  it  is 
known  that  they  have  lingered  years  in  pain  and 
agony,  and  have  been  sentenced,  at  last,  to  a 
dreadful  death  for  the  most  insignificant  offence. 

Neither  can  we  allow  the  other  argument  to  be 
true,  on  which  you  found  your  merit ;  ''  that  you 
take  them  from  their  country  for  their  own  con- 
venience ;  because  Africa,  scorched  with  incessant 
heat,  and  subject  to  the  most  violent  rains  and 
tempests,  is  unwholesome,  and  unfit  to  be  in- 
habited."' Preposterous  men  !  do  you  thus  judge 
from  your  own  feelings?  Do  you  thus  judge 
from  j'our  own  constitution  and  frame?  But  if 
you  suppose  that  the  Africans  are  incapable  of  en- 
during their  own  climate,  because  you  cannot 
endure  it  yourselves,  why  do  you  receive  tA*<»m 


CASSIUS  MARCELLUS  CLAY.  21 

into  slavery?  Wliy  <lo  you  not  measure  tliem 
here  by  tlie  same  standard  ';•  For  if  you  arc  unable 
to  bear  luin;;ct.'r  and  thirst,  chains  and  imprison- 
ment, wounds  and  torture,  \\'hy  do  you  not  sup- 
pose them  irtcapaljie  of  enduring  the  same  treat- 
ment V  Thus  then  is  your  argument  turned 
against  yourselves.  .  .  .  But  3'ou  say  again,  as  a 
conJirmation  of  these  your  former  arguments,  (by 
which  30U  would  liave  it  understood,  that  the 
Africans  themselves  are  sensible  of  the  goodness  of 
your  intentions)  "that  they  do  not  appear  to  go 
with  you  against  their  will.''  impudent  and  Uise 
assertion  I  Why  then  do  you  load  them  with 
chains?  Why  keep  you  your  daily  and  nightly 
watches?  But  alas,  as  a  farther,  though  a  more 
melancholy  proof  of  the  falsehood  of  your  asser- 
tions, how  many,  when  on  board  your  ships,  have 
put  a  period  to  their  existence?  How  many  liave 
leaped  into  the  sea:  How  many  have  jnnetl  to 
death,  that,  even  at  the  expense  of  their  lives, 
they  luigiit  fly  from  your  benevolence? 

Do  \ou  call  them  obstmate,  tlien,  liecause  they 
refuse  your  favors?  Do  you  call  them  imgrateful 
because  they  make  you  this  return?  IIow  much 
rather  ought  you  receivers  to  lilush  !  How  much 
rather  ought  you  receivei-s  to  be  considered  as 
abandoned  and  execrable  ;  who,  when  you  usurp 
the  dominion  over  those  Avho  are  free  and  inde- 
pendent as  youi-selves,  break  the  fii'st  law  of 
justice  which  ordains  "that  no  person  shall  do 
harm  to  another,  without  a  previous  provocation;  " 
who  offend  against  the  dictates  of  nature  which 
commands,  "that  no  just  man  sliall  be  given  or 
received  into  slavery  against  his  own  consent,'' 
and  who  violate  the  very  laws  of  the  empire  that 
you  assume,  by  consigning  your  subjects  to 
miser}\ — Essay  on  the  Slavery  and  Commerce  of 
the  Human  Species. 

CLAY,  Cassius  Marcellus,  an  American 
politician  and  anther,  son  of  Henry  Clay, 
born  in  Kentucky  in  1810.  He  studied  law, 
and  manifested  talents  which  gave  ])romise  of 
a  successful  political  cai-eor:  but  he  earnestly 


22  HENRY  CLAY. 

oppof;ed  the  institution  of  slavery  and  the  an- 
nexatiua  of  Texas,  a  course  which  prevented 
his  puhticai  advancement.  In  1845  he  began 
to  edit  The  True  American,  an  anti-slavery 
newspaper  published  at  Lexington,  Kentucky, 
which  was  several  times  attacked  by  mobs. 
During  the  Avar  with  Mexico  (,lS4G-47)  he 
served  as  a  captain  in  the  army.  In  1S5G  he 
united  himself  with  the  newly-organized  "  Re- 
publican "'  i)aity.  In  18G0  he  advocated  the 
election  of  Mr.  Lincoln  to  the  presidency ;  and 
was  in  18G3  appointed  Minister  to  Russia,  a 
position  which  he  retained  until  ISO'.).  A  col- 
lection of  his  Writings  and  Speeches,  edited 
by  Horace  Greeley,  was  issued  in  1S48.  It 
is  understood  that  he  has  for  several  years 
been  engaged  in  preparing  a  work  on  Russia. 

CLAY,  Henry,  an  American  orator  and 
statesman,  born  in  Hanover  county,  Vir- 
ginia, April  12,  1777,  died  at  Washington, 
D.C.,  June  29,  1852.  He  was  the  son  of  a  Bap- 
tist preacher  of  limited  means,  studied  law, 
was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  at  the  age  of 
twenty  removed  to  Kentucky,  where  he  com- 
menced the  practice  of  his  profession,  with 
brilliant  success.  In  18U4  he  was  elected  to 
the  State  Legislature ;  in  ISUG  he  was  appoint- 
ed United  States  Senator  to  fill  a  vacancy, 
and  was  chosen  Senator  in  180G  for  a  full 
term.  In  1811  he  was  elected  a  member  of 
Congress,  and  was  chosen  Speaker  of  the 
House  of  Representatives,  although  one  of 
the  youngest  members  of  that  body.  He  was 
an  earnest  advocate  of  the  impending  war 
with  Great  Britain ;  and  in  1814  was  sent  to 
Europe  as  one  of  the  Commissioners  to  nego- 
tiate a  treaty  of  peace.  Upon  his  return  to 
the  United  States  he  was  three  times  re-elect- 
ed to  Congress,  and  was  each  term  chosen  as 
Speaker.  He  was  one  of  the  most  earnest  ad- 
^'ocates  of  the  • '  Missouri  Compromise  "    of 


HENRY  CLAY.  88 

1821  in  consequence  of  which  the  Territory  of 
Missouri  was  admitted  into  the  Uniuu  a3  a 
State,  with  a  proviso  that  slavery  in  the  Ter- 
ritories should  be  prohibited  north  of  latitude 
36°  40'.      . 

After  the  conclusion  of  Mr.  Monroe's  second 
presidential  term,  four  candidates  presented 
themselves  for  the  Presidency — W.  H.  Craw- 
ford, John  Quincy  Adams,  Ilenry  Clay,  and 
Andrew  Jackson.  All  of  them  wore  juembers 
of  what  was  then  styled  the  "Republican" 
party:  and  all,  Avith  the  exception  of  Jackson, 
had  held  prominent  positions  in  that  party. 
No  candidate  having  received  a  majority  of 
the  electoral  vote,  it  devolved  upon  the  House 
of  Representatives  to  choose  a  President  from 
among  the  three  who  had  received  the  highest 
number  of  electoral  votes.  Mi-.  Clay,  not  be- 
ing one  of  these,  was  ineligible.  His  sup 
porters  united  with  those  of  Mr.  Adams,  who 
was  chosen  President,  and  appointed  j\Ir. 
Clay  as  Secretary  of  State. 

In  1831,  and  several  times  subsequently,  Mr. 
Clay  was  elected  United  States  Senator,  and 
in  1832  was  the  candidate  for  the  Presidency 
of  what  was  popularly  known  as  the  "Anti- 
Jackson"  party;  but  he  received  only  09 
electoral  votes,  the  remaining  219  being  cast 
for  Jackson.  Mr.  Clay  was  the  author  and 
chief  promoter  of  the  "  Compromise  Tariff  " 
of  1832-33.  .  In  1836,  though  the  recognized 
leader  of  the  "Whig"  party,  hedechnedto  be 
a  candidate  for  the  Presidency ;  and  in  1840 
he  gave  his  support  to  Mr.  Harrison,  who 
was  elected.  In  18-14  he  was  nominated  by 
the  Whig  party,  but  received  only  105  elector- 
al votes,  Mr.  Polk,  the  Democratic  candidate 
receiving  170.  In  1848  he  was  again  elected 
to  the  United  States  Senate  and  took  a  prom- 
inent part  in  the  debates  which  grew  out  of 
the  anti-slaveiT  agitation  of  the  time.     He 


24  HENRY  CLAY. 

was  mainly  instrumental  in  procuring  the 
pas^;ago  of  the  "Compromise  J3ili'  of  1850, 
the  effect  of  which  was  to  postpone  for  some 
years  the  armed  struggle  between  the  North 
and  the  South.  His  position  in  the  great  un- 
derlying question  of  the  day  was  thus  stated 
by  him:.  "I  owe  a  paramount  allegiance  to 
the  whole  Union — a  subordinate  one  to  my 
own  state."  Henry  Clay,  published  no  book, 
and  his  literary  reputation  rests  wholly  upon 
his  siK'cches.  A  collection  of  these  in  six  large 
volumes,  edited  by  Calvin  Colton,  was  issued 
in  1857.  His  Life  has  been  written  by  Mr. 
Colton,  Ejies  Sargent,  James  Parton,  and 
many  others. 

THE    EilAXClPATION    OF   THE  SOITH    AMF.UICAN 
STATES. 

In  the  establishment  of  South  America,  the 
United  States  liave  the  deepest  interest.  I  have 
no  liesitation  in  asserting  my  tirni  belief  that 
there  is  no  question  in  tlie  foreign  polii-y  of  this 
country  which  lias  ever  arisen,  or  w  hich  I  can 
conceive  as  ever  occurring,  in  the  decision  of 
which  we  have  had  or  can  have  so  much  at  stake. 
This  interest  concerns  our  politics,  our  commerce, 
our  navigation.  Tliere  cannot  )^  a  doubt  tliat 
Spanish  America,  once  independent — whatever 
may  be  the  form  of  the  governments  established 
in  its  several  parts — these  governments  will  be 
animated  by  an  American  feeling,  and  guided 
by  an  American  policy.  They  would  obey  the 
laws  of  the  system  of  the  New  World,  of  which 
they  compose  a  part,  in  contradistinction  to  that 
of  Europe.  .  .  . 

The  independence  of  Spanish  America,  then,  is 
an  interest  of  primary  consideration.  Next  to 
that,  and  highly  important  in  itself,  is  the  con- 
sideration of  the  nature  of  their  governments. 
That  is  a  question,  liowever.  for  tliemselves.  They 
will,  no  doubt,  adopt  those  kinds  of  govenuneut 
whicli  are  best  suited  to  their  condition,  best 
calculated  for  their  happiness.      Anxious  as  I  am 


HENRY  CLAY.  25 

that  they  should  be  free  governments,  vre  have 
no  right  to  prescribe  for  them.  Tliey  are,  and 
ought  to  bo,  the  sole  judges  for  tliemselves. 
I  am  strongh'  inclined  to  believe  that  they  will- 
in  most  if  not  in  all  parts  of  their  country- 
establish  free  governments.  We  are  their  great 
example.  Of  us  they  constantly  speak  as  of 
brothers,  having  a  similar  origin.  They  adopt 
our  principles,  copy  our  institutions,  and,  in  many 
instances,  employ  the  very  language  and  senti- 
ments of  our  Revolutionary  papei-s. 

But  it  is  sometimes  said  that  they  are  too 
ignorant  and  too  superstitious  to  admit  of  the 
existence  of  free  government.  Tliis  charge  of 
ignorance  is  often  urged  by  persons  themselve.s 
actually  ignorant  of  the  real  con<liti()u  of  that 
people.  I  deny  the  alleged  fact  of  ignorance  ;  I 
deny  the  inference  from  tiie  fact— if  it  were  true — 
that  they  want  capacity  for  free  government : 
and  I  refuse  assent  to  the  further  conclusion — if 
the  fact  were  true,  and  the  inference  just— that  we 
are  to  be  indifferent  to  their  fate.  .  .  .  Gentle- 
men will  eggregiously  err  if  they  form  their 
opinions  of  the  present  moral  condition  of  Spanish 
America  from  what  if  was  under  the  debasing 
system  of  Spain.  The  eight  years'  revolution  has 
already  produced  a  powerful  effect.  Education 
has  been  attended  to,  and  genius  developed.  .  .  . 

The  fact  is  not  therefore  true,  that  the  imputed 
ignorance  exists.  But  if  it  do,  I  repeat,  I  dispute 
the  inference.  It  is  the  doctrine  of  thrones  that 
man  is  too  ignorant  to  govern  himself.  Then 
partisans  assert  his  incapacity,  in  reference  to  all 
nations.  If  they  cannot  command  univei-sal  as- 
sent to  the  proposition,  it  is  then  demanded  as  to 
particular  nations ;  and  our  pride  aiid  our  pre- 
sumption too  often  make  converts  to  us.  I  con- 
tend that  it  is  to  arraign  the  dispositions  of  Provi- 
dence himself  to  suppose  that  He  has  created 
beings  incapable  of  governing  themselves,  and  to 
be  trampled  on  by  kings.  Self-government  is  the 
natural  government  of  man  ;  and  for  proof  I  refer 
to  the  aborigines  of  our  own  land.  Were  I  to 
speculate  in  hypotheses  unfavorable  to    human 


36  HENRY  CLAY. 

liberty,  my  speculations  should  be  founded  ratlier 
uix)n  the  vices,  retiiiements,  or  density  of  popula- 
tion. Crowded  togetlier  in  compact  masses— even 
if  they  were  philosophers — the  contagion  of  the 
passions  is  communicated  and  cauglit,  and  the 
effect  too  often.  I  admit,  is  the  ovfrthrow  of 
liberty.  Dispersed  over  such  an  immense  space 
as  that  on  which  the  people  of  Spanish  America 
are  spread,  their  physical,  and  I  believe  also  their 
moral  condition,  both  favor  their  liberty. — Speech 
i)i  the  House  of  Representatives,  March  24,  1818. 

ON   NL'LLIFICATIOX. 

The  doctrine  of  some  of  the  South  Carolina  \X)\\- 
ticians  is,  that  it  is  competent  for  tliat  State  to 
annul,  within  its  limits,  tiie  authority  of  an  Act 
deliberately  passe<l  by  the  Congress  of  the  United 
States.  They  do  not  appear  to  have  looked  much 
beyond  the  simple  act  of  Nullification,  into  the 
consequences  which  would  ensue,  and  have  not 
distinctly  announced  whether  one  of  them  might 
not  necessarily  l>e  to  light  up  a  civil  war.  They 
seem,  however,  to  suppose  that  tlie  State  might, 
after  the  act  was  i)erformed,  remain  a  member  of 
the  Union.  Now,  if  one  State  can,  by  an  act  of  its 
separate  jwwer,  absolve  itself  from  the  obliga- 
tions of  a  law  of  Congress,  and  continue  a  part  of 
the  Union,  it  could  hardly  be  expected  that  any 
other  State  would  render  obedience  to  the  same 
law.  Either  every  other  State  would  follow  the 
nullifying  example,  or  Congress  would  feel  itself 
constrained,  b}-  a  sense  of  equal  duty  to  all  parts 
of  the  Union,  to  repeal  altogether  the  nullified 
law.  Thus  the  doctrine  of  South  Carolina,  al- 
though it  nominally  assumes  to  act  for  one  State 
only,  in  effect  would  be  legislating  for  the  whole 
Union. 

Congress  embodies  the  collective  will  of  the 
whole  Union — and  that  of  South  Carolina  among 
its  other  membei-s.  The  legislation  of  Congress 
is,  therefore,  founded  upon  the  basis  of  the  repre- 
sentation of  all.  In  the  Legislature,  or  a  Con- 
vention of  Soutli  Carolina,  the  will  of  the  people 
of  that  State  is  alone  collected.     Thev  alone  are 


HENRY  CLAY.  37 

represented,  and  the  people  of  no  other  State 
have  any  voice  in  their  proceedings.  To  set  up 
for  that  a  claim,  by  a  separate  exercise  of  its 
power,  to  legislate,  in  effect,  for  the  whole  Union, 
is  to  assert-a  ])reteji.sion  at  war  with  tiie  funda- 
mental principles  of  all  representative  and  free 
governments.  It  would  practically  subject  the 
unrepresented  people  of  all  otlier  parts  of  the 
Union  to  tlu^  arl)itrary  and  dL-sjiotic  jjower  of  one 
State.  It  would  substantially  convert  them  into 
Colonies,  bound  by  the  parental  authority  of  that 
State.  Nor  can  this  enormous  pretension  derive 
any  support  from  theccmsideration  that  tlie  power 
to  annul  is  ililTorent  from  the  power  to  originate 
law.  Both  powers  are,  in  their  natui'e.  legislative  ; 
and  the  mischiefs  which  might  accrue  to  the 
Re|>ublic  from  the  annulment  of  its  wholesome 
laws  may  be  just  as  great  as  those  which  would 
liow  from  the  origination  of  bad  laws. — Speech  at 
Cinciiuiati,  Au(jut>t  3,  1880. 

ON   THE  ABOUTION  OF  SLAVERY. 

I  nm  no  friend  of  slavery.  Tiie  Searcher  of  all 
hearts  knows  that  every  pulsation  of  mine  beats 
high  and  strong  in  the  cause  of  civil  liberty. 
Wherever  it  is  safe  and  practicable,  I  desire  to  see 
every  portion  of  the  human  family  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  it.  But  I  prefer  the  liberty  of  my  own 
country  to  tliat  of  any  other  people  ;  and  the 
liberty  of  my  own  race  to  that  of  any  other  race. 
The  liberty  of  the  descendants  of  Africa  in  the 
United  States  is  incompatible  with  the  safety 
and  liberty  of  the  European  descendants.  Their 
slavery  forms  an  exception — an  exception  resulting 
from  a  stern  and  inexorable  necessity — to  the 
general  liberty  in  the  United  States.  "We  did  not 
originate,  nor  ai-e  we  responsible  for  this  necessity. 
Their  liberty — if  it  were  i>ossible — could  only  be 
established  by  violatin-;  the  incontestable  powers 
of  the  States,  and  subverting  the  Union.  And 
beneatli  the  ruins  of  the  Union  would  be  buried, 
sooner  or  later,  the  liberty  of  both  races.  .   .   . 

Shall  we  wantonly  run  upon  the  danger,  and 
destroy  all  the  glorious  anticipations  of  the  high 


28  HENRY  CLAY. 

destiny  that  awaits  tts?  I  beseech  the  al>olition- 
ists  tliemselves  solemnly  to  i^ause  in  their  mad 
and  fatal  course.  Amid  the  infinite  variety  of  ob- 
jects of  laumanity  and  benevolence  which  invite 
the  employment  of  their  energies,  let  them  select 
some  one  more  harmless,  that  does  not  threaten 
to  deluge  our  country  in  blood.  I  call  upon  tiiat 
small  portion  of  the  clergy  which  has  lent  itself 
to  these  wild  and  ruinous  schemes,  not  to  forget 
the  holy  nature  of  the  divine  mission  of  the 
Founder  of  our  religion,  ami  toprolit  by  his  peace- 
ful example.  I  entrciit  that  portion  of  my  coun- 
trywomen who  have  given  their  countenance  to 
abolition,  to  remember  that  they  are  ever  most 
loved  and  honored  wiien  moving  in  their  own  ap- 
propriate and  delightful  sphere  ;  and  to  reflect  that 
tlie  ink  which  they  sited  iu  subscribing  with  their 
fair  liands  abolition  petitions,  may  prove  but  the 
prelude  to  the  sheddingof  the  blood  of  their  bretli- 
ren.  I  adjure  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  Free 
States  to  rebuke  and  discountenance,  by  their 
opinion  and  example,  measures  which  must  inevi- 
tably lead  to  the  most  calamitous  consequences. 
And  let  us  all,  as  countrymen,  as  friends,  and  as 
brothers,  cherish,  in  unfading  memorj-,  the  motto 
which  bore  our  ancestors  triumphantly  through 
all  the  trials  of  the  Revolution,  a.s,  if  ailhered  to, 
it  will  conduct  their  posterity  through  all  that 
may,  in  the  dispensations  o(  I^rovidence,  be  re- 
served for  them. — Speech  in  the  Senate,  February 
7,  1839. 

ON  VIOLATIONS  OF  THE  FUGITIVE  SLAVE   LAW. 

I  avail  myself  of  the  occasion  [the  President's 
Special  Message]  to  express  the  high  degree  of 
satisfaction  ^^■hich  I  have  felt  in  seeing  the  gen- 
eral and  faithful  execution  of  this  law.  It  has 
been  executed  in  Indiana  under  circumstances 
really  of  great  embarrassment,  doubt,  and  difiicul- 
ty.  It  has  been  executed  in  Ohio,  in  repeated  in- 
stances— in  Cincinnati.  It  has  been  executed  in 
the  State  of  Pennsylvania,  at  the  seat  of  govern- 
ment of  the  State,  and  at  the  great  commercial 
metropolis  of  the  State.     It  has  licen  executed  in 


SAMUEL  LANGHORNE  CLEMENS.       19 

the  great  comniorcial  metropolis  of  the  Union — 
New  York— I  believe  upon  more  llian  one  occa- 
sion. It  has  been  executed  everywhere  except  in 
the  city  of  Boston  ;  and  there  lias  been  a  failure 
ther3,  upon  two  occasions  to  execute  the  law. 

1  confess  that  wlien  I  heard  of  the  first  failure, 
I  was  most  anxious  to  hear  of  the  case  of  another 
arrest  of  a  fugitive  slave  in  Boston,  that  the  experi- 
ment miglit  bo  again  made,  and  that  it  might  be 
satisfactorily  ascertained  whether  the  law  could 
or  could  not  be  executed  in  the  city  of  Boston. 
Therefore,  with  profound  surjirise  and  regret  I 
heard  of  the  recent  occurrence  in  wliich  the  law 
had  been  again  treated  with  contempt,  and  the 
court-house  of  the  country  violated  by  an  invasion 
of  a  lawless  force.  I  stated  upon  a  former  occa- 
sion that  the  mob  consisted  chiefly,  as  is  now 
stated  by  the  President,  of  blacks.  But  when  I 
adverted  to  that  fact,  I  had  in  my  mind  those — 
wherever  they  may  be,  in  high  or  low  places,  in 
public  or  private— who  instigated,  incited,  and 
stimulated  to  these  dee<ls  of  enormity  these  poor, 
black,  deluded  mortals.  They  are  the  persons 
who  ought  to  be  reached ;  they  are  the  persons 
who  ought  to  be  brought  to  condign  punishment. 
And  I  trust,  if  there  be  any  incompetency  in  exist- 
ing laws  to  punish  those  who  advised,  and  stimu- 
lated, and  instigated  these  unfortunate  blacks  to 
these  deeds  of  lawless  enormity,  that  the  defects 
will  be  supplied,  and  the  really  guilty  party  who 
lurks  behind,  putting  forward  these  miserable 
wretches,  will  be  brought  to  justice.  I  believe — 
at  least  I  hope — the  existing  laws  will  be  found 
competent  to  reacli  their  case. — Speech  in  the  Sen,' 
ate,  February  19,  1851. 

CLEMENS.  Sa-MUEl  I^a^vGhorne  ("Mark 
Twain  ") ,  an  American  humorist  and  author, 
born  at  Florida,  Missouri,  Nov.  30,  1835.  At 
the  age  of  thirteen  he  was  apprenticed  to  a 
printer,  and  worked  at  the  trade  in  several 
cities.  In  1855  he  became  a  pilot  on  the  Mis- 
sissippi, and  in  1861  went  to  Nevada,  where 


30        SAMUEL  LANGHORNE  CLEMENS. 

he  visited  the  silver  mines,  and  became  ed- 
itor of  the  Enterprise,  in  Virginia  City,  where 
he  remained  three  yeare.  After  a  voyage  to 
Hawaii,  and  a  lecturing  tour  in  California 
and  Nevada,  he  went  to  Europe,  visited 
Egyi)t  and  Palestine,  and  on  his  return  •wrote 
Tiic  Innocents  Abroad,  a  humorous  account 
of  his  travels.  Besides  this  book  he  has  writ- 
ten The  Jinnping  Frog  (iSOTj;  Roughing  It 
(1872);  The  Glided  Age,  a  comedy  (1874);  Tom 
Sawyer  (1S7G);  A  Tramp  Abroad  (ISSO); 
Prince  and  Pauper,  and  The  Stolen  ^Mlite 
Eh>phant(li<S2);  Life  on  the  Mississip2)i  (1883); 
Huckleberry  Finn  (1885). 

ITALIAN   CODES. 

Guides  know  about  enougli  English  to  tangle 
everjthing  up  so  that  a,  luan  can  make  neither 
head  nor  tail  of  it.  Tlic-y  know  their  story  by 
heart — the  liistorj'  ot  every  statue,  painting,  cathe- 
dral or  other  wonder  the}'  show  you.  They 
know  it  and  tell  it  as  a  parrot  would — and  if  you 
interrupt,  and  throw  them  otf  the  track,  they  have 
to  go  back  and  begin  over  again.  All  their  lives 
long  they  are  employed  in  showing  strange  things 
to  foreig^iiers,  and  listening  to  their  bursts  of  ad- 
miration. It  is  what  prompts  children  to  say 
"smart"  things,  and  do  absurd  ones,  and  in  other 
ways  "show  off"'  when  company  is  present.  It 
is  what  makes  gossips  turn  out  in  rain  and  storm 
to  go  and  be  the  first  to  tell  a  startling  piece  of 
news.  Think,  then,  what  a  passion  it  becomes 
with  a  guide,  wliose  privilege  it  is,  every  day,  to 
show  to  strangers  wonders  that  throw  them  into 
perfect  ecstasies  of  admiration  I  He  gets  so  that  he 
could  not  by  any  possibility  live  in  a  soberer  at- 
mosphere. After  we  discovered  this,  we  never 
went  into  ecstasies  any  more  ;  we  never  admired 
anything ;  we  never  showed  any  but  impassible 
faces  and  stupid  indifference  in  the  presence  of 
the  sublimest  wonders  a  guide  had  to  display. 
We  had  found  their  weak  point.  We  have  made 
»ome  good  use  of  it  fver  since.     We   have  made 


SAMUEL  LANCHIOKNE  CLEMENS.   «1 

some  of  tliose  jieople  savage   at   times,   but    we 
have  never  lost  our  t)wii  serenity. 

The  doc-tor  asks  the  (luestions  generally.  Ijecause 
he  can  keep  his  own  countenance,  and  look  more 
like  an  inspired  idiot,  and  throw  more  inil^eciiity 
into  the  tone  ol"  his  voice,  than  any  man  that  lives. 
It  comes  natural  to  him. 

The  guides  in  CJenoa  are  delighted  to  secure  an 
American  party,  because  Americans  so  nmch 
•wonder,  and  deal  so  much  in  sentiment  and 
emotion  before  any  relic  of  Columbus.  Our  guide 
there  fidgeted  about  as  if  he  had  swallowed  a 
spring  mattress.  He  was  full  of  animation— full 
of  impatience.  He  said :  "  Come  wis  me,  genteel- 
men  !— come !  I  show  you  ze  letter-writing  by 
Cliristopher  Colombo  !— write  it  himself  !— write 
it  wis  his  own  hand  !  — come  !  " 

He  took  us  to  the  municipal  palace.  xVfter 
much  impressive  fumblijig  of  keys  and  opening  of 
locks,  the  staineil  and  aged  document  was  spread 
before  us.  The  guide's  eyes  sparkled.  He  danced 
about  us  and  tapped  the  parchment  with  his  fin- 
ger : 

"What  I  tell  you,  genteelmen  I  Is  it  not  so? 
See !  hand-writing  Christopher  CoIouiImj  !  — write 
it  himself  ! " 

We  looked  indifferent— unconcerned.  The  doc- 
tor examined  the  document  very  deliberately,  dur- 
ing a  painful  pause.  Then  Tie  said,  without  any 
show  of  interest : 

'•Ah— Ferguson — what — what  did  you  say  was 
the  name  of  the  party  who  wrote  this? " 

"Christopher  Colombo!   ze  great    Christopher 
Colombo ! " 
Another  deliberate  examination. 
"  Ah — tlid  he  write  it  himself,  or— how  ? 
"  He  write  it  himself  ! — Christopher  Colombo  ! 
his  own  handwriting,  write  by  himself  !  " 

Then  the  doctor  laid  the  document  down  and 
said : 

"Why,    I    have  seen   boys    in  America  only 
fourteen  years  old  that  could   write   better  tlian 
that." 
"  But  zis  is  ze  great  Christo — " 


•Si        SAMUEL  LANGHORNE  CLEMENS. 

"  I  don't  care  who  it  is  !  It's  the  woi-st  writing 
I  ever  saw.  Now  you  mustn't  think  you  can 
impose  on  us  because  we  are  strangers.  We  are 
not  fools,  by  a  great  deal.  If  you  have  got  any 
specimens  of  penmanship  of  real  merit,  trot  tliein 
out ! — and  if  jouliave  n't,  drive  on  !  " 

We  drt)ve  on.  The  guide  was  considerably 
shaken  up,  but  he  made  one  more  venture.  He 
had  something  which  he  thought  would  overcome 
us.      lie  said  : 

'•  Ah,  genteelmen,  you  come  wis  me  !  I  show 
you  beautiful,  oh,  magnilicent  bust  of  Christopiaer 
Colombo  !— splendid,  graml,  magnificent !  " 

He  brought  us  before  the  beautiful  bust — for  it 
wets  beautiful — and  sprang  back  and  struck  an 
attitude  : 

"Ah,  look,  genteelmen  I — beautiful,  grand — 
bust  Christopher  Colombo  I— beautiful  bust,  l)eau- 
tiful  ix'destal  !" 

The  doctor  put  up  his  eye-glass — procured  for 
Buch  occasions  : 

"  Ah — what  did  you  say  this  gentleman's  name 
was  ?  " 

"  Cliristopher  Colombo  !—ze  great  Christopher 
Colombo  I  " 

"Christopher  Colombo— the  great  Christopher 
Colombo.     Well,  what  did  he  do 't " 

"Discover  America !— discover  America,  Oh, 
ze  devil  I  "  • 

"Discover  America!  No — that  statement  will 
hardly  v.ash.  We  are  just  from  America  our- 
selves. "We  heard  nothing  about  it.  Christopher 
Colombo — pleasant  name.     Is — is  he  dead '.' "' 

"  Oh  corpo  di  Baccho  ! — three  hundred  year  !  " 

"What  did  he  die  of  !" 

"  I  do  not  know  ! — I  cannot  tell." 

"Small-pox,  think?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  genteelmen  ! — I  do  not  know 
tdiat  he  die  of  I  " 

"Measles,  likely?" 

"  May  be — may  be — I  do  not  know — I  think  he 
die  of  somethings." 

"  Parents  living?" 

"  Impossible ! " 


SAMUEL  LANGHORNE  CLEMENS.       33 

"  Ah — which  is  the  bust  aud  which  ia  the  pe- 
destal ?  " 

'•  SaiUa  Maria  I — zis  ze  bust !  zis  zo  pedestal ! " 

"All,  I  seo— I  see— happy  combination— very 
happy  combination,  indeed.  Is— is  this  tlie  tirst 
time  this  gentleman  was  ever  on  a  bust  ?  " 

That  joke  was  lost  on  the  foreigner— guides 
cannot  master  the  subtltjties  of  the  American 
joke. — The  Iiuwccuts  Abroad. 

TUE  TOMn    OF    ADAM. 

The  tomb  of  Adam  !  How  touching  it  was,  here 
in  the  land  of  strangers,  far  away  from  house,  and 
friends,  and  all  who  caretl  for  me,  thus  to  discover 
the  grave  of  a  blood  relation.  True,  a  distant  one, 
but  still  a  relation.  The  unerring  instinct  of  na- 
ture thrilled  its  recognition.  The  fountain  of  my 
filial  affection  was  stirred  to  its  proloundest 
depths,  and  I  gave  way  to  tunuiltuous  emotion.  I 
leaned  upon  a  pillar  and  burst  into  tears.  I  deem 
it  no  shame  to  have  wept  over  the  grave  of  my 
poor  dear  relative.  Let  him  who  would  sneer  at 
my  emotion  close  this  volume  here.  lie  will  find 
little  to  his  taste  in  my  journeyiugs  tJirough  the 
Holy  Land.  Noble  oUl  man— he  did  not  live  to 
see  me— he  did  not  live  to  see  his  child.  And  I— 
I  —alas,  I  did  not  live  to  see  liiiu.  Weighed  down 
by  sorrow  and  disappointment,  he  died  before  I 
was  born — six  thousand  brief  summers  before  I 
was  born.  But  let  me  try  to  bear  it  with  forti- 
tude. I^t  me  trust  that  he  is  better  off  where  lie 
is.  Let  us  take  comfort  in  the  thought  that  his 
loss  is  our  eternal  gain. — The  IiDioccnts  Abroad. 

THE  GKANGERFORDS"  PICTURES. 

They  had  pictures  hung  on  the  walls — mainly 
AVashingtons  and  Lafayettes,  and  battles,  and 
Highland  ]\Iary,  and  one  called  •'  Signing  the 
Declaration."  There  was  some  that  they  called 
"crayons,"  which  one  of  the  daughters  which 
was  dead  made  herself  when  she  was  only  fifteen 
years  old.  They  was  different  from  any  pictures 
I  ever  see  before :  blacker,  mostly,  than  is  common. 
One  was  a  woman  in   a   slim   lilack   ilreris,  liolted 


34        3AMUEL  LANdHORNE  CLEMENS. 

small  under  the  arm-pits,  with  bulges  like  a  cab- 
bage in  the  middle  of  the  sleeves,  and  a  large 
black  scoop-sliovel  bonnet  -with  a  black  vail,  and 
white  slim  ankles  crossed  aliout  with  black  tape, 
and  very  M-ce  blaclc  slippers,  like  a  chisel,  and 
she  WAS  leaning  pensive  on  a  tombstone  on  her 
right  elbow,  imder  a  weeping  willow,  and  her 
other  hand  b.anging  down  her  side  liolding  a 
white  handkerchief  and  a  reticule,  and  underneath 
the  picture  it  said  "  Shall  I  Never  See  Thee  More 
Alas."  Another  one  v.-as  a  young  lady  with  her 
hair  all  combed  up  straight  to  the  top  of  her  Jiead, 
and  knotted  there  in  front  of  a  comb  like  a  chair- 
back,  and  she  was  crying  into  a  handkerchief  and 
liad  a  dead  Inrd  laying  »>n  its  Ijack  in  her  other 
liand  with  iti  heels  up.  and  untlerneath  the  pic- 
ture it  said  ' '  I  Shall  Never  Hear  Thy  Sweet 
Chirnip  More  Alas.''  Tliere  was  one  where  a 
young  lady  was  at  a  window  looking  up  at  the 
moon,  and  tears  running  down  her  cheeks  ;  and 
she  had  an  open  letter  in  one  hand  with  black 
sealing-wax  showing  on  one  edge  of  it,  an<l  she 
was  mashing  a  locket  witli  a  chain  to  it  against 
lier  mouth,  and  underneath  the  picture  it  Kaid 
"And  Art  Thou  Gone  Yes  Thou  Art  Gone  Alas," 
These  was  all  nice  pictures,  I  reckon,  but  I 
did'nt  somehow  seem  to  take  to  them,  because 
if  ever  I  was  down  a  little,  they  always  give  me 
the  fan-tods.  Everybody  was  sorry  she  died, 
because  she  had  laid  out  a  lot  more  of  these 
pictures  to  do,  and  a  body  could  see  by  what  she 
had  done  what  they  had  lost.  But  I  reckoned, 
that  with  her  disposition,  she  was  having  a  bettor 
time  in  the  grave-yard.  She  was  at  work  on  what 
they  said  was  her  greatest  picture  when  she  took 
sick,  and  every  day  and  every  night  it  was  her 
prayer  to  be  allowed  to  live  till  she  got  it  done, 
but  she  never  got  the  chance.  It  was  a  ijictuie  of 
a  young  woman  in  a  long  white  gown,  standing 
on  the  rail  of  a  bridge  all  ready  to  jump  off.  with 
her  hair  all  down  her  back,  and  looking  up  to  the 
moon,  with  the  tears  running  down  her  face,  and 
she  had  two  arms  folded  across  her  breast,  and 
two  arms  stretched  out  in  front,  and  two  mon* 


MAIIY  (LKMMI-Jf.  .V) 

rraching  up  towaids  the  inoon — and  tlic  idea  was, 
to  see  which  pair  would  look  best  and  theuscratcJi 
out  all  the  other  arms  ;  but,  as  I  was  saying,  she  died 
befoic  she  Lad  got  her  iiiind  made  up,  and  now 
they  kept  this  i^ictuie  over  the  head  of  the  bed  in 
her  room,  and  every  timelier  birthday  came  they 
hung  flowers  on  it.  Other  times  it  was  hid  witli 
a.  little  curtain.  The  young  woman  in  the  picture 
had  a  kind  of  a  nice  sweet  face,  but  tliere  were 
BO  many  arms  it  made  lier  look  too  spidery,  seemed 
to  me. — Adi'cnfiircsof  Ihfchlfhcrrn  Finn. 

CLEMMER,  Mary,  an  American  novelist 
and  poet,  born  m  1839,  died  in  1884.  Her 
birthplace  was  Uticn,  N.  Y.,  .she  was  educated 
at  Westfielu,  Mass.  Her  first  novel.  Vicforie, 
•was  published  anonymously  in  ISGD.  In  1SG(! 
she  became  a  correspondent  of  The  Independ- 
ent, to  Avhich  she  contributed  a  series  of  bril- 
liant articles  under  the  title,  A  Woman  s  Let- 
ters from  Washington.  She  is  the  author  of 
Eircne,  a  novel,  published  in  1871,  a  Memorial 
of  Alice  and  Phcebe  Cory  (1873);  Oidlines  of 
Men,  Women,  and  Things,  Ten  Years  in 
Washington  (1873);  a  novel.  His  Tvo  Wiveji 
(1875),  and  Poems  of  Life  and  Nature. 

A   PERFECT     DAY. 

Go  glorious  day  ! 
Here  wliile  you  pass  I  make  this  sign  ; 

Earth  swinging  on  her  silent  way 
Will  bear  me  back  unto  this  hour  divine, 
And  I  will  softly  say  :     ••  Once  thou  wert  mine. 

"  Wert  mine,  O  perfect  day  I 
The  light  unknown  soaring  from  sea  and  shore. 

The  forest's  eager  blaze. 
The  flaming  torches  that  the  Autumn  bore, 
The  fusing  sunset  seas,  when  storms  were  o'er, 

"  Were  mine  the  brooding  airs. 

The  pulsing  music  of  the  weedy  brooks. 
The  jewelled  fishes  and  the  mossy  lair.-, 


;3B  MAKV  (LKM-MKR. 

\Vlierein  i.hy  cipaturcs,   wiili  ilirir  froe  briglit 

looks, 
Tnught  bloRsocl  Itvssous  iievor  InniKi  in  ttof>ks. 

"  All  mine  the  peace  of  God, 
When  it  was  joy  enough  to  brcatlie  and  be, 

The  peace  of  Nature  oozing  from  lier  sod. 

When  fare  to  lace  with  lier  the  soul  was  free, 
And  lav  the  false,  wild  strife  it  faiii  would  flee." 

Stay,  beauteous  day  1 

Yet  why  pray  I?    Thy  hA,  hke  mine,  to  fade  ; 
Thy  light.  Like  yonder  mountain's  golden  haze. 

^lust  merge  into  tlie  morrow's  misty  sh.tde. 
Ami  1.  an  exile  in  (lie  alien  street. 
Still  gazing  ba<'k.  yearn  toward  tin'  vision   fleft. 

'•  Once  thou  werl  mine  I "'     I'll  say. 
And  comfort  so  my  heart  as  with  old  wine. 

Poor  pilgrims  !  oft  we  walk  the  self-same  way, 
To  weep  its  change,  to  kneel  Ix^fore  the  shrine 

The  heart  once  builded  to  a  happy  day, 

When  dear  it  died.     I'll  say  :     "  O  day  divine. 
Life  presses  sorr  ;  but  once,o?»rr  tl)OU  wert  mine.'' 

MV   WIFF.   AND  J. 

AVe  're  drifting  out  to  isles  of  peace  ; 

AVe  let  the  weary  world  go  by  ; 
We  sail  away  o'er  Summer  seas, 
My  wife  and  T. 

We  be«r  to  rest  in  regions  fair 

The  faltering  spirit  of  the  mind  ; 
The  kingdom  wide,  of  toil  and  care. 
We  leave  behind. 

How  poor  to  us  the  proudest  prize 

For  which  earth's  wearj'  millions  sigh  ; 
Our  meed  we  see  in  two  dear  eyes, 
My  wife  and  I. 

This  way  and  that  the  races  go, 

All  seeking  some  way  to  be  blest ; 
Kor  dream  the  joy  tliey  never  knov? 
Is  how  to  rest. 


MARY  CLEMMER.  ,57 

The  travailing  nations  rise  and  fall, 

They  lift  tlie  palm,  they  bear  the  rue  ; 
Yet  bliss  is  tliis — to  know,  through  all, 
That  one  is  true. 

They  perish  swift,  the  gala  flowers 
Tlie  lauding  people  love  to  lling  ; 
Waits  silence,  dearth,  and  lonely  hours, 
The  once-crowned  king. 

But  never  shall  he  faint  or  fall 

Who  lists  to  hear,  o'er  everj'  fate, 
The  sweeter  and  the  higher  call 
Of  his  true  mate. 

I  hear  it  wheresoe'er  I  rove  : 

Slie  holds  me  safe  from  shame  or  pin  ; 
The  holy  temple  of  her  love 
1  worship  in. 

We  're  drifting  out  to  realms  of  peace  ; 

We  let  the  weary  world  go  by  ; 
We  sail  away  o'er  Sununer  seas, 
My  wife  and  I. 

We  sail  to  regions  c;dm  and  still — 

To  bring  in  time,  to  all  behind, 
The  service  of  exalted  will, 
Of  tranquil  mind. 

The  fading  shores  grow  far  and  dim, 

The  stars  are  lighting  in  the  sky  : 
We  sail  away  to  Ocean's  hymn, 
Mv  wife  and  1. 


AVAlTlNG, 

I  Avait, 
Till  from  my  veiled  brows  shall  fall 
This  baffling  cloud,  this  wearying  thrall, 
Which  holds  me  now  from  knowing  all ; 
Until  my  spirit  sight  shall  SQe 
Into  all  Being's  mystery. 
See  what  it  real! T  i:;  to       I 


W  MARY  CLEMMER. 

I  AVflit. 

Wliileinbbinc:  ilays  in  mockery  lling 
Such  (Tuel  loss  at li wart  my  !S})iiM|L', 
And  lift"  tlajrs  on  with  l)roken  wing  ; 
Believinjj;  that  a  kindlier  fate 
Tiie  patient  soul  will  compensate 
For  all  it  loses,  ere  too  late. 

I  wait. 
For  surely  every  scanty  seed 
I  plant  in  weakness  and  in  need 
Will  blossom  in  perfected  deed  ! 
Mine  eyes  shall  see  its  allluent  crown, 
Its  fragrant  fruitage  dropping  down 
Care's  lowly  levels  bare  and  brown  I 

I  wait. 
Till  in  wliite  Death's  tranquillity 
Shall  softly  fall  away  from  mo 
This  weary  llesh's  iulirmily. 
That  1  in  larger  light  may  learn 
The  larger  truth  1  would  discern. 
The  larger  love  for  whicii  I  yearn. 

I  wait  : 
The  stimnier  of  the  soul  is  long. 
Its  harvests  yet  shall  ri'und  me  throng 
In  jx^rfect  j»on>p  of  sun  and  song. 
In  stormless  mornings  yet  to  be 
I'll  phick  from  life's  fnll-fruited  tree 
The  joy  t<vday  denied  to  me. 

AN  ARMY  >lRS,n. 
At  midnight  Eirene  walked  the  ward  alone. 
The  men-nurses,  worn  out  by  the  excessive  lalx»r 
of  many  days,  had  retired  for  a  little  rest  while 
she  watched.  With  noiseless  steps  biie  moved  to 
and  fro — heie  pausing  l(j  a<ljust  a  pillow  for  some 
aching  head  :  here  to  administer  medicine  or 
cordial  :  here  to  utter  some  word  of  faith  or 
cheer.  Many  a  human  heart,  fluttering  to  death 
in  a  wounded  bfxly.  thanked  God  for  Iiermmistry. 
and  that  he  was  not  left  to  die  alone.  Many 
mournful    eyes,    longing    for   sight  of    wife    or 


MARY  CLEM:.iER.  "9 

molluT,  called  hoi-  losvunl  llioai  v.illi  wisiiul 
♦•ntroaty.  and  silent  leanj  and  broken  voices 
blessed  ami  thanked  the  woman':)  lov,j  which  ia 
its  unseUish  devotion  made  cae'.i  man  :\  '..rothei-. 

Eiiene'ti  lijis  qnivered  as  she  walked.  Hero 
w«;re  men  with  tho  damp  of  death  upon  their 
faces  to  whose  mother.;  and  wive.s  .she  had  written 
words  of  ht>pc  and  com.alation.  Tho.se  mothers 
and  wives  ha<l  written  {o  her  till  she  had  made 
th'Mr  love  ami  sorrow  her  own.  How  she  had 
watched  and  nourishe<l  their  wouivJed  ones,  liow 
bbe  liad  hoped  for  them,  wliat  stones  she  had 
lol.l  them  of  their  coming  convalescence,  of  their 
furloasbs.  of  their  visits  home,  of  the  glad  and 
jwosperous  years  afar  vu  !  And  yet  in  the  face  of 
her  love,  and  care,  and  prayers,  they  were  dyin;;  I 
Only  another  niornin;.^  :<'»<!  ^^x^'  '^vouUl  see  tho 
stretcher  with  its  dead  b«:Hly  borne  oat  to  the  half- 
made  grave  on  the  open  hill.  A  long  igh  of  an- 
guish arose  from  her  heart;  hut  the  suppres.sed 
lips  shut  ujion  it  before  it  escaj>ed.  Silence,  pa- 
tience, and  self-restraint,  she  owed  them  all  t<i  the 
sufferers  around  her.  And  her  heart  swilled  with 
gratitude  that  God  in  his  love  ix-rmitted  her  to 
minister  to  her  brethien. 

These  thoughts,  with  her  surroundings,  tin;  mid- 
night, the  long  dim  ward  Idled  with  wounded  and 
dying  men,  seemed  to  lift  her  into  a  slate  of  exalt- 
ation. As  she  passed  the  hist  couch,  she  drew  tli« 
curtain  which  covered  tho  window  ut  the  end  of 
the  ward,  and  for  a  moment  stood  transfixed  with 
what  she  saw.  They  who  have  never  seen  the 
full  moon  suspended  al)ove  the  Blue  Ridg(»  in  Sep- 
tember have  missed  onec>f  the  consummate  sights 
of  nature.  Tens  of  tliousands  of  brave  men.  could 
they  see  this  page,  would  bear  me  witness  that 
the  earth  never  bore  more  transcendent  nights  and 
days  than  those  which  trailed  their  splendor  along 
the  Valley  of  Virginia,  through  the  Septemlx-r  of 
1863.  The  great  mountpins  rose  oa  either  side  iu 
sombre  shadow.  The  two  rivei-s.  pouring  down 
the  valley,  rushed  together  at  their  feet. 

Alw^vo  their  heads,  out  of  the  heaven's  unfath- 
ouial)le   l)lue.    the   moon    hung  a  glol-e  of  flame. 


40  ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH. 

flooding  the  oml)attle<l  valloy  with  n.  mellow  half- 
day,  like  that  i:\  wliich  it  lies  in  tho  sun's  eclipse. 
Around  the  l;r>?e  of  the  hill,  from  whoso suuimit 
Eirene  looked,  clung  the  ruins  of  the  fated  little 
town.  Perching  on  .1  side  precipice,  one  solitary 
church  which  hoth  armies  had  spared  lifted  up 
its  glittering  cross  in  mid  air.  Right  l)efore  her, 
on  the  hill-top  was  the  old  grave-yard  of  the  na- 
tives, while  in  every  direction,  running  far  down 
its  sides,  were  the  new  half-covered  graves  of 
dead  soldiei-s.  lietween  the  house  and  tlie  grave- 
yard .a  solitary  sentinel  paced.  From  the  side  hill 
she  could  hear  the  steps  of  other  sentinels,  and 
hear  their  solemn  challenge  breaking  the  silence. 
Above  her.  ahmg  tho  iieights  of  the  Shenan- 
doah, a  vast  city  of  white  tents  gleamed  in  the 
moonlight.  Below,  on  the  great  bridge  span- 
ning the  rivers,  she  caught  the  glitter  of  bayonets, 
then  tlie  sk)W  tramp,  tramp  of  marching  men. 
Another  regiment  coming,  and  another  I  a  forced 
midnight  march  I  the  men  were  coming  from  be- 
low to  reinforce  the  men  lying  on  their  bayonets 
on  Bolivar  Heights.  Her  heart  flutti-red  with  a 
sickening  sensation,  as  she  saw  them  drawing 
nearer,  nearer,  the  heavj-laden,  weary,  marching 
ruen.  Silently,  solemnly  on  they  camo  beneath 
the  midnight  sky,  beneath  the  very  window  wiiere 
she  stood. 

"A  battle  to-morrow  I  Win  is  up  the  valley ; 
the  end  nears,"  she  said  with  .a  shudder  as  she 
dropped  tlie  curtain  and  turned  back.  Another 
moment  and  she  walked  the  ward  again,  and  no 
eye  saw  tlie  deepened  pallor  of  her  face.  Yet 
amid  all  the  sickening  fear  in  her  heart  was  born 
an  unspeakable  gratitude,  that  she  was  where  hhe 
was. — Eirene. 

CLOUGH.  Arthur  Hugh,  an  English  po- 
et, born  at  Liverpool  in  1811),  (lie<l  in  Italy  in 
1861.  He  was  the  son  of  a  merchant  who 
came  to  America,  and  settled  in  Charleston, 
S.  C,  in  1S23.  In  1828  the  boy  was  sent  to 
England,  and  was  educated  at  Rugby  and 
Oxford.     In  1S4:>  he  became  a  tutor  in  Oriel 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH.  41 

College.  After  a  visit  to  America  in  1852,  he 
was  appointed  examiner  in  the  Education 
Office  of  the  Privy  Council.  While  traveling 
in  Italy,  h6  died  suddenly  of  a  fever.  His 
longest  poem  is  Bothie  of  Tober-na-VuoUch. 
He  also  wrote  Dipsychus,  a  dramatic  poem, 
Man'  Magna,  a  collection  of  tales  in  verse 
told  at  sea.  Amours  de  Voyage,  and  numer- 
ous miscellaneous  poems,  and  revised  Dry- 
deu's  translation  of  Phitarch'n  Lives. 

BEFOKK  THE   BATTLK. 

This   \v;xs  the  answer  that  came  from  tlio  Tutor, 

the  grave  man.  Adam. 
"  When  the  armies  are  set  in  array,  and  tliohattle 

l)eginning. 
Is  it  well  that  the  soldier  whose  post  is  far  to  the 

leftward 
Say,  I  will  go  to  the  right,  it  is  there  I  shall  do  the 

hest  service? 
Tliere  is  a  great  Field-Marshal,  my  friend,    who 

arrays  our  battalions  ; 
Let  us  to  Providence  trust,  and  abide  and  work  m 

our  stations."' 
This    was    the   tinal    retort    from    the    eager, 

impetuous  Philip  : 
"  I  am  soiTy  to  say  your  Providence  i>uzzles  me 

sadly ; 
Children    of    Circumstance  are   we  to  be?    you 

answer.  On  no  wise  I 
"Where  does  Circumstance  end,  ami  Providence, 

\vhero  begins  it? 
What  are  wo  to  resist,  and    what  are  we  to  ije 

friends  with  ? 
If  there  is  battle,  'tis  battle  by  night,  I  stand  in 

the  darkness, 
Here  in  the  melee  of  men,  Ionian  antl  Dorian  oi\ 

both  sides. 
Signal  and  pass-word   known  ;    which   is  friend 

and  which  is  f  oeuian  ? 
Is  it  a  friend?  I  doubt,  though  he  speak  with  the 

vi/ice  of  a  brother. 


4:i  ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH. 

jtill  YOU  are  right,  I  suppose  ;   you  always  are, 

and  will  be  : 
Though  I  mistrust  the  Fiekl-^Iarbhal,  I  how  to  the 

duty  of  order. 
\'ct  is  my   feeling   rather  to  a^^k.   wIk  re    is  the 

battle?  .... 
Soimd.  thou  Truinjiet  of  God.  come  forth.   Great 

Cause,  to  aiTay  us. 
King  and   leader  ap{)f\u-.   thy  soldiers  .'.orrowing 

seek  thee. 
Would  that  th»*  armies  indeed  were  arrayed.  O 

wiiere  is  the  battle  ! 
Neither  battle  I  see.   nor  arraying,  nor  Kin.^j  in 

Israel, 
Only  infinite  jninV)le  and  mess  and  dishx-ation. 
Backftl  by  a  solemn  apiMMil.  '  For  God's  sake,  do 

not  stir  thee  I  "  " 
— Bothie  of  TolHT-itG-ViioUch. 

qv\  Cn-SIM    VENTUS. 

As  ships,  l>ecalmed  at  eve.  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side. 

Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  liay 

Are  .scarce  long  leagues  apail  descried  ; 

"When  fell  the  night,  upsjirung  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  lujurs  they  plied. 

Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side  : 

E'en  so — but  why  the  tale  reveal 
Of  those,  whom  year  by  year  unchanged. 

Brief  al)senCH  joined  anew  to  feel. 

Astounded,  soul  from  .soul  estranged? 

At  dead  of  nitrht  their  .sjxils  were  filled. 

An<l  onward  each  rejoicing  steered — 
Ah,  neither  Vilame,  for  neither  willed. 

Or  wist,  what  fu-st  with  dawn  appeared  ! 

To  veer,  liow  vain  I     On,  onward  strain. 
Brave  barks  I     In  light,  in  darkness  too. 

Through  winds  and  tides  one  compass  guides — 
To  that,  and  your  own  s«lvce,  be  tioie. 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUUJI.  U 

But  O  blithe  breeze  !  and  O  great  seas. 

TlKJUgh  nee.-,  that  earliest  parting  past. 
On  your  wide  ])lain  tliey  Join  again. 

Together  li^ad  them  home  at  last. 

One  port.'meth<Might,  alike  they  sought. 

One  purposi?  hold  where'er  they  fare— 
O  lx)unding  breeze.  O  rushing  seas  I 

At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there  '. 

A   lUVER  POOL. 
Sweet  streamlet  basin  !  nt  thy  «ide 
Weary  and  faint  within  me  cried 
My  longing  heart— In  such  pure  dwp 
How  sweet  it  were  to  sit  and  Kleep  ; 
To  feel  each  passage  from  \^  ithout 
Close  up — alx)v0'  me  and  about. 
Those  circling  waters  crystal  clear. 
That  calm,  impervious  atmosphere  I 
There  t>n  thy  ju'arly  pavement  pure, 
To  lean,  and  feel  myself  secure. 
Or  through  the  dim-lit  inter-space. 
Afar  ;it  whiles  upgazing  tnice 
The  diM\pling  bubbles  dance  around 
Upon  thy  smooth  exterior  facf  ; 
Or  idly  li^t  the  dreamy  sound 
Of  ripples  lightly  thing,  above 
That  liome,  of  peace,  if  not  of  love. 

SOIK  FUTURE  DAY. 

Some  future  day  when  what  is  now  is  not. 

When  all  old  faults  and  follies  are  forgot. 

And  thoughts  of  difference  passed  liktt  dreams 

a.wa3'. 
We  '11  meet  again,  upon  some  future  day. 

When  uU  that  hindered,  all  that  vexed  our  love, 
As  tall  rank  weeds  will  climb  the  blade  above, 
Wh.cn  all  Imt  it  has  yieldeil  to  decay. 
Wr  U  meet  again,  upon  some  future  day. 

When  we  have  proved,  each  on  his  course  alone. 
The  wider  world,  and  learnt  what 's  now  unknown, 
Have  made  life  clear,  and  worked  out  each  a  way, 
We  'il  meet  again— we  shall  liave  much  to  eay. 


44  ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH. 

With  happier  mood,  and  feelings  born  anew, 
Our  boyhood's  by^i^one  fancies  we  '11  review. 
Talk  o'er  old  talks,  play  as  we  used  to  play, 
And  meet  again,  on  many  a  future  day. 

Some  day,  which  oft  our  liearts  shall  yearn  to  see, 
In  some  far  year,  though  distant  yet  to  be. 
Shall  we  indeed — ye  winds  and  waters  say  ! — 
Meet  yet  again,  upon  some  future  day  ? 

THE  STiJEAil   Of  LIFE. 

O  stream  de.sceii<ling  to  the  sea. 

Thy  mossy  banks  between, 
The  flow'retb  blow,  the  grasses  grow. 

The  leafy  trees  are  green. 

In  garden  plots  the  children  play. 

The  fields  the  laborers  till. 
And  houses  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  thou  descendest  still. 

O  life  descending  into  death. 

Our  waking  eyes  l)ehold. 
Parent  and  friend  thy  lapse  attend, 

Companions  young  and  old. 

Strong  i)urposes  our  mind  possess. 

Our  hearts  aflfections  fill, 
Vv'e  toil  and  earn,  we  seek  and  learn, 

And  thou  descendest  still. 

O  end  to  which  our  currents  tend* 

Inevitable  sea. 
To  which  we  flow,  what  do  we  know, 

What  shall  we  guess  of  thee? 

A  roar  we  hear  upon  thy  shore. 

As  we  our  course  fulfil  ; 
Scarce  we  divine  a  sun  will  shine, 

And  be  above  us  still. 

QUI  LABOKAT,  OUAT. 

O  only  Source  of  all  our  light  and  life, 
Whom  as  our  truth,  our  strength,  wo  see  axid 
feel. 


FRANCES  POWER  COBBE.  45 

But  whom  the  hours  of  mortal  moral  strife 
Alone  aright  reveal  I 

Mine  inmost  soul,  before  thee  inly  brought. 

Thy  presence  owns  ineffable,  divine  ; 
Chastisetl  each  rebel  self-encentred  thought. 

My  will  adoreth  Thine. 

With  e3'e  down-dropped,  if  then  this  earthly  mind 
Speechless  remain,  or  speechless  e'en  depart — 

Nor  seek  to  see — for  what  of  earthly  kind 
Can  see  Thei?  as  Thou  art  ? — 

If  well  assured  'tis  but  profanely  bold 

In  thought's  ahstractest  forms  to  seem  to  see, 

It  dare  not  dare  the  dread  communion  hold 
In  ways  unworthy  Thee. 

O  not  unowned,  Thou  shalt  unnamed  forgive. 

In  worldly  walks  the  prayerless  heart  prepare  ; 
And  if  in  work  its  life  it  seem  to  live 

Shalt  make  that  work  be  prayer. 

Nor  times  shall  lack,  when  while  the  work  it  plies, 
Unsummoned  powers  the    blinding   lilm   shall 
part. 

And  scarce  by  happy  teai's  made  dim,  the  eyes 
In  recognition—start. 

But  as  Thou  wiliest,  give  or  e'en  forbear 

The  beatitic  supersensual  sight  ; 
So,  with  Tliy  blessing  blessed,  that  humbler  prayer 

Approach  Thee  morn  and  night. 

COBBE,  Frances  Power,  a  British  author, 
born  ill  Dublin,  Dec.  4.  1S22,  and  educated  at 
Brighton.  Besides  contributing  to  many 
periodicals,  she  is  the  author  t>f  the  following 
works:  The  Workhoufie  as  an  Hospital,  and 
Friendless  Gii'Js.  and  How  to  Help  Them 
(1861);  Female  Education  (1862);  Thanksgiv- 
ing, The  Red  Flag  in  John  Bull's  eyes,  and 
Essayn  on  the  j>wrsinY.s  of  Women  (1863); 
Broken  Lights,  The  Cities  of  fh?.  Past  Be- 
h'{jii)us   Duly,   aaJ  Italics :   Bruf  Xofcs  on 


46  FRANCES  POWER  COBBE. 

Politics,  People,  and  Places  in  Italy  (1S64); 
Studies  New  and  Old  of  Ethical  and  Social 
Subjects  (ISiio);  Hours  cf  Work  and  Play,  and 
Confessions  of  a  Lost  Doj  (ISGT);  Dawning 
Lights  (ISGS);  Criminals,  Idiots,  Women,  and 
Minors:  Is  ihc  Classification  Sor.nd  ?^  (1SG9); 
Dari'.-inisr.i  i:i  Moral':!,  and  other  Essays {iS72}; 
The  Hopes  of  the  Human  Pace  Hereafter  and 
Here,  Essays  on  Life  and  Death,  The  Evolu- 
tion of  the  Social  Sentiment,  and  Doomed  to 
be  Saved  {lS7-i);  The  Moral  Asjjectsof  Vivisec- 
tion (1875);  False  Bea.sts  and  True  (187G); 
^\lly  Women  Desire  the  Franchise  (1S77);  The 
Duties  of  Women  (18S1);  The  Peak  inDarien; 
an  Octave  of  Essays  (1882). 

TUE  VALUIi  OF  A  TRUE  KEUGIOUS    FAITH. 

Religious  errors  imbibed  in  30utU  are  like  those 
constitutional  maladies  which  may  lie  latent  for 
ycai-s  and  perhaps  never  produce  acute  evil  of  any 
kind,  but  wiiich  also  may  at  any  time  burst  into 
painful  and  sharp  disease.  Human  uaiure  possesses 
sometimes  such  a  tendency  to  all  tilings  healtliy. 
bright,  and  beautiful,  that  the  must  gloomy  creeds 
fail  to  depress  its  natural  buoyancy  of  hope  and 
trustfulness,  and  tlie  most  immoral  ones  to  soil  its 
pui'ity.  Vt'c  all  knt)\v,  and  rejoice  to  know,  many 
men,  many  more  women,  who  are  among  the  ex- 
cellent of  the  earth,  but  who,  if  they  did  but  suc- 
ceed (as  they  profess  to  aim  to  do)  in  likening 
themselves  to  the  Deity  they  have  imagined, 
would  needs  be  transformed  from  the  most  gentlo 
and  pitiful  to  the  most  cruel  and  relentless.  Tiie 
non-operative  dogmas  in  such  creeds  as  tlieirs 
would  terrify  them,  could  tliey  but  recognize 
them.  But  because  of  these  blessed  inconsisten- 
cies, numerous  as  they  are,  we  must  not  suppose 
that  such  seeds  of  unmeasured  evil  as  religious 
falsehoods  are  jdways,  or  even  oftenest,  innoxious. 
Like  tlie  man  with  hereditary  disease,  tlie  mischief 
may  long  lie  unpei'ceived,  while  the  course  of  liLs 
life  does  not  tend  to  bring  it  into  action.  But  au 
accident  of  mofrt  trivial  kirrd.  a  blo^>v  to  boJj- or 


FRANCES  POWER  COBBE.  47 

minfl,  fi  clmngo  of  climate  or  of  habitr-,  may  aurl- 
denly  develop  what  has  beeji  hicMen  so  h)iig.  and 
the  man  may  sink  utider  a  calamity  which  with 
healthier  censtitution  he  would  have  surmovmted 
in  safety. 

On  the  ether  hand,  no  words  can  adequately  de- 
scribe the  value  of  a  religious  faith  which  supplies 
the  soul,  I  will  not  say  with  absolute  and  linal 
truth,  but  with  such  measure  of  truth  as  is  its 
suHicicnt  bread  of  life,  its  pure  and  healthful  sus- 
tenance. We  may  not  always  sec  tliat  this  is  so. 
An  error  may  lie  long  innoxious,  so  truth  may  re- 
main latent  in  the  mind,  and,  as  it  would  seem, 
useless  and  improfitable.  He  who  has  been  bless- 
ed with  the  priceless  boon  may  go  his  way.  and 
the  "cares  of  tlie  world  and  deceitfulness  of 
riches."  the  thousand  joys  and  sorrows,  pursuits 
and  interest"?,  faults  and  folliis  of  life,  may  carry 
him  on  year  after  year  heeding  but  little  the 
treasure  he  carries  in  hio  breast.  Yet,  even  in  his 
worst  iiours,  that  truth  is  a  talisman  to  ennoble 
what  might  else  be  wholly  base,  to  warm  what 
might  be  all  selfish,  to  purify  and  to  cheer  by 
half-understood  influence  over  all  thoughts  and 
feelings.  Ikit  it  is  in  the  supreme  n^oments  of 
life,  the  hours  of  agony  or  danger  or  temptation 
to  moral  sin,  the  hours  when  it  is  given  to  us  either 
to  step  down  into  a  gulf  whose  bottom  we  may 
not  find  before  the  grave,  or  to  spring  back  out  of 
falsehood  or  bitterness  or  self-indulgence  upon  the 
higher  level  of  truth  and  love  and  holiness — it  is 
in  these  houi-s  that  true  religious  faith  shows  it- 
self as  the  power  of  God  unto  salvation.  With 
it,  there  is  nothing  man  may  not  bear  and  do. 
AVithout  it,  he  is  in  danger  immeasurable.  With 
a  false  creed — a  creed  false  to  t!ie  instincts  of  the 
soul,  incapable  of  supplying  ito.  needs  of  reverence 
and  love,  such  as  they  have  been  constituted  by 
the  Creator — a  man's  joys  may  cover  the  whole 
surface  of  liis  life  ;  but  underneath  there  is  a  cold, 
dark  abyss  of  doubt  and  fear.  He  passes  hastily 
on  iu  the  bright  sunshine,  but  under  his  feet  he 
knows  the  ice  may  at  any  time  give  way  and 
oraeh  1/cneath  him.     Happiness  is  to  him  the  oxr 


48  WILLIAM  COHBKTT. 

coption  in  llio  world  of  oxistonor,  Tlio  i  iilo  is  sor- 
row an<l  pain — endless  sorrow — eternal  pnin.  But 
he  whose  creed  tells  him  of  a  Go<l  wlionj  ho  can 
wholh-  love,  entirely  trust,  even  thouj^h  his  out- 
ward life  may  l>e  full  of  ploo:n  and  toil,  lias  for- 
ever the  consciousness  of  ii  preat  deep  joy  un<ler- 
lyiuK  all  fare  and  p:ief — a  joy  Ije  ]vaust>s  not  al- 
ways to  contemplate,  hut  which  he  Knows  is  tliere, 
waiting  for  hiiu  whenev«T  he  turns  to  it  ;  and  his 
Konows  and  all  t!:e  sorrows  of  the  world  are  in  his 
bight  hut  passing  sha<lows  which  shall  give  place 
at  last  to  everlasting  hliss.  llis  plot  <»f  earth 
may  Ih;  iKirren  and  llowerlcss.  and  ho  may  till  it 
often  in  wearineiis  and  pain,  hut  he  would  not  ex- 
change it  for  a  paradise  ;  for  within  it  there  is  the 
well  of  water  springing  up  into  everlastin;;  life. — 
lJ(tririni.-<ni  in  yfurah,  and  Other  KK.tai/H. 

rOBBETT  W1M.IA.M.  an  Kn^'Hsh  author, 
born  in  ITiM't,  died  in  1835.  His  father  farmed 
a  few  acre.s  of  land,  upon  which  the  son 
worketl  until  the  jik^'  of  eixteon.  He  then 
went  U)  London,  whore  he  found  employment 
as  a  copying  clerk  in  an  attorney ".s  oilice. 
In  17.^  lie  enlisted  as  a  soldier,  his  n-giment 
being  next  year  ordered  t<)  St.  John's,  New 
Brunswick.  He  remained  there  until  1791, 
having  risen  to  the  rank  of  serjeant-inajor, 
■when  he  was  honorably  discharged.  Tho 
next  year  he  went  to  Wilmington,  Delaware, 
where  he  taught  English  to  FnMich  emigrants, 
Talleyrand  Ix'ing  one  of  his  i»upils.  In  1796 
he  established  himself  at  Philadelphia  iis  a 
bookseller,  and  publisher  of  his  own  writings, 
which  at  this  time  were  extremely  virulent, 
being  directed  against  a  great  variety  of 
individuals.  He  was  several  times  jirose- 
cuted  ;  and  for  one  libel  he  was  in  1799  fined 
$5,000.  He  returned  to  England  the  following 
year,  and  set  up  a  newspaper  which  he  called 
The  Porcupine  Gazette,  wliich  was  succeeded 
soon  after  by  The  Wtxkhj  Political  Rcgitstcr; 


WILLIAM  COBBETT.  49 

in  ^vllicll  in  1^503  ho  p»il)lislK(l  an  nrti^lo  in 
which  bo  said  that  the  appointment  of  the 
Eiirl  of  Ilai-ihvicko  as  Lonl-Lieutenaul  of 
Ireland  Avas '"hke  setting  tho  surgeon's  ap- 
prentice to  bleed  the  pauper  patient:^  ;"'  for 
this  bo  was  fined  £500,  and  ininicdiately 
after  luMvas  mulcted  in  a  like  sum  in  another 
suit  commenced  by  Plunkett,  the  Bolicitor- 
general  for  Ireland.  In  1809  Cobbett  became 
involved  in  a  still  more  serious  diniculty. 
He  had  commented  bitterly  upon  tlx-  Hogging 
of  some  mutinous  militia,  because  their  nmliny 
had  been  suppreseed,  and  their  flogging  in- 
flicted by  the  aid  of  a  btnly  of  German  troops. 
For  this  he  was  sentenceil  to  pay  a  line  of 
£1.000.  and  to  be  imprisoned  for  two  years. 
He  seems  to  have  faretl  sinnptuously  in 
l>rist)n,  receiving  every  week  a  hamper  of 
delicacies  from  his  farm  at  Dotley.  He 
continued  while  in  prison  to  edit  The  Register 
with  as  nuicli  vigor  as  though  he  was  not  shut 
up.  Ujion  his  release  he  was  honored  with  a 
public  dinner,  pn^sided  over  by  Sir  Francis 
Burdett. 

During  the  preceding  and  a  few  following 
years,  Cobbett  contracted  heavy  debts,  in 
consequence  of  which  in  1817,  he  went  again 
to  the  United  States.  Here  he  continued  to 
liave  his  Register  printed,  and  regularly 
forwarded  to  England.  At  this  time  he 
wrote  hii^  KnglisJ I  Gnoiimar,  of  which  lO.OOO 
copies  were  sold  within  a  month  after  its 
publication.  He  returned  to  England  aftei- 
two  years,  bringing  with  him  some  of  the 
bones  of  Thomas  Paine,  for  whom  he  proposed 
a  kind  of  canonization.  Cobbett's  great 
desire  now  was  to  obtain  a  seat  in  Parliament. 
In  this  he  was  not  succe.-sful  until  1S30,  when 
he  was  returned  for  (tldham.  He  was  again 
returned  in  lb34.  a  few  months  before  his 
death. 


50  WILLIAM  COBBETT. 

Cobbett's  works  nro  oxceedingly  volumin- 
ous. Nut  less  tlian  100  volumes  ot  liisi)olitical 
essays  were  published  fro!ii  lime  to  time,  and 
ail  abridgmenl  of  these  in  nine  volumes,  by 
his  sons  appeared  in  1S42-1S48.  The  fullow- 
uro  the  titles  of  a  few  of  his  other  works:  An 
Accottnt  of  the  Horrors  of  the  French  lierolu- 
tioH :  A  Yenr's  licsitlenre  in  the  United 
States:  Cottatje  Evonomn;  Villmjc  Sermons ; 
An  Kmjlish  (Jnnnnuir ;  AFieneh  (trdniniar; 
liisiory  of  the  lieijency  and  iCeitjn  of  Geonje 
IV.:  History  of  the  I'rotestunt  Reformation 
in  Kny land  and  Ireland:  Legact/  to  I'arso)i3; 
Life  of  Andrew  Jackson:  Advice  to  Younj  Men 
and  Wonwn ;  A  Romati  History:  i'oblntt's 
Corn.  Scattered  through  the  works  of  (.'obhett 
are  frequent  passages  whieh  one  wouUl  hard- 
ly expeet  to  co;no  from  so  truculent  a  coniro- 
v»M->-iali^t.     As  these: 

«>:»  FIELJ>  SPOKTS. 
Taking  it  for  granted,  then,  that  sportsmen  are 
as  goixl  an  otlier  folks  on  the  score  of  humanity, 
tho  ^iports  of  tlie  field,  like  everythinj;  else  done 
in  the  lieMs,  tenil  to  prmlure  or  preserve  health. 
I  prefer  tljem  to  all  oilier  i>astiiiie  lioeause  they 
l)rodiice  oiirly  rising  ;  l»ecau.^»  they  liave  a  tend- 
ency to  lead  young  men  into  virtuous  habits.  It 
is  where  men  congregate  that  the  vices  haunt.  A 
hunter  or  a  slio<>ter  may  a!M>  l>e  a  K^'iahK-r  or  a 
drinker  ;  hut  he  is  les.s  likely  to  W'  fond  of  the  two 
latter  if  he  \i*'  fond  of  the  former.  13<>ys  will 
take  to  s«imetliinK  in  tiie  way  of  pastime;  an<l  il  Is 
Utter  that  liiey  lake  to  that  which  is  innoeent, 
healthy,  and  manly,  than  to  that  which  is  vicious, 
unhealthy,  and  etTeiuin:ite.  Besides,  the  sceaes  of 
rural  sport  are  nece.ssurily  sit  a  distance  from 
cities  and  towns.  This  Ls  another  ii^eat  consider- 
ation ;  for  though  great  talents  are  wonted  to  be 
employed  in  the  hives  of  int'n.  they  are  very  rarely 
ac;juired  in  these  hives  ;  the  surroun<ling  subjects 
are  too  numerous,  too  near  the  eye.  1<X)  frequently 
under  it,  and  Iikj  artificial. 


WILLIAM  rOBBLlT.  5i 

I.ATE  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  EARLY  PAYS. 

After  liviii;^  within  a  few  Imiidrod  jaivls  of 
Westminster  ILill.  iin<l  the  Al»l)ey  CMiurcli,  iind  the 
Bridge,  and  h)()Uin.i^  from  my  own  windows  into 
St.  James's  Park,  all  t)ther  imildinj^s  and  sitots  ai»- 
I>ear  insijjcniticant.  I  went  to-day  to  see  the  housH 
I  formerly  oeenpied.  How  small  I  IL  is  always 
thus  :  tl'.e  words  "  lar>re  "and  '•  small  "  are  carried 
abont  with  us  in  our  minds,  and  w*-  forget  real  di- 
mensions. The  idea,  .'■ucli  a.s  it  wa.s  received, 
remains  diirinjj;  our  ahsenee  from  the  o!»ject. 
When  1  returned  to  En5,'land  in  1><(M).  after  an 
ftbsonco  from  the  country  part.s  of  it  of  sixteen 
years,  the  trees,  llio  hedfje-s — even  the  park8 
atul  woods— seemed  so  small  !  It  niade  mo 
lau;^h  to  iicar  little  flutters,  that  I  could  jump 
[)ver.  called  "rivt'i-s."  The  Thames  was  Ijut  a 
"  creek." 

But  whcji  in  alM>ut  a  month  after  m>'  arrival  in 
Lontlon,  I  went  to  Farnliam — the  jtlice  of  my 
birth  — what  was  my  surprise  I  Everything  was 
become  so  pitifully  small  I  I  had  to  cross,  in  my 
post-chaise,  the  long  and  dreary  heath  of  Bagshot ; 
(lien,  at  the  end  of  it.  to  mount  a  hill,  called 
■'  Hungry  iiill. "  and  from  that  hiil  I  knew  that  I 
should  liHik  down  into  tlie  l>eautiful  and  fertile 
vale  of  Farnham.  My  heart  (luttered  with  impa- 
iience.  mixed  with  a  sort  of  fear,  to  see  all  the 
<»concs  of  my  childhoo<l  ;  for  1  had  learned  before 
the  death  of  my  father  and  luother.  Tiiere  is  a 
ni!l  not  far  from  the  town,  called  Crooksbury 
Ilill.  which  rises  uj)  out  of  a  Hat.  in  the  form  of  a 
cone,  and  is  jihinle  1  with  Scotch  lir-trees.  Here  I 
aseil  to  take  the  eggs  and  young  ones  of  crows 
and  magpii's.  This  hill  was  a  famous  object  iu 
»he  neighlK)rhood.  It  seemed  as  the  superlative 
degree  of  hei.:;iit.  '"As  high  as  Cryoksbury  Hill," 
,neant.  witii  tis.  the  utmost  degree  of  height, 
riierefore  the  lirst  object  that  my  eyes  sought  was 
this  hill.  I  could  n<it  l>elieve  my  eyes  !  Literally 
speaking.  I  for  a  moment  thoU"_dit  the  famous  hill 
removed,  and  a  little  hea[)  put  in  its  stead  ;  for 
I  had  seen  in  New  Brunswick  a  single  rock,  or 


52  CHAHLES  CARLETON  COFFIN' 

hill  of  Eolid  rock,  ten  timos  as  big  and  foni  or  five 
times  as  liij^li. 

The  post-l)oy  going  down  hill,  and  not  a  had 
road,  whiiikfd  mo  ia  n  fi'w  minuter  to  the  Bush 
Inn,  from  the  garden  of  which  I  could  see  tlic 
prodigious  sand-hill  where  I  iiatl  begun  my  par' 
dening  works.  AVhat  a  nothing  !  But  now  camf 
rushing  into  my  mind  all  at  once  my  jirt'tty  littlf 
garden,  my  little  blue  smock-friK-k,  my  little  nail- 
••il  shoes,  my  pretty  i)ige<ins  that  I  used  lofee<lout 
of  my  hands,  the  last  kin<l  word.s  and  tears  of  my 
gentle  and  teader-heartetland  affectionate  mother ! 
I  hastened  l>ack  into  the  room.  If  I  had  looked 
a  minute  longer  I  sliould  have  <lropped.  When  1 
came  to  refle«.-t,  what  a  change  I  1  lookwl  down 
at  my  dress  :  what  a  change  !  What  scenes  I  had 
gone  through  !  llow  altered  my  state  !  1  had 
dined  the  <lay  Ijefore  at  a  Secretary  of  State's,  in 
company  with  Jlr.  Pitt,  and  ha<l  In-en  waited 
nj)on  by  men  i;i  gaudy  liveries  !  I  had  nobody  to 
assist  me  in  the  world.  No  teachers  of  any  sort. 
Nol tody  to  shelter  me  from  the  con>e(|Uence8  of 
bad.  and  no  one  to  counsel  me  to  good  l>ehavior. 
1  flit  jnoud.  The  distinctions  of  rank,  birth,  and 
wealth  all  JM'camu  nothing  in  my  eyes  ;  and  from 
th.'it  moment — less  than  a  month  after  my  arrival 
in  England — I  resolved  never  to  bend  before  them. 

COFFIN,  C'HARLE.sC.\RLETON.  an  American 
author.  b<»rn  :\t  Boscawen.  New  Han)i)shire. 
in  1823.  Until  lie  Ava.'^  twenty-one  years  of 
age,  he  lived  upon  his  father's  farm,  and 
endeavore<l  to  makeiii>  for  Inek  of  educational 
advaiitnges.  by  studying  at  night.  In  is,*ii 
he  began  writing  for  the  Bo.ston  press. 
During  the  Civil  War  he  "was  a  correspondent 
of  the  Bosioh  Joxirmd,  and  was  a  spectator 
of  many  battles.  In  1606  he  av.-is  sent  to 
Europe  as  war-corrcspundent  for  the  same 
l)aper.  At  the  clo.se  of  the  war  he  travelled 
in  Euroi>e,  Asia,  and  Africa,  returning  home 
across  the  continent  by  way  of  San  Francisco. 
Among  his  works  are  My  Days  and  Nujhts 


C'HARLKS  CAHLETOX  COFFIN.  ."iR 

on  the  Battle  Field  (1820)  :  Followincj  the 
F/afir(16G3)  ;  Winning  his  way  (1864)  :  Four 
Years  of  Fight  ing(lS6Q)\  Caleb  Krinkle  (1875)  \ 
The  Story  of^  Lit?erty  :  Old  Times  in  the  Co- 
lonics (iSSl)]  The  Boys  of  76,  The  Boys  of 
'61,  aiul  Building  the  Xation  (1883.) 

"THE  SHOT   HE.VUn   ROUND  THE   WORM>." 

Tlio  p»'()i>lr>  of  Couconl  know  nolliinu;  of  tlio 
slauKlitiT  ;it  Loxinptoii.  Fifty  or  iiiory  uiimiti^- 
nicM  liave  galluTcil  iiinlcu-  Major  lUittrirk,  ready 
to  defend  their  lioines  and  ti^ht  for  their  rii^hts, 
if  nee<l  Ik-.  Oli.  if  thoy  only  knew  wliat  iuid  been 
done  at  Lexington  I  But  no  word  has  reat-hed 
tlieni.  Wliat  can  fifty  farmers  do  against  eight 
hniidred  discipHned  troops?  Not  niucl).  Tliey 
have  hiux'eeded  in  secreting  most  of  tlie  cannon 
and  nearly  all  of  the  powder,  and  some  otiier 
things.  Tiiey  liave  done  what  tl)ey  could.  The 
flag  that  waves  alxive  them  is  not  so  gorgeous  :ls 
the  banner  of  tiie  King ;  it  is  only  a  j)iece  of  cloth 
with  a  pine-tree  painted  upon  it,  l»ut  lirave  men 
areiiiarsh:ile<l  around  it.  The  minister  of  Concord, 
Rev.  Mr.  l^merson.  is  there,  with  Ids  gun  on  his 
ftlioulder. 

•'  Let  us  stand  our  gmund,"  lie  says. 

'•  We  are  too  few  :  yvc  had  better  retreat  to  the 
other  side  of  the  river."  says  Major  Buttrick.  He 
is  no  coward,  but  is  co<il-headed,  and  gives  wise 
counsel.  The  minute-men  march  up  the  street, 
cross  the  bridge,  and  come  to  a  halt  by  Mr.  Hunt's 
house. 

The  British  troops  halt  in  the  road  by  the 
meeting-house.  Colonel  Smith  and  Major  Pitcairn 
dismount,  leave  their  horses,  go  into  the  burial 
ground,  and  with  a  sjiy-glass  look  across  the  river 
to  see  what  the  minute-men  are  doing.  Some  of 
the  troops — about  two  hundred — cross  tlie  river  to 
Colonel  Barrett's,  and  set  the  gun-carriages  on 
fire.  Other  squads  are  sent  to  search  the  nouses 
and  barns  of  the  people.  They  find  a  barrel  of 
musket-balls  and  throw  them  into  a  well,  break 
off  the  trunnions  of  the  cannon  which  the  people 
had  not  tinitf  to  burv.  and  stave  in  the  heads  of 


54  CHARLES  CAHLETON  COFFIN. 

fitly  hanvis  of  flour.  The  troops  liave  marched 
all  night,  are  weary,  hungry,  and  thirsty.  They 
call  for  breakfast,  which  the  people  give  them — 
bread  and  milk,  or  bacon  and  eggs.  The  oUicora 
pay  liberally,  in  some  iustanres  handing  out  a 
guinea  and  refusing  to  take  any  change.  Major 
Pit("airn  and  some  of  the  ofticerd  go  into  Sir. 
Wright's  t^avorn  and  call  for  brandy.  Major 
Pitcairn  stirs  tiie  grog  wjili  Km  fingers.  "I  me^in 
ti)  ;;tir  the  damned  Yankee  blood  as  I  stir  this 
U'fore  night,"  lie  says. 

The  minute-men  arc  all  west  of  the  river. 
P'rom  the  west  come  men  from  Acton,  the  next 
town,  under  Captain  Isaac  Davis.  He  has  kissed 
his  wife  Hannah  got)d-bve,  saying  to  hor,  "  Take 
good  care  of  the  children,  Hannah,"  and  here  he 
is,  wiping  the  sweat  from  his  brow,  for  he  and  his 
men  have  come  upon  the  run.  The  Sudbury  men 
are  coming  from  the  south,  and  the  Bedford  men 
from  the  west.  They  meet  near  the  north  bridge, 
in  front  of  Major  Buttrick's  house.  They  can  see 
smoke  ascending  from  the  town  and  from  Ctilonel 
Barrett's,  where  the  gun-<\irriages  are  burning, 
but  think  that  the  BritLsh  liave  applied  the  torch 
to  their  houses.  The  party  of  Britisli  which  have 
been  to  Colonel  Barrett's  house  have  returned  to 
the  bridge,  and  are  taking  up  tlie  planks. 

"They  are  burning  the  town.  Shall  we  stand 
liere  and  permit  it?"  says  Adjutant  Hosmer. 

"  Let  us  march  and  defend  our  houses.  I 
have  n't  a  man  that  is  afraid  to  go,"  says  Major 
Buttrick. 

'•Neither  have  I.  Let  us  go,"  says  Captain 
Davis. 

They  are  five  hundred  now,  Colonel  Barrett  is 
commander,  "  File  right ;  march  to  the  bridge. 
Don't  fire  unless  you  are  fired  upjon,"  is  his  order. 

John  Buttrick  and  Luther  Blanchard,  fiifers, 
strike  up  the  "  White  Cockade,"  the  drums  beat, 
and  the  men  move  on  in  double  files.  Captain 
Davis  and  the  Acton  men  leading  ;  the  Sudbury, 
Concord,  Lincoln,  and  Bedford  men  following. 
The  British,  one  hundred  and  fifty,  ai-e  on  the 
east  side,  and  the  Americans  on  the  wp^t  side,  of 


ROBERT  BARRY  COFFIN.  5.-) 

the  rircr.  Thov  nro  not  ten  rods  apart.  A  British 
eoidior  rai.sps  Ins  ^un.  There  is  a  Hash,  and  the 
fift'r.  Lutlu'r  Blanchard.  feels  a  prick  in  liis  side. 
A  dozen  Briti^ii  firp.  Captain  Davis  leaps  into  the 
air  and  falls  with  a  ballthn>u;;h  his  heart.  Never- 
more will  Ilannali.  the  Ix'lovcd  wife  minding  flw 
children  at  home,  feel  the  lips  f)t'  the  brave  man 
upon  her  clieek.     Abner  Hosmer  al^o  falls  dead. 

"Fire!  for  God's  sake,  fire  I  "Major  Buttrick 
shouts  it.  lie  raises  his  gun,  takes  quick  aim, 
and  fires  the  shot  which  Rev.  Mr.  Enui-son's 
grandson  says,  "  is  lieard  around  the  world." 

Captain  Brown  is  a  Christian.  He  nt>ver  swore 
an  oath  in  his  life,  but  his  blood  is  up,  and  ]w 
utters  a  curse—"  Cod  damn  them,  they  are  firinj; 
balls!  Fire,  fire  !'  he  shouts,  takes  aim.  and  :i 
British  soMier  falls,  the  first  in  the  alfray.  ••  Fire  ! 
fire  !  fire  ! "' 

The  shout  runs  along  the  line.  Twd  or  more 
of  the  British  fall  killed  or  woumled.  and  the 
others  fiee  toward  the  village.  "The  war  has 
begun  ;  and  no  one  knows  when  it  will  end,"  says 
Noah  Parkhurst,  one  of  llie  Lincoln  num.— The 
Boys  of  'Id. 

COFFIN,  Robert  Barry.  C  Bany  Gray," 
jjseud.)  an  American  author,  born  at  Hudson, 
N.  Y.,  in  1826,  died  in  1886.  At  twenty  years 
of  ago  ho  entered  an  importing;  house  in  New 
Y'ork,  and  five  years  later  became  a  book- 
seller in  Palmira.  His  literary  work  began 
with  a  series  of  sketches  written  in  1845  for 
the  Rural  Repository,  published  at  Hudson. 
In  1858  he  became  associate  editor  of  the 
HoineJournah  and  was  afterwards  literary 
editor  of  the  Eastern  State  Journal,  publish- 
ed at  White  Plains.  He  contributed  largely 
to  several  periodicals.  His  first  book.  Married 
Life  at  Hillside,  was  published  in  1865.  Mat- 
rimonial Infelicities  followed  in  1866,  Cakes 
and  Ale  at  Woodbine  in  1868,  and  Castles  in 
the  Air,  a  volume  of  sketches  selected  from 
his  contribtitions  to  periodicals,  appeared  in 


56      ROBERT  BARRY  COFFIN. 

1871.  During  the  lat^r  years  of  his  lifo, 
Mr.  Coffin  was  employed  in  the  New  York 
Custom  House.  lie  continued  his  literary 
work  almost  to  the  day  of  his  death. 

THE  MISSING   PAPERS. 

"How  many  times,  my  dear."  I  said  to  my 
wife,  as  I  searched  in  vain  for  a  newspaper  which 
I  had  brouglit  home  three  clays  previously,  "must 
I  request  you  not  to  disturb  my  Ixioks  and  pajwrs  ? 
I  've  spent  an  liour,  at  least,  in  looking  for  a 
newspaper  which  containe<l  a  cluirming  ])oem  I 
had  never  Ijefore  seen.  I  laid  it  carefully  upon 
the  mantlepiece.  so  that  it  would  be  out  of  the 
children's  reach,  and  now  it  has  disappeared.  If 
tiiere  be  one  thing  I  dislike  more  than  another,  it 
it  to  have  my  papers  meddled  with." 

•'What  is  the  name  of  the  paper?"  my  wife 
asked. 

"  I  neither  know  nor  care,"  I  replied.  "  All  I 
want  is  to  find  it." 

"  Have  you  examined  both  of  the  piles  of  news- 
pap<?r6  on  the  mantlepiece':' " 

"  Yes,  of  course  I  have,"  I  answered. 

"  And  the  one  on  the  table  ?  "  she  continued. 

"Which table?"  I  asked. 

"  There  is  but  one  table  in  the  room,"  she  an- 
swered ;  "  that  is  a  stand  in  the  comer." 

"  Well,  have  it  your  own  way  ;  but  I  'm  sure  it 
is  aa  much  a  table  as  the  other.  At  any  rate,  the 
paper  I  want  is  'nt  on  it.  Now  why  you  can  't  let 
my  papers  rest  just  where  I  j)lace  them,  I  do  "nt 
see.  It  would  save  me  a  wonderful  sight  of 
trouble  and  annoyance  if  you  would  only  let  them 
alone." 

"  I  am  certain."  .said  my  wife.  ••  that  1  have  not 
touched  one  of  your  papers  in  a  week,  and  I  do  n"t 
think  the  children  have." 

"Then  one  of  the  servants  has  taken  it  to  light 
a  fir-^  with.  Now.  if  there  be  one  thing  I  dislike 
more  tliJin  another,  it  is  to  have  a  servant  take  a 
newsO'iper  I  wish  to  preserve,  to  kindle  a  tire 
with." 

••  i  d'/   :ot  think,"  my   wiu-  .said.    •  lliat  unv  of 


JOHN  WILLIAM  C'OLENSO.  57 

the  servants  liave  taken  it.  My  orders  to  tlieni,  in 
rej^ard  to  lielpin^  tiieniselves  to  jour  jiai)ers,  aro 
Ro  strict  that  they  thiulc  it  a:s  much  as  their  situa- 
tions are  worth  to  lueddle  with  them." 

'•  Well  then,-'  I  exclaimed,  *'  if  neither  you,  nor 
the  children,  nor  the  servants  have  taken  it,  I 
should  like  to  know  where  it  lias  gone  to  !  Cer- 
tainly it  could  not  go  witliout  Jiands  ;  and  now, 
who  took  it,  is  the  (luestion." 

"  It  is  prohahle  that  you  yourself  laid  it  away, 
my  dear,"  she  leniarked. 

"  Nothing  can  be  less  possible,"  I  said. 

'•  But  you  know  you  often  do  such  a  thing,"  she 
continued,  "  and  forget  all  about  it  !  " 

"  Never !  "  I  said  decidedly  ;  "  I  do  not  remem- 
ber ever  forgetting  anything  in  my  life."  .  .  . 

'"  Have  you  looked  into  your  desk  for  it  V"  she 
asked. 

"  I  liave  not,"  I  replied,  and,  what  is  more,  I  do 
not  intend  to,  since  it  is  very  certain  it  is  not 
there.  Besides,  the  desk  is  locked,  and  I  have  the 
key  in  my  pocket  ;  but  to  satisfy  yon,  I  ^^■ill  open 
the  desk." 

To  my  surprise,  tlie  missing  paper  was  the 
first  objec-t  that  met  my  sight  on  raising  the  lid 
of  said  desk. 

"  I  told  you  so,"  my  wife  exclaimed  exultingly. 
— Matrimonial  Infelicities. 

COLENSO,  John  William,  an  English  cler- 
gyman, born  in  Cornwall,  in  1814,  died  at 
Port  Natal,  South  Africa,  in  1883.  He  enter- 
ed St.  John's  College,  Cambridge,  Avhere  ho 
graduated  in  183(5  with  high  honors,  and  be- 
came a  fellow  of  his  college.  Two  years  after- 
wards he  was  appointed  Assistant  Master  of 
Harrow  School,  a  position  which  he  held  un- 
til 1842.  During  this  time  he  prepared  a 
series  of  works  on  arithmetic  and  algebra, 
which  were  widely  adopted  as  text-books. 
After  that  he  became  Eector  of  Forncett, 
Norfolkshire.     In  1853  he  was  made  Bishop 


58  JOHN  WILLIAM  (  OLENSO. 

of  the  ncAvly  erected  See  of  Natal,  in  South 
Africa. 

In  1S61  appeared  the  fust  of  his  works 
which  indicated  a  departure  from  the  views 
held  by  the  Anglican  Church.  This  was  a 
Translation  of  the  Epistle  to  the  Romans,  com- 
mented on  from  a  Missionary  Point  of  View. 
Next  year  appeared  a  work  which  had  appar- 
ently been  long  meditated,  in  which  his  wide 
departure  from  the  view.s  generally  accepted 
as  "orthodox"  was  clearly  marked.  This 
was  the  first  part  of  his  treatise  on  The  Pen- 
tateuch and  the  Book- of  Joshua,  critically  ex- 
amined. This  work,  impugning  the  authen- 
ticity of  the  books  in  question,  was  formally 
brought  before  the  highest  English  ecclesias- 
tical coin-ts,  by  whom  it  was  condemned  as 
"containing  errors  of  the  gravest  and  most 
dangerous  character."  Thereafter  ensued  an 
ecclesiastical  warfare,  the  reading  of  which  is 
more  exciting  than  profitable.  Colenso  was 
formally  deposed  by  his  metropolitan,  the 
Bishop  of  Cape  Town.  He  appealed  from  this 
decision;  his  appeal  was  sustained  by  the 
Privy  Council,  in  18G5.  and  he  Avas  secured  in 
the  revenues  attached  to  his  See.  But  the 
Church  in  South  Africa  still  maintained  that 
Colenso  was  legally  deposed,  and  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  him  in  his  Episcopal  ca- 
pacity. 

The  later  years  of  Colenso's  life  (1865-1883) 
were  passed  in  quiet  at  Port  Natal,  where  ho 
was  noted  for  the  kindly  interest  which  he 
manifested  towards  the  natives — Boers  and 
Zulus.  He  put  forth  from  time  to  time  sev- 
eral new  works,  among  which  are  a  volume 
of  Natal  Sermons;  a  Zulu  Grammar ;  a  Zulu 
Dictionary;  a  Zulu  Translation  of  the  New 
Testament :  the  sixth  and  concluding  part  of 
The  Pentateuch  and  the  Book  of  Joshua,  criti- 


HARTLEY  COLERIDGE.  59 

cally  examined  (1872);    and  Lectures  on   the 
Pentateuch  and  the  Moabife  Stone  (1873). 

COLERIDGE,    Hartlfa',    son    of    Samuel 
Taylor  Coleridge,  born  in  179G,  died  in  1849. 
He  was  a  child  of  uncommon  promise;  but 
owing  to  the  unfortunate  habits  of  his  father 
at  the  time  vvlien  his  children  were  growing 
up  he,  like  the  other  children  of  Coleridge, 
were  left  to  the  care  of  South(>y,  Avhoso  wife 
was  a  sister  of  their  mother.    In  1815  Hartley 
Coleridge  was  entered  as  a  student  of  ^Merton 
College,  Oxford ;  and  three  years  afterwards 
he  gained  a  fellowship  in  Oriel  College.     But 
he  had  in  the  nieanwliile  contracted  the  habit 
of  intemperance  which  he  was  never  after- 
wards able  to  conquer.     Before  his  probation- 
ary year  for  the  fellowship  had  expired  he 
forfeited  the  position.    The  aulhoritii'S  Avould 
not  rescind  their  decision  of  forfeiture,  but 
made  him  a  present  of  £300,  with  which  he 
went  to  London  hoping  to  enter  upon  a  litera- 
ry career,  in  which  he  had  ever}-  essential  to 
success.     But  his  habits  of  intemperance  still 
clung  to  him.   He  afterwards  went  to  Amble- 
side and  opened  a  school  there  wliich  proved 
unsuccessful.     In  this  region  he  passed  the 
remainder  of  his  life,  pitied  for  his  besetting 
weakness,  which  he  vainly  strove  to  over- 
come;  but  loved  for  his  amiable  character. 
Hartley  Coleridge  wrote  much  prose  and  more 
verse  worthy  of  a  i^lace  in  the  records  of  lit- 
erature.    His  most  important  prose  work  is 
the  Lives  of  Northern  Worthies,  from  which 
we  make  a  single  extract : 

THE  OPPOSING  AKMIES  ON  MARSTON  MOOR. 

Fifty  thousand  subjects  of  one  king  stood  face 
to  face  on  Marston  Moor,  July  3,  1641.  The 
numbers  on  each  side  were  not  far  from  equal, 
but  never  were  two  hosts  speaking  one  language 
of  more  dissimilar  aspects.   The  Cavaliers,  flushed 


aO  HARTLEY  COLERIDGE. 

uitli  recent  victory,  identifying  their  quarrel 
with  tlieir  honor  and  their  love  ;  llieir  loose  locks 
escaping  beneath  tiieir  phunecl  helmets,  gUttering 
in  all  the  martial  pride  v/iucli  makes  the  liattie-duy 
like  a  pageant  or  a  festival,  and  jirancing  forth 
with  all  the  grace  of  gentle  hirth,  as  tlK>ngli  tliey 
would  make  a  jest  of  death,  wljilo  tlie  spirit-rous- 
ing strains  of  the  tnimpets  made  their  blood 
dance,  and  their  steeds  prick  up  tlieir  ears.  The 
Roundheads,  arranged  in  tliick,  dark  UKisses, 
tlieir  steel  caps  and  higli-crowned  liats  drawn 
close  over  tiieir  brows,  looking  determination,  ex- 
pressing with  furrowed  foreheads  and  hard  closed 
lips  their  inly-working  rage  which  was  blown  up 
to  furnace-hoat  by  the  extempore  etfu-ions  of  tlieir 
preachers,  and  found  vt-nt  in  tlie  terrible  denunci- 
ations of  the  Hebrew  jwalms  ami  propiiecies. 

The  arms  of  each  party  were  adapted  to  the 
nature  of  their  courage  :  the  swonls,  pikes,  and 
pistols  of  tlie  Royalists,  light  and  bright,  were 
suited  for  swift  onset  anil  ready  use  :  while  tho 
ponderous  basket-hilted  blades,  long  hallK*rts,  and 
heavy  lire-arms  of  the  Parliamentarians  were 
e<]ually  Kuite<l  to  resist  a  sharp  attack,  and  do  exe- 
cution upon  a  biokj'u  enemy.  Tlie  Royalists  re- 
garded their  adversaries  with  that  scorn  which 
the  gay  and  high-born  always  feel  or  affect  for 
the  precise  or  sour-mannered.  The  soldiers  of 
the  Covenant  looked  on  their  enemies  as  the 
enemies  of  Israel,  and  considered  themstdves  as 
tlieEle-  tand  Chosen  People — a  creed  which  extin- 
guished fear  and  remoise  together. 

It  would  be  hard  to  say  whether  there  was 
more  praying  on  the  one  side  or  more  swearing 
on  the  other,  or  which  to  a  Christian  ear  had  been 
the  most  offensive.  Yet  both  esteemed  them- 
selves the  champions  of  tlio  Church.  There 
was  bravery  and  virtue  in  both  :  but  with  this 
high  advantage  on  tho  Parliamentary  side,  that 
while  the  aristocratic  honor  of  the  Royalists 
could  only  inspire  a  certain  numl)er  of '•  gentle- 
men,'' and  separated  the  patrician  from  the 
plebeian  soldier,  the  religious  zeal  of  the  Puritans 
bound    officer   and    man,    general    and    pioneer 


HARTLEY  COLERIDGE.  61 

together,  in  a  fierce  and  resolute  sympathy,  and 
made  etjuality  itself  an  argument  for  subordina- 
tion. Tlio  captain  prayed  at  the  head  of  his 
company,  and  the  general's  oration  was  a  sermon, 
— Lives  of  ^'orthern  ]Voit]ticti. 

The  poems  of  Hartley  Coleridge  make  a 
couple  of  small  volumes.  A  volume  of  them 
■was  published  as  early  as  1S33.  A  new 
edition  of  them  Avas  put  forth,  in  ISoO.  with 
a  Memoir  by  his  brotlier  Derwent  Coleridge 
(1800-1883),  an  eminent  clergyman  and  educa- 
tor, and  an  author  of  some  repute.  One  of  the 
plcasantest  of  these  poems  is  the  following  : 

ADDKESS  TO  CEKTAIN  trOLDFISHES. 
Restless  forms  of  living  li);iit, 

Quivering  on  your  lucid  wings 
Cheating  still  tlu'  curious  sight 

Witii  a  thousand  sluulowings  ; 
Various  as  the  tints  of  even. 
Gorgeous  as  the  hues  of  heaven, 
Rellected  on  your  native  streams 
In  Hitting,  Hashing,  billowy  gleams! 
Harmless  waniors  clad  in  mail 
Of  silver  breastplate,  golden  scide  • 
Mail  of  Nature's  own  bestowing. 
With  peaceful  radiance  mildly  glowing; 
Fleet  are  ye  as  fleetest  galley. 
Or  pirate  rover  sent  from  Sallee  ; 
Keener  than  the  Tartar's  arrow, 
Sport  ye  in  your  sea  so  naiTOW. 

Was  the  Sun  himself  your  sire  ? 

Were  ye  born  of  vital  lire  ? 
Or  of  the  shade  of  golden  flowers. 
Such  as  we  fetch  from  Eastern  bowers, 
To  mock  this  murky  clime  of  ours  ? 

Upwards,  downwards,  now  A"e  glance. 

Weaving  many  a  mazy  dance  ; 

Seeming  still  to  grow  in  size 

When  ye  would  elude  our  eyes. 

Pretty  creatures  !  we  might  deem 

Ye  were  as  happy  as  ye  seem  ; 


G2  HARTLEY  COLERIDGE. 

As  p:ay,  as  gamesome,  and  as  blithe, 
As  light,  as  loving,  and  as  litlie, 
As  gladly  earnest  in  your  play. 
As  wlieii  ye  gleamed  in  far  Cathay. 

And  yet,  since  on  tliis  hapless  earth 

There's  small  sincerity  in  mirth. 

Ami  laughter  oft  is  but  an  art 

To  drown  the  outcry  of  the  heart ; 

It  may  he  that  your  ceaseless  gambols, 

Your  wheelings,  dartings,  divings,  rambles, 

Your  restless  roving  round  and  round 

The  circuit  of  your  crystal  lx)und, 

Is  hut  the  task  of  weary  ])ain. 

An  endless  labor  dull  and  vain  ; 

And  while  your  forms  are  gayly  shining, 

Your  little  lives  are  inly  ]iiuing  I — 

Nay  :  but  still  I  fain  would  dream 

That  ye  are  happy  as  ye  seem. 

Many  of  the  poems  of  Hartley  Coleridge  are 
in  the  form  of  sonnets,  nut  u  few  of  them 
being  mournful  representations  of  his  own  sad 
and  wasted  life.  Some  of  these  sonnets  are 
among  the  best  in  our  language. 

TO  SHAKESPEARE. 

The  soul  of  man  is  larger  than  the  sky  ; 
Deeper  than  ocean  or  the  abysmal  dark 
Of  the  imfathomed  centre.     Like  that  Ark 

"Which  in  its  sacred  hold  uplifted  high. 

O'er  the  drowned  hills,  the  human  family. 
And  stock  reserved  of  every  living  kind. 
So,  in  the  compass  of  the  single  mind. 

The  seeds  and  pregnant  forms  in  essence  ]ie 

That  make  all  worlds.     Great  Poet,  'twas  thy  art 

To  know  thyself,  and  in  thyself  to  lx> 

Whatever  lovt-,  hate,  ambition,  destiny, 
Or  the  firm,  fatal  purpose  of  the  heart. 

Can  make  of  Man.     Yet  thou  wcrt  still  the  same. 

Serene  of  thought,  unhurt  by  thy  own  flame. 

TO  WORDSWOETH. 

There  have  been  poets  that  in  verse  display 
The  elemental  forms  of  human  passions  : 


HARTLEY  COLERIDGE.  63 

Poets  have  been  to  wiiom  the  tickle  fashions, 
And  all  the  wilful  humors  of  the  day. 
Have  furnishetl  matter  for  a  polislied  lay  : 

And  many  are  the  smooth  elaborate  tribe 

Who,  emulous  of  thee,  the  shape  deseribe, 
And  fain  would  every  shifting;  hue  portray 

Of  restless  Nature.     But  tbou.  mighty  Seer  ! 
'Tis  thine  to  celebrate  tlic  thoughts  that  make 
The  life  of  souls,  the  truths  for  \\  hose  sweet  sake 

We  to  ourselves  and  to  our  God  are  dear. 
Of  Nature's  inner  shrine  tliou  art  the  Priest. 
Where  most  she  works  when  we  perceive  her  least. 

STILL   .\   CHILD. 

Long  time  a  child,  and  still  a  child,  when  years 

Had  i)ainted  manliood  on  my  cheek,  was  I, 

For  yet  I  lived  like  one  not  born  to  die  : 
A  thriftless  prodigal  of  smiles  and  teai-s, 
No  hope  I  needed,  and  I  knew  no  fears. 

But   sleep,   though  sweet,   is   only  sleep :    and, 
waking, 

I  wukeil  to  sleep  no  more ;  at  once  o'ertaking 
The  vanguard  of  my  age,  with  all  arrears 

Of  duty  on  my  back.     Nor  cliiUl  nor  man. 
Nor  youth  nor  sage,  I  find  my  head  is  gray, 

For  I  have  lost  the  race  I  never  ran  : 
A  rathe  December  blights  my  lagging  May, 

And  still  1  am  a  child,  though  I  be  old  ; 

Time  is  my  debtor  for  my  years  untold. 

GRAY   H.\1RS  AND   WISDOM. 

"  I  thank  my  God  because  my  hairs  are  gray  ! "" 

But  have  gray  hairs  brought  wisdom  V  doth  the 
ilight 

Of  summer  bird?,  departed  while  the  light 
Of  life  is  lingering  on  the  middle  way, 
Predict  the  harvest  nearer  by  a  day  ? 

Will  the  rank  weeds  of  hopeless  apix-tite 

Droop  at  the  glance  and  venom  of  the  blight 
That  made  the  vermeil  bloom,  the  flush  so  gay, 

Dim  and  unlovely  as  a  dead  mans  shroud? 
Or  is  my  heart— that,  wanting  hope,  has  lost 

The  strength  and  rudder  of  resolve— at  peace?  . 

Is  it  no  longer  wrathful,  vain  and  proud*' 


64    SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

Is  it  a  Sabbath,  or  untimely  frost. 
That  makes  the  labor  of  the  soul  to  cease? 

TO  A  NEWLY-MARRIED   FRIEXD. 

How  snaJl  a  man  foredoomed  to  lone  estate, 

Untimely  old,  irreverently  gray, 

Much  like  a  patcli  of  dusky  snow  in  May, 
Dead-sleeping  in  a  hollow — all  tuo  late — 
How  shall  so  ptjor  a  tiling  congratulate 

The  blest  comj)letion  of  a  patient  wooing? 

Or  how  commend  a  younger  man  for  doing 
What  ne'er  to  do  hath  been  his  fault  or  fate? — 

There  is  a  fable  that  I  once  did  read, 
Of  a  bad  angel  that  was  someway  good. 
And  therefore  on  the  brink  of  heaven  he  stood — 

Looking  each  way,  .and  no  wiiy  could  proceed; 
Till  at  last  he  purged  away  his  sin 
By  loving  all  the  joy  he  saw  within. 

THE   WAIF  OF  NATl-RE. 

A  lonely  wanderer  upon  earth  am  I, 
Tlie  waif  of  Nature — lilic  uprooted  weed 
Borne  by  the  streaiia,  or  lilce  a  shaken  reed, 

A  frail  dependant  of  the  fickle  sky  ; 
Far,  far  away,  are  all  my  natural  kin  : 

The  mother  that  erewhile  hath  hushed  my  cry 

Almost  hath  grown  a  more  fond  memory. 

Where  is  my  sister's  smile?  my  brother's  boister- 
ous din? 

Ah  !  nowhere  now.     A  matron  grave  and  sage 
A  holy  mother,  is  that  sister  sweet.  * 
And  that  bold  brother  f  is  a  pastor,  meet 

To  guide,  instruct,  reprove  a  sinful  age. 
Almost  I  fear,  and  yet  I  fain  would  greet  ; 

So  far  astray  hath  been  my  pilgrimage. 

COLERIDGE,  Samuel  Taylor,  an  English 
poet  and  philosopher,  born  October  21,  1772, 
died  July  25,  1834.  He  was  the  youngest  of 
the  ten  children  of  the  Vicar  of  Ottery  St. 
Mary,  in  Devonshire,  "who  died  while  this  son 
"was  a  child.      A  scholarship  at  Christ  Hos- 

*  Sara  Coleridge,    t  Derwent  Coleridse. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.  65 

pital,  London,  was  obtained  for  the  boy,  who 
at  the  age  of  fourteen  had  acquired  a  reputa- 
tion for  extraordinary  genius  and  erudition. 
In  17'.)].  being  head-scholar  of  the  school,  he 
obtained  a  presentation  to  Jesus  College, 
Cambridge,  where  he  studied  for  three  yeai's. 
Worried  by  some  debts,  not  amounting  in  all 
to  £100,  and  by  other  annoyances,  he  Avent 
back  to  London,  where  in  a  fit  of  desperation 
he  enlisted  as  a  dragoon,  under  an  assumed 
name.  His  friends  learned  of  his  where- 
abouts, and  Avith  some  difliculty  obtained  his 
discharge.  He  returned  to  the  College,  where 
he  remained  only  a  short  time,  and  left  with- 
out taking  his  degree.  Ho  visited  Oxford 
where  he  became  acquainted  with  Robert 
Southey,  two  years  his  junior,  who  was  a 
student  at  Balliol  College.  The  young  men 
were  deeply  tinctured  with  the  democratic 
theories  of  the  Frencli  Revolution,  and  with 
Robert  Lovell,  the  son  of  a  v.-ealthy  Quaker, 
and  several  other  collegians,  they  formed  a 
scheme  for  emigrating  to  the  banks  of  the 
Susquehanna,  in  Pennsylvania,  thei-o  to  es- 
tablish a  '"Pantisocracy,"'  or  community  in 
which  all  the  members  were  to  be  on  a  perfect 
equality;  all  were  to  work  with  their  hands; 
their  wives— for  all  were  to  bo  married— to 
perform  the  domestic  duties,  and  the  men 
were  to  cultivate  literature  in  their  leisure 
hours,  "with  neither  king  nor  lord  nor  priest 
to  mar  their  felicity."  To  raise  the  neces- 
sary funds  for  the  enterprise  Coleridge  and 
Southey  each  delivered  a  course  of  lectures, 
and  in  conjunction  wrote  a  drama  The  Fall 
of  Robespierre,  of  which  Southey  composed 
tAvo-thirds. 

They  went  together  to  Bristol,  the  native 
place  of  Southey.  Here  Jo.seph  Cottle,  a 
thriving  bookseller,  himself  the  author  of 
some  indifferent  poems,  Avas  so  charmed  Avith 


66  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

the  conversation  and  verses  of  Coleridge  that 
he  offered  to  publish  what  had  hccn  written, 
and  as  many  more  as  he  should  write,  at  a 
certain  sum  per  line.  Some  disputes  sprang 
up  among  the  Panlisocrats,  and  the  scheme 
was  abandoned,  much  to  the  chagrin  of 
Coleridge.  At  Bristol  wove  thi-ee  sisters — 
Sara  Fricker.  the  eldest  uf  these,  was  married 
to  Coleridge  in  October,  171)5;  a  few  months 
later  Edith  became  the  wife  of  Southey; 
another  sister  was  already  married  to  Lovell, 
who  died  not  long  after.  Coleridge  took  up 
his  residence  in  a  pretty  cottage  at  Stowey,  at 
the  foot  of  the  Quantock  Hills,  where  he  re- 
mained two  years.  Here  was  written  not  a 
little  of  the  best  of  the  poetry  of  Coleridge: 
The  Ode  on  the  Departing  Year,  Fears  in 
Solitude,  France — an  Ode,  The  Ancient  Mar- 
iner, the  first  part  of  Christabel,  and  the 
tragedy  of  Remorse.  At  this  time  Coleridge 
was  a  Unitarian  in  religion,  and  was  accus- 
tomed to  preach  for  congregations  of  that 
faith.  One  Sabbath  morning  "William  Ilazlitt 
walked  ten  n\iles  to  hear  Coleridge,  whose 
preaching  is  thus  described  by  him : 

THE  PREACHDfO  OF  COLERIDGE. 

"  Wlien  I  got  there,  the  organ  was  playing  the 
lOOili  Psalm,  and  Avhen  it  was  done.  Mr.  Coleridge 
rose  and  gave  out  his  text :  '  He  departed  again 
into  a  mountain  Himself  alone.'  As  he  gave  out 
this  text,  his  voice  rose  like  a  stream  of  rich  dis- 
tilled perfumes,  and  when  he  came  to  tlie  last 
two  words,  wliich  he  pronounced  deep,  loud,  and 
distinct,  it  seemed  to  me,  wlio  was  tiien  young,  as 
if  the  sounds  liad  echoed  froni  the  lx)ttom  of  the 
human  heart,  and  us  if  that  prayer  might  have 
floated  in  solemn  silence  through  the  universe. 
The  idea  of  St.  John  came  into  my  mind— of 
'  one  crying  in  the  wilderness,  who  liad  his 
loins  girt  about,  and  whose  food  vras  locusts  and 
wild  honey.'     The  preacher  then  launched  into 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.    CT 

liis  subject  like  an  eagle  dallying  with  the  wind. 
Tlie  sermon  was  upon  Peace  and  War — upon 
Church  and  State — not  thoir  alliance,  but  their 
separation  ;  on  the  spirit  of  the  World  and  the 
spirit  of  Christianity,  not  as  the  same,  but  as  op- 
posed to  one  another.  He  talked  of  those  who 
had  inscribed  the  Cross  of  Christ  uix)n  banners 
dripping  with  human  gore  I  He  made  a  poetical 
and  pastoral  excursion  :  and  to  show  the  fatal  ef- 
fects of  war,  drew  a  striking  contrast  between  the 
simi)le  shepherd-boy  driving  his  team  afield,  or 
sitting  under  the  hawthorn,  piping  to  l.i-i  fiock, 
as  though  he  should  never  bo  old.  and  the  same 
poor  country  lad,  crimped,  kidna])i)ed.  brought 
into  town,  made  drunk  at  an  alehouse,  turned 
into  a  wretched  drummer-boy,  with  his  liair 
sticking  on  end  with  i)owder  and  i>omatum,  a  long 
queue  at  his  back,  and  tricked  out  in  the  finery  of 
the  profession  of  blootl. — '  Such  were  the  notes 
our  once-loved  poet  sung:'  and  for  myself,  I 
could  not  have  been  more  delighted  if  I  had  heard 
the  music  of  the  spheres." — Hazlilt'.s  Essays. 

At  this  period  Coleridge  became  acquainted 
with  Wordsworth,  and  a  friendship  sprang 
lip  between  them  which  was  never  broken, 
though  interrupted  for  a  time.  A  few 
years  later  W^ordsworth,  Southey.  and  Cole- 
i-idge  were  living  for  a  while  near  each  other 
in  the  Lake  region,  and,  though  differing 
greatly  in  all  pex'sonal  and  literary  character- 
istics, were  popularly  grouped  together  as 
"The  Lake  Poets,"'  under -which  designation 
the}'  were  m<ide  the  butts  of  the  critical  re- 
viewers of  the  da}'.  In  the  meanwhile,  in 
179S,  Coleridge  went  to  Germany,  the  requi- 
site fimds  being  furnished  by  his  warm  ad- 
mirers, Josiah  and  Thomas  W'edgewood,  the 
great  Staffordshire  potters.  Coleridge  re- 
sided in  Germany  for  more  than  a  j'ear, 
plunged  into  the  ocean  of  German  metaphys- 
ics, acquired  at  least  a  reading  knowledge  of 
the  language,  and  made  his  great  translation 


68         SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

of  Schiller's  dramas  The  Piccolomini,  and  The 
Death  of  Wallenstein.  He  returned  to  Eng- 
land, and  for  a  time  made  his  homo  with 
Southey,  who  was  by  this  time  settled  at 
Keswick.  From  this  period  is  to  be  dated  the 
entire  change  in  his  political  and  religious 
views.  From  a  "Radical"'  he  became  a 
"Conservative;"  from  a  "Dissenter"  a 
"High  Churchman." 

Shortly  after  his  return  from  Germany 
Coleridge  became  connected  as  an  editorial 
writer  with  the  Morning  Post  newspaper. 
But  his  contributions,  upon  current  topics, 
though  able,  were  never  to  be  confidently 
looked  for.  In  1804  he  went  to  Malta  as 
Assistant  Secretary  to  the  Governor,  Sir 
Alexander  Ball.  lie  retained  this  position 
only  nine  months,  then  returned  home, 
making  a  brief  residence  in  Italy  by  the  way. 
Returning  to  England,  he  again  took  up  a 
precarious  literary  life,  the  most  notable 
production  of  which  was  The  Friend,  a  peri- 
odical, which  was  continued  somewhat  irreg- 
ularly from  June,  1809,  to  March,  1810,  and 
then  died  out,  notwithstanding  some  aid  from 
others,  notable  among  whom  was  Words- 
worth, who  furnished  for  it  almost  the  only 
one  of  his  v*ritings  in  prose. 

In  1810,  or  thereabouts,  Coleridge  fairly 
broke  off  connections  with  his  wife,  who  had 
for  years  been  an  inmate  of  the  family  of 
Southey.  He  left  their  three  children  to  the 
care  of  Southey,  who  was  to  them  all  that  a 
father  could  be.  Coleridge  had  by  this  time 
come  to  be  a  victim  to  the  use  of  opium.  He 
had  begun  years  before  to  use  the  drug  as  a 
palliative  against  severe  physical  pain.  He 
became  a  complete  victim  to  the  habit,  not- 
withstanding the  most  earnest  endeavors  to 
break  away  from  it. 

In  1815  he  was  to  all  appearance  a  complete 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.  G9 

wreck,  physically  and  mentally.  At  tliis 
time  he  was  induced  to  place  himself  under 
the  care  of  Mr.  Gillman,  an  excellent  phy- 
sician of  Highgate,  then  a  quiet  suburb  of 
London,  in-  whose  family  he  resided  an 
honored  guest  during  the  remaining  nineteen 
years  of  his  life.  The  ' '  opiuni  habit "  appears 
to  have  been  speedily  overcome  ;  and  within 
the  next  ten  years  he  produced  the  most 
notable  of  his  prose  works,  with  the  exception 
of  The  Friend  which  belongs  to  the  preceding 
years.  These  prose  works,  such  as  the  Lay 
Sermons,  the  BiograpJiia  Lifcraria,  and  the 
Aids  to  Reflection,  belong  most  properly  to 
an  earlier  period,  though  now  for  the  first 
time  written  out.  L")uringa  great  part  of  these 
nineteen  years  with  Dr.  Gillman,  Coleridge 
lived  almost  the  life  of  a  recluse,  rarely 
leaving  his  comfortable  lodgings,  which  came 
to  be  a  kind  of  resort  of  cultivated  people 
who  were  wont  to  resort  thither  to  hear 
Coleridge  talk.  If  we  may  place  reliance 
upon  what  they  have  left  upon  record,  no 
such  talk  was  ever  before  heard,  and  never 
since  until  a  quarter  of  a  century  after,  when 
Thomas  Carlylc  came  to  be  accepted  as  the 
great  talker  of  his  time. 

During  these  years  Coleridge  was  in  tho 
habit  of  speaking  of  the  great  works  which 
he  had  in  mind — all  complete  except  the  mere 
writing  of  them.  There  was  an  epic  poem  on 
The  Fall  of  Jerusalem,  a  poem  which  he  had 
meditated,  he  said,  since  his  twenty-fifth 
year ;  one  which,  ' '  like  Milton's  Paradise  Lost, 
should  interest  all  Christendom,  as  the  Homer- 
ic War  interested  all  Greece.  Here  there 
would  be  the  completion  of  the  Prophicies ;  the 
termination  of  the  first  revealed  national  re- 
ligion under  the  violent  assaults  of  Paganism 
— itself  tho  immediate  forerunner  and  con- 
dition of  the  spread  of  a  revealed  mundane  x"e- 


70         SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

ligion ;  and  then  you  would  have  the  character 
of  the  Ttonian  and  the  Jew ;  and  the  awfuhiess, 
the  completeness  of  the  justice."  But  no  line 
of  this  grand  epic  was  evei*  written.  And 
then  there  was  another  great  work— his  Magr- 
»u<m  Opws,  which  was  "to  set  forth  Chris- 
tianity as  the  only  revelation  of  permanent 
and  universal  validity;''  which  was  to  reduce 
all  knowledge  into  harmony,  "and  to  unite 
the  insulated  fragments  of  truth,  and  there- 
with to  frame  a  perfect  mirror."  Of  this 
work,  also  nothing  was  ever  written,  un'ess 
we  may  consider  the  essay  upon  "Method" 
prefixed  to  the  Encyclopedia  Metropolitana, 
as  an  installment  of  this.  Thus  in  large 
promises  to  himself  and  others,  and  in  com- 
paratively few  actual  performances,  passed 
the  last  half-score  years  of  the  life  of  Cole- 
ridge. He  failed  from  year  to  year  not  in  the 
actual  power  of  doing,  but  rather  in  the  pow- 
er of  willing  to  do.  Not  many  months  befort 
his  death  he  composed  this  epitaph  for  him- 
self: 

COLERIDGE'S  EPITAPH  FOR  HIMSELF. 

Stop,  Christian  passer-bj-  I     Stop,  child  of  God  ! 
And  read,  withi  gentle  breatii.     Beneatli  this  sod 
A  poet  Ues,  or  that  which  once  seemed  he  : — 
Oh,  lift  a  thought  in  prayer  for  S.  T.  C. — 
That  he,  who  many  a  j'ear,  with  toil  of  breath, 
Found  death  in  life,  may  here  find  life  in  death  ! 
Mercy,  for  praise — to  be  forgiven,  for  fame — 
He  asked  and  hoped  througli    Christ  : — Do  thou 
the  same. 

The  career  of  Coleridge,  as  a  poet,  really 
closed  at  about  the  age  of  twenty -eight.  He 
lived  indeed  thirty-four  years  more,  during 
which  time  he  Avrote  much  noble  prose ;  but 
in  an  introductory  note  to  Christabel,  Avritten 
in  181(3,  he  says:  "The  second  part  of  this 
poem  was  w-ritten  in  the  year  ISOO ;  since  that 
date  my  poetic  powers  have  been,  till  lately,  in 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.  71 

a  state  of  suspended  animation."  From  this 
they  never  fairly  recovered.  A  few  short 
poems  and  fragments  make  up  all  the  verse 
written  thereafter  by  Coleridge.  Among 
these,  but  following  close  after  that  time,  we 
believe,  is  to  to  placed  the  following  magnifi- 
cent poem,  the  general  idea  of  which  is  bor- 
rowed from  the  German  of  Frederika  Brun : 

UYMN  BEFORE  SUNKISE  IN  THE  VALE  OF  CHAMOUNI, 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  Morning  Star 
In  his  atoep  course?    So  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald,  awful  head,  O  sovran  Blanc  ! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thj  base 
Rave  ceaselessly  ;  but  thou,  most  awful  form, 
Risest  from  fortli  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently  !     Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black, 
An  ebon  mass  :  methinks  tliou  piercest  it 
As  with  a  wedge  !     But  when  I  look  again. 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  tliy  crystal  shrine, 
Thy  habitation  fi-om  eternity. 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount !     I  gazed  upon  theo 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodilj^  sense. 

Didst  vanish  from    my  thought :    eijtrahced    in 
prajer 

1  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

i'et  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melodj-. 

So  sweet  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it. 

Thou,  the  meanwhile,   wast  blending   with  my 

thought, 
Yea,  with  my  life,  and  life's  our  secret  joy, 
Till  the  dilating  soul,  enrapt,  transfused, 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there. 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  Heaven. 

Awake,  my  soul  !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest  !  not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks,  and  secret  ecstasy  !    Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song  !     Awake,  my  heart,  awake! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  Hymn  ! 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovran  of  the  vale  ! 
O  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 


Ti  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  cliiul)  the  sky,  or  when  lliey  sink  : 
Companion  of  tho  Morning  Star  at  duwn, 
Tliyself  Earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald  :  wake,  O  wake,  and  utter  praise  ! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  i>illai-s  deep  in  earth? 
Wlio  filled  thy  eountenaneo  with  rosy  light? 
"NVho  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents,  fiereely  glad  ! 

Vv  iio  called  you  fortli  from  night  aTid  utter  death, 

From  ilark  an<l  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 

Down  these  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks, 

Forever  shattered,  and  tlie  same  forever? 

"Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life. 

Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your 

Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam? 

And  who  conunamled  (and  the  silence  came), 

Here  let  your  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest? 

Y"e  ice-falls  !  ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brov/ 
Adown  enormous  r.ivines  slope  amain — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice. 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  tiieir  maddest  plunge  ! 
Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts  I 
Who  ma<le  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  Heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full-moon  ?    Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe  you  with    rainbows?      Who  with  living 

flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  j'our  feet? 
God  !  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer  !  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo.  God  ! 
God !    sing  ye    meadow-streams    with    gladsome 

voice  ! 
Y'e  pine-groves  witli  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds! 
And  they  too  have  a,  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow, 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God  I 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  fi-ost ! 
Y^'e  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest ! 
Y'e  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain-storm  ! 
Y'e  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds  I 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  elements  I 
Utter  forth  God  I  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise ! 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.  7JJ 

Thou  too,    hoar    Mount !  with    thy    sky-pointing 

peaks, 
Oft  from  whose  feet  tlie  avalanche,  unheard. 
Shoots   downward,    glittering  through  the  pure 

serene,  ' 
Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy  breast— 
Thou  too  again  atupendousi  Mountain  !  tiiou 
That,  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  l)Owed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
Slow  travelling,  with  dim  eyes  sulfused  witli  tears, 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapor}'  cloud. 
To  rise  l^efore  me — rise,  O  ever  rise  I 
Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense  from  the  earth  ! 
Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills. 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  Earth  to  Heaven, 
Great  Hierarch  !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky. 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  j'on  rising  sun. 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God  I 

ODE  TO  THE  DEPARTING   YEAR— 1796. 
I. 

Spirit  who  swoepcst  the  wild  harp  of  Time  ! 
It  is  most  hard,  with  an  untroubled  ear 
Thy  dark  inwoven  harmonies  to  hear  ! 
Yet.  mine  eye  fixed  on  Heaven's  unchanging  clime 
Long  had  I  listened  free  from  mortal  fear, 
"VVith  inward  stillness  and  a  bowed  mind  : 
■When  lo  !  its  folds  far  waving  on  the  wind, 
I  saw  the  train  of  the  departing  Year  I 
Starting  from  my  silent  sadness. 
Then  with  no  unholy  madness, 
Ere  yet  the  entered  cloud  foreclosed  my  sight, 
I  raised  the  impetuous  song,  and  solemnized  his 
flight.  .  .  . 

IV. 

Departing  Year  I  'twas  on  no  earthly  shore 
Mj-  soul  beheld  thy  vision  I  AVhere  alone. 
Voiceless  and  stern  before  the  cloudy  throne, 

Aye  Memory  sits  :  thy  robe  inscribed  with  gore, 

With  many  an  unimaginable  groan 

Thou  storied'st  thy  sad  hours  I  Silence  ensued, 
Deep  silence  o'er  the  ethereal  multitude, 

Whose  locks  with  wreaths,  whose  wreaths  with 
glories  shone. 


74    SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

Then  his  eye  -wild  ardors  glancing. 

From  the  clioired  gods  advancing. 
The  Spirit  of  the  Earth  made  reverence  meet, 
And  stood  up,  beautiful,  before  the  cloudy  seat. 

V. 

Throughout  the  blissful  tlirong 
Hushed  were  tlie  harp  and  song. 
Till   wheeling  round    the   throne    the    Lampads 
seven — 
Tiie  mystic  Words  of  Heaven — 
Permissive  signal  make. 
The  fervent   Spirit  bowed,  then   spread  its  wings 
and  spake  ! 
"  Thou  in  stormy  blackness  throning 

Love  and  uncreated  Light, 
By  tile  Earth's  unsolaced  groaning. 
Seize  thy  terrors.  Arm  of  Might  ! 
By  peace  with  olfered  insult  scared, 
Masked  hate  and  envying  scorn  ! 
By  years  of  havoc  yet  unljorn  I 
And  luinger's  bosom  to  the  frost-winds  bai'cd  I 
But  chief  by  Afric's  wrongs 

Strange,  hon-ible  and  foul  I 
By  what  deep  guilt  Ix'longs 
To  the  deaf  Synod,  '  full  of  gifts  and  lies  ! ' 
By  wealth's  insensate  laugh  !  by  torture's  howl ! 
Avenger,  rise  I 
Forever  shall  the  thankless  Island  scowl 
Her  quiver  full,  and  with  unbroken  bow? 
Speak  !    from  thy  storm-black   Heaven,  O  speak 
aloud  I 

And  on  the  darkling  foe 
Open  thine  eye  of  fire  from  some  uncertain  cloud  ! 

O  dart  tlie  flash  I     O  rise  and  deal  the  blow  ! 
The  Past  to  thee,  to  thee  the  Future  cries  I 

Hark,  how  wide  Nature  joins  her  gi-oans  below  ! 
Rise,  God  of  Nature,  rise  I "'  .  .  .  . 

VIII. 

Not  3'et  enslaved,  not  wholly  vile, 
O  Albion  !     O  my  Mother  Isle  ! 
Thy  valleys,  fair  as  Eden's  bowers, 
Glitter  green  with  sunny  showers  i 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.  75 

Thy  grassy  uplands'  gentle  swells 

Echo  to  the  bleat  of  flocks — 
Those  grassy  liills,  those  glittering  dells 

Pn>udly  ramparted  with  rocks  ; — 

And  Ocean,  niitl  his  uproar  wild; 

Speaks  safety  to  his  Island  cliild. 

Hence  for  many  a  fearless  age 
Has  social  Quiet  loved  thy  shore 

Nor  ever  proud  invaders  rago 
Or  sacked  thy  towel's  or  stained  thy  fields  with  gore. 

TO   LIBERTY. 
I. 

Ye  clouds  !  that  far  above  me  float  and  pause, 

Whose  pathless  march  no  mortal  may  control  ! 

Ye  Ocean  waves  !  that,  wheresoe'er  \c  roll, 
Yiehl  homage  only  to  eternal  laws  ! 
Ye  Woods  !  that  listen  to  the  night-bird's  singing 

Midway  the  smooth  and  perilous  slope  reclined. 
Save  when  your  own  imperious  branches  swinging 
Havt?  made  a  solemn  music  in  the  wind  ! 

Wliere.  like  a  man  Unloved  of  God, 
Through  glooms  which  never  woodman  trod, 

How  oft.  pursuing  fancies  holy, 
My  moouliglit  way  o'er  flowering  weeds  I  wound, 

Inspired  beyond  the  guess  of  folly. 
By    each    rude    shape    and  wild    unconquerable 

sound  I 
O  ye  loud  AVaves  !  and  O  ye  Forests  high  ! 

And  O  ye  Clouds  that  far  above  me  soared  ! 
Thou  rising  Sun  !  thou  blue  rejoicing  Sky  ! 

Ye,  everything  that  is  and  will  be  free  ! 

Bear  witness  for  me,  wheresoe'er  ye  be. 

With  what  deep  worship  I  have  still  adored 

The  spirit  of  divinest  Liberty  !  .  .  .  . 

V. 

The  Sensual  and  the  Dark  rebel  in  vain, 
Slaves  by  their  own  compulsion  I     In  mad  game 
They  burst  their  manacles,  and  wear  the  name 

Of  Freedom,  graven  on  a  heavier  chain  ! 

O  Liberty  I  with  profitless  endeavor 
Have  I  pursued  thee,  many  a  weary  hour  ; 

But  thou  nor  swell'st  the  victor's  strain,  nor  ever 


76         SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

Didst  breathe  thy  soul  in  forms  of  liuman  jjower  ; 
Alike  from  all,  howe'er  they  praise  thee — 
Nor  prayer  nor  boastful  name  delays  thee — 

Alike  from  Priestcraft's  harpy  minions, 
xVnd  factious  Blasphemy's  obscener  slaves, 
Thou  speedest  on  thy  subtle  pinions, 
The  guide  of  homeless  winds,  and  playmate  of  the 

waves  ! 
And  there  I  felt  thee  I — on  that  sea-cliff's  verge, 
Whose  pines,  seai'ce  travelled  by    the  breeze 
above, 
Had  made  one  murmur  with  the  distant  surge  ! 
Yes,  while  I  stood  and  gazed  with  temples  l)are 
And  shot  my  being  through  earth,  sea.  and  air, 

Possessing  all  things  with  intensest  love  ! 
O  Liberty  !   my  spirit  felt  thee  there. 
— Ode  to  France — 1707. 

PRAYER  FOR   BRITAIN. 

Rut  O  dear  Britain  ;  O  my  Mother  Lsle  ! 

Needs  must  thou  prove  a  name  most  dear  and  holy 

To  me,  a  son,  a  brother,  and  a  friend, 

A  husband  and  a  father  I   who  revere 

All  bonds  of  natural  love,  and  find  them  all 

"Within  the  limits  of  tliy  i-ocky  sliores. 

0  native  Britain  !  O  my  Mother  Isle  I 

How  shouldst  thou  prove  aught  else  but  dear  and 

holy 
To  me,  who  from  thy  lakes  and  mountain-hills. 
Thy  clouds,  thy  quiet  dales,  thy  rocks  and  seas, 
Have  drunk  in  all  my  intellectual  life. 
All  sweet  sensations,  all  ennobling  thoughts, 
All  lovely  and  all  honorable  things. 
Whatever  makes  this  mortal  sjjirit  feel 
The  joy  and  greatness  of  its  future  being? 
There  lives  nor  form  nor  feeling  in  my  soul 
Unborrowed  from  my  country.     O  divine 
And  beauteous  Island  !  thou  hast  been  my  sole 
And  most  magnificent  temple,  in  the  Avhicli 

1  walk  with  awe,  and  sing  my  stately  songs. 
Loving  the  God  that  made  me  ! — Ma\-  my  fears, 
My  filial  fears,  be  vain  !  and  may  the  vaunts 
And  menaces  of  the  vengeful  euemj" 

Pass  like  the  gust,  that  roared  and  died  away. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.  77 

In  the  distant  tree  :  -whicii  Iieard,  ami  only  lieaid, 
In  tl'.is  low  dell,  bowed  not  the  delicate  grass.  .  . 
— Fears  in  Solitude — 1798. 


THE  ADIEU  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

"  Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrenched 

With  a  woeful  agony 
Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale, 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 

"  Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour. 

That  agony  returns  ; 
And  till  my  ghostly  tale  is  told, 

This  heart  within  me  burns.  ' 

"I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land, 

I  have  strange  power  of  speech  ; 
That  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 
I  know  tlie  man  that  must  hear  me  : 

To  him  my  tale  I  teach. 

**  What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door' 

The  wedding  guests  are  there. 
But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 

And  bridemaids  singing  are  : 
And  hark  !  the  little  vesper-bell. 

Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer. 

"  O  wedding  guest  I  this  soul  hath  been 

Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea  : 
So  lonely  'twas  that  God  himself 

Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

"  O  sweeter  than  the  mai-riage-feast, 

'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me. 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk. 

With  a  goodly  company  ! 

"To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 

And  all  together  pray, 
While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends^ 
OW  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  frinnds- 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay  ! 


78    SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

"  Farewell,  farewell !  but  this  I  tell 

To  thee,  thou  wedding  guest ! 
He  prayeth  well  wiio  loveth  well 

Both  ziian,  and  bird,  and  beast. 

"  He  prayeth  best,  wlio  loveth  best 

All  things,  both  great  and  small ; 
Fxjr  the  dear  God  wlio  loveth  us. 

He  made  and  loveth  all,"' — 

The  mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright 

Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 
Is  gone  :  and  now  the  wedding  guest 

Turned  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 

He  went  like  one  tliat  liath  been  stunned, 

And  is  of  sense  forlorn  : 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man 

He  rose  the  morrow  morn, 
—The  Rime  of  tlic  Ancient  Mariner. 

WE  MAKE  OUR  OWN   WORLD. 

O  lady  !  we  receive  but  wliat  we  give. 

And  in  our  life  alone  does  Nature  live  : 

Ours  is  lier  Avedding  garment,  ours  her  shroud  ! 

And  would  we  auglit  behold  of  higher  worth 
Tlian  that  inanimate,  cold  world  allowed 
To  the  poor  loveless,  ever-anxious  crowd. 

Ah  !  from  the  soul  itself  must  issue  forth 
A  light,  a  glory,  a  fair,  luminous  cloud. 

Enveloping  the  earth  ; 
And  from  the  soul  itself  must  there  be  sent 

A  sweet  and  potent  voice,  of  its  own  birth, 
Of  all  sweet  sounds  the  life  and  element ! 
O  pure  of  heart,  thou  need'st  not  ask  of  me 
Wliat  tliis  strong  music  in  the  soul  may  be  ; 
What,  and  wherein  it  doth  exist ; 
This  light,  this  glory,  this  fair  luminous  mist, 
This  beautiful  and  beauty-making  power  I — 

Joy,  virtuous  lady  !  joy  that  ne"er  was  given 
Save  to  the  pure,  and  in  their  purest  hour  ; 
Life  and  life's  effluence,  cloud  at  once  and  shower ; 
Joy,  lady,  is  the  spirit  and  the  power 
Which  wedding  Nature  to  us  gives  in  dower ; 

A  new  earth  and  new  heaven. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.  79 

Undreamed  of  by  the  sensvial  and  the  proud  : — 
Joy  is  the  sweet  voice,  joy  the  luminous  cloud  ; 

We  in  ourselves  rejoice  ! 
And  thence  flows  all  that  charms  or  ear  or  sight 

All  melodies  the  echoes  of  that  voice, 
All  colors  a  suffusion  from  that  light. 

— From  '■'Dejection'''' — an  Ode. 

THE  OtREAT  good   MAX. 

"  How  seldom,  friend,  a  good  great  man  inherits 

Honor  or  wealth  with  all  his  worth  and  pains  ! 
It  sounds  like  stories  from  the  land  of  spirits, 
If  any  man  obtain  that  which  lie  merits, 

Or  any  merit  that  svhich  he  obtains." — 
For  shamc,dcarfriend,renounce  this  canting  strain: 
What  wouldst  thou  have  a  good  great  man  obtain  ? 
Place  —titles — salary — a  gilded  chain — 
Or  throne  of  corses  which  his  sword  hath  slain  ? — 

Greatness  and  goodness  are  not  means,  but  ends  ! 

Hath  he  not  always  treasures,  always  friends, 
The  good  great  man  ? — Three  ti-easures.  Love  and 
Light, 

And  calm  Thoughts  regular  as  infant's  bivath; — 
And  three  firm  friends  more  sure  than  day  and 
night — 

Himself,  his  Maker,  and  the  angel  Death. 

ON   THE   LAST  WORDS  OF  BEREXGARIUS. 

"  No  more  'tivixt  Conscience  staggering  and  the  Pope, 
Soon  sluM  I  now  before  my  God  appear. 
By  him  to  be  acquitted,  as  I  hope  ; 
By  him  to  be  condemned,  as  I  fear." 

Lynx  amid  moles  !  had  I  stood  by  thy  bed, 

"Be  of  good  cheei-,  meek  soul!"    I  would  have 

said  : 
"  I  see  a  hope  spring  from  that  humble  fear  ; 
All  are  not  strong  alike  through  storms  to  steer 
Right  onward.    What  though  dread  of  threatened 

death 
And  dungeon  tortures  made  thy  hand  and  breath 
Inconstant  to  the  truth  within  thy  heart  V — 
That  truth,  from  which  through  fear  thou  twice 

didst  start, 
Fear  haply  told  thee  was  a  learned  strife, 


80         SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIIXJE. 

Or  not  so  vital  as  to  claim  thy  life  ; 

And  myriads   liad  reached    heaven    who    never 

knew 
Where  lay  the  difference  'tuixt  tlie  false   and 
true  ! " — 

Ye  who  secure  'mid  trophies  not  your  own. 
Judge  hiiu  who  won  them  when  he  stood  alone, 
And  proudly  talk  of  "recreant  Bereugare" — 
Oh  first  the  ago  and  then  the  man  compare  I 
That  age  how  dark,  congenial  minds  how  rare ! 
No  host  of  friends  with  kindred  zeal  did  burn  1 
No  throbbing  hearts  awaited  his  return  ! 
Prostrate  alike  when  prince  and  jK-asant  fell, 
He  only  disenchanted  from  the  spell. 
Like  the  weak  worm  that  gems  the  stai'less  night, 
]\Iuved  in  the  scanty  circle  of  his  light  : 
And  was  it  strange  if  he  witlidrew  the  ray 
Tiiat  did  but  guide  the  night-birds  to  their  prey? — 

The  ascending  Day-star  with  a  bolder  eye 
Ilath  lit  each  dew-drop  on  our  trimmer  lawn  ! 
Yet  not  fur  tliis,  if  wise,  will  we  decry 
The  spots  and  struggles  of  the  timid  Dawn, 
Lest  so  we  tem|)t  the  approacliing  Noon  to  scorn 
The  mists  and  painted  vapors  of  our  Morn. 

TO   WORDSWORTH. 

[Composed  on  the  night  after  his  recitation  of  a  Poem  on  the 

Growth  of  an  Individual  Mind.] 

Friend  of  the  wise  and  teacher  of  the  good  ! 
Into  my  heart  have  I  received  that  lay 
More  than  historic — that  priphetic  lay 
Wherein  (high  tlieme  by  tliee  fii-st  sung  aright) 
Of  the  foundation  and  tlie  building  up 
Of  a  human  spirit  thou  hast  dared  to  tell 
What  may  be  told — to  tlie  understanding  mijid 
Revealable  :  and  what  within  the  mind 
By  vital  breathings  secret  as  the  soul, 
Of  vernal  growth,  oft  quickens  in  the  heart 
Thoughts  all  too  deep  for  words  I — 

Theme  hard  as  high  ; 
Of  smiles  spontaneous,  and  mysterious  fears 
(The  first-born  they  of  Reason  and  twin-birth) ; 
Of  tides  obedient  to  external  force, 
And  currents  self-determined,  as  might  seem. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  (COLERIDGE.  81 

Or  by  some  inner  power  ;  of  moments  awful, 

Now  in  tlu!  inner  life,  and  now  abroad. 

When  power  streamed  from  thee,  and  thy  soul 

received 
The  light  reflected,  as  light  bestowed  ; 
Of  fancie.-:  lair,  and  milder  hours  of  youth  ; 
Hyblean  nmrmurs  of  poetic  thought 
Industrious  in  its  joy,  in  vales  and  glens. 
Native  or  outland  ;  lakes  and  famous  liills  : 
Or  on  the  lonely  high-road,  when  the  stars 
Were  rising  ;  or  by  mountain  streams, 
The  guides  and  the  companions  of  thy  way. — 
Of  more  than  Fancy,  of  the  Sotnal  Sense 
Distending  wide.  .  .  .     Then  (last  strain) 
Of  Duty,  chosen  Laws  controlling  Choice, 
Action,  and  Joy  !     An  Orphic  song  indeed  ; 
A  song  divine  of  high  and  passionate  thoughts 
To  their  own  music  chanted  I 

O  great  Bartl  J 
Ere  yet  that  last  strain  dying  awed  the  air. 
With  steadfast  eye  I  viewed  thee  in  the  choir 
Of  ever-during  men.     The  truly  great 
Have  all  one  age.  and  from  one  visible  space 
Shed  influence  !     Time  is  not  with  them, 
Save  as  it  worketh  for  them,  they  in  it.  .  .  • 

Ah  !  as  I  listened,  with  a  heart  forlorn, 
The  pulses  of  my  being  beat  anew  : 
And  even  as  life  returns  upon  the  drowned, 
Life's  joy  rekindling  roused  a  throng  of  pains  : 
Keen  pangs  of  Love,  awakening  as  a  babe 
Turbulent  with  an  outcry  in  the  heart  ; 
And  Fears  self-willed,  that  shunned  the  eye  of 

Hope ; 
And  Hope  that  scarce  would  know  itself  from 

Fear  ; 
Sense  of  past  youth,  and  manhood  come  in  vain, 
And  genius  given,  and  knowledge  won  in  vain  ; 
And  all  which  I  had  culled  in  wood-walks  wild. 
And  all  which  patient  toil  had  reared,  and  all 
Commune  with  thee  had  opened  out — but  flowers 
Strewed  on  my  corse,  and  borne  upon  my  bier, 
In  the  same  cotfin,  for  the  self -same  grave. 

That  way  no  more  I  and  ill  beseems  it  me, 
Who  came  a  welcomer  in  a  herald's  guise. 


H-i         ."SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDUE. 

Singing  of  glory  and  futurity. 
To  wander  Imckon  sucli  unhealtliful  road 
Plucking  the  poisons  of  self-harm  !     And  ill 
Such  intertwine  l)eseenis  triumphal  wreaths 
Strewed  before  thy  advancing. 

WOUK  WITHOUT  UOPE. — (1827.) 

All  nature  seoms  at  work.     Stags  leave  their  lair, 

Tin-  l)ees  are  stirring,  Ijirds  are  on  tlie  wing, 
And  Winter,  slumbering  in  the  open  air, 

Wears  on  his  smiling  face  a  dream  of  Spring  ; 

And  I  the  while,  the  sole  unbusy  thing 

Nor  honey  make,  nor  pair,  nor  build,  or  sing. 

Yet  well  I  ken  the  banks  where  amaranths  blow, 

Have  traced  the  founts  whence  streams  of  nectar 

flow. 
Bloom,  O  ye  amaranths  I  bloom  for  whom  ye  may. 
For  me  ye  bloom  not.     (ilide.  rich  streams,  away  ! 
With  lii)s  unbrightened,  wreathless  brow,  I  stroll  : 
And  woulil  you  learu  the  spells  that  drowse  my 

soul  ? — 
Work  without  Hope  draws  nectar  in  a  sieve. 
And  Hope  without  an  object  cannot  live. 

The  Friend,  begun  in  June,  1809,  and  con. 
tinued  until  March,  1810,  embodies  some  of 
the  most  notable  of  Coleridge's  prose  writing. 

OBSCURrTY  OF  AUTHORS  VS.   INATTENTION  OF 
READERS. 

It  has  been  remarked  by  the  celebrated  Haller 
that  we  are  deaf  while  we  are  yawning.  The 
same  act  of  drowsiness  that  stretches  open  our 
mouths  closes  our  ears.  It  is  mucli  the  same  in 
acts  of  the  understanding.  A  lazy  half- attention 
amounts  to  a  mental  yawn.  Where,  then,  a  sub- 
ject that  demands  attentive  thought  has  been 
thoughtfully  treated,  and  with  an  exact  and  pa- 
tient derivation  from  its  principles,  we  must  be 
willing  to  exert  a  portion  of  the  same  effort,  and 
to  think  tcitli  the  author,  or  the  author  will  have 
thought  in  vain  for  us.  It  makes  little  difference, 
for  the  time  being,  whether  there  be  an  hiatus  os- 
citans  in  the  reader's  attention  or  an  hiatus  lacry- 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.  85 

viabilis  in  the  author's  manuscript.  When  this 
occurs  during  the  perusal  of  a  work  of  known 
authority  and  established  fame,  we  honestly  lay 
the  fault  on  our  own  deticiency.  or  on  the  unfit- 
ness of  our  present  mood  ;  but  when  it  is  a  con- 
temporary production  over  which  we  have  been 
nodding,  it  is  far  more  pleasant  to  pronounce  it 
insufferably  dull  and  obscure.  Indeed,  as  "  chari- 
ty begins  at  home,"  it  would  be  unreasonable  to 
expect  that  a  reader  should  charge  himself  with 
lack  of  intellect,  when  the  effect  may  be  equally 
well  accountetl  for  by  declaring  the  author  unin- 
telligible ;  or  that  he  should  accuse  his  own  inat- 
tention, when  by  half  a  dozen  phrases  of  abuse,  as 
"heavy  stuff,"  "metaphysical  jargon,"'  etc..  he 
can  at  once  excuse  his  laziness,  and  gratify  his 
pride,  scorn,  and  envy. — Tlie  Frioid,  Essay  IV. 

THE  WORTH   AND   PRICE  OF  KNOWLEDGE. 

It  is  not  true  that  ignorant  persons  have  no  no- 
tion of  the  advantages  of  truth  and  knowledge. 
They  see  and  confess  those  advantages  in  the  con- 
duct, the  immunities,  and  the  superior  powers  of 
the  possessors.  Were  these  attainable  by  pilgrim- 
ages the  most  toilsome,  or  penances  the  most 
painful,  we  should  assuredly  have  as  many  pil- 
grims and  self-tormentors  in  the  service  of  true 
religion  and  virtue  as  now  exist  under  the  tyran- 
ny of  Papal  and  Brahman  superstition.  This  in- 
efHcacy  of  legitimate  reason,  from  the  want  of  fit 
objects — this  its  relative  weakness,  and  how  nar- 
row at  all  times  its  immediate  sphere  of  action 
must  be — is  proved  to  us  by  the  impostoi-s  of  all 
professions.  What,  I  pray  you,  is  their  fortress, 
the  rock  which  is  both  their  quariy  and  their 
foundation,  from  which  and  on  which  they  are 
built? — The  desire  of  arriving  at  the  end  with- 
out the  effort  of  thought  and  will  which  are  the 
appointed  means. 

Let  us  look  back  three  or  four  centuries.  Tlien, 
as  now,  the  great  mass  of  mankind  were  govern- 
ed by  the  thx'ee  main  wishes  :  the  wish  for  vigor 
of  body,  including  the  absence  of  painful  feelings; 
for  wealth,  or  the  power  of  procuring  the  extern- 


84  SAMUEL  TAVl.OK  (JOLEHIDGE. 

al  conditions  of  Ixxlily  enjoyment — these  during 
life  ;  and  security  from  pain,  and  continuance  of 
happiness  lieroafter.  Then,  as  now,  men  were 
desirous  to  attain  them  by  some  easier  meansthan 
those  of  temperance,  industry,  and  strict  justice. 
They  gladlj'  therefore  applied  to  the  Priest,  who 
could  ensure  them  happiness  lierenfter,  without 
the  performance  of  their  duties  here  ;  to  the  L<aw- 
yer.  wlio  could  make  money  a  substitute  for  a  right 
cause  ;  to  the  Physician,  whose  medicines  promis- 
ed to  take  the  sting  out  of  tlie  tail  of  tlieir  sensual 
indulgences,  and  let  them  fondle  and  play  with 
vice,  as  with  a  charmed  serpent :  to  the  Alchemist, 
whose  gold-tincture  would  enrich  them  without 
toil  or  economy  ;  and  to  the  Astrologer,  from 
whom  tliey  could  purcha.'-e  foresight  without 
knowledge  or  reflection. — The  Friend,  Essay  VII. 

WEIGHINO   AND  VALOXa  TRUTH   AND   ERROR. 

Luther  felt  and  j^reached  and  ^^TOte  and  acted 
as  beseemed  a  Luther  to  feel  and  utter  and  act. 
The  truths  which  had  been  outraged,  he  re-pro- 
claimed in  the  spirit  of  outraged  truth,  at  the 
behest  of  his  conscience,  and  in  the  service  of  the 
God  of  Truth.  He  did  his  duty,  come  good,  come 
evil !  and  made  no  question  on  which  side  the 
prepontlerance  would  be.  In  the  one  scale  there 
was  gold,  and  impressed  thereon  tlie  image  and 
superscription  of  the  Universal  Sovereign.  In  all 
the  wide  and  ever-widening  comnierce  of  mind 
with  mind  throughout  the  world,  it  is  treason  to 
refuse  it.     Can  this  have  a  counterweight  ? 

The  other  scale  might  have  seemed  full  up  to 
the  vei*y  balance-yard ;  but  of  what  worth  and 
substance  were  its  c<mtents?  Were  they  capable 
of  being  counted  or  weighed  against  the  former? 
The  conscience  is,  indeed,  already  violated  when 
to  moral  good  or  evil  we  oppose  things  possessing 
no  moral  interest.  Even  if  the  conscience  dared 
waive  this  her  preventive  veto,  yet  before  we 
could  consider  the  twofold  results  in  the  relation 
of  loss  and  gain,  it  must  be  known  whether  their 
kind  is  the  same  or  equivalent.  They  must  first 
be  valued,    and  then  they  may  be  weighed   or 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.  85 

counted,    if    they    are    worth    it. — The    Friend, 
Essay  VIIL 

TRUTH  PERMANENT,   ERROR  TRANSIENT. 

But  in  the  particular  case  before  us,  the  loss  is 
contingent  and  alien  ;  the  gain  essential,  and  the 
tree's  own  natural  produce.  The  gaui  is  perma- 
nent, and  spreads  tlu-ough  all  times  and  places, 
the  loss  hut  temporary  ;  and,  owing  its  very 
being  to  vice  and  ignorance,  vanishes  ut  tlie 
approach  of  knowledge  and  moral  improvement. 
Tile  gain  reaches  all  good  men,  belongs  to  all  that 
love  light,  and  desire  an  increase  of  light  ;  to  all, 
and  of  all  times,  mIio  thank  heaven  for  the  gracious 
dawn,  and  expect  the  noon-day  ;  ^^  ho  welcome 
the  first  gleams  of  Spring,  and  .sow  their  fields  iu 
confident  faitii  of  the  ripening  Summer  and 
rewarding  llarvest-tide.  But  the  loss  is  confined 
to  the  unenUghteued  and  the  prejudiced  ;  say 
rather,  to  the  weak  and  prejudiced  of  a  single 
generation.  The  prejudices  of  one  age  are  con- 
demned even  by  the  prejudiced  of  the  succeeding 
ages  ;  for  endless  are  the  modes  of  folly,  and  the 
fools  join  with  the  wise  in  passmg  sentence  on 
all  modes  but  their  own.  The  truth-haters  of 
every  future  generation  will  call  the  truth-haters 
of  another  generation  by  their  true  names  : — for 
even  these  the  stream  of  time  carries  onward. 

In  fine,  Truth,  considered  in  itself,  and  in  the 
effects  natural  to  it,  may  be  considered  as  a  gentle 
spring  or  water-course,  warm  from  the  genial 
earth,  and  breathing  up  into  the  snow-drift  that  is 
piled  up  and  around  its  outlet.  It  turns  the 
obstacle  into  its  own  form  and  character,  and  as  it 
makes  its  way  increases  its  stream.  And  should 
it  be  arrested  in  its  course  by  a  chilling  season,  it 
suffers  delay,  not  loss,  and  waits  only  for  a  change 
in  the  wind  to  awaken  again  and  roll  onwards. — 
Tlie  Friend,  Essay  VII. 

THE  GROWTH  OF  CIVIL  ORDER. 

In  quiet  times  and  prosperous  circumstances  a 
nation  presents  an  aggregate  of  individuals,  a 
busy  ant-hill  in  calm  and  sunshine.     By  the  happy 


86         SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

organization  of  a  well-governed  society  the  con- 
tradictory interests  of  ten  millions  of  such  indi- 
viduals may  neutralize  each  other,  and  be  recon- 
ciled in  the  results  of  a  national  interest.  Whence 
did  this  happy  organization  first  come  ?  Was  it  a 
tree  transplanted  from  Paradise,  with  all  its 
branches  in  full  fruitage?  Or  was  it  sowed  in 
sunshine?  Was  it  in  vernal  breezes  and  gentle 
rains  that  it  fixed  its  roots,  and  grew  and  strength- 
ened ?  Let  history  answer  these  questions.  With 
blood  was  it  planted  ;  it  was  rocked  in  tempests  ; 
the  goat,  the  ass,  and  the  stag  gnawed  it ;  the 
wild-boar  has  whetted  its  tusks  on  its  bark.  Tlie 
deep  scars  are  still  extant  on  its  trunk,  and  the 
path  of  the  lightning  may  be  traced  among  its 
higher  branches.  And  even  after  its  full  growth, 
in  the  season  of  its  strength;  when  '*  its  height 
reached  to  the  lieaven,  and  the  sight  thereof  to  all 
the  earth,"  the  whirlwind  has  more  than  once 
forced  its  stately  top  to  toucli  the  ground  :  it  has 
been  bent  likea  bow,  and  sprung  back  like  tlie  shaft. 
Mightier  powers  were  at  work  tlian  expediency 
ever  yet  called  up  :  yea,  mightier  than  the  mere 
understanding  can  cooiprehend. — The  Statesman's 
Manual. 

The  Aids  to  Rpflection  is  the  only  consider- 
able prose  work  of  Coleridge  which  can  be  re- 
garded as  a  completed  production.  It  con- 
sists mainly  of  "Aphorisms"'  or  selections  from 
the  works  of  Robert  Leighton,  the  Episcopal 
Archbishop  of  Glasgow  (1611-1684),  with  elab- 
orate comments  and  amplifications  by  Cole- 
ridge. In  an  introductory  "Address  to  the 
Reader,"  he  sets  forth  the  aim  which  he  had 
in  view  in  preparing  this  work : 

AIM  OF  THE  AIDS  TO  REFLECTION. 

Fellow  Christian  I  the  wish  to  be  admired  as  a 
fine  writer  held  a  very  subordinate  place  in  my 
thoughts  and  feelings  in  the  composition  of  this 
volume.  Let  then  its  comparative  merits  and  de- 
merits, in  respect  of  style  and  stimulancy,  possess 
a  propoitional  weight  in  determining  your  judg- 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.  87 

merit  for  or  against  its  contents.  Read  it  through  : 
then  compare  the  state  in  which  your  mind  wa8 
•when  you  first  opened  the  book.  Has  it  led  you 
to  reflect  ?  Has  it  supplied  or  suggested  fresh  sub- 
jects for  reflection  ?  Has  it  given  you  any  new 
information  ?  Has  it  removed  any  obstacle  to  a 
lively  conviction  of  your  own  responsibility  as  a 
moral  agent';:'  Has  it  solved  any  difficulties  which 
had  impeded  your  faith  as  a  Christian?  Lastly 
has  it  increased  your  power  of  thinking  connect- 
edly, especially  on  the  scheme  and  purpose  of  the 
Redemption  by  Christ.  If  it  have  done  none  of 
these  things,  condemn  it  aloud  as  worthless  ;  and 
strive  to  compensate  for  your  own  loss  of  time,  by 
preventing  others  from  wasting  theirs.  But  if 
your  conscience  dictates  an  aflirmative  answer  to 
all  or  any  of  the  preceding  questions,  declare 
this  too  aloud,  and  endeavor  to  extend  my  utili- 
ty.—//if  rod  uc^toft  to  Aids  to  Reflection. 

FOR   WHOM  THE  AIDS  WERE   WRITTEN. 

Generally,  for  as  many  in  all  classes  as  wish  for 
aid  in  disciplining  their  minds  to  habits  of  reflec- 
tion ;  for  all  who,  desirous  of  building  up  a  man- 
ly character  in  the  light  of  distinct  consciousness, 
are  content  to  study  the  principles  of  moral  archi- 
tecture on  the  several  grounds  of  Prudence,  Mor- 
ality, and  Religion.  And  lastly  for  all  who  feel 
an  interest  in  the  position  which  I  have  under- 
taken to  defend  :  this  namely,  that  the  Christian 
faith  is  the  perfection  of  human  intelligence — an 
interest  sufficiently  strong  to  insure  a  patient  at- 
tention to  the  arguments  brought  in  its  support. — 
Preface  to  Aids  to  Reflection. 

The  work  begins  with  a  iseries  of  about 
thirty  "Introductory  Aphorisms,"  some  of 
which  here  f oIIoav  : 

INTRODUCTORY  APHORISMS. 

Aphorism  J.— In  philosophy,  equally  as  in  poet- 
ry, it  is  the  highest  and  most  useful  prerogative  of 
genius  to  pl'oduce  the  strongest  impressions  of 
novelty,    while  it  rescues  admitted  truths  from 


88    SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

the  neglect  caused  by  tlie  very  circumstance  of 
their  universal  admission.  Extremes  meet.  Truths 
of  all  others  the  most  awful  and  interesting  are 
often  considered  as  so  true,  that  they  lose  all  the 
power  of  truth,  and  lie  bed-ridden  in  the  dormi- 
tory of  the  soul,  side  by  side  with  the  most  de- 
spised and  exploded  errors. 

Ajjhorisjii  V. — As  a  fruit-tree  is  more  valuable 
than  any  one  of  its  fruits  singly,  or  even  than  all 
its  fruits  of  a  single  season,  so  the  noblest  object 
of  reflection  is  the  mind  itself,  by  which  we  re- 
flect. And  as  the  blossoms,  the  green  and  ripe 
fruit  of  an  orange-tree  are  more  beautiful  to  be- 
hold wlien  on  the  tree,  and  seen  as  one  with  it,  than 
the  same  growth  detacheil  and  seen  successively, 
after  tlieir  importation  into  another  country  and 
different  clime  ;  so  it  is  with  the  manifold  objects 
of  reflection,  when  they  are  considered  principal- 
ly in  reference  to  the  reflective  power,  and  as 
part  and  parcel  of  tlie  same.  No  object,  of  what- 
soever value  our  passions  may  represent  it,  but  be- 
comes foreign  to  us  as  soon  as  it  is  altogether  un- 
connected with  our  intellectual,  moral,  and  spirit- 
ual life.  To  be  ours,  it  must  be  referred  to  the 
mind,  either  as  a  motive,  or  consequence,  or 
sjMuptom. 

Aj^hon'sm  IX. — Life  is  the  one  universal  soul, 
which,  by  virtue  of  the  enlivening  Breath  and  the 
informing  Word,  all  org.-inized  bodies  have  in 
common,  each  after  its  kind.  This,  therefore,  all 
animals  possess — and  Man,  as  an  animal.  But,  in 
addition  to  this,  God  transfused  into  man  a  higher 
gift,  and  specially  imbroathed : — even  a  Living 
(that  is  self-subsisting)  Soul ;  a  Soul  having  its 
life  in  itself  : — "■  And  Man  became  a  Living  Soul."' 
He  did  not  merely  possess  it — he  became  it.  It 
was  his  proper  being,  his  truest  self — the  Man  in 
the  man.  None,  then,  not  one  of  human  kind,  so 
poor  and  destitute  but  there  is  provided  for  him, 
even  in  his  present  state,  "a  house  not  built  with 
hands  ;  "  aye,  and  in  spite  of  the  philosophy  (false- 
ly so-called)  which  mistakes  the  causes,  the  con- 
ditions, and  the  occasions  of  our  becoming  con- 
scious of    certain  truths    and  realities,    for    the 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.    89 

truths  and  realities  themselves— a  house  glorious- 
ly furnished.  Nothing  is  wanted  but  the  eye, 
wliich  is  the  light  of  this  house,  the  light  which  is 
the  eye  of-  the  soul.  This  very  light,  this  enlight- 
ening eye,  is  Reflection.  It  is  more,  indeed,  than 
is  ordinaril}'  meant  by  that  word  ;  but  it  is  what 
a  Christian  ought  to  mean  by  it,  and  to  know, 
too,  whence  it  fust  came,  and  still  continues  to 
come  : — of  what  Light  even  this  light  is  but  a  re- 
flection. This,  too,  is  Thought ;  and  all  Ihcnight 
is  but  unthinking  that  does  not  flow  out  of  this, 
or  tend  towards  it. 

Aphorimi  XVII. — A  reflective  mind  is  not  a 
flower  which  grows  wild,  or  conies  up  of  its 
own  accord.  The  difficulty  is  indeed  greater 
than  many — who  mistake  quick  recollection  for 
thought — are  disposed  to  admit ;  but  how  much 
less  than  it  would  be,  had  we  not  been  born  and 
bred  in  a  Christian  and  Protestant  land,  few  of  us 
are  sufficiently  aware.  Truly  may  we,  and  thank- 
fully ought  we,  to  exclaim  with  tiie  Psalnii.-t, 
"  The  entrance  of  thy  word  giveth  light,  it  givuth 
understanding  to  the  simple  1 " 

Aphorism  XVIII.  Examine  the  journals  of 
our  zealous  missionaries — I  will  not  say  among 
the  Hottentots  or  Esquimaux — but  in  the  highly 
civilized,  though  fearfully  uncultivated,  inhab- 
itants of  ancient  India.  How  often  and  how 
feelingly  do  not  they  describe  the  difficulty  of 
rendering  the  simplest  chain  of  thought  intel- 
ligible to  the  ordinary  natives  ;  the  rapid  exhaus- 
tion of  their  wdiole  power  of  attention  ;  and  with 
what  distressful  effort  it  is  exerted  while  it  lasts  ! 
Yet  it  is  among  these  that  the  hideous  pi-actices 
of  self-torture  chiefly  pi'evail.  Oh,  if  folly  were 
no  easier  than  wisdoni — it  being  often  so  very 
much  more  grievous — how  certainly  might  these 
unhappy  slaves  of  superstition  be  converted  to 
Cliristianity !  But  alas  !  to  swing  by  hooks  passed 
tlu-ough  the  back,  or  to  walk  in  shoes  with  nails  of 
iron  pointed  upwards  through  the  soles — all  this 
is  so  much  less  difficult,  demands  so  much  less 
exertion  of  the  will,  than  to  reflect,  and  by 
reflection  to  gain  knowledge  and  tranquillity. 


90    SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

Aphorism  XXII. — The  rules  of  Prudence,  in 
general — like  the  Law.s  of  the  Stone  Tables — are 
for  the  most  part  proliibitive.  "Thou  shall  not" 
is  their  characteristic-  fornuila :  and  it  is  an 
especial  part  of  Christian  Prudence  that  it  should 
be  so.  Nor  woulil  it  be  difficult  to  bring  \inder 
this  head  all  the  social  oblif^ations  that  arise  out 
of  the  relations  of  this  present  life,  which  the 
sensual  understandinjz:  ("  the  mind  of  the  flesh," 
Rom.  viii.  fi).  is  of  itself  able  to  discover;  ami  tlie 
performance  of  wliich.  imder  favorable  circum- 
stances, the  merest  worldly  self-interest,  witiiout 
love  or  faith,  is  sufficient  to  enforce  ;  but  which 
Cliristian  Pruilence  enlivens  by  a  higher  prin- 
ciphs  and  rendei-s  symbolic  and  sacramental 
{Eph.  V.  32). 

Aphorism  A'AVr. — Morality  is  the  IxkIv  of 
■which  faith  in  Ciirist  is  the  soul  : — so  far,  indeed, 
its  earthly  lx>dy  as  it  is  adapted  to  its  state  of 
warfare  on  earth,  and  the  appointed  form  and 
instrument  of  its  present  communion  witli  the 
present  world  ;  yet  not  "terrestrial,"  nor  of  the 
world,  but  a  celestial  body,  and  capable  of  being 
transfigured  from  glory  to  glory,  in  accordance 
with  the  varying  circumstances  and  outward  re- 
lations of  its  moving  and  informing  spirit. 

Ajjhorism  XXX. — What  the  duties  of  Morality 
are,  the  Apostle  instructs  the  believer  in  full  ; 
comprising  them  under  the  two  lieads  of  negative 
and  positive  :  Negative— to  keep  himself  pure 
from  the  world  ;  and  Positive — beneficence,  from 
loving-kindness  ;  that  is,  love  of  liis  fellow-men 
(his  kind)  as  himself. 

Apho7-ism  A'A'A'/.  — Last  and  highest,  come  the 
spiritual,  comprising  all  the  truths,  acts,  and 
duties  that  have  an  especial  reference  to  the  time- 
less, tlie  permanent,  the  eternal  ;  to  the  sincere 
love  of  the  true  as  Truth,  of  the  good  as  Good,  and 
of  God  as  both  in  one.  It  comprehends  the  whole 
ascent  from  Uprightness  (morality,  virtue,  inward 
rectitude)  to  Godliness,  with  all  the  acts,  exercises, 
and  discipline  of  mind,  will,  and  affection  that  are 
requisite  or  conducive  to  the  great  design  of  re- 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.    'Jl 

demption  from  the  form  of  the  Evil  One,  and  of 
our  second  creation,  or  birth,  in  the  Divine  Image. 
Aphorium  XXXII. — It  may  be  an  additional 
aid  to  reflection  to  distinguish  the  tlu'ee  kinds 
severally,  according  to  the  faculty  to  which  each 
corresponds — the  part  of  our  human  nature  which 
is  more  particular!}'  its  organ.  Tims  :  the  pru- 
dential corresponds  to  the  sense  and  the  under- 
standing ;  the  moral  to  the  lieart  and  conscience  ; 
the  .<{p/r;7urj/ to  tlie  will  and  \\u\  reason;  that  is, 
to  the  finite  will  reduced  to  harmony  witli,  and  in 
subordination  to  the  reason,  as  a  ray  from  that 
true  light  whicli  is  both  rea.son  and  will  absolute. 

In  the  Biographic  Literaria  Coloiidge  gives 
a  somewhat  desultory  record  of  his  literary 
life  and  opinions ;  thus  concluding : 

GENERAL  OBJECT  OF  ALL  HIS  WORKS. 
This  h;us  been  my  object,  and  this  alone  my  de- 
fense ;  and  Oh  !  that  witli  this  my  personal  as 
well  as  my  Tjiterary  Life  might  conchide  I  The 
unquenched  desire,  I  mean,  not  without  the  con- 
sciousness of  having  earnestly  endeavored  to  kindle 
young  minds,  and  to  guard  them  against  the 
temptations  of  scorners,  by  showing  tliat  the 
scheme  of  Christianity,  as  tauglit  in  the  liturgies 
and  homilies  of  our  Church,  tliough  not  discover- 
able by  human  reason,  is  yet  in  accordance  with 
it ;  that  link  follows  link  by  necessary  consequence; 
that  Religion  passes  out  of  the  ken  of  Reason  only 
when  the  eye  of  Reason  has  reached  its  own  hori- 
zon ;  and  that  Faith  is  then  but  its  continuation  ; 
even  as  the  day  softens  away  into  sweet  twilight, 
and  twilight,  hushed  and  breathless,  steals  into  the 
darkness.  It  is  night — sacred  night  !  the  uprais- 
ed eye  views  only  the  starry  heaven,  which  mani- 
fests itself  alone :  and  the  outward  beholding  is 
fixed  on  the  sparks  twinkling  in  the  awful  depths 
— though  suns  of  other  worlds — only  to  preserve 
the  soul  steady  and  collected  in  its  pure  act  of  in- 
ward adoration,  to  the  great  I  AM.  and  to  the 
filial  Word  that  reaffirms  it  from  eternity  to  eter- 

nitv.— ©Ei:  MONO  AOBA. 


93  SARA  COLERIDGE. 

COLERIDGE,  Sara,  daughter  of  Samuel 
Taylor  Coleridge,  born  at  Keswick  in  1802, 
died  in  London  in  1852.  While  she  was  an  in- 
fant Coleridge  contracted  those  unfortunate 
habits  which  marred  many  years  of  his 
life.  He  virtually  abandoned  his  family, 
leaving  them  to  the  care  of  Southey,  who 
had  married  the  sister  of  his  wife.  Guided 
by  Southey,  and  with  his  ample  library 
at  her  command,  she  read  the  principal 
Greek  and  I^atin  classics,  and  at  the  age  of 
twenty  published  a  traiislatiim,  in  three  large 
volumes,  of  l)<>brizhoffcr's  Arconnt  of  the 
Abipo)ien,  which  had  suggested  to  Southey 
his  Tale  of  Puragiuiy.  She  was  also  acquaint- 
ed with  French,  German,  Italian,  and  Span- 
ish. Wordsworth's  fine  poem,  Tlie  Triad,  is 
a  poetical  glorification  of  his  own  daughter, 
Dora  Wordsworth,  of  Eilith  Southey,  and  of 
Sara  Coleridge,  who  is  thus  described  : 

S.VRA   COLERmGE  AT  TWENTY-SIX. 

I^ast  of  the  Tliroo,  thou;^h  eldest  l)orn, 

lieveal  thyself  like  i)ent<ive  Morn, 

Touched  by  the  skyhu-k's  earliest  note, 

Ere  hunihliT  KlJidness  be  afloat. 

Rut  whether  in  the  semblance  drest 

Of  Dawn — or  Eve,  fair  vision  of  the  west — 

Come  with  each  anxious  Impe  subdued. 

By  woman's  gentle  fortitude. 

Each  grief  through  meekness  settling  into  rest. — 

Or  I  would  hail  tlue  when  some  liigh-wrought  page 

Of  a  closed  volume  lingering  in  the  hand 

lias  raised  thy  spirit  to  a  jteaceful  stand 

Among  the  glories  of  a  happier  age. 

Her  brow  liath  opened  on  me — see  it  there, 

Brightening  beneatli  the  umbrage  of  her  hair ; 

So  gleams  the  crescent  moon,  that  loves 

To  be  descried  through  shady  groves. 

Tenderest  bloon\  is  on  her  c-heek  ; 

Wish  not  for  a  richer  streak  ; 

Nor  dread  the  depth  of  meditative  eye ; 


SARA  COLERIDGE.  93 

But  let  thy  love,  upon  tliut  azure  field 
Of  thoughtfulne.ss  and  beauty,  yield 
Its  Iiomage  otfered  up  in  jjurity.— 
AVhat  would'st  thou  more?    In  sunny  glade, 
Or  under  leaves  of  thickest  shade, 
Was  svich  a  stillness  e'er  diffused 
Since  earth  grew  calm  while  angels  mused? 
Softly  she  treads,  as  if  her  foot  were  loth 
To  crush  the  mountain  dew-drops— soon  to  melt 
On  the  flower's  breast,  as  if  she  felt 
That  flowei-s  themselves,  whate  er  tlieir  hue. 
With  all  their  fragrance,  all  their  glistt^ning. 
Call  to  the  heart  for  inward  listening  : 
And  though  for  bridal  wreaths  and  tokens  true 
Welcomed  wisely  ;  though  a  growth 
Which  the  careless  .shepherd  sleeps  on. 
As  fitly  sprung  horn  turf  the  mourner  weeps  on— 
And  without  wrong  are  cropiK>d  the  marble  tomb 
to  strew. 
—Wordsworth  :    The  Triad. 

In  1820  Sara  Coleridge  was  married  to  her 
cousin,  Henry  Nelson  Coleridge,  a  rising  Lon- 
don barrister,  and  author  of  an  excellent 
Introduction  to  the  Study  of  the  Greek  Cktatiic 
Poets.  Shortly  after  the  death  of  S.  T.  Cole- 
ridge, he  commenced  the  collection  and  ed- 
iting of  the  Avorks  of  the  poet,  in  which  he 
was  aided  by  Siira  Coleridge,  who  coniplete<l 
the  work,  after  the  death  of  her  husband  in 
1843.  To  this  collected  edition  she  furnished 
some  important  contributions,  explanatory  of 
the  text,  and  biographical.  Sara  Coleridge 
also  Aviote  several  works  of  her  own.  Among 
these  are  Pretty  Lessons  in  Verse  for  Good 
Children  (1834),  originally  written  for  her  own 
childi-en,  which  became  popular  when  pub- 
lished, and  a  new  edition  of  which  was  brought 
out  a  few  years  ago.  Her  longest  work  is 
Phantasmion,  a  Fairy  Tale  {IS'37;  republished 
in  1874,  with  a  Preface  by  Lord-Chief -Justice 
Coleridge).  Phantasmion  is  not  only  a  prose- 
poem,  but  it  contains  sevenil  exquisite  lyrics, 


94  JEREMY   COLLIER. 

and  the  whole  tale  is  noticeable  for  tile  beauty 
of  its  story  and  the  richness  of  its  language. 
During  the  later  years  of  her  life  Sara  Cole- 
ridge was  a  confirmed  invalid.  Not  long  be- 
fore her  death  she  began  an  Autobiography, 
which  she  brought  down  only  to  her  ninth 
year.  This  was  continued  by  her  daughter, 
and  published  in  1873  under  the  title  of  Me- 
moirs and  Letters  of  Sara  Coleridge.  She 
was  buried  in  Highgate  Chiu-chyard,  London, 
by  the  side  of  her  father,  her  mother,  and  her 
husband. 

ON    THE  DEATH    OF    BLANCO  WHITE,    184L 

Couldst  thou  in  calmness  yield  thy  mortal  breath 

Without  the  Christian's  sure  and  certain  hope  ? 

Didst  thou  to  earth  confine  our  being's  scope, 
Yet  fixed  on  One  Supreme  with  fervent  faith, 
Prompt  to  obey  Avliat  conscience  witnesseth, 

As  one  intent  to  fly  tlie  eternal  wrath 
Decline  the  ways  of  sin  that  downward  slope  ? 
O  thou  light-searching  spirit  I  tliat  didst  grope 

In  such   bleak  shadows  liore,   'twixt   life  and 
death  : — 
To  thee  daro  I  bear  witness,  tliough  in  ruth 

(Brave  witness  like  thine  own  !) — dare  hope  and 
pray 

That  thou,  set  free  from  this  imprisoning  clay, 
Now  clad  in  raiment  of  perpetual  youtli. 

May  find  that  bliss  untold,  'mid  endless  day. 
Awaits  each  earnest  soul  that  lives  for  Truth. 

COLLIER,  Jeremy,  an  English  clergyman 
and  author,  born  in  Cambridgeshire,  in  1650, 
died  in  1726.  He  was  educated  at  Cambridge, 
took  Holy  Orders,  and  in  1685,  was  appointed 
lecturer  at  Gray's  Inn,  London.  At  the 
Eevolution  of  1688  he  i-elinquished  his  office, 
rather  than  take  the  oath  of  allegiance  to 
William  III.  He  also  incurred  several 
months'  imprisonment  in  Newgate  by  the  pub- 
lication of  a  pamphlet.  The  Desertion  Discuss- 


JOHN  PAYNE  COLLIER.  95 

ed.  His  -whole  life  was  one  of  literary  warfare, 
in  which  ho  delighted.  Among  his  works  are 
an  Ecclesiastical  History  of  Great  Britain, 
and  a  volume  of  Essays  on  moral  subjects. 
He  is  best  known  by  his  Short  Vieiv  of  the 
Profanetiess  and  Immorality  of  the  Stage, 
published  in  1G98,  and  called  forth  by  the 
shameful  license  of  the  English  drama  after 
the  Restoration.  His  attack  was  the  begin- 
ning of  a  ten  years'  battle,  in  which  Congreve, 
Farquhar,  and  other  dramatists  Avere  his 
antagonists,  which  left  Collier  triumphant, 
and  which  resulted  in  the  gradual  pm-ification 
of  the  stage.  Of  the  Short  View,  Macaulay 
says:  "  There  is  hardly  any  book  of  the  time 
from  which  it  would  be  possible  to  select 
specimens  of  writing  so  excellent  and  so 
various.  He  was  complete  master  of  the 
rhetoric  of  honest  indignation.  The  spirit 
of  the  book  is  truly  heroic."  The  subjoined 
extract  is  from  the  preface  to  this  work : 

THE  COMIC   DRAMA   OF  THE   KESTORATIOX. 

Being  convinced  that  nothing  has  gone  further 
in  debauching  the  age  than  tlie  Stage-Poets  and 
Play-House,  I  thought  I  could  not  employ  my 
time  better  than  in  writing  against  them.  These 
men,  sure,  take  Virtue  and  Regularity  for  great 
enemies  ;  why  else  is  their  disaffection  so  very 
remarkable?  It  must  be  said,  they  have  made 
their  attack  with  great  courage,  and  gained  no 
very  inconsiderable  advantage.  But  it  seems. 
Lewdness  without  Atheism  is  but  half  their 
business.  Conscience  might  possibly  recover,  and 
revenge  be  thought  on  ;  and  therefore,  like  foot- 
pads, tliey  must  not  only  i"ob,  but  murther.  ,  .  . 
I  confess  I  have  no  cei'emony  for  debauchery. 
For  to  compliment  vice,  is  but  one  remove  from 
worshipping  the  Devil. 

COLLIER,  John  Payne,  an  English  critic 
and  author,  born  in  London,  in  17S9,  died  in 


%  JOHN  PAYNE  LOIXIER. 

1883.  Ho  began  tlie  study  of  law,  whioh  ho 
soon  relinquished  for  Ihcit  of  lilorature.  In 
1820  he  published  The  Poetical  Decanwron, 
consisting  of  ten  conversations  on  English 
poets  and  poetrj-.  His  Hidory  of  EiKjUsh 
Dramatic  Poetry  to  the  time  of  ShakesjK'arc, 
a)t(l  Annals  of  the  Stage  to  the  Restoratio)i, 
appeared  in  1831,  and  Xew  Facts  regarding 
the  Life  and  Works  of  Shakesjieare,  in  1835-30. 
He  also  published  a  new  edition  of  Shake- 
speare's Works,  and  Shakejijicares  Library, 
a  collection  of  ancient  romances,  legi  uds, 
and  poems  upon  which  the  great  poet's  works 
WL're  in  a  measure  founded.  In  1S52  he  pub- 
lished a  volume  entitled,  Xotes  and  Emen- 
dations to  the  Text  of  Shakesj)eare'8  Inlays 
from  Early  Manuscript  Corrections  in  a 
Copy  of  the  Polio  of  1632,  in  the  Possession  of 
J.  P.  Collier.  This  copy  of  the  plays,  purchas- 
ed by  him  at  a  bookstall,  contained  many 
marginal  notes  which  Collier  supposed  to 
have  been  written  soon  after  the  date  of  pub- 
lication, and  which  he  gave  to  the  world.  It 
excited  great  interest  among  literary  men, 
many  of  whom  regarded  the  Emendatio)is  as 
a  valuable  addition  to  Shakespearean  litera- 
ture, while  othei-s  assailed  them  as  spurious, 
even  accusing  Collier  himself  of  being  their 
author,  ^l  Bibliographical  AccoiDit  of  Rare 
Books  was  jiubUshed  by  him  in  1805. 

THE   AUDIENCE  IN   AN   OLD   THEATRE. 

The  vi.sitoi-s  of  our  old  theatres  used  to  amuse 
theiuselve.s  witli  reading,  playing  at  cards,  drink- 
iug.  and  smokiug  l)efore  or  during  the  perforui- 
ance.  It  has  already  been  shown  that  pamphlets 
were  sold  at  the  doors  of  piajhouses  to  attract 
purchasers  as  they  went  in,  and  Fitzgeollrey,  H. 
Parrot,  and  other  authors  allude  to  this  custom, 
in  passages  I  have  extracted  or  mentioned.  Dek- 
ker,  in  l)is  G»/r.s //orH-booA;  (1609),  tells  hLs  !»ero, 
whom  he  suppo-ses  to  be  sitting  on  the  stage,  '"  be- 


JOHN  PAYNE  COLLIER.  97 

/ore  the  play  begins  full  to  cards  ; "'  and  whether 
he  win  or  lose,  he  is  directed  to  tear  some  of  the 
cards  and  to  throw  tliem  about  just  before  the  en- 
trance of  the  prologue.  Sceplien  Gosson,  in  his 
Sdiuul  of  Abase  (1579),  informs  us  that  the  young 
men  of  his  day  treated  the  ladies  with  ai)ples,  and 
Fitzgeoflrey  mentions  that  they  were  cried  in  the 
theatres.  .  .  .  Nut-cracking  was  also  a  favorite 
amusement  of  the  lower  class  of  spectators,  to  the 
great  annoyance  of  poets  and  players  ;  and  in  the 
prologue  '"for  the  Court"  before  his  iStcqjk  of 
News,  Ben  Jonson  speaks  of — 

"  the  vulfrnr  sort 

Of  nut-crackers,  who  only  come  for  sight." 

It  is  of  course  unnecessary  to  establish  that  other 
fniits  were  sold  in  playhouses  at  the  res]>ective 
seasons.  The  consumption  of  tobacco  in  theatres 
IS  mentioned  by  innumerable  authorities,  l)Ut  it 
should  seem  from  a  line  in  tlie  epigrams  of  Sir  J. 
Davies  and  Christoplier  Marlowe,  printed  about 
1598,  that  at  that  period  it  was  a  service  of  some 
danger,  and  generally  objected  to  : 

"He  darc.i  to  take  Tobacco  on  the  stago  ;  " 

but  the  practice  very  soon  became  common,  for 
two  years  afterwards,  one  of  the  boy-acti.irs  in  the 
induction  to  Cynthia's  Revels,  imitating  a  gallant 
supposed  to  be  sitting  on  the  stage,  speaks  of  hav- 
ing his  "three  sorts  of  tobacco  in  his  pocket,  and 
his  light  by  him."  Dekker.  in  1G09,  tells  his  gal- 
lant to  "get  his  match  lighted;"  and  in  TJie 
Scornful  Lady  (1616),  Captains  of  Galiyfoists  are 
ridiculed,  "  who  only  wear  swoids  to  reach  fire  at 
a  play,"  for  the  purpose  of  lighting  their  pipes. 
Tobacco  was  even  sold  at  the  playhouse,  and  in 
Bm  tholomeir  Fair  {\(i\4).  Ben  Jonson  talksof  those 
who  •' accommodate  gentlemen  with  tobacco  at 
our  theatres."  In  1602,  wlien  Dekker  printed  liis 
Satiromastia:,  ladies  sometimes  smoked.  Asiuius 
Bubo,  offering  his  pipe,  observes  : — "'Tis  at  your 
service,  gallants,  and  the  tobacco  too  :  'tis  right 
pudding,  I  can  tell  you  :  a  ladj-  or  two  took  a  pipe- 
ful or  two  at  my  hand«,  and  praised  it  'fore  the 
heavens."  Pi-ynne  states  that  in  his  time,  instead 


98  ROBERT  LAIRD  COLLIER. 

of  apples,  ladies  were  sometimes  offered  the  to- 
bacco-pipe at  plays. 

Ben  Jonson,  Webster.  Beaumont  and  Fl«'tcher, 
Nabbes,  and  various  other  dramatists  allude  to 
memorandum-books,  then  called  writing-tables  or 
table-books,  used  by  auditors  to  note  down  jests  in 
plays,  for  retail,  or  passages  for  malicious  criticism. 
It  is  needless  to  go  into  proof  that  audiences  in  our 
old  theatres  expressed  their  approbation  or  disap- 
probation in  much  the  same  manner  as  at  present, 
by  clapping  of  hands,  exclamations,  hisses,  groans, 
and  the  imitation  of  the  mewing  of  cats. — "  Signor 
Snuff,"  says  Marston  in  the  induction  to  his  Uliat 
yon  Will  {1601),  "Monsieur  Mew,  and  Cavaliero 
Blirt.  are  three  of  the  most  to  be  feared  auditors," 
and  farther  on  he  asks  if  the  poet's  resolve  shall 
be— 

"Struck  ihrouRh  with  the  blirt 
Of  a  goose  breath  ? " 

SO  that  even  the  technical  phnise  of  "  treating  an 
actor  with  goo.se  "  was  understootl  then  as  well  as 
at  preseRt. — History  of  Engli.sli  Dramatic  I'uetry. 

COLLIER,  Robert  Laird,  an  American 
clergyman  and  author,  born  at  Salisbury, 
Md.,  August  7,  1837.  He  is  the  author  of 
Every  Day  Subjects  in  Sunday  Sermons,  Med- 
itations on  the  Essence  of  Christianity,  and 
Henry  Irving  :  a  Sketch  and  a  Criticism. 

AN  UXFORTUNATE  BROTHER. 

When  a  man  says  lie  does  not  believe  in  God,  I 
am  sure  he  is  either  very  fortunate  or  very  unfortu- 
nate. He  has  never  been  hungry  for  God,  never 
thii'sted  for  living  waters,  never  kno^\•n  the  bleeding 
of  a  vicarious  arid  grief -stricken  soul,  so  he  has  been 
fortunate  in  this.  Dare  I  say  so?  He  counts  it 
fortune.  I  say  in  reality,  he  has  been  most  un- 
fortunate— he  has  not  yet  breathed  the  breath 
of  life. 

The  ocean  sighs,  it  never  sings :  the  winter 
winds,  when  they  come,  moan,  never  clap  their 
hands  in  joy.  All  winds,  too.  come  from  heaven, 
so  we  caunot  mistake  the  key  to  which  its  music, 


MORTIMER  COLLINS.  99 

is  all  set.  Men  will  make  plad  music  on  a  harp, 
but  put  it  in  one's  window,  and  let  nature  play 
upon  its  strings,  and  the  music  is  all  minor,  som- 
bre, sad,  sighing,  wailing.  But  this  is  the  highest 
life.  The  multitude  rejoice  together,  the  saints 
dwell  in  solitary  places.  All  nature  is  in  the  ago- 
ny of  redemption— it  is  agony— man  redeems  him- 
self by  agony  ;  but  there  are  bright  clouds  and 
glory  unspeakable,  all  about  the  grief  of  struggle. 
So  this  man  wlio  says  there  is  no  God  is  a  \)00T 
unfortunate  brother,  who  has  never  felt  the  need 
of  God.  and,  it  is  strange  to  say,  these  people  are 
the  product  of  civilization — tlie  savages  all  have 
gods  ;  the  v)rops  of  wluit  we  call  civilization  take 
the  place  now  and  then  of  God,  only  for  a  time 
however  ;  they  rot  in  the  earth  and  the  spirit  falls, 
only  to  get  upon  surer  foundation.  God  will  claim 
tlie  heart,  and  only  comes  when  m:in  has  no 
other  resource  or  help.  So  he  magnilies  himself 
into  God.  If  one  could  dispose  of  Him  like  a  prob- 
lem of  mathematics,  or  make  a  telescopic  exami- 
nation of  Him,  then  He  would  not  be  God  at  all. 
He  is  God  because  He  is  unsearchable,  and  His 
ways  past  finding  out.  God  is  not  only  a  fact,  but 
alight :  not  only  a  truth,  but  a  life. — Meditations 
on  the  Essence  of  Christianity. 

COLLINS,  Mortimer,  an  English  poet  and 
novelist,  born  in  1827,  died  in  1876.  His  first 
volume  of  poems  was  published  in  1855,  and 
his  first  novel,  Who  is  the  Heir  ?  in  1865. 
Among  his  other  works  are  Siceet  Anne  Page 
(1868) ;  The  Ivory  Gate  (1869) ;  TJie  Vivian 
Romance  (1870) ;  The  Inn  of  Strange  Meet- 
ings, and  Marquis  and  Merchant  (1871)  ;  TJie 
Britisli  Birds :  a  Communication  from  the 
Ghost  of  Aristophanes  (1872)  :  The  Summer- 
field  Imbroglio  ;  Two  Plunges  for  a  Pearl ;  .A 
Fight  icith  Fortune;  and  in  conjunction 
with  his  wife,  Frances  Collins,  Sweet  and 
Twenty  and  Frances.  In  all  he  wrote  four- 
teen novels,   which  were    fairly  successful. 


100  MORTIMER  COLLINS. 

lie  wiis  .also  a  prolific  contributor,   in  prose 
and  verse,  to  periodicals. 

THE  IX)NDON'ER. 

To  be  n  true  Lomloner  is  to  know  the  highest 
Buhliniity  an<l  the  deejx-st  abasement  possible  to 
luunkiiid.  Your  cool  citizen  of  the  world's  cliief 
city,  ainuzeil  at  nothing,  amuse'l  by  everytiiing, 
analyses  or  appraises  a  s|)e»'cb  by  Disraeli  or 
Kenealy.  a  jioeiu  by  Browning  or  (iibbs.  even  as 
the  citizens  of  Athens  judged  Aristophanes  antl 
Alribiades.  Your  true  Lojuloner  is  a  man  of 
inllnite  iH)ssibiIitii's.  who  carefully  avoids  perform- 
ance, lie  is  a  man  who  could  do  anything  ho 
please«i  to  al>soluto  perfec-tion  ;  but  he  does  not 
clRK)8e  to  do  anything.  His  mission  i.i  to  criticise 
those  wlio  do  iiu|jerfectly  what  he  could  do  jier- 
fectly,  were  it  only  worth  his  wiiile.  It  is  not. 
London  is  to  him  a  theatre  ;  he  UiUes  a  i)er|>etual 
stall,  and  calmly  watches  the  gradual  development 
of  the  marvelous  drama  of  life,  in  which  every 
scene  is  a  surprise,  in  which  nolhing  is  certain 
but  the  unftTseen. 

The  City  crucible  condenses  intellect ;  and  the 
niau  who  knows  his  Lon«lon  knows  a  good  deal 
of  humanity.  It  is  a  curiously  siM'cial  art.  •  .  . 
No  En^^lishman  is  educated  who  ha.s  not  known 
London.  It  is  the  only  a'osolute  university.  We 
all  graduate  there,  from  st.'ite«sman  to  burj^lar, 
from  poet  to  penny-a-liner.  But  London  should 
be  strictly  regarded  as  a,  University.  No  man 
should  remain  in  it  regularly  after  the  time  when 
his  intellect  comes  of  age,  which  is  somewhere 
about  forty. — .1  Fiijht  with  Fortune. 

ON  EYES. 

There's  the  eye  that  simply  reflects — a  mere 
retina,  a  mirror,  and  no  more.  People  with  that 
sort  of  optical  instrument  go  through  the  world 
without  a  suspicion  of  its  mysteiy  and  its  magic. 
They  look  with  eijual  interest  on  an  oak  and  an 
omnibus,  unav.-are  that  the  oak  has  its  Dryad,  and 
the  Dryad  perchance  her  Rhaicos.  They  see  no 
Drvads.  bless  vour  heart  I    nor  anv  Naiads  with 


MORTIMER  COLLINS.  101 

soft  soluble  limbs  in  wandering  watei's,  nor  any 
gliosis  in  grim  old  bouses,  tliougb  ancient  unboly 
murders  be  photograplied  on  tlieir  walls.  Worse 
than  that,  they  never  see  tlieir  wives  and  cliildren. 
They  perceive  fine  well-dressed  female  animals, 
and  jolly  young  cubs  of  their  own  race,  but  the 
divinity  of  wonianboo*!  ai:.d  the  mystery  of  child- 
hood, are  alike  lieyond  their  ken. 

•'Our  birtli  is  but  a  sleep  ami  a  forRettinp  ; 

The  soul  tliat  rises  with  us,  our  life's  star, 

Ilatli  had  elsewhere  its  settiiip, 

And  Cometh  from  afar." 

This  great  utterance  of  Wordsworth  woidil 
sound  like  sheer  nonsense  to  men  with  what  may 
be  called  looking-glass  eyes. 

Nor  are  the  fellows  nuich  better  who  possess 
eyes  that  j)ierce.  They  can  tell  a  rogue  from  a 
fool — that  is  all  ;  a  go<iil  useful  <iuality  in  a  world 
like  this.  Tlu^v  are  like  men  who  have  always 
lived  in  broad  day — who  have  never  seen  even- 
gloam  or  moonbgiit.  But  a  man  whose  eyes  are 
».)f  the  highest  service  to  him  is  he  who  can  see 
beyond  the  mere  outer  husk  of  things  ;  Avho  can 
discover  the  nymph  in  the  oak,  and  catch  the 
fairies  dancing  in  the  moonlit  woods,  and  look 
beyond  the  region  of  hard  fact  into  the  realm  of 
dreams. — TJie  Vivian  Bomance. 

MY  THRUSH. 
All  through  the  sultry  hours  of  June, 
From  morning  blitiie  to  golden  noon, 

And  till  the  star  of  evening  climbs 
The  gray-blue  East,  a  world  too  soon. 

There  sings  a  Thrush  amid  the  limes, 

God's  poet,  hid  in  foliage  green. 
Sings  endless  songs,  himself  unseen  : 

Right  seldom  come  his  silent  times. 
Linger,  ye  summer  hours  serene  I 

Sing  on.  dear  Thrush,  amid  the  limes  ! 

May  I  not  dream  God  sends  thee  there, 
Thou  mellow  angeJ  of  the  air. 

Even  to  rebuke  my  earthlier  rhymes 
With  music's  soul,  all  praise  and  prayer? 

Is  that  thv  lesson  in  the  limes  ? 


102  MORTIMER  COLLINS. 

Closer  to  God  art  thou  than  I : 

His  minstrel  thou,  wliose  brown  wings  fly 

Though  silent  cither's  sunnier  climes. 
Ah,  never  may  thy  music  die  ! 

Sing  oh,  deal'  Thrush,  amid  the  limes  ! 

"  A   MOUNTAIN   APART." 

"Who  that  has  seen  a  mountain  jieak, 
•■    With  pines  upon  it,  and  a  pure  clear  air 
Surrounding,  would   not  think  that  Christ  might 
seek 

Such  place  of  prayer  ! 

0  purple  heather  I  furze  of  gold  ! 

Loiii^  slopes  of  soft  green  grass,  cool  to  the  feet ! 
Chapels  of  living  rock  that  wise  men  hold 
For  worship  meet. 

God  built  them  high  in  upper  air 
That  those  who  loved  Him  might  come  close  to 
Him, 
And  yuu  may  know  the  wings  and  voices  there 
Of  .Seraphim. 

Is  it  not  beautiful  to  see 

Christ  praying  on  the  mountain  quite  alone. 
From  the  mad  whirlpool  of  the  world  set  free 
To  lielp  His  own? 

No  soft  green  hill  do  I  behold. 

No  keen  blue  summit,  kissed  by  sunsets  rare, 
But  that  its  multitudinous  mists  enfold 
The  Christ  in  prayer. 

IN  VIEW  OF  DEATH. 

No :  I  shall  pass  into  the  Morning  Land 
As  now  from  sleep  into  the  life  of  morn  ; 
Live  the  new  life  of  the  new  world,  unshorn 

Of  the  swift  brain,  the  executing  hand  ; 
See  the  dense  darkness  suddenly  withdrawn. 
As  when  Orion's  sightless  eyes  discerned  the 
dawn. 

1  shall  behold  it :  I  shall  see  the  utter 
Glory  of  sunrise,  heretoforo  unseen. 


WILLIAM  COLLINS.  103 

Freshening  the  woodlawn  ways  with  brighter 
green, 
And  calling  into  life  all  things  that  flutter, 
All  throats  of  music,  and  all  eyes  of  light. 
And  driving  o'er  the  verge  the  intolerable  night. 

O  virgin  world  !    O  marvellous  far  days ! 

No  more  with  dreams  of  grief  doth  love  grow 
bitter, 

Nor  trouble  dim  the  lustre  wont  to  glitter 
In  happy  eyes.     Decay  alone  decays : 

A  moment — death's  dull  sleep  is  o'er  :  and  we 

Drink  the  immortal  niorning  air  Earine. 

LAST  VERSES. 

I  have  been  sitting  alone 
All  day  while  the  clouds  went  by. 
While  moved  the  strength  of  the  seas, 

While  a  wind  with  a  will  of  this  own, 
A  Poet  out  of  the  sky. 
Smote  the  green  harp  of  the  trees. 

Alone,  yel  not  alone. 

For  I  felt,  as  the  gay  wind  whirled, 

As  the  cloudy  sky  grew  clear. 
The  touch  of  our  Father  lialf-known 

Who  dwells  at  the  heart  of  the  world. 

Yet  who  is  always  here. 

COL'LINS,  William,  an  English  poet,  tx/m 
in  1721,  died  in  1759.  He  was  educatea  at 
Winchester  College  and  at  Oxford.  His 
poetic  talent  was  early  developed.  The  Per- 
sian Eclogues  were  written  in  his  seventeenth 
year,  and  his  Epistle  to  Sir  Thomas  Hannier 
in  his  twenty-second.  He  left  Oxford 
abruptly,  and  went  to  London  full  of  plans 
for  literary  work,  which  he  could  not  carry 
out.  He  formed  dissolute  habits,  and  squan- 
dered his  means.  His  Odes,  which  appeared 
in  1746,  attracted  little  notice.  A  small  for- 
tune inherited  from  an  uncle  relieved  him 
from  want.  The  Elegy  on  Thomson,  was 
written  in  1749,  and  the  Ode  on  Popular  Su- 


704  WILLIAM  COLLINS. 

persfition  in  the  Highlands,  in  1750.  Symp- 
toms of  insanity  had  already  appeared  in  tho 
poet,  and  the  disease  rapidly  developed.  His 
madness  became  occasionally  violent,  and  he 
was  removed  to  Chichester,  where  he  spent 
his  last  years.  Music,  his  early  delight, 
atfected  him  so  painfully  that  he  would 
wander  up  and  down  in  the  cathedral,  howl- 
inf:;  an  accompaniment  to  the  organ.  His 
Oiles,  unaiipreciated  at  first,  are  now  regarded 
as  among  tlie  finest  in  the  language. 

ODE  TO  EVENING. 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song, 
May  hope,  O  ])en.sive  Eve.  to  soothe  thine  ear. 
Like  tliy  own  solemn  sitrings. 
Thy  springs  and  dying  gales  : 

O  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  hright-haired 

Sun, 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts. 

With  hrede  etliereal  wove, 

O'erhang  his  wavy  hed  : 

Now  air  is  hu.shed,  save  where  the  weak-ej'ed  bat. 
With  sliort,  slirill  shriek  flits  by  on  leathei'n  wing, 

Or  wliere  tlie  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn. 

As  oft  he  rises  'midst  the  twiliglit  path. 
Against  the  pilgrnn  borne  in  heedless  hum  ; 
Now  teach  me,  maid  composed. 
To  breathe  some  softened  strain. 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy  darkening 

vale. 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit, 

As,  musing  slow,  I  hail. 

Thy  genial  loved  return  1 

For  when  thy  folding- star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet — at  his  warning  lamp 

The  fragrant  Hours,  and  Elves 

Who  slept  in  buds  the  day. 


WILLI  A  ^I  ('OLLIN8.  105 

And   many  .1  Nymph  who  wreatlies  hor  brows 

with  sedge. 
And  sheds  tlio  fresheninK  dew.  and.  lovelier  still, 

The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet, 

Pr?pare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  let  me  rove  some  wild  and  heathy  scene  ; 
Or  find  some  ruin,  "midst  its  dreary  dells, 

Whose  walls  more  awful  nod 

By  thy  relijcious  gleams. 

Or.'  if  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driving  rain, 
Prevent  my  willing  feet.  L)e  mine  the  hut 
That,  from  the  mountain's  side. 
Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods, 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered  spires; 
And  hears  their  simple  bell;  and  marks  o'er  all 

Tliy  dewy  lingers  draw 

Tlie  gradual  dusky  veil. 

While  Spring  shall  jKiur  his  showers,  ;is  oft  ho 
wont. 

And  bathe  tliy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve  ! 
While  Summer  loves  to  sport 
Beneath  thy  lingering  light ; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves  ; 

Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 
Affrights  thy  shrinking  train, 
And  rudely  rends  thy  robes  ; 

So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule. 

Shall  Fancy.  Friendship,  Science,  smiling  Peace, 
Thy  gentlest  influence  own. 
And  love  thy  favorite  name  ! 

ODE  ON  THE    PASSIONS. 

"Wlien  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung. 
The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell. 
Exulting,  trembling,  ragmg,  fainting, 
Possessed  beyond  the  Muse's  painting  ; 
By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined  ; 


106  WILLIAM  COLLINS. 

Till  once,  'lis  said,  when  all  were  fired. 
Filled  with  furA",  rapt,  inspired. 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of  sound  | 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 
Each  (for  Madness  ruled  the  hour) 
Would  i)rove  his  own  expressive  power. 

First,  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 
Amid  the  chords  hewildered  laid. 

And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why, 
E'en  at  the  sound  liimsolf  had  made. 

Next  Anger  rushed  :  his  eyes  on  fire. 
In  lightnings,  owned  his  secret  stings  ; 

In  one  rude  clash  lie  struck  the  lyre. 

And  swept  with  hiu'rietl  hanil  the  strings, 

AVith  awful  measures  wan  Despair, 
Low,  sullen  sounds  his  grief  beguiled  ; 

A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air ; 
'Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas  wild. 

But  thou,  O  Hope,  with  eyes  so  fair. 

What  was  thy  delighted  measure  'i 
Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure, 

And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail ! 
Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong  ; 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale, 
She  called  on  Echo  still,  through  all  the  song  ; 

And,  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 

A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close  ; 
And  Hope,   enchanted,   smiled,   and  waved  her 
golden  hair. 

And  longer  had  she  sung  ; — but,  with  a  frown, 
Revenge  impatient  rose. 

He  threw  his    blood-stained    sword  in  thunder 
down. 
And.  with  a  withering  look, 
The-war  denouncing  trumpet  took, 

And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread. 

Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woe  ! 
And  ever,  and  anon,  he  beat 
The  doubling  drum,  with  furious  heat: 


WILLIAM  COLLINS.  107 

And,     though     sometimes,    eacli     dreary    pause 
between. 

Dejected  Pity,  at  his  side, 
Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied, 
Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild,  unaltered  mien 
While  each  strained  ball  of  sight  seemed  bursting 
from  his  head. 

Thy  numbers,  Jealousy,  to  naught  were  fixed- 
Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  st^te  ; 

Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was  mixed  : 
And  now  it  courted  Love,  now,  raving,  called  (ju 
Hate. 

With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  inspired. 
Pale  Melanclioly  sat  retired. 
And,  from  her  wild,  sequestered  seat. 
In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 
Poured  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul  ; 
And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around. 
Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound. 
Through  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled  measures 
stole ; 
Or,  o'er  some  haunted  stream,  with  fond  delay, 
Round  a  holy  calm  diffusing. 
Love  of  peace,  and  lonely  musing, 
In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

But  oh,  how  altered  was  its  sprightlier  tone 
When  Cheerfulness,  a  nymph  of  healthiest  hno, 
Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 
Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morning  ciew, 
Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thickec  rang, 
The  hunter's  call,  to  Faun  and  Dryad  knoxvn  ! 
The  oak-crowned  Sisters  and  their  chaste-oyed 

Queen, 
Satj^rs  and  Sylvan  Boys  were  seen. 

Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green  : 
Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear, 
And  Sport  leaped  up,  and  seized  liis  i/cechen 
spear. 

Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial ; 
He,  with  viny  crown  advancing, 
First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addre^t  i 


108  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awakening  viol. 
Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the 
best ; 
They  would  have  thought  who  heard  the  strain 
They  saw,  in  Teinpe's  vale,  her  native  maids, 
Amidst  the  festal-sounding  shades, 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing. 
While  as  his  Hying  fingers  kissed  the  strings. 
Love  framed  with  Mirth  a  gay,  fantastic  rpund; 
Loose  were  h<^  tresses  seen,  her  zone  unbound, 
And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  piny. 
As  if  he  would  tlie  charming  air  repay. 
Shook  thousand  odors  from  liis  dewy  wings. 

O  Music  !  sphere-descended  maid. 
Friend  of  Pleasure,  Wisdom's  aid  I 
Whv,  goddess,  why,  tons  denied, 
Lay'st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside? 
As,  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower, 
You  learned  an  all-commanding  power, 
Tliy  mimic  soul,  O  Nymph  endeared. 
Can  well  recall  what  then  it  hoard. 
Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart. 
Devote  to  Virtue,  Fancy,  Art? 
Arise,  as  in  that  elder  time. 
Warm,  energetic,  chaste,  sublime! 
Thy  wonders  in  that  godlike  age. 
Fill  thy  recording  Sister's  page. 
'Tis  said — and  I  believe  the  tale — 
Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail. 
Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage. 
Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  age  ; 
E"en  all  at  once  together  found, 
Cecilia's  mingled  world  of  sound — 
O  bid  our  vain  endeavors  cease ; 
Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece  ; 
Return  in  all  thy  simple  state  : 
Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate  ! 

COLLINS,  William  Wilkie,  an  English 
novelist,  born  in  1824.  He  is  the  son  of  \ViI- 
liam  Collins  the  artist,  and  was  educated  for 
the  bar.  His  earliest  literary  performance 
■was  a  biography  of  his  father,  published  in 


WILKIE  COLLINS.  109 

1848.  He  has  since  been  a  prolific  ajid  popu- 
lar writer.  The  following  are  his  i^rincipa'i 
Avorks:  Antonina  (1850);  Rambles  Beyond 
Bailways  (1851);  Basil  (1852);  Mr.  Wrairs 
Cash  Box  a8rr2y.  Hide  and  Seek  {ISrA) ;  ^/ier 
Dark  (i85i\)-,  The  Dead  Secret  (1857);  The 
Queen  of  Hearts  (1859);  The  Woman  in  White 
(1860) ;  No  Name  (1SG2) ;  My  Miscellanies  (18()3) ; 
Ai^7nadcde  asm);  The  Moonstone  {18i>S);  Man 
and  Wife  (1870);  Poor  Miss  Finch  (1872); 
MissorMrs.f{\S7d);  The  New  Magdalen  (1873); 
The  Law  and  the  Lady  (1875);  Two  Destinies 
(187G);  The  Haunted  Hotel  {1S7S)-  The  Fallen 
Leaves  (1879);  A  Rogue's  Life  from  his  Birth 
to  his  Marriage  (1879);  Heart  and  Science 
(1883) ;  I  Say  No  (1884) ;  The  Evil  Genius  (1886). 

THE  COC^'T  AND  COUNTESS  FOSCO. 

Never  before  have  I  beheld  such  a  change  pro- 
duced in  a  woman  by  her  marriage  as  has  been 
produced  in  Madame  Fosco.  -i^  Eleanor  Fairlie 
(aged  seven-aud-thuty),  slie  was  always  talking 
pretentious  nonsense,  and  always  worrying  the 
luifortunate  men  with  every  small  exaction 
which  a  vain  and  foolish  woman  can  impose  on 
long-suffering  male  humanity.  As  Madame  Fos- 
co (aged  three-and-forty),  she  sits  for  hours  to- 
gether without  saying  a  word,  frozen  up  in  the 
strangest  manner  in  herself.  The  hideously  ridic- 
ulous love-locks  which  used  to  hang  on  either  side 
of  her  face,  are  now  replaced  by  stiff  little  rows 
of  very  short  curls,  of  the  sort  that  one  sees  in  old- 
fa'Shioned  wigs.  A  plain,  matronly  cap  covers  her 
head,  and  makes  her  look,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  since  I  remember  her,  like  a  decent  wonjan. 
.  .  .  Clad  in  qviiet  black  or  gray  gowns,  made  high 
round  the  throat,  dresses  that  she  would  have 
laughed  at,  or  screamed  at,  as  the  whim  of  the 
moment  inclined  her,  in  her  maiden  days — she 
sits  speechless  in  corners  ;  her  dry  white  hands  (so 
dry  that  the  pores  of  her  skin  look  chalky)  inces- 
santly engaged,  either  in  monotonous  embroidery 


110  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

work,  or  in  rolling  up  endless  little  cigarettes  for 
the  Count's  own  particular  smoking. 

On  the  few  occasions  when  her  cold  blue  eyes 
are  off  her  work,  tliey  are  generally  turned  oa  her 
husband,  with  the  look  of  mute  submissive  inqui- 
ry which  we  are  all  familiar  with  in  the  eyes  of  a 
faithful  dog.  The  only  approach  to  an  inward 
thaw  which  I  have  yet  detected  under  her  outer 
covering  of  icy  constraint,  has  betrayed  itself, 
once  or  twice,  in  the  forni  of  a  suppressed  tigerish 
jealous}"^  of  any  woman  in  the  house  (the  maids 
included)  to  whom  the  Count  speaks,  or  on  whom 
lie  looks  with  anything  approaching  to  special  in- 
terest or  attention.  Except  in  this  one  particular, 
she  is  always — morning,  noon,  and  night,  indoors, 
and  out,  fair  weather  or  foul — as  cold  as  a  statue, 
and  as  impenetrable  as  the  stone  out  of  which 
it  is  cut. 

For  the  common  jnirposes  of  society  the  extra- 
ordinary change  tlius  produced  in  her,  is  beyond 
all  doubt,  a  cliange  for  tlie  better,  seeing  that  it 
has  transformed  her  into  a  civil,  silent,  unobtru- 
sive woman,  who  is  never  in  the  Avay.  How  far 
she  is  really  reformed  or  deteriorated  in  her 
secret  self,  is  another  question.  1  have  once  or 
twice  seen  sudden  changes  of  expression  on  her 
jHuched  lips,  and  liearil  sudden  inflections  of  tone 
in  her  calm  voice,  which  have  led  me  to  suspect 
that  her  present  state  of  suppression  may  have 
sealed  up  sometiiing  dangerous  in  her  nature, 
which  used  to  evaporate  harmlessly  in  the  freedom 
of  her  former  life.  And  the  magician  who  has 
wrought  this  wonderful  ti'ansformation — the 
foreign  husband  who  has  tamed  this  once  wayard 
Englishwoman  till  her  own  relations  hardly  know 
her  again — the  Count  himself !  What  of  the 
Count? 

This,  in  two  words  :  He  looks  like  a  man  who 
could  tame  anything.  If  he  had  married  a 
.  tigress  instead  of  a  Avoman,  he  would  have  tamed 
the  tigress.  .  .  .  How  am  I  to  describe  liim? 
There  are  i:)eculiarities  in  his  personal  apjiearance, 
his  habits,  and  his  amusements,  which  I  sliould 
blame  in  the  boldest  terms,  or  ridicxde  in  the  most 


WILKIE  COLLINS.  Ill 

merciless  manner,  if  I  had  seen  them  in  anotlier 
man.  What  is  it  that  makes  me  unable  to  blame 
them,  or  to  ridicule  tliem  in  him  ? 

For  example,  he  is  immensely  fat.  Before  this 
time  I  have  always  especially  disliked  corpulent 
liumanity.  I  have  always  maintained  that  the 
popular  notion  of  connecting  excessive  grossness 
of  size  and  excessive  good-humor  as  inseparable 
allies,  was  equivalent  to  declaring,  either  that  no 
people  but  amiable  people  ever  get  fat,  or  that 
the  accidental  addition  of  so  many  pounds  of 
flesh  has  a  directly  favorable  influence  over  the 
disposition  of  the  person  on  whose  body  they 
accumulate.  I  have  invariably  combated  both 
these  absurd  assertions  by  quoting  examples  of  fat 
people  who  were  as  mean,  vicious,  and  cruel,  as 
the  leanest  and  the  worst  of  their  neighbors.  .  .  . 
Here,  nevertheless,  is  Count  Fosco.  as  fat  as  Henry 
the  Eighth  himself,  established  in  my  favor,  at  one 
day's  notice,  without  let  or  hindrance  from  his 
own  odious  corpulence.     Marvelous  indeed  ! 

Is  it  his  face  that  has  recommended  hini  ?  It 
may  be  his  face.  He  is  a  most  i-emarkable  like- 
ness, on  a  lai'ge  scale,  of  the  Great  Napoleon.  His 
features  have  Napoleon's  magniflcent  regularity  : 
his  expression  recalls  the  grandly  calm,  immova- 
ble power  of  the  Great  Soldier's  face.  This 
striking  resemblance  certainly  impressed  me,  to 
begin  with  ;  but  there  is  something  in  him  besides 
the  resemblance,  which  has  impressed  me  more. 
I  think  the  influence  I  am  now  trying  to  find,  is 
in  his  eyes.  They  are  the  most  unfathomable 
gray  eyes  I  ever  saw  :  and  they  have  at  times 
a  cold,  clear,  beautiful,  irresistible  glitter  in  them, 
which  forces  me  to  look  at  him,  and  yet  causes 
me  sensations,  when  I  do  look,  which  I  would 
rather  not  feel.  .  .  .  The  marked  peculiarity 
which  singles  him  out  from  the  rank  and  file  of 
Immanity,  lies  entirely,  so  far  as  I  can  tell  at 
present,  in  the  extraordinary  expression  and 
extraordinary  power  of  his  eyes. 

All  the  smallest  chai-acteristics  of  this  strange 
man  have  something  strikingly  original  and  per- 
plexingly  contradictor\-  in  them.     Fat  as   he  is, 


113  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

and  old  as  he  is,  his  movements  are  astonishingly 
light  and  easy.  He  is  as  noiseless  in  a  room  as 
any  of  us  -women  ;  and,  more  tlian  that,  with  all 
his  look  of  unmistakable  mental  firmness  and 
power,  he  is  as  nervously  sensitive  as  the  weakest 
of  us.  He  starts  at  chance  noises  as  inveterately 
as  Laura  herself.  He  winced  and  shuddered  yes- 
terday, wlien  Sir  Percival  beat  one  of  the  spaniels, 
so  that  I  felt  ashamed  of  my  own  want  of  tender- 
ness and  sensibility,  by  comparison  with  the  Count. 
The  relation  of  this  last  incident  reminds  me  of 
one  of  his  most  curious  peculiarities,  which  1  have 
not  yet  mentioned — his  extraordinary  fondness 
for  pet  animals.  Some  of  these  he  has  left  on  the 
Continent,  but  he  has  brought  with  him  to  this 
liouse  a  cockatoo,  two  canary-birds,  and  a  whole 
family  of  white  mice.  He  attends  to  all  the  ne- 
cessities of  these  strange  favorites  himself,  and  he 
has  taught  the  cn>atures  to  Ije  surprisingly  fond  of 
him,  and  familiar  with  him.  .  .  This  same  man, 
who  has  all  the  fondness  of  an  old  maid  for  hi.s 
cockatoo,  and  all  the  small  dexterities  of  an  organ- 
boy  in  managing  his  wliite  mice,  can  talk,  when 
anything  happens  to  rouse  him,  with  a  daring  in- 
dependence of  thought,  a  knowledge  of  books  in 
every  language,  and  an  experience  of  society  in 
half  the  capitals  of  Europe,  which  would  make 
him  the  prominent  i>ersonage  of  any  assembly  in 
the  civilized  world.  .  .  .  His  management  of  the 
Countess  (in  public)  is  a  sight  to  see.  He  bows  to 
her  ;  he  habitually  addresses  her  as  "  my  angel  ;  " 
he  carries  his  canaries  to  pay  her  little  visits  on 
his  fingei-s,  and  to  sing  to  her  !  he  kisses  her  hand, 
when  she  gives  him  his  cigarettes  ;  he  presents 
her  with  sugar-plums,  i-n  return,  which  he  puts  in- 
to her  mouth,  playfully,  from  a  box  in  his  pocket. 
The  rod  of  iron  with  which  he  rules  her  never  ap- 
pears in  company — it  is  a  private  rod,  and  is  al- 
ways kept  upstairs. — TJie  Woman  in  \Miite. 

THE  WRECK   OF  THE  TLMBER-SHIP. 

As  I  had  surmised,  we  were  in  pursuit  of  the 
vessel  in  which  Ingleby  and  his  wife  had  left  the 
island  that  afternoon.     The  ship  was  French,  and 


WILKIE  COLLINS.  113 

was  employed  in  the  timber-trade  ;  her  name  was 
La  Grace  dc  Dleu.  Nothing  more  was  known  of 
her  than  that  she  was  bomid  for  Lisbon  ;  that  she 
had  been  driven  out  of  her  course  ;  and  that  she 
had  touched  at  Madeira,  short  of  men  and  short  of 
provisions.  The  last  want  had  been  supplied,  but 
not  the  lirst.  Sailors  distrusted  tlie  seaworthiness 
of  the  ship,  and  disliked  the  look  of  the  vagabond 
crew.  When  those  two  serious  facts  had  been 
communicated  to  Mr.  Blanchard,  the  hard  words 
he  had  spoken  to  his  child  in  the  first  shock  of  dis- 
covei-ing  that  she  had  helped  to  deceive  him, 
smote  him  to  the  heart.  He  instantly  determined 
to  give  his  daughter  a  refuge  on  board  his  own 
vessel,  and  to  quiet  her  by  keeping  her  villain  of  a 
husband  out  of  the  way  of  all  harm  at  my  hands. 
The  yacht  sailed  three  feet  and  more  to  the  ship's 
one.  There  was  no  doubt  of  our  overtaking  La 
Grace  de  Dieu ;  the  only  fear  was  that  we  might 
pass  her  in  the  darkness. 

After  we  had  been  some  little  time  out  the  wind 
suddenly  drojiped,  and  there  fell  on  us  an  auless, 
sultrj'  calm.  When  th.e  order  came  to  get  the  top- 
masts on  deck,  and  to  shift  the  large  sails,  we  all 
knew  what  to  expect.  In  little  belter  than  an 
hour  more  the  storm  was  upon  us,  the  timnder 
Avas  pealing  over  our  heads,  and  the  yacht  was 
running  for  it.  She  was  a  pov.erfid  scliooner- 
rigged  vessel  of  three  hundred  tons,  as  strong  as 
wood  and  iron  could  make  her ;  sJie  was  handled 
by  a  sailing-master  who  thoroughly  understood 
his  work,  and  she  behaved  noblj*.  As  the  new 
morning  came,  the  fury  of  the  wind,  blowing  still 
from  the  soutliwest  quarter,  subsided  a  little,  and 
the  sea  was  less  heavy.  Just  before  daj-break  we 
heard  faintly,  through  the  howling  of  the  gale,  the 
report  of  a  gun.  The  jiien,  collected  anxiously  on 
deck,  looked  at  each  other  and  said,  "There 
she  is  I " 

With  the  daybi-eak  we  saw  the  vessel,  and  the 
timber-ship  it  was.  She  lay  ^vallowing  in  the  trough 
of  the  sea,  her  foremast  and  her  mainmast  botli 
gone — a  water-logged  wreck.  The  yacht  carried 
three  boats  ;  one  amidships,  and  two  slung  to  dav- 


114  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

its  on  the  quarters  :  and  the  sailing-master  seeing 
signs  of  the  storm  rcnesving  its  fury  before  Jong, 
determined  on  lowering  the  quarter-boats  while 
the  lull  lasted.  Few  as  tlie  people  were  on  board 
tlie  wreck,  they  were  too  many  for  one  boat,  and 
the  risk  of  trying  two  boats  at  once  was  thouglit 
less,  in  the  critical  stlte  of  the  weather,  than  the 
risk  of  making  two  .separate  trips  from  the  yacht 
to  the  ship.  There  might  be  time  to  make  one 
trip  in  safety,  but  no  man  could  look  at  the  heav- 
ens and  say  there  would  l^e  time  enough  for 
two. 

The  boats  were  manned  by  volunteers  from  the 
crew,  I  being  in  the  second  of  the  two.  When  the 
first  boa:  was  got  alongside  of  the  tinilx»r-ship — a 
service  of  dilficulty  and  danger  which  no  words 
can  descril)e — all  the  men  on  board  made  a  rush 
to  leave  the  wreck  together.  If  the  boat  had  not 
been  pulled  oflf  again  before  the  whole  of  them 
had  crowded  in,  the  lives  of  all  must  have  been 
sacriticed.  As  our  boat  approached  the  vessel  in 
its  turn,  we  arranged  tliat  four  of  us  should  get  on 
board — two  (I  l)eing  one  of  them)  to  see  to  the 
safety  of  Mr.  Blanchard's  daughter,  and  two  to 
beat  back  the  cowardly  remnant  of  the  crew,  if 
they  tried  to  crowd  in  first.  The  other  three — the 
coxswain  and  two  oarsmen — were  left  in  the  boat 
to  keep  her  from  lieing  crushed  by  the  ship,  "What 
the  others  saw  when  they  first  boarded  La  Grace  de 
Dieii,  I  don't  know  :  what  /saw  was  the  woman 
whom  I  had  lost,  the  woman  vilely  stolen  from 
me,  lying  in  a  swoon  on  the  deck.  "We  lowered 
her  insensible  into  the  boat.  The  remnant  of  the 
crew— five  in  number — were  compelled  by  main 
force  to  follow  her  in  an  orderly  manner,  one  by 
one,  and  minute  by  minute,  as  the  chance  ofifered 
for  safely  taking  them  in.  I  was  the  last  who 
left ;  and,  at  the  next  roll  of  the  ship  towards  us, 
tlie  empty  length  of  the  deck,  witliout  a  living 
creature  on  it  from  stem  to  stem,  told  the  boat's 
crew  that  their  work  was  done.  "With  the  louder 
and  louder  howling  of  the  fast-rismg  tempest  to 
warn  them,  they  rowed  for  their  lives  back  to 
the  yacht. 


WILKIE  COLLINS.  115 

A  succession  of  heavy  squalls  had  brought  round 
the  course  of  the  new  storm  that  was  coming  from 
the  south  to  the  north  ;  and  tlie  sailing-master, 
watching  his  opportunity,  had  wore  the  yacht,  to 
be  ready  for  it.  Before  the  last  of  our  men  had 
got  on  board  again  it  burst  on  us  with  the  fury  of 
a  Inirricane.  One  boat  was  swamped,  but  not  a 
life  was  lost.  Once  more,  we  ran  before  it,  due 
south,  at  tlie  mercy  of  the  wind.  I  was  on  deck 
with  the  rest,  watching  the  one  rag  of  a  sail  we 
could  venture  to  set,  and  waiting  to  supply  its 
place  with  another,  if  it  blew  out  of  tlie  bolt  ropes, 
when  the  mate  came  dose  to  me,  and  shouted  m 
my  ear  through  the  thunder  of  the  storm.  "She 
has  come  to  her  senses  in  the  cabin,  and  has  asked 
for  her  husband.  Where  is  he?  '  Not  a  man  on 
board  knew.  The  yacht  was  searched  from  one 
end  to  another  without  linding  liim.  The  men 
were  mustered  in  defiance  of  the  weather— he  was 
not  among  them.  The  crews  of  the  two  boats 
were  questioned.  All  the  fti-st  crew  could  say. 
was  that  they  had  ]nUled  away  from  the  wreck 
when  the  rush  into  their  boat  took  place,  and  that 
they  knew  nothing  of  who  they  let  m  or  who  they 
kept  out.  All  the  second  crew  could  say  was,  that 
they  had  brought  back  to  the  yacht  every  living 
soul  left  by  the  first  boat  on  the  deck  of  the  tnnber^ 
ship.  There  was  no  blaming  anybody  ;  but  at  die 
same  time  there  was  no  resisting  the  fact  that  the 
man  was  missing. 

All  through  that  day  the  storm,  raging  una- 
batedly,  never  gave  us  even  the  shadow  of  a 
chance  of  returning  and  searching  the  wreck.  The 
one  hope  for  the  yacht  was  to  scud.  Towards 
evening  the  gale,  after  having  carried  us  to  the 
southward  of  Madeira,  began  at  last  to  break  ;  the 
wind  shifted  again,  and  allowed  us  to  bear  up  for 
the  island.  Early  the  next  morning  Me  got  back 
into  port.  !Mi'.  Blanchard  and  his  daughter  were 
taken  ashore ;  the  sailing-master  accompanying 
them,  and  warning  us  that  he  should  have  some- 
thing to  say  on  his  return  which  would  nearly 
concern  the  whole  ci-ew.  We  were  mustered  on 
deck  ami  addressed  by  the  s;uliug-master  as  soon 


116  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

as  he  came  on  board  again.  He  had  Mr.  Blan- 
chard's  orders  to  go  back  at  once  to  the  timber- 
ship  and  to  search  for  the  missing  man.  We  were 
bound  to  do  this  for  Ins  sake  and  for  the  sake  of 
Ills  wife,  whose  reason  w;is  despaired  of  by  the 
doctors  if  something  was  not  done  to  quiet  her. 
We  might  be  almost  sure  of  finding  the  vessel  still 
afloat,  for  her  lading  of  timber  would  keep  her 
above  water  as  long  as  her  hull  held  togetlier.  If 
the  man  Avas  on  board — living  or  dead — he  must 
be  found  and  brought  back.  And  if  the  weath- 
er continued  to  moderate  there  was  no  reason 
why  the  men,  with  i)roper  assistance,  should 
not  bring  the  ship  back  too,  and  (their  master 
being  quite  willing)  earn  their  share  of  the 
salvage  with  the  officers  of  the  yacht.  Upon 
this  the  crew  gave  three  cheers,  and  set  to 
work  forthwith  to  get  the  schooner  to  sea  again. 
I  was  the  only  one  of  them  who  drew  back  from 
the  enterprise.  I  told  them  the  storm  had  upset 
me — I  was  ill,  and  wanted  rest.  They  all  looked 
me  in  the  face  as  I  passed  tlirough  them  on  my 
way  out  of  the  yacht,  but  not  a  man  of  them 
spoke  to  me.  I  waited  through  that  day  at  a 
tavern  on  the  port  for  the  first  neAvs  from  the 
wreck.  It  was  brought  toward  nightfall  by  one 
of  the  pilot  boats  which  had  taken  part  in  the 
entei-prise  for  saving  the  abandoned  ship.  La 
Grace  de  Dieu  had  been  discovered  still  floating, 
and  the  body  of  Ingleby  had  been  found  on  board 
drowned  in  the  cabin.  At  dawn  the  next  morning 
the  dead  man  was  brought  back  by  the  yacht ; 
and  on  the  same  day  the  funer:il  took  place  in 
the  Protestant  cemetery.  ,  .  ,  There  is  more  to 
tell  before  I  can  leave  the  dead  man  to  his  rest, 
I  have  described  the  finding  of  his  body,  but  I 
have  not  described  the  circumstances  under  which 
he  met  Iiis  death.  He  was  known  to  have  been 
on  deck  when  the  yacht's  boats  were  seen  ap- 
proaching the  wreck,  and  he  was  afterwards 
missed  in  the  confusion  caused  by  the  panic  of 
the  crew.  At  that  time  the  water  was  five  feet 
in  the  cabin,  and  was  rising  fast.  There  was 
little  doubt  of  his  having  gone  down  into  that 


ROBERT  COLLYER.  117 

water  of  his  own  accord.  Tlie  disco verj-  of  his 
wife's  jewel-box  close  under  him  on  the  floor 
explained  liis  presence  in  the  cabin.  He  was 
known  to  have  seen  help  approaching,  and  it  was 
quite  likely  that  he  had  thereupon  gone  below  to 
make  an  effort  at  saving  the  box.  It  was  less 
probable— though  it  might  still  have  been 
inferred — that  his  death  was  the  result  of  some 
accident  in  diving,  which  had  for  the  moment 
deprived  him  of  his  senses.  But  a  discovery 
made  by  the  yachfs  crew  pointed  straight  at  a 
conclusion  which  struck  the  men,  one  and  all, 
with  the  same  horror.  When  the  course  of  their 
search  brought  them  to  the  cabin,  they  found  the 
scuttle  bolted,  and  the  door  locked  on  the  outside. 
Had  some  one  closed  the  cabin,  not  knowing  he 
was  there?  Setting  the  panic-stricken  condition 
of  the  crew  out  of  tlie  question,  there  was  no 
motive  for  closing  the  cabin  before  leaving  tlie 
wreck.  But  one  other  conclusion  remained.  Had 
some  murderous  hand  purposely  locked  the  man 
in,  and  left  him  to  drown  as  the  water  rose  over 
him  ?  Yes.  A  murderous  hand  had  locked  him 
in,  and  left  him  to  drown.  That  hanil  was 
mine. — Armadale, 

COLLYER,  Robert,  an  Anglo-American 
clergyman  and  author,  born  at  Keighley, 
Yorkshire,  in  1823.  He  was  the  son  of  a 
blacksmith,  and  at  the  age  of  seven  years  was 
taken  from  school  to  learn  his  father's  trade, 
which  he  practiced  until  after  he  came  to 
America,  about  1850.  He  had  been  a  Wesley  an 
local  preacher  in  England,  and  he  continued 
to  preach  at  Shoemakertown,  Pa.  Soon  after 
coming  to  America,  he  adopted  Unitarian 
views.  In  1859  he  removed  to  Chicago,  and 
became  pastor  of  a  Unitarian  church  in  that 
city,  and  one  of  the  most  popular  preachers 
of  that  denomination.  In  1 879  he  was  called 
to  the  Church  of  the  Messiah,  in  New  York. 
His  chief  publications  are  Xatwre  and  Life,  a 
collection  of  sermons,  A  Man  in  Earnest,  and 


118  ROBERT  COLLYER. 

The  Life  that  noic  Is.     Ho  has  also  -written 
much  for  rehgious  and  literary  periodicals. 

A   LESSON  FROM  A   LEAF. 

"All  leaves  are  builders,"'  says  Ruskin  ;  "but 
they  are  to  be  divided  into  two  orders— those  that 
build  by  the  sword,  and  those  tliat  Imild  by  the 
shield."  I  would  see  every  life  as  that  most  per- 
fect of  all  seers  into  leaf-life  sees  every  leaf.  It 
may  be  that  our  lives  are  the  most  obscure  and 
powerless  for  good  tliis  earth  ever  bore  on  her 
breast :  I  tell  you,  if  we  aretiying  to  be  what  we 
can  be,  then  tlio  life  of  every  one  of  us  casts  its 
speck  of  grateful  sliadow  somewhere,  holds  itself 
somehow  up  to  the  sun  and  rain,  fights  its  way 
witli  sojne  poor  success  against  storm  and  fire  and 
foe  and  parasite  ;  or  it  stands  sternly,  in  these 
great  days,  shouMer  to  shoulder  with  its  comrades, 
a,  strong  tower  of  defence,  to  guard  what  we  liave 
won  in  our  war  for  luimanity,  resolute  not  to  fall 
into  that  trap  the  devil  always  sets  for  generous 
people,  of  giving  up  in  the  treaty  what  they  won 
in  the  fight.  For  it  is  true,  and  truest  of  all,  that 
not  the  things  wliich  satisfy  the  world's  heart 
easily  ;  not  jmrple  grape,  and  golden  apple,  and 
ripe  gi'ain,  and  brown  seed,  and  roses  and  asters  ; 
not  the  noble  and  beautiful,  over  which  men  re- 
joice and  are  glad — are  alone  the  fruit  on  the  tree 
of  life;  but  the  leaf,  faded,  ragged,  and  unnoticed, 
is  fruit  too  ;  falling,  when  its  day  is  done,  it  falls 
lionorably  ;  dying,  it  dies  well ;  its  work  well 
done,  and  the  world  is  better  by  the  measure  of 
what  one  poor  leaf  may  do  for  its  life.  .  .  . 

All  honor  to  the  common  soldier,  the  common 
laborer,  the  poor  teacher,  the  man  and  woman 
everywhere,  unknown  and  yet  well  known — with 
no  name  to  live,  but  bearing,  in  all  they  are  and 
all  they  do,  the  assurance  of  tlie  life  everlasting  ! 
For  as  every  leaf  on  every  tree  is,  by  the  tenure  of 
its  life,  a  mediator  and  saviour,  standing  between 
the  hard  rock  and  living  man,  the  bridge  between 
life  and  death — so  this  imknown  man  or  woman, 
this  common  soldier  or  common  worker,  is  fruit, 
in  being  leaf  and  falling,  scorched  by  battle-fires 


VITTORIA  COLONNA.  119 

or  chilled  by  night-damps  ;  or,  dying,  worn  out  by 
toiling  in  the  field  of  the  world.  Not  one  such 
man  or  woman  has  lived  and  striven  and  died  in 
vain.  Tliere  may  be  no  monument  to  tell  how 
they  died  or  where  they  rest ;  but  what  they  have 
done  is  their  monument.  The  leaves  of  tlieir  tree 
are  for  the  healing  of  the  nations. — Nature  and 
Life. 

COLONNA,  ViTTORi.\,  an  Italian  poetess, 
born  in  1490,  died  in  1547.  She  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  Fabrizio  Colonna,  Grand  Constable  of 
the  Kingdom  of  Naples.  She  was  betrothed 
in  childhood  to  Francisco  d'Avilos,  son  of  the 
Marquis  of  Pescara,  and  was  married  to  him 
at  the  ago  of  seventeen.  Having  joined  the 
Holy  League,  her  husband  was  taken  prisoner 
at  Ravenna,  and  carried  to  France.  From  this 
time  they  seldom  saw  each  other,  but  carried 
on  a  close  correspondence  in  prose  and  verse. 
After  his  death  in  1525,  Yittoria  sought  conso- 
lation in  poetry.  She  resided  at  Naples  and 
Ischia,  Orvieto,  Viterbo,  and  Rome.  In  Rome 
she  formed  a  lasting  friendship  with  Michael 
Angelo,  "who  dedicated  to  her  some  of  his  son- 
nets. Most  of  her  poems  were  devoted  to  the 
memory  of  her  husband.  Among  them  the 
best  known  are  her  Rime  Spirituali,  pub- 
lished in  1548. 

A  PRAYEK. 

Father  of  heaven  !  if  by  thy  mercy's  grace 

A  living  branch  I  am  of  that  true  vine 

Which  spreads  o'er  all — and  would  we  did  resign 

Oursehes  entire  by  faith  to  its  embrace  ! — 

In  me  much  drooping,  Lord,  thine  eye  will  trace, 

Caused  by  the  shade  of  these  rank  leaves  of  mine, 

Unless  in  season  due  thou  dost  refine 

The  humor  gross,  and  quicken  its  dull  pace. 

So  cleanse  me,  that,  abiding  e'er  with  thee, 

I  feed  me  hourly  with  the  heavenly  dew. 

And  with  my  falling  tears  refresh  the  root. 


120  CALEB  CHARLES  COLTON. 

Thou  saidst.   and  tb<ni  art  truth,   thou  'dst   with 

ine  be  : 
Then  wilUiig  come,  tliat  I  may  bear  mucli  fruit, 
And  worthy  oi'  the  stocli  on  wliich  it  grew. 

COLTON,  Caleb  Charles,  an  English 
clergyman  and  author,  born  in  1780.  died  in 
1832.  He  graduated  at  Cambridge,  was 
chosen  a  Fellow  of  King's  College,  and  in  1818 
obtained  the  vicarage  of  Kew  and  Petersham. 
He  contracted  extravagant  habits,  gave  him- 
self up  to  gambling,  and  in  1828  was  obliged 
to  flee  from  his  country.  He  went  first  to 
America,  and  soon  afterwards  to  Paris, 
wiiere  he  is  said  to  have  won  £25,000  in  two 
years  at  the  gaming-table.  He  committed 
siiicide  through  apprehension  of  a  painful 
siu'gical  operation  which  had  become  neces- 
sary. He  wrote  Hypocrisy,  a  Satirical  Poem 
(1812)  ;  Napoleon,  a  Poem  (1812)  ;  Lines  on  the 
Conflar/ration  of  Moscoio  (181(>).  After  his 
death  appeared  a  volume,  Modern  Antiquity, 
and  other  Lyrical  Pieces,  among  which  is  the 
following  : 

HUMAN   LIFE. 

How  long  sliall  man's  imprisoned  spirit  groan 
'Twixt  doubt  of  Heaven  and  deep  disgust  of 
Earth  ? 
Where  all  woi-th  knowing  never  can  be  known. 
And  all  that  can  be  known,  alas  !    is  nothing 
worth. 

Untaught  by  saint,  by  cynic,  or  by  sage, 
And  all  the  spoils  of  time  that  load  tlieir  shelves, 

We  do  not  quit,  but  change  our  joys  in  age — 
Joys  framed  to  stifle  thoughts,  and  lead  us  from 
ourselves. 

The  drug,  the  cord,  the  steel,  the  flood,  the  flame, 

Turmoil  of  action,  tedium  of  rest. 
And  lust  of  change,  though  for  the  worst,  proclaim 

How  dull  life's  banquet  is— liow  ill  at  ease  the 
guest. 


CALEB  CHARLES  COLTON.  121 

Known  were  the  bill  of  fare  before  we  taste, 
Who  would  not  spuria  the  banquet  and    the 
board  ; 
Prefer  the  eternal  but  oblivious  fast, 
To  life's  frail-fretted  thread,  and  death's  suspend- 
ed swoi'd  ? 

He  that  the  topmost  stone  of  Babel  planned, 
And  he  that  braved  tlie  crater's  boiliag  bed — 

Did  these  a  clearer,  closer  view  command 
Of  Heaven  or  Hell,  we  ask,  than  the  blind  herd 
they  led  ? 

Or  he  that  in  Valdarno  did  prolonj^: 

The  night,  her  rich  star-studded  page  to  read — 
Could  he  point  out,  'mid  all  that  brilliant  throng, 

His  fixed  and  final  home,  from  fleshy  thraldom 
freed  ? 

Minds  that  have  scanned  Creation's  vast  domain. 

And  secrets  solved,  till  then  to  sages  sealed, 
While  Nature  owned  their  intellectual  reign, 

Extinct,  have  nothing  known,  or  nothing  have 
revealed. 

Devouring  Grave  !  we  might  the  less  deplore 
The  extingiiished  lights  that  in  thy  darkness 
dwell, 
Would'st  thou,  from  that  lost  zodiac,  one  restore. 
That  miglit  the  enigma  solve,  and  Doubt — man's 
tyrant — quell. 

To  live  in  darkness —  in  despair  to  die — 
Is  this,  indeed,  the  boon  to  mortals  given? 

Is  there  no  port — no  rock  of  refuge  nigli  ? 

There  is — to  those  who  fix  their  anchor-hope  in 
Heaven. 

Turn  then,  O  Man  !  and  cast  all  else  aside  ; 

Direct  thy  wandering  thoughts  to  things  above  ; 
Low  at  the  Cross  bow  down  :  in  that  confide. 

Till  Doubt  be  lost  in  Faith,  and  Bliss  secured  in 
Love. 


123  CALEB  CHARLES  COLTON. 

Caleb  Colton,  however,  will  be  best  remem- 
bered by  a  work  produced  Avhile  he  was  yet 
an  honored  member  of  the  Anglican  Church, 
and  before  the  shadows  had  began  to  gather 
which  darkened  his  later  years.  This  woi'k 
was  entitled  Lacon,  or  Many  Things  in  Few 
Words,  (1820-22).  It  is  a  series  of  apothegms 
and  mora^l  reflections,  gathered  and  condensed 
from  a  great  variety  of  sources.  One  of 
these  Laconics  reads  almost  prophetically  of 
his  own  future  fate:  "The  gamester,"  he 
says,  "if  he  die  a  martyr  to  his  profession,  is 
doubly  ruined.  He  adds  his  soul  to  every 
other  loss;  and  by  the  act  of  suicide  re- 
nounces Earth  to  forfeit  Heaven."  Among 
the  many  wise  and  pregnant  sayings  of  Z/aco» 
are  the  following: 

TRUE  GENIUS  ALWAYS  TNITED  TO  REASON. 

The  great  examples  of  Bacon,  of  Milton,  of 
Newton,  of  Locke,  and  of  others,  liappen  to  be 
directly  against  the  popular  inference  that  a  cer- 
tain wildne.ss  of  eccentricity  and  thoughtlessness 
of  conduct  are  the  necessary  accompaniments  of 
talent,  and  the  sure  indications  of  genius.  Because 
some  have  united  their  extravagances  with  great 
demonstrations  of  talent,  as  a  Rousseau,  a  Cliat- 
terton,  a  Savage,  a  Burns,  or  a  Byron,  others, 
finding  it  less  difficult  to  be  eccentric  than  to  be 
brilliant,  have  therefore  adopted  the  one,  in  the 
hope  that  tlie  world  would  give  them  credit  for 
the  other.  But  the  greatest  genius  is  never  so 
great  as  when  it  is  chastised  and  subdued  by  the 
highest  reason :  it  is  from  such  a  combination, 
like  that  of  Bucephalus  reined  in  by  Alexander, 
that  the  most  powerful  etrorts  have  been  pro- 
duced. And  be  it  remembered,  that  minds  of  the 
very  higliest  order,  who  have  given  an  uni-e- 
strained  course  to  their  caprice,  or  to  their  passions, 
would  have  been  so  mucli  higher,  by  subduing 
them  ;  and  that,  so  far  from  presuming  that  the 
world  would  give  them  credit  for  talent,  on  the 
score  of  their  aben-ations  and  their  extravagances, 


CALEB  CHARLES  COLTON.  133 

all  that  they  dared  hope  or  expect  has  been,  that 
the  world  would  pardon  and  overlook  those  ex- 
travagances, on  account  of  the  various  and  mani- 
fold proofs  they  were  constantly  exhibiting  of 
superior  acquirement  and  inspiration.  We  might 
also  add,  that  the  good  effects  of  talent  are 
universal,  the  evil  of  its  blemishes  confined.  The 
light  and  heat  of  the  sun  benefit  all,  and  are  by 
all  enjoyed  ;  the  spots  on  his  surface  are  discover- 
able only  to  the  feit\  But  the  lower  order  of 
aspirers  to  fame  and  talent  have  pursued  a  very 
different  course  ;  instead  of  exhibiting  talent  in 
the  hope  that  the  world  would  forgive  their  ec- 
centricities, they  have  exhibited  only  their  eccen- 
tricities in  the  hope  that  the  world  would  give 
them  credit  for  talent. — Lacon. 

MYSTERY   AND   INTRIGUE 

There  are  minds  so  habituated  to  intrigue  and 
mystery  in  themselves,  and  so  prone  to  expect  it 
from  others,  that  they  will  never  accept  of  a  plain 
reason  for  a  plain  fact,  if  it  be  possible  to  devise 
causes  for  it  that  are  obscure,  far-fetched,  and 
usually  not  worili  the  carriage.  Like  the  miser  of 
Berkshire,  who  would  ruin  a  good  horse  to  escape 
a  turnpike,  so  these  gentlemen  ride  their  high- 
bred theories  to  death,  in  order  to  come  at  truth, 
through  bj-'paths,  lanes,  and  alleys ;  while  she 
herself  is  jogging  quietly  along,  upon  the  high 
and  beaten  road  of  common-sense.  The  conse- 
quence is.  that  those  who  take  this  mode  of  arriv- 
ing at  truth,  are  sometimes  before  her,  and  some- 
times behind  her,  but  very  seldom  with  her.  Thus 
the  great  statesman  who  relates  the  conspiracy 
against  Doria,  pauses  to  deliberate  upon,  and  mi- 
nutely to  scrutinise  into  divers  and  sundry  errors 
committed,  and  opportunities  neglected,  Avhereby 
he  could  wish  to  account  for  the  total  failure  of 
that  spirited  enterprise.  But  the  plain  fact  was, 
that  the  scheme  had  been  so  well  planned  and  di- 
gested, that  it  was  victorious  in  every  point  of  its 
operation,  both  on  the  sea  and  on  the  shore,  in  the 
harbor  of  Genoa  no  less  than  in  the  city,  until 
that  most  unlucky  accident  befell  the  Count  de 


134  CALEB  CHARLES  COLTON. 

Fiesque.  who  Avas  tho  very  life  and  soul  of  the 
consphacy.  In  stepping  from  one  galley  to  anoth- 
er, the  plank  on  which  lie  stood  upset,  and  he  fell 
into  the  sea.  His  armor  happened  to  be  very 
heavy — the  night  to  be  very  dark — the  water  to 
be  very  deep — and  the  bottom  to  be  very  uniddy. 
And  it  is  another  plain  fact,  that  water,  in  all 
such  csises,  happens  to  make  no  distinction  what- 
ever between  a  concjueror  and  a  cat. — Lacon. 

MAGNANIMITY  IN  HUMBLE  UFE. 

In  the  ob.scurity  of  retirement,  amid  the  squalid 
poverty  and  revolting  privations  of  a  cottage,  it 
has  often  been  my  lot  to  witness  scenes  of  magna- 
nimity and  self-denial,  as  mucli  beyond  belief  as 
the  practise  of  the  great ;  a  heroism  borrowing  no 
support  either  from  the  gaze  of  the  many  or  the 
admiration  of  the  few,  yet  flourishing  amidst 
ruins,  and  on  the  confines  of  the  grave  ;  a  spec- 
tacle as  stupendous  in  the  moral  world  as  tlie  falls 
of  Niagara  in  the  natural  ;  and,  like  tliat  mighty 
cataract,  doomed  to  display  its  grandeur  only 
wliere  there  are  no  eyes  to  appreciate  its  magnifi- 
cence.— Lacon. 

AVAKICK. 

Avarice  begets  more  vices  tlian  Priam  did  chil- 
dren, and,  like  Priam,  survives  them  all.  It  stai'ves 
its  keeper  to  surfeit  those  who  wish  liim  dead  ; 
and  makes  him  submit  to  more  mortifications  to 
lose  heaven  than  the  martyr  undergoes  to  gain  it. 
Avarice  is  a  passion  full  of  paradox,  a  madness 
full  of  method  ;  for  although  the  miser  is  most 
mereenaiy  of  all  beings,  jet  he  serves  the  worst 
master  more  faithfully  than  some  Christians  do 
the  best,  and  will  take  nothing  for  it.  He  falls 
down  and  worships  the  god  of  tliis  world,  but  wiU 
have  neither  its  pomps,  its  vanities,  nor  its  pleas- 
ures for  his  trouble.  He  begins  to  accumulate 
treasure  as  a  mean  to  happiness,  and  by  a  common 
but  morbid  association,  he  continues  to  accumu- 
l?.i,e  it  as  an  end.  He  lives  poor,  to  die  rich,  and 
is  the  mere  jailer  of  his  house,  and  the  turnkey  of 
his  wealth.     Impoverished  by  his  gold,  he  slaves 


CALVIN  COLTON.  135 

harder  to  im])rison  it  in  liis  chest,  than  his  brother 
slave  to  hberate  it  from  the  mine.  The  avarice  of 
the  miser  may  be  termed  the  grand  sejnilchre  of 
all  his  other  passions  as  they  successively  decay. 
But,  unlike  other  tombs,  it  is  enlarged  by  repletion, 
and  strengthened  by  age.  This  latter  paradox,  so 
peculiar  to  this  passion,  must  be  ascribed  to  that 
love  of  power  so  inseparable  from  the  imman 
mind.  There  are  three  kinds  of  power — Wealth, 
Strength,  and  Talent ;  but  as  old  age  always 
Aveakens,  often  destroys  the  two  latter,  the  aged 
are  induced  to  cling  with  the  greater  avidity  to 
the  former.  And  the  attachment  of  the  aged  to 
wealth  must  bo  a  growing  and  a  progressive  at- 
tachment, since  such  are  not  slow  in  discovering 
that  those  same  ruthless  years  which  detract  so 
sensibly  from  the  strength  of  their  bodies  and  of 
their  minds,  serve  only  to  augment  .'uid  to  con- 
solidate the  strengtli  of  their  purse.— Lacox, 

COLTON,  Calvin,  an  American  clergy- 
man and  author,  born  at  Long  Meadow, 
Mass.,  in  1789,  died  at  Savannah,  Georgia,  in 
1857.  He  graduated  at  Yale  College  in  1812, 
studied  afterAvards  at  Andover  Theological 
Seminary,  and  in  1815  was  ordained  as  a 
minister  of  the  Presbyterian  Church,  and  be- 
'came  pastor  at  Batavia,  N.  Y.  Having  parti- 
ally lost  the  use  of  his  voice  he  resigned  the 
pastorate  in  182G,  and  thereafter  devoted 
himself  mainly  to  literary  labor.  In  1831  he 
went  to  Loudon,  as  correspondent  for  the 
Neil'  York  Observer ;  and  after  his  return  put 
forth  several  works,  among  which  were 
Thoughts  on  the  Religious  State  of  the  Coun- 
try, and  Reasons  for  Preferring  Episcopacy, 
setting  forth  the  considerations  which  had 
led  him  to  leave  the  Presbyterian  and  attach 
himself  to  the>  Episcopalian  communion.  In 
1838  he  made  his  appearance  as  a  political 
writer  by  the  publication  of  a  pamphlet  in 
which  he  maintained  that  "Abolition  is  Se- 


12G  ANDREW  COMBE. 

dition."  In  succeeding  j-ears  he  put  forth  a 
series  of  pohtical  pamphlets  entitled  the  Jun- 
ius Tracts,  which  led  to  an  intimate  ac- 
quaintance with  Henry  Clay,  whose  biog- 
rapher he  became.  His  Life,  Speeches,  and 
Correspondence  of  Henry  Clay,  ultimately 
extended  to  six  large  volumes.  His  son, 
George  Hooker  Colton  (1818-1847)  wrote  a 
clever  poem  entitled  Tecumseh,  and  about 
two  years  before  his  death  became  Editor  of 
The  American  Whig  Review.  Xi  the  close 
of  his  Life  and  Speeches  of  Clay,  Mr.  Colton 
thus  speaks  of  the  closing  political  labors  of 
that  statesman: 

HEXKY  CLAY  IN  1850. 

^lany  of  Mr.  Clay's  most  brilliant  displays  of 
intellect  and  power  were  occasioned  by  momentary 
excitement  ;  and  he  never,  in  liis  long-protracted 
career  of  public  life,  shone  brighter,  and  never 
was  more  powerful  in  debate,  tlian  in  the  long 
contest  of  1850.  He  was  then  an  old  man,  and  in 
feeble  health  ;  but  his  solicitude  for  the  country,  in 
that  crisis  of  its  atfairs,  brought  out  all  the  wealth 
of  Ills  experience,  and  roused  all  the  fervor  of  his 
patriotism.  He  earnestly  hoped,  and  strenuously 
endeavored,  by  his  last  gi"eat  efifort,  to  leave  the 
country  in  peace  on  tlie  slavery  question  ;  and  he 
left  the  world  feelinj;  tliat  the  object  liad  been  ac- 
complislied.  Happy  for  him  that  lie  died  at  such 
a  time. 

COMBE,  Andrew,  a  Scottish  physician  and 
author,  born  in  1797,  died  in  1847.  After  pass- 
ing his  examination  at  Surgeon's  Hall,  he  com- 
pleted his  medical  studies  at  Paris,  and  while 
there  became  interested  in  phrenology,  which 
he  investigated  on  anatomical  principles.  On 
his  return  to  England  he  was  attacked  with 
symptomsof  pulmonary  disease,  which  obliged 
him  to  spend  two  winters  in  the  South  of 
Europe,  and  it  w-as  not  until  1823  that  he  was 


ANDREW  COMBE.  127 

able  to  begin  the  practice  of  his  profession. 
He  had  become  a  believer  in  phrenology,  and 
defended  the  science  before  the  Koyai  Medical 
Society  of  Edinburgh.  He  also  assisted  in 
editing  the  Phrenological  Journal.  In  1831, 
he  published  Observationaon  Mental  Derange- 
ment, and  in  1834,  The  Principles  of  Physiol- 
ogy applied  to  Health.  He  was  appointed 
physician  to  the  King  of  Belgium  in  1836  ; 
but  his  failing  health  soon  obliged  him  to 
resign  the  position.  In  1838,  he  was  made 
one  of  the  physicians  in  ordinary  to  the  Queen 
of  England.  His  work  on  the  Physiological 
and  Moral  Management  of  Infancy  appeared 
in  1840  ;  and  The  Physiology  of  Digestion  in 
1842. 

EFFECTS  OF  A  MONOTONOUS  UFE. 
When  a  person  of  some  mental  capacity  is 
conlined  for  a  length  of  time  to  an  iinvar3'ing 
round  of  employment,  which  affords  neither  scope 
nor  stimulus  for  one-half  of  his  faculties,  and 
from  want  of  education  or  society,  has  no  external 
resources,  his  mental  powers,  for  want  of  exercise 
to  keep  up  due  vitality  in  tiieir  cerebral  organs, 
become  blunted  ;  his  perceptions  slow  and  dull, 
and  he  feels  any  unusual  subjects  of  thought  as 
disagreeable  and  painful  intrusions.  The  intellect 
and  feelings  not  being  provided  with  interests 
external  to  themselves,  must  either  become  in- 
active and  weak,  or  work  upon  themselves  and 
become  diseased.  In  the  former  case  the  mind 
becomes  apathetic,  and  possesses  no  ground 
of  sj-mpathy  with  its  fellow-creatures  ;  in  the 
latter,  it  becomes  unduly  sensitive,  and  shrinks 
within  itself  and  its  ov.n  limited  circle,  as  its  only 
protection  against  every  trifling  occurrence  or 
mode  of  action  which  has  not  relation  to  itself. 
A  desire  to  continue  an  unvaried  round  of  life 
takes  strong  possession  of  the  mind,  because,  to 
come  forth  into  society  requires  an  exertion  of 
faculties  which  have  been  long  dormant,  which 
cannot  awaken   without  pain,  and  which  are  felt 


128  GEORGE  COMBE. 

to  l>e  feeble  when  called  into  action.  In  sucl;  a 
state,  home  and  its  iinmediato  interests  become 
not  only  the  centre  which  they  ought  to  be,  but 
also  the  boundary  of  life  ;  and  the  mind  being 
originally  constituted  to  embrace  a  much  wider 
space,  is  thus  shorn  of  its  powers,  ileprived  of 
numerous  pleasures  attending  their  exercise,  the 
whole  tone  of  mental  and  bodily  health  is  lowered, 
and  a  total  inaptitude  for  the  business  of  life  and 
the  ordinary  intercourse  of  society  comes  on,  and 
often  increases  till  it  becomes  a  positive  malady. 
But  let  the  situation  of  such  a  person  be  changed  ; 
give  him  a  variety  of  imperative  employments, 
and  place  him  in  society,  so  as  to  supply  to  his 
cerebral  organs  that  extent  of  exercise  which 
gives  them  health  and  vivacity  of  action,  and,  in 
a  few  months  the  change  produced  will  be  sur- 
prising. Health,  animation,  and  acuteness,  will 
take  the  place  of  former  insipidity  and  dullness. — 
Obaenratimis  on  Mental  Deranfjement. 

COMBE,  George,  the  brother  of  Andrew,  a 
writer  on  phrenology,  was  born  in  1788,  and 
died  in  1853.  He  studied  law,  and  gained  a 
good  professional  practice.  Having  seen 
Spurzheini  dissect  the  brain,  he  began  to  in- 
vestigate phrenology  and  became  a  zealous 
supporter  of  its  theories.  In  1819  a  series  of 
papers  contributed  by  him  to  the  Literary 
and  Statistical  Magazine  were  published  to- 
gether under  the  title  Essays  on  Phrenology. 
The  Phrenological  Journal  was  established, 
a  volume  of  Phrenological  Transactions  was 
issued,  and  a  Syste^n  of  Phrenology  published 
by  Combe  in  1824.  In  1828  appeared  his  Avork 
on  The  Constitution  of  Man.  In  1839-40  he 
visited  the  United  States,  and  gave  an  ac- 
count of  his  travels  in  Notes  on  the  United 
States  of  North  America  (1841).  His  Moral 
Philosophy  had  been  published  in  the  preced- 
ing year.  The  next  year  he  delivered  a 
course  of  lectures  in  the  German  Univer- 
sity of  Heidelberg.     A  pamphlet  on  The  Cur- 


GEORGE  COMBE.  1'29 

rency  Question  (1855),  and  one  on  The  Rela- 
tion between  Science  and  Religion  (1857)  are 
among  his  works.  He  published  The  Life  and 
Letters  of  Andreiv  Combe,  and  contributed 
many  articles  to  magazines. 

LARGE   AXD  SMALL  BKAINS. 

The  floctrine,  that  size  is  a  measure  of  power,  is 
not  to  be  held  as  implying  that  mueli  power  is  the 
only  or  even  the  most  valuable  quality  wliich  a 
mind  in  all  circumstances  ran  possess.  To  drag 
artillery  over  a  mountain,  or  a  ponderous  wagon 
tbrougli  the  streets  of  London,  we  would  prefer 
an  elephant  or  a  horse  of  great  size  and  muscular 
power  ;  while,  for  graceful  motion,  agility,  and 
nimbleness,  we  would  select  an  Arabian  palfrv. 
In  like  manner,  to  lead  men  in  gigantic  and  diffi- 
cult enterprises — to  command  by  native  great- 
ness, in  perilous  times,  when  law  is  trampled  un- 
der foot — to  call  forth  the  energies  of  a  people, 
and  direct  them  against  a  tyrant  at  home,  or  an 
alliance  of  tyrants  abroad — to  stamp  the  impress 
of  a  single  mind  upon  a  nation — to  infuse  strengtli 
into  thoughts,  and  depth  into  feelings,  which  shall 
command  the  liomage  of  enlightened  men  in  every 
age — in  short,  to  be  a  Bruce,  Bonaparte.  Luther, 
Knox,  Demosthenes,  Shakespeare,  Milton,  or 
Cromwell — a  large  brain  is  indispensably  requi- 
site. But  to  display  skill,  enterprise,  and  fidelity 
in  the  various  professions  of  civil  life — to  culti- 
vate with  success  the  less  arduous  branches  of 
philosophy — to  excel  in  acuteness,  taste,  and  felic- 
ity of  expression — to  acquire  extensive  erudition 
and  refined  manners — a  brain  of  moderate  size  is 
perliaps  more  suitabre  than  one  that  is  very  large  ; 
for  wherever  the  energy  is  intense,  it  is  rare  that 
delicacy,  refinement,  and  taste  are  present  in  an 
equal  degree.  Individuals  possessing  moderate- 
sized  brains  easily  find  their  proper  sphere,  and 
enjoy  in  it  scope  for  all  their  energy.  In  ordina- 
ry circumstances  they  distinguish  themselves,  but 
they  sink  when  difficulties  accumulate  around 
them.     Persons  with  large  brains,   on  the  other 


130  GEORGE  COMBE. 

hanrl,  do  not  readily  attain  their  appropriate  plaop: 
comuion  orcurrciioes  do  not  rouse  or  call  theui 
forth,  and.  while  unknown,  they  are  not  trusted 
with  great  undertakings.  Often,  therefore,  such 
men  pine  and  die  in  obscurity.  When,  however, 
they  attain  their  proper  element,  they  are  con- 
scious of  greatness,  and  glory  in  the  expansion  of 
tlieir  powers.  Their  mental  energies  rise  in  pro- 
l)ortion  to  the  obstacles  to  be  surmounted,  and  blaze 
forth  in  all  the  imignilicence  of  self-sustaining  en- 
ergetic genius,  on  occasions  when  feeble  mindi* 
would  sink  in  despair. — Sijstcin  (»/  PJirt'iiology. 

RELATION    OF   NATUUAL    I.AWS   Tf)    MAN. 

The  natural  laws  are  in  harmony  with  the  whole 
constitution  of  man.  the  moral  and  intc^llectual 
powers  holding  the  supremacy.  If  ships  in 
general  had  suidi  when  they  were  stanch,  strong, 
and  skilfully  managed,  this  would  have  outraged 
the  jierceptions  of  reason  ;  but  as  they  float,  the 
physical  law  is.  in  this  instance,  in  harmony  with 
the  moral  and  intellectual  law.  If  men  who  rioted 
in  drunkenness  ami  debauchery  had  thereby  es- 
tablLshed  health  and  increased  their  hai)piness, 
this,  again,  wouhl  have  been  at  variance  with  our 
intellectual  and  moral  perceptions  :  but  the  op- 
p<xsite  and  actual  result  is  in  harmony  with  them. 

It  will  be  subsequently  shown,  that  our  moral 
sentiments  desire  imiversal  happiness.  If  the 
physical  and  organic  laws  are  constituted  in  har- 
mony with  them,  it  ought  to  follow  that  the 
natural  laws,  when  ol)eye<l,  will  conduce  to  the 
Jiappiness  of  the  moral  and  intelligent  beings  who 
are  called  on  to  observe  them  ;  and  that  the  evil 
conseipiences,  or  punishments  resulting  from  in- 
fringement of  them,  will  be  calculated  to  enforce 
stricter  obedience,  for  the  advantage  of  those 
creatures  themselves.  According  to  this  view, 
when  a  ship  sinks,  in  consequence  of  a  plank  start- 
ing, the  punishment  is  intended  to  impress  upon 
the  .spectators  the  absolute  necessity  of  having 
every  plank  secure  and  strong  before  going  to  sea, 
this  being  a  condition  indispensable  to  their  safety. 
When  sickness  and  pain  follow  a  debauch,  the  ob- 


WILLIAM  COMBE.  131 

ject  of  the  suffering  is  to  urge  a  more  scrnpulons 
obedience  to  tlie  organic  laws,  tiiat  tlie  individual 
may  escape  premature  death,  which  is  the  inevita- 
ble consequence  of  too  great  and  continued  dis- 
obedience to  these  laws— and  enjoy  health,  which 
is  the  reward  of  the  opposite  conduct.  Wlien  dis- 
content, irritation,  hatred,  and  other  mental  an- 
noyances, arise  out  of  infringement  of  tlie  moral 
law.  this  punishment  is  calculated  to  induce  the 
offender  to  return  to  obedience,  that  he  may  enjoy 
the  rewards  attached  to  it. 

When  the  transgression  of  any  natural  law  is 
excessive,  and  so  great  that  return  to  obedience  is 
impossible,  one  purpose  of  <leath.  wiiiih  then  en- 
sues, jnay  be  to  deliver  the  individual  from  a  con- 
tinuation of  the  punishment  which  could  then  do 
him  no  good.  ...  If  a  man  in  the  vigor  of  life 
so  far  infringe  any  organic  law  as  to  destroy  the 
function  of  u  vital  organ— the  heart,  for  instance, 
or  the  lungs,  or  the  brain— it  is  Ijetter  for  him  to 
have  his  life  cut  short,  and  his  pain  put  an  end  to, 
than  to  have  it  protracted  under  all  tiie  tortures  of 
an  organic  existence,  without  lungs,  without  a 
heart,  or  without  a  brain,  if  such  a  state  were 
possible,  which,  for  this  wise  reason,  it  is  not. — 
T]te  Constitution  of  Mo7i. 

■  COMBE  or  COOMBE,  William,  an  English 
satirical  and  humorous  writer,  born  in  1741, 
died  in  182;J.  He  was  the  author  of  a  satiri- 
cal Avork  The  Diaboliad,  and  an  imitation  of 
Le  Sage,  entitled  The  Devil  on  Two  Sticks  in 
,  England  (1790) .  His  most  popular  work  was 
Tlie  Tour  of  Dr.  Syntax  in  Search  of  the 
Picturesque,  published  first  in  the  Poetical 
Magazine,  and  printed  in  book  form  in  1812. 
A  collection  of  Letters  of  the  late  Lord  Lyttle- 
ton,  a  brilliant  and  profligate  nobleman  whom 
Combe  had  known  at  school,  were  at  first 
supposed  to  be  genuine,  but  there  seems  no 
doubt  that  Combe  was  the  author  of  them,  as 
he  was  of  a  series  of  Letters  supposed  to  have 
passea  between  Sterne  and  Eliza. 


\^ 


182  WILLIAM  COMBK. 

THE  SMOKING  BOULOC^UY. 

That  man,  I  trow,  is  doubly  curst. 

Who  of  the  best  ilotli  m:ike  the  woret ; 

And  he,  I'm  sure,  is  doubly  blest, 

W' ho  of  the  worst  can  make  the  best. 

To  sit  in  sorrow  and  complain. 

Is  aiidin??  folly  to  our  pain. 

In  .idverse  state  there  is  no  vice. 

More  mischievous  than  cowardice ; 

'Tis  by  resistance  that  we  claim 

The  Christian's  venerable  name. 

If  you  resist  him.  e'en  Old  Nick 

Gives  up  his  meditated  trick.   .  .   . 

Learniii;;  I  thank  tliw  ;— thoUK'h  by  toil 

And  the  jjale  lamp  of  midni;;lit  oil 

I  Kaind  thy  smilfs  :  thou^rh  many  a  year 

Fortune  re-fus'd  my  heart  to  cheer  : 

By  th'  inspiring  laurels  crown'd. 

I  oft  could  smile  when  fortune  frown'd. 

Be;;uird  by  thee,  I  oft  forgot 

My  uncombd  wig  ami  rusty  coat : 

When  coals  were  dear,  and  low  my  fire, 

I  warm'd   mys«'lf  with  Homer's  lyre  : 

Or,  in  a  dearth  of  ale  Inniign. 

I  eager  quaffd  the  stream  divine, 

AVhich  Hows  in  Virgil's  every  line. 

To  save  me  from  domestic  hrawle, 

I  thunder'd  Tally  to  the  walls: 

When  nought  I  did  could  Dolly  please, 

I  laugh'd  with  Aristophanes  : 

And  oft  has  Grizzle,  on  our  way. 

Heard  me  from  Horace  smart  and  gay. 

But  while  I  trod  Life's  rugged  road, 

While  troubles  haunted  my  al)ode, 

With  not  an  omen  to  portend 

That  toil  would  cease,  that  things  would  mend, 

I  did  to  my  allotment  l)Ow. 

And  smok'd  my  pipe  as  I  do  now. 

Hail,  social  tube  !  tliou  foe  to  Care  ! 
Companion  of  my  easy  chair ! 
Form'd  not.  with  cold  and  Stoic  art, 
To  harden,  but  to  soothe  the  lieart  I 
^     For  Bacon,  a  much  wiser  man 
"^     Than  anv  of  the  Stoic  clan, 


WILLIAM  COMBE.  133 

Declares  tliy  power  to  control 
Eacli  fretful  impulse  of  the  soul  ; 
And  Swift  li;is  saiil  (a  splendid  name 
On  the  laige  sphere  of  mortal  fame), 
That  he  who  daily  smokes  two  pipes 
Tiie  tooth-at'he  never  has — nor  gripes. 
With  these,  in  silence  calm  and  still, 
My  Doily's  tones  no  longer  shrill. 
Though  meant  to  speak  reproach  and  sneer, 
Pjiss'd  in  soft  cadence  to  uiy  ear. 
Calm  Contemplation  comes  with  thee. 
And  the  mild  maid — Philosophy  ! 
Lost  in  the  thoughts  which  you  suggest 
To  the  full  coimsel  of  my  breast. 
My  books  all  sluinb'ring  on  the  ulielf 
I  thus  can  commune  with  myself  ; 
Thus  to  myself  my  thoughts  repeat ; 
Thus  moralize  on  what  is  great. 
And,  every  sellish  wish  subdued, 
Cherish  tho  sense  of  what  is  good. 
Thus,  cheer'd  with  hopes  of  hapjMer  days, 
My  grateful  lips  declare  thy  praise. 
How  oft  I  've  felt,  in  adverse  hour. 
The  comforts  of  thy  soothing  ])ower  ! 
Nor  will  I  now  forget  my  friend. 
When  my  fmd  fortune  seems  to  mend, 
Yes  ;  I  woukl  smoke  as  I  do  now. 
Though  a  proud  mitre  deck'd  my  brow. 
Hail,  social  tube  !  thou  foe  to  care  I 
Companion  of  my  easy  chair  ! 
— Dr.  Syiittuv  in  Search  of  the  Picturesque. 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

Tell  me,  I  beg  of  you.  in  what  respect  Dr.  Gold- 
smitli  was  neglected  ?  As  soon  as  his  talents  were 
known,  the  jniblic  discovered  a  ready  disposition 
to  reward  them  :  nor  did  he  ever  produce  the 
fruits  of  them  in  vain.  If  he  died  in  poverty,  it 
was  because  he  had  not  discretion  enough  to  be 
rich.  A  rigid  obedience  to  the  Scripture  demand 
of  •'  Take  no  thought  for  to-morrow,"'  with  an  os- 
tentatious impatience  of  coin,  and  an  unreflecting 
spirit  of  benevolence,  occasioned  the  difficulties  of 
his  life  and  the  insolvencv  of  its  end.     He  might 


lU  AUGUSTE  COMTE. 

have  blessed  himself  with  a  happy  independence, 
enjo}  ed  without  inteiTuption  every  wish  of  a  wise 
man,  secm^ed  an  ample  provision  for  his  old  age, if 
lie  had  attained  it,  and  have  made  a  respectable 
last  will  and  testament ;  and  all  this  without  ris- 
ing up  early  or  sitting  up  late,  if  common-sense 
had  been  added  to  his  other  attainments.     Sucli  a 
man  is  awakened  into  the  exertion  of  his  faculties 
but  by  the  impulse  of  some  sense  wJiich  demands 
enjoyment,  or  some  passion  which  cries  aloud  for 
gi-atification,  by  the  repeated  menace  of  a  creditor, 
or  the  frecjuent  dun  at  his  gate.     Nay,  should  the 
necessity  of  to-day  be  relieved,  the  procrastinated 
labor  will  wait  for  the  necessity  of  to-morrow  ; 
and  if  death  should  overtake  him  in  the  interval, 
it  must  lind  him  a  beggar,  and  the  age  is  to  be  ac- 
cused of  obduracy  in  suffering  genius  to  die  for 
want !     If  Pope  had  been  a  debauchee  he  would 
have  lived  in  a  garret,  nor  enjoyed  the  Attic  ele- 
gance of  his  villa  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames.     If 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  had  been  idle  and  drunken, 
he  might  at  this  hour  have  been  acquiring  a  scanty 
maintenance    by  painting  coacli-panels  and  Bir- 
mingham tea-boards.     Had  not  David  Hume  pos- 
sessed  the  invariable  temper  of  his  country,  he 
might  have  been  the  actual  nia.ster  of  a  school  in 
the  Hebrides  ;   and  the  inimitable  Garrick,  if  he 
had  possessed  Shuter's  character,  would  have  ac- 
quired little  more  than  Shuter  s  fame,  and  suffered 
Shuter's  end.  .  .  .      Rest  then  assured,  when    a 
man  of  learning  and  talents  does  not,  in  this  very 
remunerative  age,  find  protection,  encouragement, 
and  independence,  that  such  an  unnatural  circum- 
stance must  arise  from  some  concomitant  failings 
which  i-ender  his  laVjors  obnoxious,  or,  at  least,  of 
no  real  utility. — The  Lyttleton  Letters. 

COMTE,  ISIDORE-AUGUSTE-MARIE-FRANgOIS- 

Xavier,  a  French  philosopher,  born  at  Mont- 
pellier,  in  1798,  died  at  Paris  in  18.57.  In  1814 
he  entered  the  Polytechnic  School  at  Paris ; 
but  two  years  afterwards  he  took  part  in  a 
demonstration  against  one  of  the  masters, 
•and  was  sent  home.    Soon,  against  the  Avishes 


AUGUSTE  C031TE.  135 

oi'  his  parents,  he  went  back  to  Paris,  with 
the  intention  of  perfecting  his  own  intellectual 
development  ;  hoping  to  support  himself  in 
the  meantime  by  giving  instruction  in  mathe- 
matics. He  had  set  up  Benjamin  Franklin 
as  the  ideal  upon  which  his  own  life  should 
be  modeled.  To  a  school-friend  he  thus 
wrote  : 

comte".s  pl.\ns  at  twenty. 
I  seek  to  imitate  tlio  modern  Socrates  ;  not  in 
talents,  but  in  wa}^  of  living.  Yon  know  that  at 
live-and-twenty  he  formed  the  design  of  becoming 
perfectly  wise,  and  that  he  fulfilled  his  design. 
I  have  dared  to  undertake  the  same  thing,  tlumgh 
I  am  not  yet  twenty. 

At  Paris  he  lived  for  some  years  upon  an 
allowance  of  about  $400  a  year  made  to  him 
by  his  father.  He  fell  for  a  time  under  the 
influence  of  8aint-Sinion,  with  whom,  and 
whose  school  of  philosophy,  he  after  a  while 
quarrelled.  Yet  he  frankly  acknowledged 
his  obligations  to  Saint-Simon  :  "I certainly." 
he  wrote  to  a  friend,  "am  under  great  per- 
sonal obligations  to  Saint-Simon  ;  that  is  to 
any,  he  helped  in  a  powerful  degree  to  launch 
me  in  the  philosophical  direction  that  I  have 
now  definitely  marked  out  for  myself,  and 
that  I  shall  follow  Avithout  looking  back  for 
the  rest  of  my  life."  The  personal  life  of 
Comte  was  far  from  a  happy  one,  especially 
in  his  domestic  relations.  In  1826  he  had 
what  he  styles  a  "cerebral  crisis,"  which 
resulted  in  a  period  of  insanity,  Avhich  lasted 
for  several  months.  Recovering  from  this 
he  devoted  the  remainder  of  his  life  to  the 
elaboration  of  his  new  science  of  thought, 
which  has  come  to  be  designated  as  the 
" Positive  Philosophy, "earning his  livelihood 
in  the  meanwhile  as  a  teacher  of  mathemat- 
ics ;    but  receiving  also  from   time  to  time 


136  AUGUSTS  COMTE. 

much  sorely  needed  pecuniary  aid  from  some 
of  his  wealthy  English  admirers.  Comte's 
method  of  composition  is  thus  described  by 
Mr.  John  Morley  in  the  Encyclopaedia  Bri- 
tanntca  : 

I'OMTE  AS  A   WIUTER. 

If  you  seek  to  place  yourself  in  sympathy  with 
Comte,  it  is  best  to  think  of  him  only  as  the  intel- 
lectual worker  pursuinj;  in  uncomforted  obscurity 
the  laborious  and  absorbinjj;  task  to  which  he  had 
given  up  his  whole  life.  His  singularly  conscien- 
tious fashion  of  elaborating  his  ideas  made  the 
mental  strain  more  intense  than  even  so  exhaust- 
ing a  work  as  the  abstract  exposition  of  the  prin- 
ciples of  positive  science  need  have  been,  if  he  had 
followed  a  more  self-indulgent  plan.  He  did  not 
write  down  a  word  until  he  had  first  composed 
the  matter  in  his  nnnd.  When  he  had  thoroughly 
meditated  every  sentence,  he  sat  down  to  write, 
and  then,  such  was  the  grip  of  his  memory,  the 
exact  order  of  his  thoughts  came  back  to  him  as 
if  without  an  effort,  and  he  A\-roto  down  precisely 
what  he  had  intended  to  write,  Avithout  the  aid  of 
a  note  or  a  memorandum,  and  without  check  or 
pause.  For  example,  he  began  and  completed  in 
about  six  weeks  a  chapter  of  the  Positive  Phi- 
losophy which  would  fill  at  least  150  large  closely 
printed  octavo  pages.  Even  if  his  subject  had 
been  mereh*  nan-ative  or  descriptive,  this  would 
he  a  very  satisfactory  piece  of  continuous  produc- 
tion. "When  we  reflect  that  the  chapter  in  ques- 
tion is  not  narrative,  but  an  abstract  exposition  of 
the  guiding  principles  of  the  movements  of  several 
centuries,  with  manj"  threads  of  complex  thought 
running  along  side  by  side  through  the  specula- 
tion, then  the  ciniumstances  under  which  it  was 
reduced  to  literary  form  are  really  astonishing.  It 
is  hardly  possible  for  a  ci'itic  to  share  the  admira- 
tion expressed  b}'  some  of  Comte's  disciples  for 
his  style.  We  are  not  so  unreasonable  as  to  blame 
him  for  failing  to  make  his  pages  picturesque  ; 
but  there  is  a  certain  standard  for  the  most  serious 
and  abstract    subjects.      When  compared  with 


AUGUSTE  COMTE.  137 

such  philosophic  writing  as  Hume's,  Diderot's, 
Berkeley's,  then  Comte's  manner  is  heavy,  labored, 
monotonous,  Avithout  relief,  and  without  light. 
There  is  now  and  then  an  energetic  phrase  ;  but, 
as  a  whole,  the  vocabulary  is  jejune;  the  sen- 
tences are  overloaded,  tiie  pitch  is  fiat.  Tlie 
general  effect  is  impressive,  n<jt  by  any  virtues  of 
style,  for  we  do  not  discover  one,  but  by  reason  of 
the  magnitude  and  importance  of  the  undertak- 
ing, and  the  visible  conscientiousness  and  the 
grasp  with  which  it  is  executed.  It  is  by  sheer 
strength  of  thought,  by  the  vigorous  perspicacity 
with  which  he  strikes  the  lines  of  cleavage  of  his 
subject,  that  he  makes  liis  way  into  the  mind  of 
the  reader.  In  the  presence  of  gifts  of  this  power, 
we  need  not  quarrel  with  an  ungainly  style. 

The  following  are  the  principal  works  of 
Comte :  In  1830  he  began  the  publication  of 
the  Coursde  Philosojihie  positive,  which  ex- 
tended to  six  large  volumes,  the  last  appear- 
ing in  1842.  In  1843  he  published  the  Traite  ele- 
mentaire  de  Geometrie  anahjtique;  in  1848 
the  Discours  sur  V  Ensemble  dii  Positivisme ; 
and  in  1851-54  the  Sysfeme  de  Politique  posi- 
tive (4  vols.)  in  which  he  presented  the  final 
view  of  his  system.  Among  the  most  notable 
passages  in  his  writings  is  the  following : 

THE  GREAT  BEING. 

A  deeper  study  of  the  great  universal  order  re- 
veals to  us  at  length  the  ruling  power  within  it 
of  the  ti-ue  Great  Being,  whose  destiny  it  is  to 
bring  that  order  continually  to  perfection  by  con- 
stanth'  conforming  to  its  laws,,  and  which  thus 
represents  to  us  that  system  as  a  whole,  This 
undeniable  Providence,  the  supreme  dispenser  of 
our  destinies,  becomes  in  the  natural  course  the 
common  centre  of  our  affections,  our  thoughts, 
and  our  actions.  Although  this  Great  Being  evi- 
dently exceeds  the  utmost  strength  of  any,  even 
of  any  collective,  human  force,  its  necessary  con- 
stitution and  peculir  i  function  endow  it  with  the 


138  AUGUSTE  COMTE. 

truest  sympathy  towards  all  its  servants.  The 
least  among  us  can  and  ought  constantly  to  aspii'e 
to  maintain  and  even  to  improve  this  Being.  This 
natural  object  of  all  our  activity,  both  public  and 
private,  determines  the  true  general  character  of 
the  rest  of  our  existence,  whether  in  feeling  or  in 
thought ;  which  must  be  devoted  to  love,  and  to 
know,  in  order  rightly  to  serve,  one  Providence, 
by  a  wise  use  of  all  the  means  which  it  furnishes 
to  us.  Reciprocally  this  continued  service,  while 
strengthening  our  true  unity,  renders  us  at  once 
both  happier  and  better. 

Mr.  Morley  thus  summarizes  what  he  con- 
ceives to  be  the  scope  of  the  philosophy  de- 
veloped by  Comte : 

comte's  philosophical  theory. 
The  exaltation  of  Humanity  into  the  throne  oc- 
cupied by  the  Supreme  Being  under  the  mono- 
theistic systems,  made  all  the  rest  of  Comte's  con- 
struction easy  enough.  Utility  remains  the  test 
of  every  institution,  impulse,  act ;  his  fabric  be- 
comes substantially  an  arch  of  utilitarian  princi- 
ples, with  an  artificial  Great  Being  inserted  at  the 
top  to  keep  them  in  their  place.  The  Comtist  sys- 
tem is  utilitarianism  crowned  by  a  fantastic  decora- 
tion. Translated  into  the  plainest  English,  the 
position  is  as  follows  :  "Society  can  only  be  re- 
generated by  the  greater  subordination  of  politics 
to  morals,  by  the  moralization  of  capital,  by  the 
renovation  of  the  family,  by  a  higher  conception 
of  marriage,  and  so  on.  These  ends  can  only  be 
reached  by  a  heartier  development  of  the  sympa- 
thetic instincts.  Tlie  sympathetic  instincts  can 
only  be  developed  by  the  Religion  of  Humanity." 
,  .  .  The  whole  contest  as  to  the  legitimateness  of 
Comtism  as  a  religion  turns  upon  this  erection  of 
Humanity  into  a  Being.  The  various  hypotheses, 
dogmas,  proposals,  as  to  the  family,  to  capital; 
etc.,  are  merely  propositions  measurable  by  con- 
siderations of  utility  and  a  balance  of  expediencies. 
Many  of  these  proposals  are  of  the  highest  inter- 
est, and  many  of  them  are  actually  available,  but 


SAMUEL  STILLMx?iN  CONANT.         139 

tliere  does  not  seem  to  be  one  of  tlieni  of  an  avail- 
able kind  which  could  not  equallj'  well  be  ap- 
proached from  other  sides,  and  even  incorporated 
in  some  radically  antagonistic  system.  .  .  .  Tlie 
singularity  of  Comte's  construction,  and  the  test 
by  which  it  must  be  tried  is  the  transfer  of  the 
worsliip  and  discipline  of  Catholicism  to  a  systetn 
in  which  "  the  conception  of  God  is  superseded  " 
by  the  abstract  idea  of  Humanity,  conceived  as  a 
kind  of  Personality.  .  .  .  Perhaps  we  have  said 
enough  to  show  that  after  performing  a  great  and 
real  service  to  thought.  Comte  almost  sacrificed 
his  claims  to  gratitude  by  the  invention  of  a  sj^s- 
tem  that,  as  such,  and  independently  of  detached 
suggestions,  is  markedly  retrograde.  But  the 
world  has  strong  self -protecting  qualities.  It  will 
take  what  is  available  in  Comtc.  wliilc  forgetting 
that  in  his  Avork  which  is  as  irrational  in  one  way 
as  Hegel  is  in  another. 

CONANT.  S.vMVEL  Stillmax,  son  of  Rev. ' 
Thomas  .) .  Coiiant,  an  Aniericaii  joui-nalist, 
bom  at  Watorville.  :\Iaine,  in  1831.  After 
coaipleting  his  oollogiato  pdiication  he  spent 
several  years  in  Gerniau  Universities.  Upon 
his  return  to  America  he  entered  upon  the 
profession  of  journalism,  and  in  1802  became 
the  Office  Editor  of  Harpers  Weekly.  In 
January,  1885,  after  completing  his  regular 
■weeks  work,  he  left  the  office,  expecting  to 
return  in  a  day  or  two.  At  intervals,  for 
about  a  week  he  was  casually  seen  in  the 
vicinity  of  New  York ;  after  which  he  disap- 
peared entirely.  It  is  presumed  that  he  had 
wandered  away  in  a  sudden  fit  of  insanity.  In 
1870  he  published  a  translation  of  The  Circas- 
sian Bo !/,  a  metri(!al  romance  by  the  Russian 
poet  LermontofE.  He  also  contributed  both 
prose  and  verse  to  periodicals. 

RELEASE. 
As  one  who  leaves  a  prison  cell, 
And  looks,  with  glad  though  da.:2:led  e^'e, 


140         SAMUEL  STILLMAN  CONANT. 

Once  more  on  wood  and  field  and  sky, 
And  feels  again  the  quickening  s{>ell 

Of  nature  thrill  through  every  vein. 
I  leave  my  former  self  beliin<i, 
And,  free  once  more  in  heart  and  mind 

Shake  off  the  old  corroding  chain. 

Free  from  the  Pjvst — a  jailer  dread — 
And  with  the  Present  clasping  hands, 
Beneath  fair  skies,  throuj^ii  sunny  lands, 

Which  memory's  ghosts  ne"cr  haunt,  I  tread. 

The  pains  and  griefs  of  other  days 
May.  shadow-like,  pursue  me  j'et ; 
But  toward  the  sun  my  face  is  set, 

His  golden  light  on  all  my  ways. 

Helen  S.  Con  ant,  wife  of  S.  S.  Conant, 
was  born  at  Methueu,  Mass.,  in  1839.  In  1806 
she  published  The  Butterfly-Hunters ;  and 
subsequently  ^1  Primer  of  German  Literature, 
and  A  Primer  of  Spanish  Literature,  both  of 
which  contain  many  original  translations; 

A   GERilAN   LOVE  SONG. 

Thou  art  the  rest,  the  langour  sweet  I 
Thou  my  desire  !    Thou  my  retreat  I 
I  consecrate  my  heart  to  thee, 
Thy  home  through  all  eternity ! 
Come  in  to  me,  and  shut  the  door 
So  fa.st  that  none  shall  enter  more  ; 
Fill  all  my  soul  with  dear  delight ; 
Oh,  tarrj-  with  me  day  and  night. 

A  SPANISH  SONG. 

On  lips  of  blooming  youth. 

There  trembles  many  a  sigh, 
Which  lives  to  breathe  a  truth, 

Then  silently  to  die. 
Thou,  Mho  art  my  desire. 

Thy  languishing  sweet  love 
In  sighs  upon  thy  lips  shall  oft  expire. 


THOMAS  JEFFERSON  CONANT.        141 

I  love  the  sapphire  glory 

Of  those  starry  depths  above. 
Where  I  read  the  old,  old  story 

Of  human  hope  and  love, 
I  love  the  shining  star. 

But  when  I  gaze  on  thee, 
The  tire  of  thine  eyes  is  brighter  fai'. 

The  fleeting,  fleeting  hours, 

Which  ne'er  return  again. 
Leave  only  faded  flowers. 

And  weary  days  of  pain, 
D(4ight  recedes  from  view. 

And  never  more  may  pass 
Sweet  words  of  tenderness,  between  us  two. 

The  gentle  breeze  which  plays 

On  the  water  murmuringly. 
And  the  silvery,  trembling  rays 

Of  the  moon  on  the  midnight  sea — 
Ay  !  all  have  passed  away, 

Have  faded  far  from  me, 
Like  the  love  which  lasted  only  one  sweet  day. 

CONANT,  Thomas  Jefferson,  an  American 
scholar,  born  at  Brandon,  Vt.,  in  1802.  He 
gi-aduated  at  Mid€lebury  College  in  1823,  and 
after  devoting  several  years  to  philological 
study,  became  Professor  of  Languages  in 
Waterville  College,  Maine.  He  resigned  this 
position  in  1833,  and  devoted  himself  espe- 
cially to  the  study  of  Oriental  languages.  In 
1835  he  became  Professor  of  Biblical  Litera- 
ture in  the  Baptist  Theological  Seminarj'^  at 
Hamilton,  N.  Y.,  and  in  1850  was  called  to  a 
similar  chair  in  the  University  of  Rochester, 
N.  Y.,  having  in  the  meanwhile  spent  two 
years  in  the  German  Universities  of  Halle 
and  Berlin.  In  1857  he  took  up  his  residence 
at  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  in  order  to  devote  him- 
self to  Biblical  revision,  in  the  service  of  the 
American  Bible  Union  (Baptist).  At  a  later 
period  he  became  a  member  of  the  Old  Testa- 


148  CONDILLAC. 

ment  division  of  the  American  Committee 
co-operating  with  the  EngHsh  Committee  for 
the  revisal  of  the  Authorized  Version  of  tlie 
Bible.  While  Professor  at  Hamilton  he  trans- 
lated the  Hebrew  Grammar  of  Gesenius  and 
Rodiger.  Besides  his  Biblical  labors  he  has 
co-operated  with  others  in  the  preparation  of 
much  otner  scliolarly  work:  with  his  daugh- 
ter, Blandina  Cunant,  in  making  out  a  com- 
plete Index  to  the  American  Cyclopedia,  and 
with  Rev.  Lyman  Abbott  in  the  preparation 
of  his  Dictionari/  of  Religious  Knowledge. 

Helen  (Chaplin)  Conant.  wife  of  T.  J. 
Conant  (1809-1865),  was  a  frequent  contributor 
to  literary  and  religious  periodicals,  and  in 
1838  became  Editor  of  The  Mother  s  Journal. 
She  translated  several  works  from  the  Ger- 
man, among  which  are  some  of  the  Com- 
mentaries by  Neauder.  In  1855  she  wrote 
The  Earnest  Man,  a  biographical  sketch  of 
Adoniram  Judson,  the  missionary  to  Burmah. 
Her  most  elaboi-ate  work  is  A  History  of  the 
Translation  of  the  Holy  Scrijjturcs  into  the 
English  Tongue,  which  is  held  in  high  es- 
teem, y 

CONDILLAC.  Etienne  Bonnot,  de,  a 
French  philosopher,  born  at  Grenoble,  in  1715, 
died  in  1780.  His  feebleness  of  constitution 
in  childhood  prevented  his  being  kept  at 
school.  As  his  health  improved,  he  devoted 
himself  to  study,  and  while  still  j'oung  he  was 
appointed  tutor  to  the  Duke  of  Parma,  the 
grandson  of  Louis  XV.  In  1768  he  was  chosen 
a  member  of  the  French  Academy.  After 
completing  the  young  Duke's  education,  Con- 
dillac  retired  to  an  estate  near  Beaugency, 
where  he  spent  the  remainder  of  his  life  in  the 
quiet  pursuits  of  a  scholar. 

Condillac's  works  are,  Essai  sur  VOrigine 
des  Connaissancca  Hnmainc^,   published    in 


CONDILLAC.  143 

1746;  Traitc  des  Systemes  (1749);  Tmife  des 
Sensations  (1754);  Cours  d' Etudes,  comprising 
Grammaire,  L'Art  d'ecrire,  UArt  de  penser, 
L'Artde  raisonner,  L'histoire anrienne,  UHis- 
toire  moderne^xnd.  L" Etude  del Histoire,  (1755), 
this  Cours  being  written  for  the  instruction 
of  the  Duke  of  Parma:  Traite  des  Animaux 
(1775);  Le  Commerce  et  le  Gouvernement 
(1776);  La  Lorjique  (1780);  and  La  Langne  des 
Calcids,  loft  incomplete  by  the  author,  and 
published  in  1798. 

Condillac  criticises  the  philosophy  -which 
seeks  to  know  the  nature  of  the  mind,  and  is 
not  content  with  observing  its  operations.  He 
rejects  the  theory  of  innate  ideas,  and  main- 
tains that  "  the  sensations  and  the  operations 
of  the  mind  are  the  materials  of  all  our 
knowledge;"  that  mental  operations  are 
transformations  of  sensations;  that  unaided 
b)'  the  senses,  the  mind  is  powerless;  that 
thinking  is  nothing  without  language;  that 
reasoning  consists  in  detecting  a  judgment 
which  is  implicitly  contained  in  another, 
proof  being  afforded  by  identity ;  that  the 
analytic  is  the  only  method  of  acquiring  a 
knowledge  of  the  truth.  In  the  Traite  des 
Sensations,  Condillac  imagines  a  statue,  like 
ourselves  within,  possessed  of  a  mind  destitute 
of  all  ideas,  and  acquiring  the  use  of  its  senses 
at  the  pleasure  of  the  experimenter.  He  be- 
gins with  the  sense  of  smell,  as  that  which 
seems  to  contribute  least  to  the  development 
of  the  human  mind,  and  endows  his  statue 
with  hearing,  taste,  sight,  and  touch  in  suc- 
cession. In  his  work  Le  Commerce  et  le 
Gouvernement,  Condillac  regards  the-  wants 
and  desires  of  the  human  mind  as  the  source 
of  value.  He  treats  of  economic  science  as 
the  science  of  exchanges  in  which  men  give 
what  is  comparatively  superfluous  to  them 
for  what  is  necessary. 


144  CONDILLAC. 

OF  SENSATIONS. 

It  is  evident  that  tlie  ideas  which  we  call  sen- 
sations, are  of  such  a  nature  that  if  we  had  been 
deprived  of  our  Senses,  we  should  never  l)ave  been 
able  to  have  acijuired  them.  Hence  no  philosopher 
ever  assertetl  tliat  ihey  were  innate  ;  this  would 
have  been  plainly  contradicting  experience.  But 
it  liaa  been  said,  that  they  are  not  ideas  ;  just  as 
if  they  were  not  in  themselves  as  representative 
as  any  other  thought  of  the  soul.  The  sensations 
have  therefore  been  considered  only  as  something 
that  conies  after,  an<l  that  modifies  our  ideas  ;  an 
error  on  which  several  extravagant  and  unintel- 
ligible systems  are  founded.  A  very  slight 
attention  must  convince  us.  that  when  we  perceive 
light,  colors,  or  solidity,  these  and  the  like  sen- 
sations are  more  than  suiliriont  to  give  us  all  the 
ideas  which  we  generally  have  of  bodies.  For  is 
there,  in  fact,  any  idea  not  included  in  those  fii-st 
perceptions  ?  Do  not  we  find  in  these  the  ideas 
of  extension,  figure,  pl.ace,  motion,  rest,  etc.? 

Let  us  therefore  reject  the  hypothesis  of  innate 
ideas,  and  .suppose  that  God  has  given  us  onl\-, 
for  instance,  the  i)erceptions  of  light  and  color 
Will  not  these  represent  oven  to  our  eyes,  the 
ideas  of  extension,  of  lines  and  figures  ?  But  it 
will  be  objected,  that  we  cannot  be  sure,  by  our 
senses,  whether  these  things  are  realh-  such  as  they 
appear  :  therefore  we  have  not  the  ideas  of  them 
from  the  senses.  How  strange  a  consequence  ! 
Can  we  have  any  greater  certainty  from  innate 
ideas  ?  "What  does  it  signify  whether  the  senses 
can  give  us  any  certain  knowledge  of  tlie  figure 
of  a  bod}^  or  not?  The  question  is.  whethei",  even 
when  they  deceive  us,  they  do  not  convey  the 
idea  of  a  figure.  I  see  one,  for  instance,  which  I 
take  to  be  a  pentagon,  though  on  one  of  its  sides 
it  foi'ms  an  imperceptible  angle.  This  is  an  error  ; 
but,  for  all  that,  does  it  not  convey  to  my  mind 
the  idea  of  a  pentagon  ? 

And  yet  the  followers  of  Des  Cartes  and  Malle- 
branche  make  such  a  loud  cry  against  the  senses, 
and  repeat  to  us  so  often,  that  they  produce 
'nothing  but  error  and  delusion;  that  a  great  many 


CONDILLAC.  143 

are  apt  to  look  upon  them  as  an  obstacle  to  knowl- 
edge, and  through  a  mistaken  zeal  for  truth, 
would  be  glad,  if  possible,  to  be  divested  of  them. 
Not  that  the  complaints  of  those  philosopliers 
are  absolutely  without  foundation  :  they  have 
so  ingeniously  exposed  a  multitude  of  errors  on 
this  very  subject,  that  we  cannot,  without  in- 
justice, deny  the  obligations  we  owe  them.  But 
is  there  no  medium  ?  Cannot  we  find  in  our  senses 
a  source  of  truth,  as  well  as  of  error :  and  dis- 
tinguish them  so  clearly,  as  to  have  always 
recourse  to  the  former  ? 

And  first  of  all,  it  is  very  certain,  that  nothing 
is  more  clear  and  distinct  than  our  perception, 
Avhen  we  feel  some  particular  seusaut)ns.  What 
can  be  more  clear  and  distinct  than  the  percep- 
tions'\)f  form  and  of  (!olor  ?  Do  we  ever  confound 
these  ideas?  But  if  we  are  desirous  to  inquire 
into  their  nature,  and  to  know  in  what  manner 
they  are  produced  within  us.  we  must  not  begin 
by  saying  that  our  senses  deceive  us,  or  that  they 
give  us  confused  and  obscure  ideas  :  the  least  re- 
jflection  is  sufficient  to  refute  such  an  assertion. 

And  yet  let  the  nature  of  these  perceptions  be 
what  it  will,  and  let  them  be  produced  as  they 
will,  if  we  look  amongst  them  for  the  idea  of  ex- 
tension, for  instance,  of  a  line,  of  an  angle,  and 
any  other  figure,  we  shall  lind  it  in  that  repos- 
itory very  clearly  and  distinctly.  If  we  after- 
wards look  for  the  thing  to  which  we  attribute 
this  extension,  and  these  figures,  we  shall  perceive 
still  as  clearly  and  distinctly  that  it  belongs  not  to 
us,  nor  to  that  which,  within  us,  is  the  subject  of 
thought,  but  to  something  without  us.  But  if  we 
want  to  find,  in  these  perceptions,  the  idea  of  the 
absolute  magnitude  of  certain  bodies,  or  even  of 
their  relative  magnitude,  and  proper  figure,  we 
shall  have  reason  to  suspect  the  information  they 
give  us.  According  as  the  object  is  more  or  less 
distant,  the  appearances  of  size  and  figure,  in 
which  it  will  show  itself,  shall  be  entirely  dif- 
ferent. 

"We  must  therefore  distinguish  three  things  in 
our  sensations  :    1.  The  perception  which  we  feel. 


UO  CONDORCET. 

— 2.  The  application  wo  make  of  it  to  something 
■\vitliont  us. — ;}.  Tlie  judgment,  that  what  we  ao- 
ply  or  attribute  to  tiiose  things,  really  belongs  to 
them. — Origin  of  Human  Knowledge,  Transl.  of 
NUQE^■T. 

THE  NECESSITY  OF  SIOKS. 
The  necessity  of  signs  is  still  very  obvious  in 
those  complex  ideas  which  we  form  without  pat- 
terns. "When  once  we  have  combined  such  ideas 
as  we  see  nowhere  else  united,  which  generally 
Iiappens  in  archetyjies ;  who  is  it  that  could  fix 
their  combinations,  if  we  did  not  connect  them 
•with  words,  wjiich  are  the  chain,  as  it  were,  that 
liinders  them  from  escaping  our  memory  ?  If  you 
imagine  that  the  names  of  things  are  of  no  use, 
cancel  them  from  your  memory,  and  try  to  reflect 
on  civil  and  moral  laws,  ou  virtues  and  Aices,  in 
bhort,  on  all  human  actions,  and  you  will  soon^ixjr- 
ceive  your  mistake.  You  will  acknowledge  that 
at  ever}'  combination  j-ou  make,  if  you  have  no 
signs  to  determine  the  number  of  simple  ideas 
which  you  wanted  to  combine,  you  can  hardly 
advance  one  step  without  finding  j-ourself  in  a 
labyrinth.  You  will  be  just  in  the  same  dilemma, 
as  a  person  that  should  want  to  calculate,  by  re- 
peating several  times  one,  one,  one,  and  did  not 
imagine  signs  for  each  combination.  This  man 
would  never  form  to  himself  tlie  idea  of  twenty, 
because  he  could  not  be  assured  that  he  had  exact- 
ly repeated  all  the  units.  Let  us  conclude  that  in 
order  to  have  ideas  on  which  we  may  be  capable  of 
reflecting,  we  have  need  of  imagining  signs  that 
may  serve  as  chains  to  tlie  different  combinations  of 
simple  ideas;  and  that  our  notions  are  exact,  no 
farther  than  as  we  have  invented  regular  signs  to 
fix  tliem. — Origin  of  Human  Knowledge,  Transl. 
of  Nugent. 

CONDORCET,  Jean  Antoine  Nicolas  de 
Caritat,  Marquis  de,  a  French  author, 
born  ill  1743,  died  in  1794.  lie  was  educated 
at  the  Jesuit  College  of  Rheims  and  at  the 
College  of  Navarre,  Avhcrc  he  gave  promise  of 


CONDORCET.  147 

distinction.  At  the  age  of  twenty-two,  he 
wrote  an  Essai  sur  le  CalciU  Integral,  which 
foiu-  years  later  gained  him  a  seat  in  the 
Academy  of  Science.  In  1777  he  was  elected 
Secretary  of  the  Academy,  and  received  from 
the  Berlin  Academy  of  Sciences  a  prize  for 
his  theory  of  Comets.  His  Pensees  de  Pas- 
cal were  published  in  1776.  Turgot,  with 
whom  he  Avas  intimate,  interested  him  in  po- 
litical economy,  and  induced  him  to  become 
a  contributor  to  the  Encyclopcdie.  In  1782 
he  was  elected  a  member  of  the  FnMich  Acad- 
emy. His  Eloges  des  Academiciens  del  AcadA- 
inie  Royale  des  Sciences  marts  depxiis  1G66 
jusqiC  en  1G99,  was  pubhshed  the  next  year. 
A  work  entitled  Elements  dii  Calctd des  Prob- 
abilites,  was  written  in  1785,  Vie  de  Turgot, 
in  1786,  and  Vie  de  Voltaire  in  1787. 

At  the  outbreak  of  the  French  Revolution, 
Condorcet  attached  himself  to  the  popular 
cause.  His  political  speeches  and  pamphlets 
added  to  his  fame.  He  was  appointed  one  of 
the  secretaries  of  the  Legislative  Assembly, 
and  in  1792  became  its  President.  He  wrote 
the  address  of  the  French  people  to  the  na- 
tions of  Europe  on  the  abolition  of  monarchy, 
and  Avas  entrusted  with  the  preparation  of  a 
new  Constitution,  which  was  rejected  for 
another.  His  criticism  of  tliis  document,  and 
his  denunciation  of  the  arrest  of  the  Girond- 
ists, led  to  his  own  dowmfall.  He  was  ac- 
cused of  being  a  conspirator,  and  was  declared 
an  outlaw.  For  some  months  he  was  shel- 
tered by  Madame  Vernet,  who,  to  divert  his 
mind,  induced  him  to  begin  his  best  known 
work,  EEsqnisse  d' tin  Tableau  historique 
des  Progres  de  V  Esx)rit  humaine,  in  which  he 
endeavors  to  set  forth  the  origin  of  the  ills  of 
life,  and  to  indicate  the  steps  by  which  a  per- 
fect state  of  society  maybe  attained.  He  also 
wrote  while  under  the  protection  of  Mme. 


148  ("ONDORCET. 

Vernet.  Ep'itred  iin  Polonaii^  Exile  en  Sib^rie 
a  sa  Femme.  Learning  that  by  sheltcrieng 
him.  Madame  Vernet  was  endangering  her 
own  life,  Condoi-cet  fled  from  her  house,  and 
after  wandering  about  imtil  compelled  by 
stai'vation  to  ask  for  food  at  an  inn,  was  ar- 
rested and  thrown  into  prison,  where  he  was 
found  dead  on  the  following  morning.  His 
wife,  Mario  Louise  Sophie  de  Condorcet,  the 
sister  of  Marshal  Grouchy  and  j\Iadame  Ca- 
baiiis  (1705-1S22),  had  considerable  literary 
talent.  Besides  her  own  compositions,  not 
without  merit,  she  is  the  author  of  a  good 
translation  of  Adam  Smith's  Theory  of  Moral 
Sentiments. 

EQUALITY  OF   INSTRUCTION  A  MEANS  OF   PROGRESS. 

Tlie  equality  of  instruction  we  can  hope  to  at- 
tain, and  witli  whidi  we  ougjht  to  be  satislied,  is 
that  wiiit  li  exc-hiiles  every  species  of  dependence, 
whetlier  forced  or  voluntary.  We  may  exiiibit. 
in  tlie  actual  state  of  liuman  knowledjje,  the  easy 
means  by  whicli  this  end  may  be  attained  even  for 
those  who  can  devote  to  study  but  a  few  years  of 
infancy,  and  in  subsequent  life  only  some  occa- 
sional hours  of  leisure.  We  might  show,  that  by 
a  happy  clioice  of  the  subjects  to  be  taugbt,  and  of 
the  means  of  inculcating  them,  the  entire  mass  of 
a  people  may  be  instructed  in  everything  neces- 
sary for  the  purposes  of  domestic  economy ;  for 
the  transaction  of  their  affairs;  for  the  free  develoj>- 
ment  of  tbeir  industry  and  their  faculties  ;  for  tlie 
knowledfje.  exercise  and  protection  of  their  rights  ; 
for  a  sense  of  their  duties,  and  the  power  of  dis- 
charging them  :  for  tiie  capacity  of  judging  both 
their  own  actions,  and  the  actions  of  others,  by 
their  own  understanding  :  for  tlie  acquisition  of 
all  the  delicate  or  dignitied  sentiments  tiiat  are  au 
honor  to  humanity  ;  for  freeing  themselves  from 
a  blind  confidence  in  those  to  whom  they  may 
entrust  the  care  of  their  interests,  and  the  security 
of  their  rights  ;  for  choosing  and  watching  over 
them,  so  as  no  longer  to  be  the  dupes  of  those  pop- 


C^ONDORCET.  149 

ular  erroivs  that  torment  and  \va)lay  (he  life  of 
man  witli  KupcTstitious  fears  and  ehiniericul  liopes; 
for  defending  themselves  against  prejiulices  by 
the  sole  eneigy  of  reason ;  in  fine,  for  esciipiiig 
from  the  delusions  of  impostures,  which  would 
spread  snares  Tor  theii'  fortune,  their  health,  their 
freedom  of  opinion  and  of  conscience,  under  the 
pretext  of  enriching,  of  healing,  and  of  saving 
them. 

The  inhabitants  of  tlie  same  country  bomg  then 
no  longer  distinguished  among  themselves  by  the 
alternate  use  of  a  refined  or  vulgar  language  ;  be- 
ing equally  governed  by  their  own  understand- 
ings ;  being  no  more  confined  to  the  mechanical 
knowledge  of  the  processes  of  the  arts,  and  the 
mere  routine  of  a  profession  ;  no  more  dependent 
in  the  most  trifling  affairs,  and  for  the  slightest 
information,  upon  men  of  skill,  who,  by  a  neces- 
sary ascendency,  control  and  govern,  a  real  equal- 
ity must  be  the  result ;  since  th  >  dilTerence  of  tal- 
ents and  information  can  no  longer  place  a  barrier 
between  men  whose  sentiments,  ideas,  and  phrase- 
ology are  capable  of  being  mutually  understood, 
of  whom  the  one  part  may  desire  to  be  instructed 
but  cannot  need  to  be  guided  by  the  other ;  of 
whom  the  one  part  may  delegate  to  tlie  other  the 
oflfice  of  a  rational  govermnent,  but  cannot  be 
forced  to  regard  them  with  blind  and  unlimited 
confidence.  Then  it  is  that  tiiis  superiority  will 
become  an  advantage  even  for  those  who  do  not 
partake  of  it,  since  it  will  exist  not  as  their  ene- 
my, but  as  their  friend.  The  natural  differences 
of  faculties  between  men  whose  understandings 
have  not  been  cultivated,  produces,  even  among 
savages,  empirics  and  dupes,  the  one  skilled  in  de- 
lusion, the  others  easy  to  be  deceived  ;  the  same 
difference  will  doubtless  exist  among  a  people 
where  instruction  shall  be  truly  general ;  but  it 
will  be  here  between  men  of  exalted  understand- 
ings and  men  of  sound  minds,  who  can  admire 
the  radiance  of  knowledge,  without  suffering 
themselves  to  be  dazzled  by  it ;  between  talents 
and  genius  on  the  one  hand,  and  on  the  other  the 
good  sense  that  knows  how   to  appreciate  and 


150  CONFUCIUS. 

enjoy  them  :  and  shonld  this  difference  be  even 
greater  in  tlie  latter  case,  comparing  the  force  and 
extent  of  the  faculties  only,  still  would  the  effects 
of  it  not  l^e  the  less  inijjerceptible  in  the  relations 
of  men  with  each  other,  in  whatever  is  interesting 
to  their  independence  or  their  liappiness. — Out- 
lines of  a  Historical  Vieio  of  the  Progress  of  the 
Human  Mind. 

CONFUCIUS  (the  Latinized  transliteration 
of  KoNG-FU-TSE.  "  Kong  the  Master''),  a 
Chinese  ethical  philosopher,  horn  in  549.  died 
in  479  B.C.  He  was  thus  a  contemporary  of 
Pythagoras  and  the  later  Hebrew  Prophets. 
He  died  about  twenty  years  before  the  l)attle 
of  Lake  Kogillus,  the  first  authentic  date  in 
Roman  history.  His  father  died  when  Con- 
fucius was  only  three  years  old;  but  the 
child  was  carefully  brought  up  by  his  mother, 
and  early  displayed  great  love  of  learning  and 
veneration  for  the  ancient  institutions  of  his 
country.  At  the  age  of  seventeen  he  was 
made  an  inspector  of  the  corn-markets;  and 
a  few  years  afterwards  was  appointed  inspect- 
or-general of  pa.stui'es  and  flocks.  His 
mother  died  when  he  was  twenty-three,  and 
he.  in  accordance  with  an  ancient,  but  almost 
obsolete  law  of  China,  resigned  his  public 
employment  and  went  into  mourning  for 
three  yeai-s,  devoting  himself  to  philosophical 
study.  When  the  prescribed  period  of  mourn- 
ing had  expired,  he  traveled  through  various 
parts  of  the  empire,  and  became  known  as  a 
reformer  of  morals.  When  he  returned  to 
his  home  his  reputation  was  very  great,  and 
he  soon  had  five  hundred  Mandarins  among 
his  disciples.  His  pupils  were  all  full-grown 
men,  whom  he  divided  into  four  classes.  To 
the  first  class  he  taught  morals ;  to  the  second, 
rhetoric ;  to  the  third,  politics :  to  the  fourth, 
the  perfection  of  their  written  stj'le.  He  also 
devoted  himself  assiduously  to  the  revision 


CONFUCIUS.  151 

and  abridgment  of  the  ancient  Chinese  class- 
ics. 

After  a  while  ho  was  induced  to  resume  his 
travels;  being  sometimes  well  received,  and 
sometimes  neglected.  Returning  to  his  na- 
tive district,  he  was  made  ' '  governor  of  the 
people,"  But  in  spite  of  his  efforts  a  tide  of 
immorality  set  in ;  and,  being  unable  to  stem 
it,  he  again  set  out  upon  a  new  reformatory 
mission,  which  proved  a  bootless  one.  He 
met  with  frequent  persecutions ;  once  he  was 
imprisoned  and  nearly  starved.  Finally  he 
returned  to  his  native  district  in  a  destitute 
condition.  He  died  in  the  seventieth  year  of 
his  age.  He  was  hardly  in  his  grave  when 
his  countrymen  began  to  show  tokens  of  ex- 
traordinary veneration  for  his  memory.  The 
anniversary  of  his  death  is  yet  publicly  com- 
memorated ;  while  in  every  considerable  city 
there  is  a  temple  ejected  to  his  honor.  His 
family  has  continued  for  some  seventy  gener- 
ations down  to  the  present  time  to  reside  in 
the  district  where  he  lived.  Like  the  reputed 
descendants  of  Mohammed,  they  constitute 
an  especial  class — the  only  iieredituiv  aris- 
tocracy in  the  empire. 

The  actual  writings  of  Confucius  him- 
self consist  of  two  brief  tracts,  both  of 
them  making  not  more  than  three  or 
four  moderate  pages.  The  first  of  these  is 
entitled  The  Great  Learning.  This,  Ave  are 
told,  ''forms  the  gate  by  which  first  learners 
enter  into  virtue.  Learners  must  commence 
their  course  Avith  this,  and  then  it  may  be 
hoped  they  will  be  kept  from  error. " 

THE  GREAT  LEAKNIXG. 

1.  What  the  Great  Learning  teaches,  is — To 
illustrate  illustrious  virtue ;  to  renovate  the 
people  ;  and  to  rest  in  the  highest  excellence. — 
2.  The  jioint  where  to  rest  being  known,  the  object 
of  pursuit  13  then  determined  ;    and,  that  being 


15a  (  ONFUCIUS. 

determined,  a  calm  unppiturljodness  may  he 
attained.  To  that  cahuuess  there  will  succeed 
a  tranquil  repose.  In  tliat  repose  there  may  be 
careful  deliberation,  and  that  deliberation  will  be 
followed  by  the  attainment  [of  the  desired  end.] — 
3.  Things  have  their  root  and  their  completion. 
Affairs  have  tlieir  end  and  their  beginning.  To 
know  what  is  first  and  what  is  last  will  lead  near 
to  wliat  is  taught  [in  the  Great  Leai-ning.]— 4.  The 
ancients  who  wished  to  illustrate  illustrious  virtue 
throughout  the  emj>ir(\  lust  ordered  well  their 
own  States.  Wisliing  to  order  well  their  States, 
tliey  fii-st  regulated  their  families.  Wishing  to 
regulate  their  families,  tliey  first  cultivateil  their 
l>crsons.  Wishing  to  cultivate  their  persons, 
tliey  lirst  rectified  tlieir  hearts.  Wishing  to 
rectify  their  heaits,  they  first  sought  to  be  sincere 
in  their  thoughts.  Wishing  to  lie  sincere  in  their 
thoughts,  they  first  extended  to  the  utmost  their 
knowledge.  Such  extension  of  knowledge  lay  in 
the  investigation  of  things. — o.  Things  being  in- 
vestigated, knowledge  l)eca<ne  complete.  Their 
knowledge  being  complete,  their  thoughts  were 
sincere.  Their  thoughts  being  sincere,  their 
liearts  were  then  rectified.  Their  hearts  being 
rectified,  their  persons  were  cultivated.  Their 
persons  being  cultivated,  their  families  were 
regulated.  Their  families  being  regulated,  their 
States  were  rightly  governed.  Their  States  being 
rightly  governed,  the  whole  empire  wjis  made 
tranquil  and  happy. — 6.  From  tiie  emperor  down 
to  tlie  mass  of  the  people,  all  must  consider  the 
cultivation  of  the  person  the  root  [of  everything 
besides.] — 7.  It  cannot  be,  when  the  root  is  neg- 
lected, that  what  should  spring  from  it  will  be 
well  ordered.  It  never  has  been  the  case  that 
what  was  of  great  importance  has  been  slightly 
cared  for,  and,  at  the  same  time,  that  what  was  of 
slight  importance  has  been  greatly  cared  for. 

The  second  of  ;ho  writings  of  Confucius  is 
entitled  The  Docc.  inc  of  the  Mean.  Of  this 
we  are  told  :  "Thiowork  contains  the  Law 
of  the  Mind,  which  was  handed  down  from 


C0NFU0IU8.  153 

one  to  another  in  the  Confucian  School,  till 
TBze-szc,  the  grandson  of  Confucius,  fearing 
lest  in  the  course  of  time  errors  should  arise 
about  it  committed  it  to  writing,  and  delivered 
it  to  Mencius, [371-388  B.C.]  The  book  first 
speaks  of  one  principle  ;  it  next  spreads  this 
out,  and  embraces  all  things  ;  finally',  it 
)-eturns  and  gathers  them  all  up  luider  th» 
one  principle.  The  whole  of  it  is  solid  learn- 
ing. When  the  skilful  reader  has  explored 
it  with  delight  till  he  has  apprehended  it,  he 
may  carry  it  into  practice  all  his  life,  and 
will  find  that  it  cannot  be  exhausted."' 

THE  DOCTRINE  OF  THE  MEAN. 

1.  What  heaven  has  conferred  is  called  The 
Nature  ;  an  accordance  with  this  nature  is  called 
The  Path  of  duty  ;  the  regulation  of  this  path  is 
called  Intitructiun. — 2.  The  patli  may  not  be  left 
for  an  instant.  If  it  could  be  left,  it  would  not 
be  the  path.  On  this  account,  the  superior  man 
does  not  wait  till  he  sees  things,  to  l>e  cautious, 
nor  till  he  hears  things,  to  be  apprehensive. — 
3.  There  is  nothing  more  visible  than  what  is 
secret,  and  nothing  more  manifest  than  what  is 
minute.  Tlierefore  the  superior  man  is  watchful 
/iver  himself,  when  he  is  alone. — 4.  While  there 
aie  no  stirrings  of  pleasure,  anger,  sorrow,  or  joy, 
the  tnmd  ma}'  be  said  to  be  in  the  state  of  Equili- 
briuvi.  When  those  feelings  have  been  stirred, 
and  they  act  in  their  due  degree,  there  ensues 
what  may  be  called  the  state  of  Harmony.  This 
Eqiiilibi'ium  is  the  great  root  from  which  grow 
all  the  human  actings  in  the  world,  and  this 
Harmony  is  the  universal  path  which  they  all 
should  pursue. — 5.  Let  the  states  of  Equilibrium 
and  Harmony  exist  in  perfection,  and  a  happy 
order  Avill  prevail  throughout  heaven  and  earth, 
and  all  things  will  be  nouiished  and  flourish. 

Both  The  Great  Lemoning  and  The  Doctrine 

of  the  Mean  are  accompanied  by  extended 
comments,  which  are  regarded  as  authorita- 


l'>4  CONFUCIUf>. 

tive— the  one  bj'  Tsang,  the  other  by  Tsze-sze. 
But  much  more  extensive,  and  to  us  more 
important,  are  what  are  styled  The  Analects, 
but  -Nvhich  may  properly  be  designated  Tfie 
Table-Talk  of  Confucius,  apparently  written 
down  by  several  of  his  disciples.  The 
Analects  are  divided  into  twenty  Books, 
making  in  all.  in  the  translation  of  Dr.  Legge, 
a  i-ather  small  volume.  We  present  a  few  of 
the  most  striking  passages  of  these  talks  : 

THE  ANALECTS. 

Tlio  Master  said  :  "Is  it  not  pleasant  to  learn 
with  u  constant  pcrseverenco  and  application? 
Is  ho  not  a  n\an  of  completo  virtuo,  who  feels  no 
discomposure  thougii  nun  may  take  no  note  of 
him?*" — Tlio  pliilosopher  Tsanj;  said  :  "  I  daily  ex- 
amine myself  on  three  points  :  Whether,  in  trans- 
acting husinpss  for  others,  I  may  liave  been  not 
faithful  :  whether  in  intercourse  with  friends,  I 
may  have  been  not  sincere  ;  whetlier  I  may  have 
not  mastere<l  and  practiced  the  instructions  of  my 
teacher."  The  Master  s;iiil :  •'  To  rule  a  country 
of  a  tliousand  cliariots,  there  must  l>e  a  reverent 
attention  to  business,  and  sincerity  ;  economy  in 
expenditure,  and  love  for  men  :  and  the  employ- 
ment of  tlie  people  at  the  proper  seasons.'' — The 
Master  s;ud  :  •'  A  youtli.  when  at  home,  should  be 
filial,  and,  abroad,  respectful  to  his  elders.  He 
should  Ix?  earnest  and  truthful.  He  should  over- 
flow in  love  to  all,  and  cultivate  the  friendship  of 
the  good.  When  he  has  time  and  opportunity, 
after  the  performance  of  these  things,  he  should 
employ  them  in  polite  studies."  The  Master  said  : 
"  Hold  faithfulness  and  sincerity  as  first  principles. 
Have  no  friends  not  equal  to  yourself.  When  you 
have  faults  do  not  fear  to  abandon  them." — Tsze- 
kung  said  :  "  What  do  you  pronounce  concern- 
ing the  poor  man,  who  yet  does  not  flatter,  and  the 
rich  man  who  is  not  proud?  "  The  Master  replied: 
' '  They  will  do ;  but  they  are  not  equal  to  him 
who,  though  poor,  is  yet  clieerful,  and  to  him 
who,  though  rich,  loves  the  rules  of  propriety." 


CONFUCIUS.  ir.5 

Tsze-kiinp;  replied  :  "  It  is  said  in  the  Book  of  Po- 
etry, 'As  you  cut  and  then  file,  as  you  carve  and 
then  polish.'  The  meaning  is  the  same,  I  appre- 
liend,  as  that  which  you  have  just  expressed." 
The  Master  said  :  '•  With  one  like  Tszo  I  can  be- 
gin to  talk  about  the  Odes.  I  told  him  one  point, 
and  he  knew  it.s  proper  sequence." — Analects, 
Book  I. 

The  Master  said:  "He  who  exercises  pTOvern- 
ment  by  means  of  his  virtue  may  be  compared  to 
the  noith-ptilar  star,  which  keeps  its  place,  and  all 
the  stars  turn  towards  it."'  '•  In  the  Book  of  Poetry 
are  throe  hundred  pieces,  but  the  design  of  them 
all  may  be  embrace<l  in  one  sentence.  Have  no  de- 
praved thoughts,"  "  If  the  people  be  led  by  laws, 
and  uniformity  sought  to  be  given  them  by  punish- 
ments, they  will  try  to  avoid  ihe  putt ishmeiit,  but 
have  no  sense  of  s/iam(»."' — Tsze-kung  asked  what 
constituted  the  superior  man.  The  Master  said  : 
"  He  acts  before  he  speaks,  and  afterwards  speaks 
according  to  his  actions.  The  superior  man  is 
catholic,  and  no  partisan  ;  the  mean  mart  is  a  parti- 
san, and  not  catholic." — The  lord  (iae  asked,  what 
should  be  done  in  order  to  secure  the  submission 
of  the  people.  The  Master  replied:  "Advance 
the  upright  and  set  aside  the  crooked,  then  the 
people  will  submit;  advance  the  crooked  and  set 
aside  the  upright,  then  the  people  will  not  sub- 
raiV— Analects,  Book  II. 

The  Master  said  :  "It  is  only  the  truly  virtuous 
man  who  can  love  or  can  hate  others."  "  A 
scholar  whose  mind  is  set  on  truth,  and  who  is 
ashamed  of  bad  clothes  and  bad  food,  is  not  fit  to 
be  discoursed  with."  "  The  superior  man  thinks 
of  virtue  ;  the  small  man  thinks  of  comfort.  The 
superior  man  thinks  of  the  sanctions  of  law  ;  the 
small  man  thinks  of  favors  [which  he  may  re- 
ceive.]" "The  reason  why  the  ancients  did  not 
readily  give  utterance  to  their  words,  was  that 
they  feared  their  actions  should  not  come  up  to 
them."  "  Riches  and  honors  are  what  men  desire  ; 
if  they  cannot  be  obtained  in  the  proper  way.  thc^y 
should  not  be  held.  Poverty  and  meanness  are 
what  men  dislike  ;    if  they  can  not  be  avoided  in 


150  CONFUCIUS. 

the  proper  way,  they  should  not  be  avoided.''  "  It 
is  vh'tuous  manners  whicli  con.stitute  the  excel- 
lence of  a  neighborhood.  If  a  man  in  selecting  a 
residence  does  not  lix  on  one  where  such  prevail, 
liovv  can  he  be  wise  ? ''  '•  Those  who  are  without 
virtue  cannot  abide  long  in  a  condition  of  poverty 
and  hardship,  or  in  a  condition  of  enjoyment. 
The  virtuous  rest  in  virtue :  the  wise  desire  \ir- 
tuc." — Analects.  Book  IV. 

Some  out;  said  :  *■  Yang  is  truly  virtuous  ;  but 
he  is  not  ready  with  liis  tongue."  Tlie  Master 
said  :  "  What  is  the  good  of  being  ready  with  the 
tongue?  They  who  meet  men  with  smartnesses 
of  speech,  for  the  most  part  procure  thems3lves 
hatred.  I  know  not  whether  he  be  truly  virtuous; 
but  why  should  he  show  readiness  of  the  tongue  r" 
— Tsze-kung  said  :  *•  What  I  do  not  wish  men  to 
do  to  me,  I  also  wish  not  to  do. to  men."  The 
^Master  said:  "Tsze,  j-ou  have  not  attained  to 
that.'" — Several  persons  had  been  telling  the  things 
which  they  wished  to  do.  then  Tsze-loo  said  :  "  I 
should  lik?.  sir,  to  hear  your  wislies."'  The  Master 
said  :  '"They  are,  in  regard  to  the  aged,  to  give 
them  rest ;  in  regard  to  friends,  to  show  them  sin- 
cerity ;  in  regard  to  the  young,  to  treat  them  ten- 
derly,"— Analects,  Book  V. 

The  Master  said  :  '•  When  the  solid  qualities  are 
in  excess  of  accomplishments,  we  have  rusticity  ; 
when  the  accomplishments  are  in  excess  of  the 
solid  qualities,  we  liave  the  miuinere  of  a  clerk. 
When  the  accomplishments  and  solid  qualities 
are  equally  blendeil  we  then  have  the  man  of  com- 
plete virtue." — Fan-cbe  asked  what  constituted 
wisdom.  The  Master  said:  ••To  give  oneself 
eai'nestly  to  the  dutits  due  to  men,  and,  while  re- 
specting spiritual  beings,  to  keep  aloof  from  them, 
may  be  called  wisdom."  He  a.sked  about  perfect 
virtue.  The  Master  said:  "The  man  of  virtue 
makes  the  difficulty  [to  be  overcome]  his  first  busi- 
ness, and  success  only  a  subsequent  consideration: 
this  may  be  called  perfect  virtue." — The  ]Master 
said:  "  They  who  know  [the  truth]  are  not  equal 
to  those  who  love  it :  and  they  who  love  it  are 
not  equal  to  those  who  find  pleasure  in  ir."     "  The 


I 


CONFUCIUS.  1>>7 

man  of  perfect  virtue,  wisliing  to  be  established 
himself,  seeks  also  to  establish  others  ;  wishing  to 
be  enlarged  himself,  he  seeks  also  to  enlarge 
others."  "  To  be  able  to  judge  [of  others]  by  what 
is  nigh  [in  ourselves],  this  may  be  called  the  art  of 
virtue.'' — Anaiccts,  Book  VI. 

Tlie  Master  said:  "When  I  walk  along  with 
two  others,  they  may  serve  me  as  my  teachers.  I 
will  notice  their  good  (qualities,  and  follow  them  ; 
their  bad  qualities,  and  avoid  them."'  Tsze-loo 
asked  :  "If  you  had  the  conduct  of  the  armies  of 
a  great  State,  whom  would  you  have  to  act  with 
youV  The  Master  said:  "I  would  not  have 
him  to  act  with  me,  who  would  unarmed  attack  a 
tiger,  or  cross  a  river  without  a  boat,  dying  with- 
out any  regret.  My  associate  must  be  the  man 
who  proceeds  to  action  full  of  solicitude  ;  who  is 
fond  of  adjusting  Ids  plans,  and  then  carries  them 
into  execution." — The  lord  of  She  asked  Tsze-loo 
about  Confucius,  and  Tsze-loo  did  not  answer 
him.  Tlie  Master  said  :  '"Why  did  you  not  say 
to  him.  He  is  simply  a  man  who  in  his  eager  pur- 
suit of  knowledge  forgets  his  food  :  who  in  tlie 
joy  [of  its  attainment]  forgets  his  sorrows;  and 
who  does  not  perceive  that  old  age  is  coming  on?  " 
— Analects,  Book  VII. 

The  Master  said  :  "There  are  three  principles 
of  conduct  which  the  man  of  high  rank  should 
consider  specially  important  :  That  in  his  deport- 
ment and  manner  he  keep  from  violence  and 
heedlessness  :  that  in  regulating  his  countenance 
he  keep  close  to  sincerity  ;  that  in  ids  words  and 
tones  he  keep  far  from  lowness  and  impropriety. 
As  to  such  matters  Jis  attending  to  the  sacrificial 
vessels,  there  are  the  proper  oflicers  for  them." — 
The  Master  said:  "When  a  country  is  well- 
governed,  poverty  and  a  mean  condition  are  thmgs 
to  be  ashamed  of  :  when  a  country  is  ill-governed, 
riches  and  honor  are  things  to  be  ashamed  of." — 
Analects,  Book  VIII. 

Ke-loo  asked  about  serving  the  spirits  [of  the 
dead].  The  Master  said:  "While  you  are  not 
able  to  serve  men.  how  can  you  serve  [their] 
spirits V     Ke-loo  continued  :    "I  venture  to  ask 


158  CONFUCIUS. 

about  dealli."  He  was  answered:  "While  you 
do  not  know  life,  how  can  you  know  about  death  ?  " 
— Analects,  Book  XI. 

Tsze-kunfj  asked  about  government.  The  Master 
said:  "The  requisites  of  government  are,  that 
there  be  sufficiency  of  food,  sufficiency  of  military 
equipment,  and  confidence  of  the  people  in  their 
ruler.''  Tsze-kung  asked  :  "  If  it  cannot  be  helped, 
and  one  of  these  must  be  dispensed  with,  which 
of  the  three  should  be  foregone  first?"  "The 
military  equipment."  said  the  Master.  Tsze-kung 
again  asked  :  "  If  it  cannot  be  helped,  and  one  of 
the  remaining  two  must  lie  dispensed  with,  which 
of  tiiem  should  be  foregone?"  The  Master  an- 
swered :  "  Part  with  the  food.  From  of  old, 
death  ha.s  been  the  lot  of  all  men  ;  but  if  the 
people  have  no  faitli  [iu  their  rulers),  there  is  no 
standing  [for  the  Stale].'" — Tsze-kung  asked  about 
friendship.  The  Miuster  said  :  '*  Faithfully  ad- 
monish [your  friend],  and  kindly  try  to  lead  him. 
If  you  lind  him  impracticable,  stop  :  do  not  dis- 
grace yourself.'" — Analects,  Book  XII. 

'  •  Tsze-loo  said  :  "The  prince  of  Wei  has  been 
waiting  for  you,  in  order  with  you  to  administer 
the  government.  What  will  you  consider  the 
first  thing  to  l>e  done  ? "  The  Master  replied  : 
"What  is  necessary  to  rectify  the  names  [of 
things.]  ■'  "  Why  must  there  be  such  rectifica- 
tion?" inquired  Tsze  loo.  The  Master  replied: 
"  If  the  names  be  not  correct,  language  is  not  in 
accordance  with  the  truth  of  things.  If  language 
be  not  in  accordance  with  the  truth  of  things,  af- 
fairs cannot  be  carried  on  to  success.  Therefore  a 
superior  man  considers  it  necessary  that  tlie  words 
he  uses  may  be  spoken  [appropriately],  and  also 
that  what  he  speaks  may  be  carried  out  [appro- 
priately). What  the  superior  man  requires  is  that 
in  his  words  there  may  be  nothing  incorrect." — 
Tsze-hea,  being  governor  of  Keu-foo,  asked  about 
government.  The  Master  said :  "  Do  not  be  desir- 
ous to  have  things  done  quickly  ;  do  not  look  at 
small  advantages.  Desire  to  have  things  done 
quickly  prevents  their  being  done  thoroughly  ; 
looking  at  small  advantages  prevents  great  afTaire 


CONFUCIUS.  159 

from  being  accomplished/'— Tsze-kung  asked: 
"  What  do  you  say  of  a  man  who  is  loved  by  all 
the  people  of  his  village?"  The  Master  replied: 
*  We  may  not  for  that  accord  our  approval  of 
him."  "And  what  do  you  say  of  him  who  is  hated 
by  all  the  peopfe  of  Ins  village?  "  The  blaster  said: 
"  We  may  not  for  tliat  conclude  that  ho  is  bad. 
It  is  I)ettt'r  than  either  of  these  cases  that  the  good 
in  the  village  love  him.  and  the  bad  hate  him." — 
Analectii.  Book  Xlfl. 

Heen  asked  what  was  shameful.  The  Master 
said  :  "  When  good  government  i)revailsin  a  State, 
|to  be  thinking  only  of  one's]  salary  ;  and  when 
bad  government  prevails,  [to  be  thinking  only  of 
one's]  salary  :  this  is  shameful."— Some  one  ask- 
ed :  "What  do  you  say  of  the  principle  that  in- 
jury should  be  recompensed  with  kindness? "  The 
Master  said  :  "  With  what,  then,  will  you  recom- 
pense kindness?  Recompense  injury  with  justice  : 
and  recompense  kindness  with  kindness." — The 
Kung-])ih,  Leaou,  having  slandered  Tsze-loo  to  Ke- 
sun,  Tsze-fu,  Kung-pih  informed  (^k)nfucius  of  it, 
saying  :  "  Our  [Master  is  certainly  being  led  astray 
by  Kung-pih.  Leaou  ;  but  I  have  still  ])ower 
enough  left  to  cut  Leaou  oil.  and  expose  his 
corpse  in  the  market  and  in  the  court.''  The 
Master  said  :  "If  my  i)rinciples  are  to  advance, 
it  is  so  ordered  ;  if  they  are  to  fall  to  the  ground, 
it  is  so  ordered.  What  can  the  Kung-pih.  Leaou, 
do  where  such  ordering  is  concerned  ?" — Analects, 
Book.  XIV. 

Tsze-kung  asked:  "Is  there  not  nne  word 
which  may  serve  as  a  rule  of  practice  for  all  one's 
life  ?"  The  Master  said  :  "  Is  not  Reciprocity  such 
a  word  ?  What  you  do  not  want  done  to  your- 
self, do  not  do  to  others."— The  Master  said  : 
"  Virtue  is  more  to  man  than  either  fire  or  water. 
I  have  seen  men  die  from  treading  on  water  and 
tire  ;  but  I  have  never  seen  a  man  die  from 
treading  the  course  of  virtue."— The  Master  said  : 
"  The  superior  man  cannot  be  known  in  little 
matters  ;  but  ho  may  be  trusted  in  great  concerns. 
The  small  man  mav  not  be  intrusted  with  great 


IttO  CONFUCIUS. 

concerns ;  but  he  may  be  known  in  little  mat- 
ters."— Analects,  Book  XV. 

The  Master  said:  '"There  are  three  things 
which  tlie  superior  man  guards  against  :  In  youth, 
when  the  physical  powers  are  not  yet  settled,  he 
guards  against  lust ;  when  he  is  strong,  and  the 
physical  powers  are  full  of  vigor,  he  guards 
against  quarrelsomeness  ,  when  he  is  old,  and 
the  animal  powers  are  decayed,  lie  guards  against 
covetousness."' — The  Master  said:  "There  are 
three  things  of  which  tlie  superior  man  .stands  in 
awe  :  He  stands  in  awe  of  the  ordinances  of 
Heaven  ;  he  stamls  in  awe  of  great  men  ;  he 
stands  in  awe  of  the  words  of  sages.  The  meaai 
man  does  not  know  the  ordinances  of  Heaven, 
and  [consequently]  does  not  stand  in  awe  of  them  ; 
he  is  disrespectful  to  great  men  :  he  makes  sport 
of  the  words  of  sages."  The  Master  said  :  "  Those 
who  are  born  with  the  possession  of  knowledge 
are  the  highest  clas.s  of  men.  Tliose  who  learn, 
and  so  [readily]  get  possession  of  knowledge,  are 
the  next.  Those  who  are  dull  and  stupid,  and  yet 
compass  learning,  are  another  class  next  to  these. 
As  to  those  who  are  dull  Jind  stupid,  and  yet  do 
not  learn,  they  are  the  lowest  of  the  people." — 
Amilccts,  Book  XVI. 

The  Master  said  to  Yew  :  '•  Have  you  heard 
the  six  words  to  which  are  attached  six  becloud- 
ingB?"  Yew  replied  :  *'  I  have  not."  "  Sit  down, 
then,  and  I  will  tell  them  to  you  :  There  is  the 
love  of  being  benevolent,  without  the  love  of 
learning  ;  the  beclouding  here  leads  to  a  foolish 
simplicitv.  There  is  the  love  of  Icnoiving,  without 
the  love  of  learning  ;  tl:e  beclouding  here  leads  to 
a  dissipation  of  mind.  There  is  the  love  of  being 
.sincere,  without  the  love  of  learning ;  the  becloud- 
ing here  leads  to  an  injurious  disregard  of  conse- 
quences. There  is  the  love  of  straigh tforicardness, 
without  the  love  of  learning  ;  the  beclouding  here 
leads  to  rudeness.  There  is  the  love  of  boldness, 
without  the  love  of  learning  ;  the  beclouding  here 
leads  to  insubordination.  There  is  the  love  of 
Jinnness.  without  the  love  of  learning ;  the  be- 
clouding here  loads  to  extravagant  conduct."    The 


CONFUCIUS.  161 

Master  said  :  "  Of  all  people  girls  and  servants  are 
the  most  difficult  to  behave  to.  If  you  are  famil- 
iar with  them,  they  lose  their  humility  ;  if  you 
maintain  a  reserve  towards  them,  they  are  discon- 
tented.— Analects,  Book  XVII. 

Tsze-chang  asked  Confucius,  saying :    "  In  what 
way  sliould  [a  person  in  authority!  act  in  order 
that   ho   may    conduct    government    properly?*' 
The  Master   replied  :    "  Let  him  lionor  the  fire  c.r- 
cel/eni,   and   banisli  away   the  four  bad  things; 
then    he     may    conduct    govermnent    properly."' 
Tsze-chang  asked  :   "  Wliat  are  meant  by  tlie  five 
excellent  things?"   The  blaster  said  :  "When  tlie 
person  in  authority  is  beneiicent  without  great  ex- 
penditure :    when  he   lays  tasks  [on  the  people] 
without  their  repining  ;    when  lie  [pursues  what 
he]  desires  without    being    covetous ;     when   he 
maintains  a  dignified  ease  witliout  being  proud  ; 
when  he  is  majestic  without  being  tierce."'    Tsze- 
chang  then  askeil  :  "  What  are  meant  by  the  four 
bad  things?"     The  Master  said  :    To  require  from 
[the  people]  tlie  full  tale  of  work,   without  ha^^ng 
given  tliem  warning  ;    this  is  called  oppression. 
To  issue  orders  as  if  without  urgency  ;    and  when 
the  time  comes  [to  insist  on  them  with  severity]  ; 
this  is  called  injury.     And,  generally  speaking,  to 
give  to  men.  and  yet  to  do  it  in  a  stingy  way  ;  this 
is  called  acting  the  part  of  a  mere  official."    The 
Master  said  :  "  Without  recognizing  the  Ordinan- 
ces [of  Heaven],  it  is  impossible  to  be  a  superior 
man.     AVithout  an  acquaintance  with  the  Rulesof 
Propriety,  it  is  impossible  for  the  character  to  be 
established.     W^ithout  knowing  Words,  it  is  im- 
possible to  know  Men. — Analects,  Book  XX. 

The  teachings  of  Confucius  are  a  system  of 
individual,  social,  and  political  Ethics,  not 
of  Eeligioii,  in  the  ordinary  acceptation  of 
the  term.  Five  centuries  before  Jesus  ap- 
peared upon  earth,  Confucius  gave  utterance 
to  the  preci.se  thought  of  the  Golden  Rule, 
and  in  very  nearly  the  same  Avords.  Having 
been  asked,  '"Is  there  not  one  word  which 
may  serve  as  a  rule  of  practice  for  all  one's 


162  WILLIAM  CONGREVE. 

life  ?"  Confucius  replied  :  '•  Is  not  Reciproci- 
ty such  a  word  ?  What  you  do  not  want  done 
to  yourself ,  do  not  do  to  others."'  (Analects, 
Book  XV.)  But  there  is  nowhere  any  clear 
indication  that  ho  recognized  the  existence  of 
a  Supreme  Being,  the  Ruler  of  all  things.  He 
indeed  sometimes  speaks  of  "Heaven"  and 
the  "  Ordinances  "  [of  Heaven]  in  a  manner 
not  inconsistent  with  the  supposition  that  he 
believed  in  the  existence  of  a  superintending 
Deity ;  but  his  phrases  do  not  of  necessity  im- 
ply such  a  belief.  There  is  not  any  where  the 
slightest  reference  to  a  future  state  of  re- 
wai'ds  and  punishments;  or  indeed  to  any 
future  life  at  all.  His  philosophy,  whether 
found  in  his  own  writings,  or  in  the  records 
of  his  oral  teachings,  as  handed  down  in  the 
Analects,  relate  wholly  to  the  life  that  now  is. 
Dr.  Legge,  of  the  London  Missionary  Society, 
from  whose  translation  of  Confucius  our  cita- 
tions have  been  taken,  indeed  saj's:  "Along 
with  the  worship  of  God  there  existed  in  Chi- 
na, from  the  earliest  historical  times,  the 
worship  of  other  spiritual  beings — especially, 
and  to  every  individual,  the  worship  of  de- 
parted ancestors."'  How  far  Confucius  held 
to  these  beliefs  may  be  a  matter  of  question ; 
but,  as  Dr.  Legge  says,  "  At  any  i-ate,  by  his 
frequent  references  to  Heaven,  instead  of  fol- 
lowing the  phraseology  of  the  older  sages,  he 
gave  occasion  to  many  of  his  followers  to 
identify  God  with  a  Principle  of  Reason  and 
the  Course  of  Nature." 

CONGREVE,  William,  an  English  dra- 
matist, born  probably  in  1672,  died  in  1729. 
It  is  not  certain  whether  he  was  born  in 
England  or  Ireland ;  but  while  he  was  a  mei*e 
child  Ave  find  his  parents  resident  in  Ireland, 
where  his  father  held  a  government  position. 
He  was  educated  at  the  University  of  Dublin, 


1 

1 


I 


WILLIAM  CONGREVE.  163 

where  he  became  an  excellent  classical 
scholar.  After  graduating,  he  went  to  Lon- 
don, and  was  entered  as  a  student  of  law  in 
the  Middle  Temple.  He  wrote  and  published, 
under  a  pseudonym,  a  now  forgotten  novel 
entitled  The  'incor/nita.  In  1693  his  first 
comedy.  The  Old  Bachelor,  was  brought  out 
upon  the  stage.  The  author  was  only  twenty- 
one  and,  according  to  his  own  account,  the 
comedy  was  written  several  years  earlier.  Its 
success  was  very  great,  and  Congreve  was 
rewarded  with  the  post  of  commissioner  tor 
the  licensing  of  coaches,  the  emoluments  of 
which  were  sufficient  to  maintain  him  in 
comfort.  He  also  received  a  promise  of  the 
reversion  of  the  lucrative  position  of  Secre- 
tary for  Jamaica:  but  it  was  many  yeai-s  be- 
fore the  office  becam(^  vacant.  Next  year  he 
brought  out  a  still  liner  comedy.  The  Double 
Dealer,  which  elicited  the  most  extravagant 
eulogy  of  Dryden.  Only  once  before  had 
Heaven  been  so  prodigal  in  its  gifts  to  man ; 
for  he  "to  Shakespeare  gave  as  much,  he 
could  not  give  him  more."  In  1695  appeared 
the  comedy  of  Love  for  Lore:  in  the  next 
year  the  tragedy  of  The  Mourn iiuf  Bride, 
and  in  1700  the  comedy  of  The  Way  of  the 
World,  which  Jlr.  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne pronounces  "the  crowning  Avork  of  his 
genius;  the  miequaled  and  unapproached 
masterpiece  of  English  comedy :  the  one  play 
in  our  language  Avhich  may  fairly  claim  a 
place  beside,  or  just  beneath,  the  mightiest 
work  of  Moliere." 

The  Way  of  the  World  was  coldly  received 
by  the  public.  Congreve  Avas  only  twenty- 
eight  when  it  was  brought  upon  the  stage. 
He  lived  twenty-eight  years  longer,  but  never 
thereafter  vrrote  anything  worth  the  reading. 
His  way  of  life  was  that  of  a  clever  man- 
about  town  ;  and  he  paid  some  of  the  penal- 


164  WILLIAM  CONGREVE. 

ties  of  it.  He  was  hardly  more  than  five-and- 
forty  when  the  long-awaited  secretaryship  of 
Jamaica  came  into  his  hands,  raising  his  in- 
come to  some  £1,200  a  year — a  sum  fairly 
equivalent  to  $20,000,  or  $25,000  in  our  time. 
Towards  the  end  of  his  life  he  was  not  only 
tormented  by  the  gout,  but  became  totally 
blind.  A  singular  intimacy  sprang  up  be- 
tween the  prematurely  aged  author  and  the 
Duchess  of  Marlborough,  daughter  and  heiress 
of  the  great  commander  ;  but  considering  his 
age  and  infirmities,  it  may  be  assumed  that 
the  intimacy  was  not  of  a  criminal  character. 
He  died  at  the  age  of  fifty-six,  in  consequence 
of  injuries  received  by  the  upsetting  of  his 
coach.  He  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey 
Avith  unprecedented  pomp.  For  nearly  twenty 
years  Congreve  had  not  spent  more  than  half 
his  income.  His  savings  amounted  to  £10,000 
(equivalent  to  something  like  $200,000  in  our 
day.)  He  left  £200  to  each  of  two  elderly 
actresses,  with  whom  he  had  formerly  been 
intimate.  The  remainder  was  left  to  the 
Duchess  of  Marlborough,  to  whose  immense 
fortune  this  bequest  made  scarcely  a  percept- 
ible addition ;  and  she  laid  out  the  money  in 
purchasing  a  splendid  diamond  necklace, 
which  she  was  wont  to  wear  in  honor  of  Con- 
greve. 

Congreve  stands  highest  in  that  group  of 
writers  known  as  ' '  The  Comic  Dramatists  of 
the  Restoration*' — prominent  among  whom 
were  Congreve,  Farquhar,  Vanbiiigh,  and 
Wycherley — whose  cardinal  principle  was 
that  every  man  is  either  a  libertine,  a  hypo- 
crite, or  a  dolt ;  that  every  woman  is  either  a 
wanton  or  a  fool — perhaps  both.  No  one  of  the 
comedies  of  Congreve  can  be  pronounced  de- 
cent, as  a  whole ;  though  in  all  of  them  are 
scenes  which  are  brilliant  in  execution  and 
free  from  indecency.      Among    the    clever- 


WILLIAM  CONGREVE.  165 

est  of  these  is  the  following— the  (characters 
being,  Lord  Froth,  Lady  Froth,  Brisk,  and 
Cynthia : — 

SCANDAL  AND  LITEllATURE  IN  HIGH  LIFE. 

Lady  Froth. — Then  you  think  tliat  episode  be- 
tween Susan,  the  dairy-uiaid,  and  our  coachman  is 
not  amiss.  You  know,  I  may  suppose  tlie  dairy 
in  town  as  weU  as  in  tlie  country. 

Brisk. — Incomparable,  let  me  perisli  I  But, 
then,  being  an  heroic  iDoern,  had  not  j'ou  better 
call  him  a  charioteer  V  Charioteer  sounds  great. 
Besides,  your  ladyship's  coachman  having  a  red 
face,  and  your  comparing  him  to  the  su« — and  you 
know  the  sun  is  called  '•  heaven's  charioteer."' 

Lady  F. — Oh  !  infinitely  better  ;  I  am  extremely 
beholden  to  yovi  for  the  hint.  Stay  ;  we  '11  read 
over  those  half-a-score  lines  again.  [Pulls  out  a 
paper. '\  Let  me  see  here  :  you  know  what  goes 
before — the  comparison  you  know.  [Reads.^ 
For  as  the  sun  shines  every  tlay, 
So  of  our  coachman  I  may  say. 

Brink. — I  am  afraid  that  simde  won't  do  in  wet 
weatlier,  because  you  say  the  sun  shines  cre/7/ day. 

Lady  F. — No ;  for  the  sun  it  won't,  but  it  will 
do  for  the  coachman  :  for  you  know  there 's  most 
occasion  for  a  coach  in  w  et  weather. 

Brisk. — Right,  right ;  that  saves  all. 

Lady  F. — Then  I  don't  say  the  sun  shines  all  the 
day,  but  that  he  peeps  now  and  then  ;  yet  he  does 
shine  all  the  day,  too,  you  know,  though  we  don't 
see  him. 

Brisk. — Right  ;  but  the  vulgar  will  never  com- 
prehend that. 

Lady  F. — Well,  you  shall  hear.     Let  me  see — 

For  as  the  sun  shines  every  day, 
So  of  our  coachman  I  may  say, 
He  shews  his  drunken  fiery  face 
Just  as  the  sun  does,  more  or  less. 

Brisk. — That 's  right ;  all 's  well,  all 's  well.  More 
or  less. 
Lady  F. —  {Reads.^ 

And  when  at  night  his  labour  "s  done. 

Then,  too,  like  heaven's  charioteer,  the  sun — 


166  WILLIAM  CONGREVE. 

Ay,  charioteer  does  better — 

Into  the  dairy  he  descends, 
And  there  his  whipping  and  his  driving  endfi; 
Tliere  lie's  secure  from  danger  of  a  bilk; 
His  fare  is  paid  him,  and  he  sets  in  milk. 

For  Susan,  you  know,  is  Tlietis,  and  so — 

Brisk: — Incomparable  weW  and  proper,  egad  I 
But  I  liave  one  exception  to  make  ;  don't  you  think 
bilk — 1  know  it's  a  good  rhyme — but  (lon't  j'ou 
think  bilk  and  fare  too  like  a  hackney  coachman? 

Lady  F. — I  swear  and  vow  I  'm  afraid  so.  And 
yet  our  Jehu  wiis  a  hackney  coachman  when  my 
lord  took  him. 

Brisk. — Was  he?  I'm  answered,  if  Jehu  was  a 
hackney  coachman.  You  may  put  that  in  the  mar- 
ginal notes  though,  to  prevent  criticism  ;  only 
mark  it  with  a  small  asterisk,  and  say,  "Jehu  was 
formerly  a  hackney  coachman." 

Lndy  F. — I  will  ;  you'd  oblige  me  extremely  to 
write  notes  to  the  whole  poem. 

Brisk. — With  all  my  heart  and  soul,  and  proud 
of  the  vast  honor,  let  me  perish  ! 

Lord  F. — Hee.  hee,  hee  !  my  dear,  have  you 
done?  Won't  jou  join  with  us 'i  We  were  laugh- 
ing at  my  Lady  Whister  and  Mr  Sneer. 

Lady  F. — Ay,  my  dear,  were  you  ?  Oh  !  filthy 
Mr.  Sneer  ;  he  's  a  nauseous  figure,  a  most  fulsam- 
ic  fop.  Fob  !  He  spent  two  days  together  in  go- 
ing about  Covent  Garden  to  suit  the  lining  of  his 
coach  with  his  complexion. 

Lord  F. — O  silly  !  Yet  his  aunt  is  as  fond  of 
him  as  if  .she  had  brought  the  ape  into  the  world 
herself. 

Brisk. — Who?  my  Lady  Toothless?  Oh,  she's  a 
mortifying  spectacle  ;  she 's  alwa^'s  chewing  the 
cud  like  an  old  ewe. 

Lord  i^.— Fob  ! 

Lady  F. — Then  she  's  always  ready  to  laugh 
when  Sneer  offers  to  speak  ;  and  sits  in  expecta- 
tion of  liis  no-jest,  with  her  gums  bare,  and  her 
mouth  open. 

Brisk. — Like  an  oyster  at  low-ebb,  egad!  Ha, 
ha,  ha ! 

Cynth.  [Aside.]— Well,    I    find    there    are   no 


WILLIAM  CONGREVE.  167 

fools  so  inconsiderable  in  themselves,  but  they  can 
render  other  people  contemptible  by  exposing 
their  infirmities. 

Lady  F. — Then  that  t'other  great  strapping 
lady  ;  I  can't  liit  of  her  name  ;  the  old  fat  fool 
that  paints  so  exorbitantly. 

Rrisk. — I  know  whom  you  mean.  But,  deuce 
take  me.  I  can't  hit  of  her  name  either.  Paints 
d'  ye  say  ?  Why,  she  lays  it  on  with  a  trowel. 
Then  she  has  a  great  beard  that  bristles  through  it, 
and  makes  her  look  as  if  she  were  plastered  with 
lime  and  hair,  let  me  perish  ! 

Lady  F.— Oh  !  you  made  a  song  upon  her,  Mr. 
Brisk. 

Bi'isk. — Heh?  egad,  sol  did.  My  lord  can  sing 
it. 

Cynth. — O  good,  my  lord ;  let  us  hear  it. 
Briisk. — Tis  not  a  song  neither.     It 's    a  sort  of 
epigrammatic  sonnet,  I  don't  know  what  to  call 
it,  but  it 's  satire.     Sing  it,  my  lord. 
Lord  F.  [Sings.] — 

Ancient  Phyllis  has  young  graces  : 
'Tis  a  stran.ce  thiiifj,  but  a  true  one  ; 

Shall  I  tell  s'ou  how  ': 
She  herself  makes  her  own  faces, 
And  each  morning  wears  a  new  one  ; 
Where  's  the  wonder  now  ? 

Brisk. — Short,  but  there  's  salt  in't.   My  way  of 
•writing,  egad  ! 
— The  Double  Dealer. 

Congreve's  only  tragedy,  The  Mournmg 
Bride,  ranks  high  in  all  but  the  very  highest 
rank  of  English  ti-agedy.  Dr.  Johnson  in- 
deed says,  rather  extravagantly :  "  If  I  wei*e 
required  to  select  from  the  whole  mass  of 
English  poetry  the  most  poetical  paragraph, 
I  know  not  what  I  could  prefer  to  the  follow- 
ing: 

ALMERIA  AND  LEONORA  IN  THE  CATHEDRAL. 

Aim. — It  was  a  fancied  noise,  for  all  is  hushed. 
Leon. — It  bore  the  accent  of  a  human  voice. 
Aim. — It  was  thy  fear,  or  else  some  transient 
wind 


168  ROBERT  T.  CONRAD. 

Whistling  through  lioliows  of  this  vaulted  aisle. 
We  'II  listen. 

Leo«.— Hark  !  [dreadful! 

Aim. — No  :  all  is  Imshed  and  still  as  death.    'Tis 
How  reverend  is  the  face  of  tliis  tall  pile, 
Whose  ancient  pillars  rear  their  marble  heads 
To  bear  aloft  its  arched  and  ponderous  roof, 
B3'  its  own  weight  made  steadfast  and  immovable, 
Looking  tranfjuillity.     It  strikes  an  awe 
And  terror  on  my  aching  sight ;  the  tomlis 
And  monumental  cav(>s  of  death  look  cold. 
And  siioot  a  cliillness  to  my  trembling  heart. 
Give  me  thy  hand,  and  let  me  hear  tliy  voice  ; 
Nay.  qiiickly  speak  to  me.  and  let  ir.e  liear 
Thy  voifre — my  own  affrights  me  v'ith  its  echoes. 

Leon. — Let  us  return  ;  the  horror  of  this  place 
And  silence  will  increase  your  melancholy. 

Aim. — It  may  my  feai-s,  but  cannot  add  to  that. 
No.  I  will  on  ;  shew  me  Anselmo's  tomb. 
Lead  me  o'er  bones  and  skulls  and  mouldering 

earth 
Of  lumian  Ixxlies  ;  for  I  'II  mix  with  them  ; 
Or  wind  me  in  the  shroud  of  some  pale  corpse 
Yet  green  in  earth,  rather  than  be  the  bride 
Of  Garcia's  more  detested  bed  :  that  thought 
Exerts  my  spirits,  and  my  present  fears 
Are  lost  in  dread  of  gi-eater  ill. 

— Tlie  Mourning  Bride. 

CONRAD,  Robert  T.,  an  American  jurist 
and  author,  born  at  Philadelphia  in  1810, 
died  in  1858.  He  studied  law,  was  admitted 
to  the  bar  at  an  early  age.  and  at  various 
times  Avao  actively  engaged  in  journalism. 
He  held  several  judicial  positions,  and  in 
1854  was  elected  Mayor  of  Philadelphia. 
While  a  student  of  law  he  wrote  the  success- 
ful tragedy,  Conrad  of  Naples,  and  still  later 
that  of  Aylmere.  the  hero  of  which  was  ' '  .Jack 
Cade."  This  tragedy  was  in  1852  published 
under  the  title  of  Aylmere,  or  the  Bondman 
of  Kent,  and  other  Poems.  Among  the  poems 
were  a  collection  entitled   The  Sons  of  the 


ROBERT  T.  CONRAU.  169 

Wilde-niess,  and   a  series  of  Sonnets  on  the 
Lord's  Prayer. 

SAY,  CLIFFORD,  AND  BUCKINGHAM. 

Say.— Those  are  the  mire-gendererl  knaves  you 
praise- ! 
Clifford,  I  swear  'tis  strange,  that  thou,  a  noble, 
Shouldst  love  tliese  kern. 

Cliff.—  Nay,  I  but  love  their  daughters. 

But  to  be  grave— you  smile— 1  can  be  grave — 
They  're  men  as  good  in  soul  and  sinew,  ay. 
Even  in  birth,  as  is  the  best  of  us. 
Say.— In  birth  !    Why  now  thou  "rt  wild. 
Cliff.—  1  said  in  birth. 

This  crazy  pripst.  his  crazy  couplet 's  right : 
"When  Adam  delved  and  Eve  span. 
Who  was  then  the  gentleman  V "' 
A  potent  question  !     Answer  it.  if  you  may. 
Say.— ^^hy  Heaven  ne'er  made  the  universe  a 
level.  [tains 

Some  trees  are  loftier  than  the  rest  :    some  nK)un- 
O'erpeak  their  fellows  :  and  some  planets  shine. 
With  brighter  ray.  above  the  skyey  rout. 
Than  others.     Even  at  our  feet,  the  rose 
Out-scents  the  iily  :  anl  the  humblest  flower 
Is  noble  still  o"or  meaner  plants.     And  thus 
Some  men  are  nobler  than  the  mas.;,  and  should, 
By  nature's  order,  shine  above  their  brethren. 
Cliff.— 'Tis  true,  the  noble  should  :    but  who  is 
noble  ?  [grew 

The  scentless  weed  that  grows  i"  the  soil  where 
The  pride  o'  the  garden  ?  And  the  dull,  foul  meteor 
Which  streams  where  beamed  a  planet  ?  Say  not  so. 
Heaven,  and  not  heraldry,  makes  noble  men. 
Buck. — Art  dead  to  all  the  burning  thoughts  that 
speak 
A  glorious  past  transmitted  through  long  ages  ? 

Cliff. — All  this  is  weU,  or  would  be  if  "t  were  true. 
Men  cannot  put  their  virtues  in  their  wills. 
'Tis  well  to  prate  of  lilies,  lions,  eagles, 
Flourishing  in  fields  d'or  or  d'argeiit :  but 
Your  only  heraldry,  its  true  birth  traced, 
Is  the  plough,  loom,   or  hammer  1  dusk-browed 
labor. 


170  ROBERT  T.  CONRAD. 

At  the  red  forfjje,  or  wall-eyed  prudence  o'er 
The  figured  ledger.     Without  them,  pray  tell  me 
What  were    your  nobles  worth  ?    Not  much,  I 
trow  ! 

Buck. — Thou  speak'st  as  fame  were  nothing — 
fame,  the  thirst. 
Of  gods  and  godlike  men,  to  make  a  life 
Which    nature  makes  not ;     and  to  steal   from 

Heaven 
Its  winged  immortality  !    L<ird  Clifford, 
Wouldst  rank  this  with  the  joys  of  ploughmen? 

Cliff.—  Yes. 

I  would  not  dive  for  bubbles.     Pish  !  for  fame  ! 

Sai/. — Yet,  Clifford,  hast  thou  fought,  ay,  hacked 
and  hewed, 
By  the  long  day,  in  sweat  and  bloo<l  for  fame. 

Cliff. — Nor  have,  nor  will.     I'll  fight  for  love  or 
hate. 
Or  for  divertisement  :  but  not  for  fame. 
What!  die  for  glory  I     Leap  a  precipice 
To  catch  a  shadow  !     What  is  it,  this  fame  ? 
Why,  'tis  a  brave  estate  to  have  and  hold — 
When  ?  From  and  after  death  !  Die  t'  enjoy  fame  ! 
'Tis  as  to  close  our  eyes  before  the  mirror 
To  know  our  sleeping  aspects.     No,  by  'r  Lady  I 
I  '11  never  be  <i  miser  of  fair  words, 
And  hoard  up  honor  for  posterity. 
Die  for  glorv  I 

— Aylmere. 

GONE  BEFORE. 

Forever  gone  I  I  am  alone — Alone  I 

Yet  my  heart  doubts  ;  to  me  thou  livest  yet : 
Love's  lingering  twilight  o'er  my  soul  is  thrown, 

E'en  when  the  orb  that  lent  that  light  is  set. 

Thou    minglest    with    my    hopes — does    Hope 
forget  ? 
I  think  of  thee  as  thou  wert  at  my  side  : 

I  grieve,  and  wliisper — "  He  too  will  regret ;" 
I  doubt  and  ponder — "  How  will  he  decide  "j*  " 
I  strive,  but  'tis  to  win  thy  praises  and  thy  pride. 

For  I  thy  praise  could  win — thy  praise  sincere. 
How  lov'dst  thou  me,  with  more  than  woman's 
love ' 


1 


ROBERT  T.  CONRAD.  171 

And  thou  to  me  wast  e'en  as  lionor  dear  ! 
Nature  in  one  fond  web  our  spirits  wove, 
Like  wedded  vines  enclasping  in  the  grove 
We  grew.     Ah  !  withered  now  the  fairer  vine  ! 
But  from  the^living  who  the  dead  can  move  ? 
Blending  their  sere  and  green  leaves,  there  they 

twine. 
And  will,  till  dust  to  dust  shall  mingle  mine  with 
thine. 

The  sunshine  of  our  boyhood  !  I  bethink 

How  we  were  wont  to  beat  the  briery  wood, 

Or  clamber,  boastful,  up  the  craggy  brink, 

Where  :he  rent  mountain  frowns  upon  the  flood 
That  thrids  that  vale  of  beauty  and  of  blood. 

Sad  Wyoming  !  The  whispering  past  will  tell, 
How  by  the  silver-browed  cascade  we  stood. 

And  watched  the  sunlight  waters  as  they  fell — 

So  vouth  drops  in  the  grave — down  in  the  shadowy 
dell. 

And  how  we  plunged  in  Lackawanna's  wave  ; 

The  wild-fowl  startled,  when  to  echo  gay. 
In  that  hushed  dell,  glad  laugh  and  shout  we 
gave  ! 

Or  on  the  shaded  hillside  how  we  lay, 

And  watched  the  bright  rack  on  its  beamy  Avay, 
Dreaming  high  dreams  of  glor^v  and  of  pride  ; 

What  heroes  we,  in  Fi'eedom's  deadliest  fray  ! 
How  poured  we  gladly  forth  life's  ruddy  tide. 

Looked  to  our  sk3ey  flag,  and  shouted,  smiled, 

and  died  ! 
Bright  dreams — forever  past !  I  dream  no  more  ! 

Memory  is  now  my  being  :  her  sweet  tone 
Can,  like  a  spirit-spell,  the  lost  restore  : — 

My  tried,  my  true,  my  brave,  high-hearted  one  1 

Few  have  a  friend — and  such  a  friend  !    But 
none 
Have,  in  this  bleak  world,  more  than  one  ;  and  he 

Ever  mine  own,  mine  only — he  is  gone  ! 
He  fell — as  hope  had  promised — for  the  free  : 
Our  early  dream  :  alas  !  it  was  no  dream  to  thee  ! 

— The  Sons  of  the  Wilderness. 


172  HENRI  CONSCIENCE. 

CONSCIENCE.  Henri,  a  Flemish  novelist, 
born  December  3,  1812.  died  September  11, 
1883.  His  birthplace  was  Antwerp,  where 
his  father  was  an  inspector  of  dockyards. 
His  mother  died  during  his  childhood.  Con- 
science educated  himself,  and  at  the  age  of 
fifteen  became  a  private  teacher.  Three  years 
later  he  entered  the  army,  and  served  six 
years,  during  which  time  he  wrote  many 
spirited  and  popular  French  songs.  On  quit- 
ting the  army,  he  endeavored  in  various  ways 
to  obtain  employment.  Failing  in  this  he 
wrote  his  first  work  in  Flemish,  TJie  Year  of 
Miracles,  15(56.  It  was  published  in  1837,  and 
was  well  irceived.  His  father  disapproved  of 
literature  as  a  means  of  gaining  a  livelihood, 
and  declined  to  assist  him  until  he  should 
obtain  legular  employment  of  another  kind. 
A  small  pension  from  King  Leopold  relieved 
the  youthful  author  of  emban*assment,  and 
he  devoted  himself  to  literature.  In  1837  he 
published  Phatitcuiia,  a  collection  of  Flemish 
legends  and  poems,  and  in  1838,  The  Lion  of 
Flander.'i,  a  historical  romance,  which  at  once 
established  his  fame.  In  1845  he  was  ap- 
pointed assistant  professor  in  the  University  of 
Ghent,  and  instructor  in  Flemish  to  the  royal 
children.  He  continued  to  write,  and  pro- 
duced many  works  which  have  been  trans- 
lated into  French,  German,  and  English.  His 
historical  novels  Count  Hugo  of  Craenhove 
and  his  Son  Abulfaragus  (1845),  and  Jacob 
van  ArfereW^(1849),  are  among  his  best  works. 
Conscience  was  a  master  in  the  delineation  of 
Flemish  rural  life,  and  his  stories  relating 
the  "short  and  simple  amials  of  the  poor" 
are  full  of  genuine  humor  and  true  pathos. 
Among  his  many  works  are,  Evening  Hours 
(1846):  Lambrecht  Hensmans  (1847);  Sitka 
"von  Eosemael,  The  Progress  of  a  Painter,  and 
What  a  Mother  can  Endure  (1849):   Wooden 


ilENKl  coNsciKNe'E.  it;j 

Clara,  The  Miser,  and  Bliml  Rosa  (1850); 
KikJcetikketak  and  The  Poor  Gentleman 
(1851);  The  Conscript;  Veva,  or  the  War  of 
the  Peasants :  The  Curse  of  the  Village  (1855) ; 
Tales  of  Old  glanders.  The  Happiness  of 
being  Jiich,  Simon  Turchi  (1S59);  The  Village 
Innkeeper  (18G0);  Bella  Stock  (1861);  The 
Good  Mother  (1862) ;  Bavo  en  Lieveken,  a  prize 
romance  (1871);  De  Baamvachter  (1872);  De 
Kerels  van  Vlaanderen  (1874);  De  Keiisvdes 
Harten,  and  Eene  VerwardeZaak  {iS75);  and 
Schandevrees  (1876). 

DRAWN   FOK  THE  ARMY. 

In  the  (lifataiice,  at  a  turn  of  the  wood,  the 
conscripts  were  seen  approaching  tlie  viUage 
rapidly,  singing  and  shouting  for  joy  till  they 
wakened  the  echoes.  .Some  of  them  threw  their 
hats  and  caps  in  tlie  air,  in  token  of  delight  ; 
while  the  whole  crowd  behaved  lik.e  a  bevy  of 
drunkards  returning  at  nightfall  from  a  fair. 
Still,  in  the  multitude  of  wayfarei-s  an  observer 
could  not  yet  distinguish  those  who  were  singing 
joyfully  and  those  who  moved  along  in  disap- 
pointment. From  the  moment  of  the  announce- 
ment of  their  approach,  the  friends  and  relatives 
ivho  had  been  loitering  in  the  village  set  forth  in 
a  hurry  to  meet  them.  Grandfather  could  not 
get  along  as  quickly  as  the  i-est,  though  Kate,  in 
her  anxiety,  almost  dragged  him  by  the  hand.  At 
length,  fmdmg  it  impossible  to  restrain  her  im- 
patience, when  she  beheld  a  number  of  mothers 
embracing  their  sons  and  brothers,  the  ardent  girl 
broke  from  the  dotard,  and  ran  forward  with 
eagerness.  Half-way  from  the  spot  whence  she 
staited,  she  was  observed  to  stop  suddenly  as  if 
shot,  and  stagger  to  the  roadside  till  she  grasped 
the  trunli  of  a  tree  for  support.  The  old  man 
came  up  Avith  her  as  soon  as  he  possibly  could, 
and,  observing  her  posture  and  tears,  anxiously 
inquired, — "Isn't  John  there,  tiiat  you  stop, 
Kate?" 

"Oh  God  I  I  shall  die  I  ''cried  Kate.     "  See — see 


174  HENPJ  CONSCIENCE. 

liim  coining  along  yonder,  behind  tlie  rest,  pale  as 
a  sheet,  witli  his  eyes  on  the  earth  !  Look  at  him, 
grandfather ! " 

"Perhaps  he 's  overcome  with  joy,  Kate,"  said 
the  old  man,  striving  to  calm  himself  as  well  aH 
his  companion. 

*'  How  happy  you  are,  grandfather,  not  to  have 
good  eyes  ! " 

As  Kate  uttered  this  last  remark,  John  walked 
slowly  np  to  the  old  man,  while  the  girl  hid  her 
sobbing  face  against  the  tree,  and  exhibiting  a 
number  on  a  slip  of  paper,  .said,  with  quivering 
lips,  "  Father,  I  have  had  l)ad  luck  !  "  Then  going 
straight  to  Kate,  he  halted  ji,s  if  transfixed,  looked 
at  her  a  moment,  and  burst  into  tears.  He  could 
not  utter  another  word,  for  his  voice  stuck  in  his 
throat  ;  nor  could  his  grandfather  speak,  but 
quietly  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  ground  jis  the  tears 
stole  down  his  brown  and  wrinkled  cheeks. 

■'My  poor  mother  I  my  poor  mother!  sobbed 
John,  after  a  repose  of  some  moments  had  in  some 
degree  restored  his  self-command.  These  words 
seemed  to  work  a  complete  revolution  in  the  soul 
of  the  maiden,  who  was  a  noble  and  (.'ourageous 
girl.  As  long  as  doubt  mastered  her,  she  wept 
like  a  child  ;  but  the  moment  that  a  certainty  of 
misfortune  became  manifest,  her  soul  rose  with 
the  occasion  ;  duty  overcame  grief,  and  she  re- 
covered the  moral  energy  that  was  part  of  lier 
beautiful  character. 

'•.John,  my  friend,"'  said  she,  turning  to  him 
C4jlmly,  "God  has  decided  this  matter,  and  who 
CHU  light  against  his  will ':  You  will  be  with  us  a 
year  yet,  l)efore  your  service  commences,  and 
perhai)s  something  may  turn  up.  Let  me  get 
lionie  before  you,  so  that  I  may  inform  your 
mother  ;  for  I  am  sure  if  anybody  else  told  her  she 
wr»ald  die." 

With  this,  she  quitted  the  highroad,  and  .strik- 
ing into  a  wood-path,  disappeared  from  the  group. 
—The  CouscHjit. 

WRITING   A   LETTER. 

It  was  on  a  fine  autumn  dav  that  Kate  might  have 


HENRI  t:ONS(JIENCE.  175 

been  seen  leaving  the  village,  her  eyes  sparkling 
with  delight,  and  bearing  in  her  hands  a  couple  of 
large  sheets  of  paper  and  a  bottle  of  ink.  On  her 
way  she  luet  Jane,  the  shoemaker's  daughter,  who 
crossed  her  path  as  she  issued  from  the  woods. 

"Heigh!  Kate!  where  are  you  going  with  so 
much  paper  in' such  a  hurry  ?  Is  there  a  fire  any- 
where ?    How's  John  getting  along  ?  *' 

"  John  !  ■'  exclaimed  Kate  ;  "  John  !  God  knows. 
Jane  dear.  We  have  only  heard  irom  him  thrice 
since  he  went  away.  It  "s  quite  six  months  now 
Kince  one  of  his  comrades  from  Tui'nhout  left  a 
message  from  him  at  the  Crown  ;  and  as  he  is  now 
bomewhere  on  the  other  side  of  jNIaeetricht.  I  ex- 
pect it  will  be  long  before  wo  hear  of  him  again, 
lor  news  don't  often  come  tliis  way  from  such  a 
distance.' 

"Don't  he  know  how  to  write,  Kate?"  said 
Jane. 

"  He  did  when  we  went  to  school  together  to 
the  sacristan,  and  once  he  got  a  prize  for  writing  ; 
but  I  suppose  he  has  forgotten  it.  like  myself."' 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  that 
paper  V" 

"  ril  tell  you,  Jenny.  For  the  last  two  months 
I  have  been  studying  my  old  copy-books  over  and 
over  again,  and  I  "ve  almost  taught  myself  again 
how  to  write.  I  mean  to  try  if  I  can  scribble  a 
,  letter  this  very  day.  Do  you  think  it  will  go  ?  for 
I  don't  know  anything  about  such  matters.  Did 
you  ever  write  a  letter  in  your  life,  Jane';*" 

"No;  but  I 've  heard  a  great  many  read.  My 
brother  Jacob,  who  lives  in  town,  sends  us  one 
almost  every  month." 

"And  what  are  they  like?  "What  do  they  put 
in  them?  Is  it  just  as  if  some  one  were  talking  to 
you  r  '* 

"  Oh  no,  Kate  :  it  "s  altogether  different.  They 
are  beautiful  !— full  of  all  sorts  of  compliments, 
and  such  big  words  that  you  can  hardly  under- 
stand them  ! " 

"Alas,  Jane,  if  that 's  the  case,  how  shall  I  ever 
write  one  ?  Yet,  stay  ;  suppose  I  wrote  thus  : — 
'John,  weave  very  sad,  because  we  don't  know 


17C  HENRI  CONSCIENCE. 

whether  you  are  ill  or  well.  You  must  let  us  hear 
from  you  very  soon,  for  your  mother  will  become 
ill  : '  and  so  on.  He  "d  understand  that,  wouldn't 
he?" 

"Simpleton!  that's  not  a  letter!  Everybody 
talks  that  way,  gentle  as  well  as  simple.  But 
listen  to  me.  Letters  must  always  begin  so  : — 
'  Venerated    parents  : — I    take    my    pen    in    niy 

trembling  hand  to — to — to '      I  don't  recollect 

exactly  what  comes  next.  " 

"  "To  write  to  you,"  of  course,"  said  Kate. 

"Ah  !  you  know  better  than  I  do,  Kate,  I  see 
already,  and  j'ou'reonly  making  a  fool  of  me. 
That 's  not  kind  of  you  Kate  :  it  isn't !  " 

"Nonsense!  Why  where  "s  your  head  Jenny  ? 
When  he  takes  his  pen  in  his  hand  it 's  not  to  cut 
a  pie  with,  of  course.  Your  simplicity  makes  me 
laugh.  But  I  don't  understand  what  makes  your 
brother's  hand  '  Ireiitble''  always  when  he  begins  a 
letter.  Besides,  it 's  always  bad  to  tremble,  be- 
cause it  makes  jou  write  ill.'' 

"  Well.  I  '11  tell  you.  Kale.  Our  Jacob  is  a  little 
wild  in  town,  I  fear,  and  always  wants  money. 
That's  why  he  trembles  :  he  is  afraid  father  will 
be  angry." 

"Good-bye,  Kate,"  said  Jane,  as  she  went  on  her 
way.  "  Strive  to  write  your  letter,  and  give  our 
compliments  to  John." 

"Farewell  till  after  church,  next  Sunday,"  re- 
plie(i  Kate,  "when  I'll  tell  you  how  I  got  on. 
Give  my  love  to  your  sister.     Adieu  !  " 

And  immediately  Jane  skipped  away  singing. 

Kate  stood  still,  silent  and  dreamy,  tUl  the 
sweet  voice  of  the  maiden  was  lost  in  the  wood, 
when  recovering  herself  from  Jier  reverie,  she  re- 
sumed her  walk  homeward.  In  the  cottage  she 
found  the  two  widows,  seated  near  the  table, 
awaiting  her  return  with  considerable  impatience ; 
while  grandfather,  who  was  ill  with  a  bad  cold 
and  had  retired  to  bed,  peered  through  the  cur- 
tains to  witness  the  great  work  she  was  about  un- 
dertaking. No  sooner  had  she  appeared  on  the 
door-sill  than  the  whole  household  was  on  tip-toe 
with  anxiety  about  the  wonderful  letter  that  was 


HENRI  CONSCIEINCE.  ITT 

to  be  written,  and  the  two  daines  busied  them- 
selves with  clearing  the  t:ible  which  was  to  be  the 
field  of  action. 

"  Come  here.  Kate,"  said  John's  mother.  "Sit 
in  grandfather's  chair,  for  it  is  the  most  comfort- 
able." 

Kate  took  her  seat  silentl}'  at  the  table,  unrolled 
and  smoothed  the  sheets  of  pai)er,  and  put  the  nib 
of  the  pen  between  her  lips,  as  if  absorbed  in  deep 
thought.  While  this  pantomime  was  going  on, 
the  women  and  the  grandfather  contemplated  the 
girl  witli  an  air  of  the  most  anxicnis  solicitude: 
and  John's  little  brother,  with  mouth  agape  and 
elbows  on  the  table,  stared  at  poor  Kate  to  see 
what  on  earth  she  was  about  doing  with  the  mys- 
terious pen. 

Suddenly  Kate  rose  silently  from  the  chair,  took 
a  teacup  from  the  closet,  poured  the  ink  into  it, 
reseated  herself  at  the  table,  and  began  to  tiu-n  the 
paper  round  and  round,  and  over  and  over,  as  if 
cudgelling  her  brains  for  inspiration.  At  last 
she  plunged  the  pen  in  the  ink,  put  her  hand  ou 
the  paper,  bent  down  her  head,  and  arranged  her- 
self as  if  beginning  to  write  ;  but,  after  a  moment 
of  hesitation,  raised  her  eyes  again,  and  said,  in- 
quiringly : 

*'  Well !  tell  me  now  what  I'm  to  say." 
.  The  two  widows  looked  at  each  other  in  surprise 
and  doubt,  and  then  fixed  their  eyes  on  the giand- 
fatiier,  who,  with  his  neck  stretched  forth  through 
the  curtains,  still  continued  watching  the  anxious 
scribe. 

"  Well,  write  that  Me  are  all  well,''  said  the  old 
man  coughing  :  "  a  letter  alw^ays  begins  that  way.'' 

"  Now,  that's  a  pretty  way  of  talking,  grand- 
father I "  replied  Kate,  with  a  disapproving 
glance  at  him.  "We  are  all  well!  when  you 
have  been  sick  and  in  bed  this  fortnight ! " 

"You  miglit  put  it  Kate,  at  the  end  of  the  let- 
ter, then,  if  you  have  no  objection." 

"No,  my  daughter,"  said  the  other  widow; 
" say  first  of  all  that  you  '  take  jour  pen  in  your 
hand  to  inquire  into  the  condition  of  his  health.' 


178  HENRI  CONSCIEXrE. 

That's  the  way  the  letter  began  which  I  lieaidrcad 
yesterday  at  the  iniUer"s."' 

"  Yes;  that's  precisely  what  Jane,  the  shoemak- 
ers daughter,  said  ;  yet  I  won  't  do  it,  for  it  is  too 
childish,"  answered  Kate,  impatiently.  "John  will 
know  very  well  himself  that  I  couldn't  write  with 
my  foot." 

••  Put  his  name  at  the  top  of  the  paper,"  said 
grandfather. 

••  Which  name  I     Braems  ■:" 

''  No  :  John." 

'■  You  're right,  grandfather," said  Kate.  "Now, 
take  care,  Paul,  and  put  your  arms  off  the  table  ; 
and  3'ou,  mother,  get  a  little  farther  from  the  edge: 
else  you  '11  be  sure  to  shake  me."' 

Kate  set  her  pen  forthwith  to  the  paper,  and, 
while  deciding  on  tiie  exact  place  where  she 
ought  to  begin,  spelled  the  name  of  their  absent 
friend  in  a  low  tone.  But  just  as  she  was  begin- 
ning to  move  her  hand  in  making  the  tirst  letter, 
John's  mother  suddeidy  seized  it.  and  exclaimed, 
— "Stop  a  bit,  Kate;  don't  you  think  that  the 
word  •  Jo/oi '  just  all  alone  by  itself  won't  look 
welly  It 's  so  short ;  we  must  put  something  with 
it.  Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  say,  '  Dear  Child, ' 
or  '  Dear  Son  i^'" 

Kate  hardly  heard  what  she  was  saying ;  for 
she  was  busy  licking  a  huge  blot  of  ink  from  the 
paper,  which  the  abrupt  action  of  the  widow  had 
spilled  on  it.  "See,"'  said  she,  "what  you've 
made  me  do  ;  and  there  "s  no  use  licking,  for  the 
blot  still  remains.     Let  me  take  the  other  sheet." 

"  Well,  what  say  you  to  my  notion,  Kate? 
'  Dear  Son  : '  it 's  much  handsomer,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"No,"'  answered  Kate,  a  little  spitefully;  "I 
won't  put  that  either.  Do  you  think  I  am  going 
to  write  to  John  as  if  I  were  his  mother  'f " 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  put?"  inquired 
the  pair  with  considerable  eagerness, 

A  modest  blush  crimsoned  Kate's  forehead,  as 
she  answered, — "  Suppose  I  write  '  Dear  Friend  ?' 
Don't  you  think  that  would  be  better  than  all?" 

"  No  ;  I  won't  have  that  either,"  .said  John's 
mother.     "  Better  put  '  John,'  short  as  it  is." 


HENRI  CONSCIENCE.  179 

"  '  Beloved  John  ? ' "  inquired  the  maiden. 

"Ah,  tliaf  s  it  !  that's  il  1"  sliouted  tlie  wiiole 
party  iogetlier,  delighted  with  this  solution  of  tiie 
initial  ditiieulty. 

"Now.  keep  away  from  the  table,"  said  Kate, 
"  and  don't  let  Pavd  touch  me.'' 

The  ijeasant-girl  began  her  work  seriously  ;  but 
in  a  nioment  Imge  drops  of  sweat  started  on  her 
brow  as  she  held  her  breatli  and  grew  purple  in 
the  face.  Soon,  liowever,  she  was  relieved  from 
lier  agony  by  a  sigli,  as  she  exclaimed, — '•  Heav- 
ens !  that  B  is  the  hardest  of  all  lettei's  I  But, 
thank  God  I  there  it  is  at  last,  with  its  big  head."' 

The  widows  instantly  arose,  bent  over  the  table, 
and  expressed  their  perfect  delight  with  the  letter, 
which  was  about  as  long  as  their  little  fingers. 

"  That 's  lovely  !"  cried  John's  mother  ;  '•  it  looks 
exactly  like  a  wasp  !  And  that  says '  BelovedJohn,'' 
does  it  ?  What  a  beautiful  tiling  it  is  to  be  able  to 
write  I — one  would  really  think  there  was  magic 
in  it!"' 

"  Come  ;  sit  down  now,  and  let  me  get  on,'' said 
Kate,  resolutel}'.  "  I  feel  that  I  shall  be  able  to 
do  it  if  the  pen  don't  break  down." 

PutBng  and  panting,  Kate  recommenced  her 
toil.  Grandfather  looked  on  and  coughed  ;  the 
widows  were  quiet  as  mice ;  while  little  Paul 
amused  himself  by  dipping  his  fingers  stealthily  in 
the  teacup  and  making  dots  on  the  table  with  the 
ink.  "When  the  first  line  of  the  epistle  was  full  of 
its  fine  large  letters,  the  writer  sto})ped  to  take 
bi-eath. 

"  How  far  have  you  got,  Kate  ?"  asked  John's 
mother.  "  Read  us  all  you  have  got  down  on 
the  paper.'' 

••What  a  hurry  jou  "re  in!"'  cried  Kate; 
''there's  nothing  else  yet  than  'Beloved  John;'' 
and  I  think  that 's  very  well.  Don't  you  see  how 
the  perspiration  is  running  from  my  forehead? 
I  'd  rather  clean  the  stable  any  day.  You  think, 
I  suppose,  that  there 's  no  work  in  writing  I  Paul, 
keep  your  fingers  out  of  the  ink,  or  you'll  upset 
the  cup." 

"  Go  on,  my  daughter,  go  on  !  "  paid  gi'andfather. 


180  TTENRI  rOXSC'lENCE. 

"or  else  the  letter  won't  be  done  by  the  end  of 

next  week  ! " 

"That's  true/' answered   Kate;    "but  tell  me 

yourselves  wliat  I  shall  say." 

"  Incjuire,  first  of  all  and  before  anything  else, 

about  his  healtli." 

Kate  went  to  work  again  for  some  time,  blotting 

out    several     wrong    letters     with    her    fingers; 

scolded  at  the  hair  that  would  follow  the  nib  of  the 

pen  ;    growled  at  the  sacristan  because  the  ink  was 

too  thick  :  and.  finally,  read  aloud.  '-Beloved  John, 

how  is  your  health  V  " 

"That  "s  capital !  "  said  his  mother,     "And  now 

write,"    contmued  she.  "that  we  are    all    well, 

cattle  and  people  ;    and  that  we  wish  him  every 

happiness." 
Kate  thought  a  moment,  and  set  to  work  again. 

As  soon  as  she  had  finished  the  sentence,  she  read 

as  follows :—"  Thank  God.  we  are  all  still  very 
well,  and  the  ox  and  the  cow  also— except  grand- 
father, who  is  sick  ;  and  we  all  together  wish  you 
may  be  hajipy.'' 

"Good  heavens.  Kate!"  ejaculated  John's 
mother,    •'where  did   you   learn  to  do  all  that';:' 

The  sacristan "' 

"  I>on't  talk  now."  interrupted  the  girl,  "or 
you'll  make  me  forget.  I  feel  it  coming."  For 
half  an  hour  the  dropping  of  a  phi  migiit  have 
been  heard  in  the  cottage,  so  great  was  tlie  silence 
of  all  its  inmates,  Kate's  work  seemed  to  advance 
more  agreeably  and  readily  than  at  first ;  for  she 
was  seen  to  smile  from  time  to  time,  as  if  a  pleasant 
thought  had  shot  across  her  mind.  The  only  thing 
that  annoyed  her  was  seeing  Paul  dip  his  fingeis 
in  the  ink,  and  continue  spotting  his  arm  with 
the  fluid,  in  spite  of  her  threatening  looks.  Ten 
times  at  least  Kate  moved  the  cup  from  side  to 
side  :  but  the  scamp  was  so  intent  on  the  ink  that 
he  could  not  be  kept  away  from  it.  Notwith- 
standing this,  however,  the  two  first  pages  were 
filled  to  the  bottom  ;  when  Kate,  with  an  air  of 
considerable  elation,  undertook  to  read  the  fol- 
lowing epistolary  morceau  to  her  delighted 
hearers : — 


HENRI  CONSCIENCE.  181 

"Beloved  John:— Ho«-  is  your  health?  Thank  God,  vre 
are  all  still  verj'  well,  au J  the  ox  aud  the  cow  also  —except 
grandfather,  who  is  sick;  and  we  all  together  wish  you  may 
be  happy.  It  is  quite  six  months  since  we  heard  from  you. 
Let  us  know  if  you  are  alive.  It  is  wrong  in  you  to  forget  all 
of  us,  who  love  j'ou  so  much.  Your  mother  talks  about  you 
all  day  long,  and* I  dream  at  night  that  you  are  miserable, 
and  that  I  hear  your  voice  cryini^  in  my  eai-,  'Kate,  Kate! ' 
so  loud  that  it  wakes  me:— and  then  the  ox.  too,  he  looks  out 
of  the  stable-door,  and  don't  see  you,  and  moans  as  if  he 
wanted  to  cry.  It  is  so  hard,  John,  to  hear  nothing  from 
you,  that  you  must  have  mercy  on  us,  else  your  mother  will 
get  sick.  When  the  poor  woman  hears  your  name,  she  can't 
talk  any  more,  and  begins  to  cry  so  much  that  it  almost 
breaks  my  heait." 

As  the  reading  proceeded,  the  listeners"  eyes 
gradually  filled  with  tears ;  but.  as  the  last  sad 
words  fell  on  their  ears,  none  of  them  could  re- 
sist the  emotion,  and  the  maiden  was  interrm)ted 
by  sobs.  Granilfather  dropped  his  white  locks  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed  to  hide  his  tears,  and  John  s 
mother  threw  herself  on  the  writer's  neck  with  a 
burst  of  anguish,  while  [)Oor  Kate  lierself  looked 
at  them  almost  stupefied  by  the  surpri&uag  effect 
of  her  composition. 

"Oh,  Kate,  Kate!"  ejaculated  one  of  the 
widows,  "  where  did  you  find  all  those  words?  It 
was  like  running  a  knife  into  my  lieart ;  and 
still,  how  beautiful  it  was  ! " 

'•  Oh  !  "  said  John's  mother,  '"and  jet  it 's  noth- 
ing but  the  pure  truth,  and  he  ought  to  know 
how  much  I  have  suffered.  Go  on  reading,  dear 
Kate.  I  am  altogether  amazed  that  j'ou  know" 
how  to  write  so.  There  never  was  anything  like 
it :  your  hands  are  entirely  too  gocul,  my  dear 
child,  to  milk  cows  and  work  in  the  tields.  What 
strange  things  God  permits  in  this  world  I " — 
The  Conscri2)t. 

COMING  TO   AN  UNDERSTANDING. 

"  To-morrow  night,  John,  we  shall  be  at  liome ! 
It  will  be  as  good  as  a  regular  frolic.  Your  poor 
mother,  who  thinks  you  are  still  languishing  in 
that  black  hole  of  a  hospital — how  she  will  hug 
and  kiss  you  !  Paul,  who  cried  so  much  when  you 
went  away — won't  he  jump  and  dance  as  if  he 
were  crazv— the  noble  little  fellow  I      And  then 


182  HENRI  CONSCIENCE. 

mother  and  grandfather  I — I  think  I  see  them  run- 
ning:; witli  open  arms.  ...  I  wish  I  was  there  al- 
ready ?■' 

As  she  spoke,  Kate  frequently  turned  round  to 
observe  the  effect  of  her  woi'ds  on  the  soldier's 
face  ;  but  a  sorrowful  smile  was  the  only  change 
that  she  could  detect.  Nevertheless,  trifling  as 
was  the  encouragement,  she  went  on  : — 

"And  when  we  get  home,  John,  I  shall  be  al- 
ways near  you,  and  will  never  leave  you.  I  will 
buy  songs  and  learn  them,  so  as  to  sing  to  you  at 
night  in  the  chinuiey  corner.  When  I  go  out  to 
work  in  the  fields,  you  will  come  with  me;  we  will 
talk  during  the  work,  and  what  you  can't  see  I 
will  lielp  you  to  touch  with  your  hands.  Thus 
you  will  know  as  well  as  I  how  the  crops  come  on. 
Wo  will  go  to  church  together,  and  on  Sunday 
evenings  I  will  load  you  to  the  Crown,  where  we 
may  get  a  pint  of  beer  and  chat  with  your  friends. 
You'll  hardly  recollect  that  you're  blind  John  ! 
What  do  you  say  to  it?  It  will  be  nice:  won't 
it?".  .  .  " 

John  dropped  the  end  of  the  stick,  seized  her 
hand,  and  Malked  beside  her,  as  he  replied  : 

"Kate  I  was  so  happy  yesterday  at  the  idea  of 
getting  home;  but  since  this  morning,  and  while 
I  wa.s  asleep,  yonder,  the  trutli  has  been  disclosed 
to  me.  Now  something  torments  my  heart,  and 
I  ought  not  to  hide  it  from  you.  God  tvill  punish 
me  if  I  think  again  of  your  love.".  .  .  .  Let  us 
talk  quietly  about  it,  Kate.  You  are  handsome, 
strong,  good-hearted,  brave,  and  clever  at  all 
kinds  of  work  :  and  shall  you  sacrifice  your  youth 
for  pity  and  love  of  a  wretched  blind  man  ?  When 
our  parents  lie  in  the  graveyard,  you  will  be  old, 
aloue  in  the  world,  broken  down  ;  and  all  on  my 
account!"  Kate  burst  into  tears.  "I  shall  re- 
member clearly  to  my  dying  hour,  dear  Kate." 
continued  John,  "  the  moment  when  we  bade 
each  other  good-bye  ;  I  understood  ail  that  those 
sweet  blue  eyes  of  yours  said  ;  and  it  >vas  my  con- 
solation in  all  my  suffering.  Even  when  the  doc- 
tor burned  mj-  eyes  with  caustic,  that  rosy  cheek 
was  still  before  them,  and  I  felt  your  hand  trem- 


HENRI  CONSCIENCE.  183 

ble  with  sympathy  in  mine.  Oli,  had  it  only  been 
God's  will  to  have  spai-ed  me  one  eye,  so  that  1 
might  have  worked  for  our  daily  bread  1  But  now, 
alas  !  it  cannot  be  !  "  .  .   . 

Kat"  led  hiyi  to  a  spot  where  they  could  rest 
comfortably,  and  thi*ew  the  knapsack  on  the 
ground. 

"  Come  now,  John,  tell  me,  once  for  all,  what 
bothers  your  fancy  V 

"Oh  my  dear  Kate,  you  understand  me  very 
well,"  replied  the  soldier.  "You  are  willing  to 
renounce  your  youth  forme;  but  can  I  thiiik  of  ask- 
ing you  to  sacrifice  your  entire  life  for  simple  good- 
ness ?  The  very  thought  that  you  are  anxious  to  do 
it  rends  my  heart.  You  desire  to  see  me  consoled 
and  joyous?  Well,  promise  me,  then,  that  you  will 
never  be  more  to  me  than  a  sister,  that  you  will 
go  to  the  fairs  as  of  old,  and  that  you  will  be  as  civil 
to  other  young  men  as  propriety  allows.".  .  .  . 

"And,  were  I  to  follow  your  bad  advice,  you 
would .  forget  me  too,  would  you  not  'i "  asked 
Kate,  a  little  archly. 

"  Forget  you  ! '"  exclaimed  John.  "  It  is  always 
dark  for  me,  and  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  think 
and  dream  :  and  what  shou'd  I  think  and  dream 
about  were  it  not  of  your  kindness  and  of  what 
your  eyes  told  me  before  the  separation  V" 
'  "And  so  you  would  love  Kate  always,  though 
she  should  do  as  you  wish  'i "' 

"Always,  till  death  !  .  .  .  Kate,  you  are  an  an- 
gel upon  earth  !  I  feel  indeed  that  you  alone 
could  make  me  forget  what  it  has  pleased  God  to 
take  from  me  ;  yet  it  can  never  be." 

"  Yes;  I  understand  you,  John,"  answered  Kate, 
quickly  ;  "you  intend  to  hint  that  I  ought  to  be- 
come an  old  maid.  But  I  icill  marry,  and  that  too 
before  the  first  snow  falls  next  winter:  that's 
what  I'll  do,  John  !" 

"  Marry?"  sighed  the  soldier,  repressing  his  agi- 
tation with  difilculty.  "Oh,  Kate!  I  see  clearly 
now.  God  grant  that  your  husband  may  love  you 
as  you  deserve  1  You  are  going  to  many,  are  you  ? 
With  whom  ?  Is  it  with  one  of  our  villagers  ! " 
••John,  vou  are  losing  your  wits  I"  cried  Kate, 


184  BENJAMIN  CONSTANT. 

with  a  voice  so  clear  and  loud  that  the  fir-trees 
sent  back  an  echo,  * '  I  am  going  to  marry ;  and 
you  ask  with  wliom  ?  With  you  ! — with  him  who 
would  give  ten  eyes  to  be  able  to  love  me !  " 

"Oh!  thanks,  thanks  for  your  matchless  love! 
Blessings  on  you  for  it !  but " 

Kate  stopped  liis  mouth  and  the  sentence  Avith 
her  hand,  as  she  interrupted  him  triumphantly. 
"Hush."  she  said.  "You  spoke  seriously  just 
now.  and,  as  I  listened  to  you,  my  heari  seemed 
breaking  in  my  bosom.  It  is  my  turn  to  talk  now. 
Had  Kate  become  blind,  would  you  have  repulsed 
the  poor  girl,  an<l  if  she  had  continued  to  love  you 
in  her  wretchfd  coiulition,  wo'ild  you  have  given 
her  a  deatii-blow  by  loving  otJier  girls?  Answer 
me ! " 

"  Oh,  Kate,  I  would  have  done  exactly  what 
yovL  are  doing  now  ;  and  yet,  my  love  it  can  nev- 
er be !  ■' 

'•  It  shall  be.'"  exclaimed  Kate,  with  a  tone  of 
imanswerable  resolntion.  "  Let  God  be  our  wit- 
ness till  the  priest  can  pray  over  us  ! " —  Tlie  Con- 
script. 


CONSTANT  DE  Rebecque,  Hstjri  Benja- 
min, usually  called  Benjamiu  Constant,  a 
French  orator  and  author,  born  in  1757,  died 
in  1830.  lie  was  born  at  Lausanne,  of  a 
French  family  who  had  fled  to  Switzerlaml 
from  religious  persecution,  lie  was  educated 
at  Oxford,  Erlangen,  and  Edinburgh,  went  to 
Paris  before  the  French  revolution,  and  in 
1796,  became  known  by  a  pamphlet  on  the 
French  government.  Expelled  by  Napoleon 
in  1802,  he  went  to  Vienna,  where  he  tran::- 
lated  Wallenstein,  wrote  a  romance  entitled 
Adolphe,  and,  in  1813,  a  pampiilet  On  the 
Spirit  of  Conquest  and  Usurpation.  In  1814 
he  returned  to  France,  and  wrote  several 
pamphlets  on  constitutional  liberty,  main- 
taining that  it  was  enjoyed  under  Louis 
XVIII.      He.  however,  adhered  to  Napoleon 


BENJAMIN  CONSTANT.  185 

during  the  Hundred  Days,  and  became  a 
Councillor  of  State.  Afterwards,  under 
Charles  X.  he  combated  the  reactionary 
measures  of  the  government,  but  deplored  the 
revolution  of  July,  1S30.  His  speeches  in 
behalf  of  constitutional  liberty  were  clear 
atid  persuasive.  His  political  tractates,  have 
been  collected  under  the  title  of  Coiirs  de 
Politique  Constitutionelle  (181 9-20).  His 
Avork  on  Religion  Considered  in  its  Source, 
its  Forms,  and  its  Developments,  published  in 
1S2-4-31,  is  an  attempt  to  trace  successive 
transformations  of  the  religious  sentiment, 
his  conclusion  being  that  while  the  religious 
instinct  is  imperishable,  the  doctrinal  and 
ceremonial  forms  by  which  it  expressed 
itself  are  transitory.  Among  his  works  are 
Des  Effets  de  la  Terreur  (1797),  Adolphe, 
Anecdote  troiW'ie  dans  les  papiers  d^un  In- 
connii  (181 G),  De  la  Respoiisibilite  da  Min- 
7sfres  (1815),  Memoirs  sur  les  Cent  Jours  (1820), 
and  a  posthumous  work  Dii  Polytheism 
Romain,  considere  dans  ses  Rapports  avec  la 
Philosophic  Grecque  et  la  Religion  Chre- 
tienne. 

THE  rERFECTIBILITY  OF  THE   HITMAN  RACE. 

Among  tl'.e  different  systems  wliicli  have  been 
follo\%'ed,  combated  and  modified,  one  alone  ap- 
pears to  me  to  explain  the  enigma  of  our  individ- 
ual and  social  existence,  one  alone  seems  to  nie 
adapted  to  give  an  object  to  our  labors,  and  a 
motive  to  our  researches,  to  sustain  us  in  our 
uncertainty  and  to  relieve  us  in  our  discourage- 
ment. This  is  the  system  of  the  perfectibility  of 
the  human  race.  For  him,  avIio  does  not  adopt 
this  opinion,  social  order,  like  everything  which 
belongs,  I  will  not  say  to  man  onlj',  but  to  the 
Universe,  is  merely  one  of  the  thousand  fortuitous 
combinations,  one  of  the  thousand  forms,  more  or 
less  transitory,  which  must  perpetually  destroy 
and  replace   each    other     without    leaving   any 


186  BENJAMIN  CONSTANT. 

permanent  amelioration  as  the  result.  The  system 
of  perfectibility  alone  guarantees  us  against  the 
infallible  perspective  of  a  complete  destruction, 
whicli  leaves  no  renienibrance  of  our  eiforis,  no 
trace  of  our  success.  A  physical  calamity,  a  new 
religion,  an  invasion  of  barbarians  or  some  unin- 
terrupted opi)ression  might  deprive  our  race  of 
everything  which  elevates  and  ennobles  it.  every- 
thinir  whiih  renders  it,  at  once,  more  moral,  more 
enlighten<'d  and  more  happy.  It  is  vain  that  we 
are  told  of  intelligence,  of  liberty,  of  pliilosophy  ; 
an  abyss  may  open  under  our  feel,  savages  may 
rush  into  the  midst  of  us,  impostors  may  spring 
from  our  own  bosom,  and  still  more  easily,  our 
governments  may  be  changed  into  tyrannies.  If 
ideas  do  not  possess  a  <luration  independent  of 
men,  we  may  close  our  books,  renounce  our 
speculations,  free  ourselves  from  unfruitful  sacri- 
fices, and  at  the  utmost  condne  ourselves  to  those 
useful  or  agreeable  arts,  which  will  give  less 
insipitlity  to  a  life  without  hope,  and  a  momentary 
embellishment  to  the  present  without  a  future. 
The  progressive  advancement  of  our  species  alone 
establishes  a  certain  communication  between 
different  generations.  They  enrich  one  another 
without  a  mutual  acquaintance  :  and  this  consol- 
ing opinion  is  so  deeply  engraved  on  the  instincts 
of  man.  that  each  of  these  fleeting  generations 
expects  and  finds  its  recompense  in  the  esteem  of 
distant  generations  whicli  must  one  day  tread 
upon  its  insensiiile  ashes. 

In  this  system,  human  acquisitions  form  an 
everlasting  mass,  to  which  each  individual  con- 
tributes his  peculiar  share,  .assured  that  no  power 
can  take  away  tlie  slightest  portion  of  this  im- 
perishable treasure.  Thus,  the  friend  of  liberty 
and  justice  leaves  to  future  ages  the  most  pre- 
cious part  of  himself :  he  places  it  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  ignorance  which  does  not  understand 
it  and  of  the  ojjpressiou  which  menaces  it ;  he  de- 
jiosits  it  in  a  sanctuary  which  degrading  and 
ferocious  passions  can  never  approach.  He  who 
lias  discovered  a  single  principle,  in  the  solitude  of 
meditation,  he  whose    hand  has  traced  a  single 


BENJAMIN  CONSTANT.  187 

line  of  truth,  may  yield  his  life  to  be  disposed  of 
by  nations  or  tyrants  ;  he  will  not  have  existed  in 
vain,  and  if  time  effaces  even  the  name  which 
designated  his  transitory  existence,  his  thought 
will  still  contiime  imprinted  on  the  indestructible 
aggregate,  to  the  formation  of  which  nothing  can 
do  away  the  fact  that  he  has  contributed.  .  .  . 

The  destruction  of  theocratic  slaverj',  of  civil 
slavery,  of  feudalism,  of  a  privileged  nobility,  are 
so  many  steps  towards  the  re-establishment  of 
natural  equalit\-.  The  perfectibility  of  the  human 
race  is  nothing  but  the  tendency  towards  equality. 
This  tendency  proceeds  from  the  fact  that  equality 
alone  is  conformable  to  truth,  that  is  to  say.  to 
the  mutual  relations  of  things  and  to  the  mutual 
relations  of  men.  Inequalitj'  is  that  alone  which 
con.stitutes  injustice.  If  we  analyze  all  the 
general  or  particular  forms  of  injustice,  we  shall 
find  that  they  all  have  their  foundation  in  in- 
equality. 

Whenever  man  begins  to  reflect,  and  by  means 
of  reflection,  attains  to  that  [)Ower  of  sacrifice, 
which  constitutes  his  perfectibilit\',  he  takes 
equality  as  his  starting-point ;  for  he  gains  the 
conviction  that  he  ought  not  to  do  to  others  what 
he  would  not  that  they  should  do  to  him  ;  that  is 
to  say,  that  he  ought  to  treat  others  as  his  equals, 
and  that  he  has  the  right  not  to  suffer  from  others 
Avhat  they  would  not  suffer  from  him  ;  that  is  to 
sa}-,  that  others  ought  to  treat  him  as  their  equal. 
It  follows  from  this  that  whenever  a  truth  is  dis- 
covered— and  truth  tends,  by  its  nature,  to  be  dis- 
covered— man  approaches  equality.  If  he  remains 
so  long  at  a  distance  from  it,  it  is  because  the  need 
of  supplying  the  truths  of  which  he  is  ignorant 
has  driven  him  towards  ideas  that  are  more  or 
less  fantastic,  opinions  that  are  more  or  less  er- 
roneous. He  needs  a  certain  stock  of  opinions 
and  ideas  to  put  in  action  the  physical  forces 
which  are  nothing  but  passive  instruments.  Ideas 
only  are  active.  They  are  the  sovereigns  of  the 
world.  The  empire  of  the  Universe  has  been 
given  to  them.  Accordingly,  whenever  there  are 
not  a  sufficient  number  of  truths  in  tlie  human 


188         MONCURE  DANIEL  CONWAY. 

mind  to  serve  as  a  lever  to  physical  forces,  man 
supplies  their  place  by  conjectures  and  errors. 
Whenever  the  truth  afterwards  makes  its  aj)i)ear- 
ance.  the  erroneous  opinions  which  held  its  place 
vanish  away,  and  it  is  the  temporary  strug-^de 
which  they  maintahi — a  struggle  which  always 
ends  in  their  anniliilation — that  changes  the  con- 
ditions of  states,  throws  nations  into  agitation, 
dashes  individuals  in  pieces,  produces,  in  a  word, 
what  we  call  revolutions. — Melanges  de  Littera- 
ture  et  de  Politique. 

CONWAY,  MoNCURE  Daniel,  an  American 
author,  born  in  Stafford  Co.,  Va.,  March  17, 
1832.  He  was  educated  at  Dickinson  College, 
entei'ed  the  Methodist  ministry,  and  became 
a  contributor  to  the  Southern  press.  His 
opinions  having  undergone  a  change,  he 
entered  tlie  Cambridge  Divinity  School,  from 
which  he  graduated  in  1854,  and  became 
pastor  of  a  Unitarian  church  in  Washington. 
His  anti-slavery  opinions  caused  his  dismissal 
from  this  church.  He  was  then  called  to  the 
Unitarian  church  in  Cincinnati,  and  after- 
wards lectured  on  slavery.  In  1863  he  %vent 
to  England,  lectured  upon  the  civil  war,  con- 
tributed to  jjeriodicals,  and  towards  the  close 
of  the  year  became  pastor  of  a  Unitarian 
church  in  London,  Among  his  works  are. 
Tracts  for  To-day  (1858>  ;  The  Rejected  Stotie 
(18G1)  ;  The  Golden  Hour  (1862);' 27ie  Earth- 
wurd  Pilgrimage  (1870);  Republican  Supersti- 
tions (1873)  ;  Idols  and  Ideals ;  Demonology 
and  Devil-Lore  (1879)  ;  A  Necklace  of  Stories, 
and  The  Wandering  Jeio. 

THE  IDEAL. 

In  liuman  life,  therefore,  tendency  nuist  always 
be  the  main  thing.  What  is  the  direction  of  a 
man's  faculties,  his  aims  ?  If  you  know  the  angles 
of  convergence  of  the  sides  of  the  pyramid,  the 
point  at  which  they  will  meet  may  be  computed. 
If  tiie  tendencies  of  life  are  in  the  direction  of  an 


MONCURE  DANIEL  CONWAY.         189 

ideal,  the  apex  may  be  equally  recop;nized,  though 
it  may  not  be  reached.  In  youth  our  actual  and 
our  ideal  seem  to  be  not  only  distinct  but  hostile 
to  each  other.  But  the  main  lesson  of  life  is  to 
learn  that  tliey  are  really  friends,  and  culture 
means  the  raising  of  the  law  of  our  lower  nature 
into  harmony  with  the  firmament  of  reason  that 
vaults  above  our  little  world  of  animal  power.  .  . 

The  best  thing  in  every  noble  dream  is  the 
dreamer  himself.  Faust  clutching  at  the  perfect 
ideal  of  Greece,  to  be  tlu-own  back  on  hard  ac- 
tuality ;  the  poor  Frencli  Socialist  with  a  fair 
Jieaven  in  his  brain  and  starvation  around  him, 
represent  Man,  able  to  apprehend  when  he 
cannot  comprehend.  They  leave  us  the  same 
old  earth  rolling  on  as  before,  but  they  have  out- 
lined a  higher  Man,  which  the  ages  must  fulfil. 
How  sacred  are  they,  the  seekers  of  the  invisible, 
the  wayfarers  who  will  not  rest  on  anything 
short  of  the  beautiful  idea  that  has  ravished 
them !  .  .  .  . 

To  a  human  being  his  ideal  represents  his  indi- 
Tidual  existence.  One  life  we  each  have,  which 
is  merely  hereditary.  We  received  it  from  om' 
ancestors,  we  share  it  with  others  ;  it  is  a  com- 
mon propertj".  There  is  another  life  which  is  our 
own.  There  each  stands  in  the  presence  of  his 
'  own  Sinai,  receives  the  Tables  of  the  Law  of  his 
individual  life.  To  him  there  comes  a  Decalogiie 
of  private  interpretation,  and  the  voice  com- 
mands— '"See  that  thou  do  all  things  after  the 
pattern  thou  did'st  see  on  the  Mount  I  "  So  indeed 
must  he  work — if  the  world  is  to  be  better  by  a 
feathers  weight  for  his  life  in  it ; — so  must  he 
build,  quarrying  his  hereditary  nature,  polishing 
it  for  his  individual  structure.  Nor  shall  he  pause 
to  ask  whether  the  edifice  is  to  be  completed  and 
adorned,  and  labor  give  way  to  happiness.  He 
cannot  reach  the  great  end,  because  there  is  no 
end  ;  the  scale  is  infinite  ;  so  have  the  poets  said, 
who  reached  the  seeming  summit,  only  to  behold 
a  higher  height  rising  before  them  evermore. 
Let  it  be  enough  for  each  that  the  genius  of  God 
finds  no  obstruction  in  him  ;  that  he  is  part  of  the 


190       WILLIAM  DANIEL  CONYBEAR"^. 

organizing  force  of  the  universe — as  much  so  as 
the  coral  building  in  the  sea,  or  the  sun  that 
vitalizes  a  world.  And  when  his  day  is  past  and 
his  hit  of  work  is  done,  the  ideal  he  lias  served 
will  whisper  a  sweet  and  secret  joy — Thou  liast 
labored,  and  others  will  enter  into  thy  labors. — 
ido/.s  and  Ideals. 

CONYBEARE,  William  Daniel,  an  Eng- 
lish clergyman  and  author,  born  in  1789,  died 
in  1857.  He  was  educated  at  Oxford,  became 
a  member  of  the  Geological  Society,  and  in 
1821  discovered  and  described  the  first  plesio- 
saurus.  His  papers  on  the  coal-beds  of  Great 
Britain  are  valuable.  His  principal  work, 
published  in  conjunction  Avith  W.  Phillips,  is 
Outlines  of  Geology  of  England  and  Wales. 
He  delivered  the  Bampton  Lectures  for  1839, 
his  subject  being  The  Fathers  of  the  Ante- 
Nicene  Period.  In  1819  he  was  made  a  Fel- 
low of  the  Royal  Society,  and  in  18-45,  Deau 
of  Llandair. 

THE  ENGLISH  PENNINE  CHAIN. 

The  features  of  tliis  cliain  are  often  very  wild 
and  picturesque:  it  exhibits  all  the  scenery 
and  accompaniments  of  a  considerable  mountain 
range  ;  precipices,  torrents,  and  cataiacts.  The 
caverns,  cliffs,  and  rocky  dales  of  Ingleborough 
and  tlie  Peak,  are  too  well  known  to  need 
description.  Two  facts  observed  in  the  moor- 
lands of  Staffordshire  will  serve  to  illustrate  the 
depth  of  the  ravines  and  abrupt  escarjjment  of  the 
mountains  in  that  part  of  the  chain.  The  sun, 
when  nearest  the  tropic  of  Capricoi-n,  never  rises 
to  the  inliablt;ints  of  Narrowdale  for  nearly  a 
quarter  of  a  year  ;  and  during  the  season  when  it 
is  visible,  never  rises  till  one  o'clock  P.  M.  On 
tlie  other  hand,  at  Leek,  the  sun  is,  at  a  certain 
time  ^of  the  year,  seen  to  set  twice  in  the  same 
evening,  in  consequence  of  the  intervention  of  a 
precipitous  mountain  at  a  considerable  distance 
from  tlie  town  ;   for  after  it  sets  behind  the  top 


WILLIAM  JOHN  CONYBEARE.         191 

of  the  mountain,  it  breaks  out  again  on  the  north- 
ern side,  which  is  steep,  before  it  reaches  the  lio- 
rizon  in  its  fall  ;  so  that,  witlun  a  very  few  miles, 
the  inliabitants  have  the  rising  sun,  when  he  has, 
in  fact,  passed  his  meridian,  and  the  setting  sun 
twice  on  the  same  evening. — Geology  of  England 
and  Wales. 

CONYBEARE,  William  John,  an  English 
clergyman  and  author,  the  sou  of  William 
Daniel  Conybeaie;  born  in  1820,  died  in  1857. 
He  was  a  Fellow  of  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge, and  Principal  of  the  Colleginte  Institu- 
tion at  Liverpool.  He  w^as  the  author  of  a 
novel,  Perversion,  or  the  Causes  and  Conse- 
quences of  Infidelity.  In  conjunction  with 
the  Rev.  J.  S.  Howson  he  wrote  The  Life  and 
Epistles  of  St.  Paul.  His  essays  and  sermons 
have  been  published  mider  the  titles  Essays 
Ecclesiastical  and  Socicd,  and  Whitehall 
Sennons.  One  of  his  essays,  On  Church 
Parties,  attracted  great  attention. 

THE  VARIED  LIFE  OF  ST.    PAUL. 

To  compi-ehend  the  influences  under  which  he 
grew  to  manhood,  we  must;  realize  the  position  of 
a  Jewish  family  in  Tarsus,  "the  chief  city  of 
Cilicia  ;"  we  must  understand  the  kind  of  educa- 
tion which  the  son  of  such  a  family  would  receive 
as  a  boy  in  his  Hebrew  home,  or  in  the  schools  of 
his  native  city,  and  in  his  riper  youth  '•  at  the  feet 
of  Gamaliel ''  in  Jerusalem  ;  we  must  be  ac- 
quainted A\ith  the  profession  for  wliich  he  was  to 
be  prepared  bj'  this  training,  and  appreciate  the 
station  and  duties  of  an  expounder  of  the  law. 
And  that  we  may  be  fully  qualified  to  do  all  this, 
we  should  have  a  clear  view  of  the  state  of  the 
Eoman  empire  at  the  time,  and  especially  of  its 
system  in  the  provinces  ;  we  should  also  under- 
stand the  political  position  of  the  Jews  of  the 
"  dispersion  :'"  we  should  be,  so  to  speak,  hearers 
in  their  synagogues — we  should  be  students  of 
their  rabbinical  theologj'.     And  in  like  manner,  as 


192         WILLIA3I  JOHN  CONYBEARE. 

we  follow  the  apostle,  in  the  diflfereiit  stages  of  his 
varied  and  adventurous  career,  we  nuist  strive 
continually  to  bring  out  in  their  true  brightness 
the  half-effaced  forms  anil  coloring  of  the  scene 
in  which  he  acts;  and  while  lie  ''becomes  all 
things  to  all  men,  that  he  might  by  all  means  save 
some,"'  we  must  form  to  ourselves  a  living  likeness 
of  the  things  and  of  the  men  among  whom  he 
moved,  if  we  would  rightlv  estimate  his  work. 
Thus  we  must  study  Christianity  rising  in  the 
midst  of  Judaism  ;  we  must  realize  the  position  of 
its  early  churches  with  their  niixed  society,  to 
which  Jews,  proselytes,  and  heathens  had  each 
contributed  a  characteristic  element ;  we  must 
qualify  ourselves  to  be  umpires,  if  we  may  so 
speak,  in  tlieir  violent  internal  divisions  ;  we  must 
listen  to  the  strifes  of  their  schismatic  parties, 
when  one  said,  "  I  am  of  Paul — and  another,  I  am 
of  Apollos  ; "  we  must  stud}'  the  true  character  of 
those  early  heresies  which  even  denied  the  resur- 
rection, and  advocated  impurity  and  lawlessness, 
claiming  the  right  to  sin  ''that  grace  might 
abound."  "defiling  the  mind  and  conscience"  of 
their  followers,  and  "making  them  abominable 
and  disobedient,  and  to  every  good  work  re^jro- 
bate  ; "  we  must  trace  the  extent  to  which  Greek 
philosophy,  Judaizing  formalism,  and  Eastern 
superstition  blended  their  tainting  influence  with 
the  pure  fermentation  of  the  new  leaven  which 
was  at  last  to  leaven  the  whole  mass  of  civilized 
society. — Life  and  Epistles  of  St.  Paul. 

DIFFERENCES  IN  RELIGIOUS  PARTIES. 

We  should  nor  forget  that  the  differences  which 
divide  each  from  each  are  much  exaggerated  by 
party  spirit.  Most  of  them  can  be  resolved  into 
mere  disputes  about  terms,  which  might  be  ended 
by  stricter  definition.  Those  which  lie  deeper  re- 
sult from  a  difference  of  mental  constitution,  and 
belong  to  the  domain  of  metaphysics  rather  than 
of  religion.  For  it  is  in  theology  as  it  is  in  phi- 
losophy, every  distinct  sect  strives  to  represent  and 
embody  a  separate  truth.  A  few  great  ideas  are 
intuitively  stamped  on  the  groundwork  of  human 


CLARENCE  COOK.  193 

reason,  but  not  illuminated  with  equal  brightness. 
The  idea  wliich,  in  one  mind,  stands  out  in  daz- 
zling light,  in  another  is  dim  and  overshadowed. 
Hence  each  idea  has  its  exclusive  worshippers. 
But  as  the  understanding  logically  develops  its 
favorite  truth,'  it  at  length  deduces  consequences 
which  seem  to  contradict  some  other  truth  equally 
fundamental.  Then  follows  a  conflict,  which  in 
a  few  minds  produces  absolute  Pyrrhonism  ;  but 
which  more  frequently  issues  in  one  of  three  al- 
ternatives. First,  the  mind  may  abandon  the 
principle  whence  it  started,  considering  it  re- 
duced ad  absurdian,  now  that  its  logical  conse- 
quences seem  to  contradict  another  axiom ;  second- 
ly, the  truth  of  both  principles  may  be  admit- 
ted, although  their  consequences  seem  irreconcil- 
able ;  or,  thirdly,  the  consequences  of  the  first 
principle  may  be  embraced,  and  the  modifying 
truth  rejected.  This  last  is  the  course  adopt- 
ed by  extreme  parties.  Thus  (whether  the  lirst 
principles  be  derived  from  reason  or  from  Script- 
ure) there  are  different  stages  in  the  development 
of  oijinion,  each  marked  by  the  rejection  or  re- 
ception of  some  modifj'ing  truth,  ami  each  form- 
ing the  halting-place  of  a  different  sett  or  school. 
Nor  is  there  an}'  evil  in  this  variety,  so  long  as 
the  truths  of  morality  ami  religion  .  are  not  con- 
tradicted       For  piety   has  a  transmuting 

jiower,  and  often  turns  the  inconsistencj^  of  the 
understanding  into  food  for  the  goodness  of  the 
heart.  Therefore,  instead  of  murmuring,  we 
should  rejoice  when  we  see  the  same  character  of 
Christian  Holiness  manifested  under  diverse  opin- 
ions. For  Christianitv  embraced  under  one  form, 
might  have  been  rejected  under  another.  All  can- 
not see  through  the  same  telescope,  but  different 
eyes  require  the  tube  to  be  variously  adjusted. 
And  the  image  formed  will  at  "best  be  blurred  and 
dim,  unless  Charity  furnished  us  with  her  achro- 
matic lens,  and  blend  all  the  rays  into  one  har- 
monious brightness. — Essay  on  Church  Parties. 

COOK,   Clarence,  an  American  journalist 
and  authoi".    born  at  Dorchester,    Mass.,   in 


1-94  CLARENCE  COOK. 

1S28.  Ho  graduated  at  Hai-vard  C-oUege,  and 
afterwards  took  up  his  residence  in  New 
York.  His  writings,  in  various  periodicals, 
are  mainly  upon  topics  connected  with  art. 
Among  his  poems  are  several  of  high  merit. 

ABRAM   AND   ZIMRI. 

Abruin  and  Zimri  owned  a  Held  together — 

A  levol  Held  hid  in  a  happy  vale; 

They  plougheil   it   with  one   plough,  and   in   the 

Sjiriiig 
Sowed,  walking  side  by  side,  the  fruitful  seed. 
In  Inrvest.  wlien  the  glad  eartli  smiles  with  grain. 
Each  carried  to  his  home  one-half  the  sheaves, 
And  stored  them  with  much  labor  in  his  barns. 
Now  Altram  had  a  wife  and  seven  sons. 
But  Zimri  dwelt  alone  within  his  house. 

One  night,  before  the  sheaves  were  gathered  in, 
As  Ziun-i  lay  upon  his  lonely  bed. 
And  counted  in  his  mind  his  little  gains. 
He  thought  upon  his  brother  Abram's  lot. 
And  said,  "  I  dwell  alone  within  my  house, 
But  Abram  hath  a  wife  and  seven  sons. 
And  jet  we  share  the  liarvest-sheaves  alike. 
He  surely  needeth  more  for  life  than  I. 
I  will  arise,  and  gird  myself,  and  go 
Down  to  the  field,  and  add  to  his  from  mine." 

So  he  arose,  and  girded  up  his  loins, 
And  went  out  softly  to  the  level  field. 
The  moon  shone  out  from  dusky  bars  of  clouds, 
The  trees  stood  black  against  the  cold  blue  sky. 
The  brandies  waved  and  whispered  in  the  wind. 
So  Zimri,  guided  by  the  shifting  light, 
"Went  down  the   mourtain-path,  and   found  the 

field. 
Took  from  his  store  of  sheaves  a  generous  third, 
And  bore  them  gladly  to  his  brother's  heap  ; 
And  then  went  back  to  sleep  and  happy  dreams. 

Now,  that  same  night,  as  Abram  lay  in  bed, 
Thinking  upon  his  blissful  state  in  life. 
He  thought  upon  his  brother  ZimrVs  loK 
And  said,  "  He  dwells  within  his  house  aJoao'' 
Ho  goeth  forth  to  toil,  wiih  few  to  help  . 
He  goeth  home  at  night  to  a  cold  house, 


CLARENCE  COOK.  195 

And  hath  few  other  friends  but  me  and  mine" 
(For  these  two  tilled  the  happy  vale  alone); 
"While  I.  whom  Heaven  liatli  very  greatly  blessed, 
Dwell  happy  \vith  my  wife  and  seven  sons, 
Who  aid  me  in  my  toil,  and  make  it  light ; 
And  yet  we  sh5re  our  harvest -sheaves  alike. 
This  surely  is  nut  pleasing  unto  God. 
I  will  arise  and  gird  myself,  and  go 
Out  to  the  field,  and  borrow  from  my  store, 
And  add  unto  my  brother  Zimri's  pile." 

So  he  arose,  and  girded  up  his  loins. 
And  went  down  softly  to  the  level  lield. 
The  moon  shone  out  from  silver  bars  of  clouds, 
The  trees  stood  bleak  against  the  starry  sky. 
The  dark  leaves  waved  and   whispered    in    the 

breeze. 
So  Abram.  guided  by  the  doubtful  light.        [field, 
Passed   down  the   mountain-path,   and  found  the 
Took  from  his  store  of  sheaves  a  generous  third, 
And  added  them  unto  his  brother's  heap  ; 
Then  he  went  back  to  sleep  and  happy  dreams. 

So  the  next  morning,  with  tiie  early  sun. 
The  brothers  rose,  and  went  out  to  their  toil ; 
And  when  they  came  to  see  the  heavy  sheaves, 
Each  wondered  in  his  heart  to  find  his  heap — 
Though  he  had  given  a  third — was  still  the  same. 

Now,  the  next  night,  went  Zimri  to  the  field, 
.Took  from  his  store  of  sheaves  a  generous  share. 
And  placed  tliem  on  his  brother  Abram's  heap, 
And  then  lay  down  behind  his  pile  to  watch. 
The  moon  looked  out  from  bars  of  silvery  cloud, 
The  cedars  stooci  up  black  against  the  sky. 
The  olive-branches  whispered  in  the  wind; 
Then  Abram  came  down  softly  from  his  home, 
And,  looking  to  the  right  and  left,  went  on  ; 
Took  from  his  ample  store  a  generous  third, 
And  laid  it  on  his  brother  Zimri's  pile. 
Then  Zimri  rose,  and  caught  him  in  his  arms. 
And  Avept  upon  his  neck,  and  kissed  his  cheek  ; 
And  Abram  saw  the  whole,  and  could  not  speak. 
Neither  could  Zimri.     So  they  walked  along 
Back  to  their  homes,  and  thanked  their  God  in 

prayer 
That  He  had  bound  them  in  such  loving  bands. 


196  ELIZA  COOK 

COOK,  Dltton.  an  English  journalist  and 
author,  born  in  London  in  1832,  died  in  1883. 
Ho  was  educated  at  King  s  College,  studied 
law  in  the  office  of  his  lather;  but  turned  his 
attention  to  art  and  literature.  He  was  con- 
nected as  a  writer  with  the  Cornhill  Magazine, 
the  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  and  The  London  TTorZcZ. 
He  wrote  several  works  of  fiction,  among 
which  are:  A  Prodigal  Son  (1SC2);  The  Trials 
of  the  Tredgolch  (ISO J);  Dr.  Muspratfs  Pa- 
tients {IS6S) ;  The  Banns  of  Marriage  (1875); 
and  Douhlcday's  Children  ^1877).  In  later 
years  he  confined  himself  more  especially  to 
works  relating  to  Enjjlish  di-araatic  history. 
His  i>rincipal  works  in  this  department  are: 
.4  Book  of  the  Play  (187G);  Hours  with  the 
PlayersiiSSV);  and  Nights  at  the  Plaij  (1883). 

COOK,  Ei.i/.A.  nn  English  Poet,  born  in 
1817.  At  an  early  ago  she  became  a  contiibu- 
torto  the  Literary  Gazette  and  other  periodi- 
cals. Her  first  volume,  Mclaia,  and  Other 
Poems,  Ava-s  published  in  1840.  A  few  years 
later  she  became  editor  of  Eliza  Cook's  Jour- 
nal, a  weekly  magazine,  which  she  conducted 
until  failing. health  forced  her  to  relinquish 
the  care  in  1854.  Her  poems  have  passed 
through  many  editions. 

BUTTERCUPS  AND  DAISIES. 
I  never  see  a  young  liand  hold 
Tlie  starry  1  aiich  of  wl.iie  and  gold. 
But  something  warm  and  fresh  will  start 
About  the  region  of  my  lieaj-t. 
Mj'  smile  expii'es  into  a  sigh  ; 
I  feel  a  struggling  in  the  eye, 
'Twixt  humid  drop  and  sparkling  ray, 
Till  rolling  tears  liave  won  their  way  ; 
For  soul  and  brain  will  travel  back 

Tlirough  memory's  chequered  mazes, 
To  days  when  1  but  trod  life's  track 

For  buttercups  and  daisies. 


EI.IZA  I'OOK.  107 

Tell  rae,  ye  men  of  wisdom  rare. 
Of  sober  speech  and  silver  hair, 
Wiio  cany  counsel,  Avise  and  sage, 
With  all  the  gravity  of  age  ; 
Oh  !  say,  do  ye  not  like  to  Jiear 
The  accents  singing  in  a  our  ear. 
When  sportive  urchins  laugh  and  shout. 
Tossing  those  precious  flowers  about. 
Springing  with  bold  and  gleesome  bound, 

Proclaiming  joy  that  crazes. 
And  chorusing  the  magic  sound 

Of  buttercups  and  daisies  V 

Are  there,  I  ask,  beneath  the  sky 
Bloisoms  that  knit  so  strong  a  ti(> 
With  childhood's  love  ?    Can  any  please 
Or  light  tiie  infant  eye  like  these  ? 
No,  no  ;  there's  not  a  bUd  on  earth, 
Of  richest  tint  or  warmest  birth. 
Can  ever  fling  such  zeal  and  zest 
Into  the  tiny  hand  and  breast. 
AVho  does  not  recollect  the  hours 

When  burning  words  and  i)raises 
Were  lavished  on  those  siiiuing  flowers. 

Buttercups  and  daisies  ? 

There  seems  a  bright  and  fairj-  spell 
About  their  very  names  to  dv.-ell  : 
And  tiiough  old  Time  has  marked  my  brow 
With  care  and  thought,  I  love  them  now. 
Smile,  if  ye  will,  but  some  heart-strings 
Are  closest  linked  to  simplest  things: 
And  these  wild  flowers  will  hold  mine  fast, 
Till  love,  and  life,  and  all  be  past ; 
And  then  the  only  wish  I  have 

Is,  that  the  one  who  raises 
The  turf-sod  o'er  me  plant  my  grave 

With  buttercups  and  daisies. 

A   HOME  IX  THE  HEART. 

Oh,  ask  not  a  home  in  the  mansions  of  pride. 
Where  marble  shines  out  in  the  pillars  and  walls  ; 

Though  the  roof  be  of  gold  it  is  brilliantly  cold. 
And  joy  may  not  be  found  in  its  torch-lighted 
halls. 


198  ELIZA  COOK. 

But  seek  for  a  bosom  all  honest  and  true. 

Where  love  once  awakened  will  never  depart; 
Turn,  turn  to  that  Iiroast  like  the  dove  to  its  nest. 

And  3'ou  "11  find  there  "s  no  home  like  a  home  in 
the  heart. 

Oh  !  link  liut  one  spirit  that's  warmly  sincere. 
That   will   heighten  your  pleasuie  and  solace 
your  care  ; 
Find  a  soul  you  may  trust  as  the  Icind  and  the  just. 
And  he  sure  tlie  wide  world  holds  no  treasure  so 
rare. 
Then  the  frowns  of  misfortune  may  shadow  our  lot, 
The  cheek-searing   tear-drops  of    sorrow    may 
start, 
But  a  star  never  dim  sheds  a  halo  for  him 
Who  can  tiu  ii  for  repose  to  a  home  in  the  heart. 

THE   OLD   ARM  CHAIR. 

I  love  it,  I  love  it  I  and  who  shall  dare 

To  cliide  me  for  loving  that  old  arm-chair? 

I  've  treasured  it  long  as  a  sainted  prize, 

1  "ve  bedewed  it  with  tears,  I've  embalmed  it 

with  sighs. 
'Tis  bound  by  a  thousand  bands  to  my  heart; 
Not  a  tie  will  break,  not  a  link  will  start ; 
AVoulil  you  know  the  spell  '.■' — a  motlier  sat  there ' 
And  a  sacred  thing  is  that  old  arm-chair. 

In  childhood's  hour  I  lingered  near 

The  liallowed  seat  with  listening  ear  ; 

And  gentle  words  that  mother  would  give 

To  fit  me  to  die,  and  teach  me  to  live. 

She  told  me  that  shame  would  never  betide 

With  Truth  for  my  creed  and  God  for  my  guide  ; 

She  taught  n-ie  to  lis])  iiiy  earliest  prayer, 

As  I  knelt  beside  that  old  arm-chair. 

I  sat,  and  watched  her  many  a  day. 

When  her  eye  grew  dim,   and  her  locks  were 

gray; 
And  I  almost  worshiped  her  when  she  smiled, 
And  turned  from  her  Bible  to  bless  her  child. 
Years  rolled  on,  but  the  last  one  sped — 
Mv  idol  was  shattered,  my  earth-.star  fled  ! 


JAMES  COOK.  199 

I  learnt  how  much  the  heart  can  bear, 
VVlien  I  saw  her  die  in  lier  old  arm-chair. 

'Tis  past,  'tis  past !  but  I  gaze  on  it  now. 
With  quivering  breath  and  throbbing  brow. 
'Twas  there  siie  nursed  me.  "twas  there  she  dieu, 
And  memory  tlows  with  lava  tide. 
Say  it  is  folly,  and  deem  me  weak, 
AVliilst  scalding  drops  start  down  my  cheek; 
But  I  love  it.  I  love  it.  ami  cannot  tear 
My  soul  from  a  mother's  old  arm-ciiair. 

COOK,  James,  an  English  ciroumnaviga- 
tor,  born  in  Yorkshire,  in  1728,  killed  on  the 
island  of  Hawaii,  in  an  affray  with  the  na- 
tives, Febuary  14,  1779.  When  qnite  young, 
he  Avent  to  sea  on  board  a  coal-vessel,  of 
which  he  rose  to  be  mate.  In  1755  he  en- 
tered the  royal  navy  as  a  vohinteei-.  He 
served  as  master  of  a  sloop  at  the  captrire  of 
Quebec  by  Wolfe  in  1759.  In  17G8  he  was 
chosen  by  Government  to  command  a  vessel 
sent  to  the  Pacific  in  order  to  observe  the 
transit  of  Venus,  and  make  other  scientific 
observations.  He  returned  to  England  in 
1771,  and  in  the  next  j'ear  was  again  sent,  in 
command  of  two  vessels  to  the  far  Southern 
Pacific,  in  order  to  ascertain  whether  there 
Avas  any  continent  there.  The  farthest  point 
reached  by  him  was  lat.  71°  S.,  where  he  was 
stopped  by  ice.  He  returned  to  England  in 
1775,  having  circumnavigated  the  globe  in  high 
southern  latitudes.  He  put  forth  two  quarto 
volumes  containing  a  Journal  of  this  voyage. 
He  thus  closes  his  narrative  of  this  voyage: 

RESULTS  OF  HIS  SECOND  VOYAGE. 

Whatever  may  be  the  public  judgment  aboiit 
otlier  matters,  it  is  with  real  satisfaction,  and 
without  claiming  any  merit  but  that  of  attention 
to  my  duty,  that  I  can  conclude  this  account  with 
an  observation  which  facts  enable  us  to  make, 
that  our  having  discovered  the  possibility  of  pre- 


aOO  JAMES  COOK. 

serving;  health  anions  a  numerous  ship's  compa- 
ny, for  such  a  lenj^th  of  time,  in  sucli  varieties  of 
chmate,  and  amidst  such  continued  hardsliips  and 
fatigues,  will  make  this  voyage  remarkable,  in  the 
opinion  of  every  benevolent  person,  when  the  dis- 
putes about  the  Southern  Continent  shall  have 
ceased  to  engage  the  attention,  and  to  divide  the 
judgment  of  philosophei"s. 

In  1777  he  set  out  on  a  third  voyage,  the 
inimediate  object  of  which  was  to  search  for  a 
iiortht vn  passage  between  the  Pncific  and  the 
Atlantic.  lie  discovered  the  Sandwich  Isl- 
ands, then  sailed  northward  and  explored 
Beh ring's  Strait,  as  far  as  lat.  70®.  He  re- 
turned to  the  Sandwich  Ishmds,  where  he 
proposed  to  pass  the  winter  of  1778-79.  Some 
of  the  natives  had  stolen  one  of  his  boats;  he 
went  ashore  for  the  purpose  of  recovering  it ; 
met  with  resistance  from  the  natives;  and 
was  himself  killed,  with  four  of  his  crew, 
while  attempting  to  retui-nto  his  ship. 

The  Xarrativp  of  the  Voyages  Round  the 
World,  performed  by  Captain  James  Cook, 
was  drawn  up  by  Andrew  Kippis.  D.D.,LL.D., 
from  Cook's  Journals  and  other  sources  (1788). 
Strict!}'  speaking,  this  cannot  be  considered 
the  work  of  Cook  himself.  But  in  1776  the 
navigator  was  elected  a  Fellow  of  the  Royal 
Society,  and  was  presented  with  the  Copley 
gold  medal  for  his  services  in  preserving  the 
health  of  his  crew  during  his  preceding 
voyage  of  circumnavigation.  Upon  this  oc- 
casion a  paper  by  Cook  was  read  giving  a  de- 
tailed account  of  the  sanitary  methods  which 
he  had  adopted  and  foimd  so  efficacious  : 

cook's  s.vxitary  precautioxs. 

"We  were  furnished  with  a  quantity  of  malt,  of 

wliich  was  made  sweet  wort.     To  such  of  the 

men  as  showed  the  least  symptoms  of  the  scurvy, 

and  also  to  such  as  were  tiiought  to  be  threatened 


JAMES  COOK.  201 

with  tlmt  disord(T,  this  was  given,  from  one  to 
two  or  three  pints  a  day  each  man  ;  or  in  such 
pro|)ortion  as  the  surgeon  found  necessary — wliich 
sometimes  amounted  to  three  quarts.  This  is, 
witlioiit  doubt., one  of  tlie  best  anti-scorbutic  sea- 
medicines  yet  discovered  ;  and  if  used  in  time, 
will,  with  proper  attention  to  other  things,  I  am 
persuaded,  i)revont  the  scurvy  from  making  any 
great  progress  for  a  considerable  u  hile  :  but  I  am 
not  altogether  of  opinion  tiiat  it  will  cure  it  at  sea. 
—Sour  Kraut,  of  which  we  had  a  large  (juantity, 
is  not  only  a  wholesome  vegetable  food,  but  in  my 
judgment  highly  anti-scorbutic.  A  pound  of  this 
was  served  to  each  man,  when  at  sea,  twice  a 
week,  or  oftener,  as  was  thought  necessary.  .  .  . 

Portable  Broth  was  another  great  article  of 
•which  we  had  a  large  supply.  An  ounce  of  this 
to  each  man,  or  such  other  proportion  as  circum- 
stances pointed  out,  was  boiled  in  their  pease 
three  days  in  the  week  ;  and  when  we  were  in 
places  where  vegetables  were  to  be  got,  it  was 
boiled  with  them,  and  wheat  or  oatmeal,  everv 
morning  for  breakfast ;  and  also  with  pease  and 
vegetables  for  dinner.  It  enabled  us  to  make 
several  nourishing  and  wholesome  messes,  and 
was  the  means  of  making  the  people  eat  a  greater 
quantity  of  vegetables  than  they  would  otherwise 
have  done. 

Rob  of  Lemon  and  Orange  is  an  anti-scorbutic 
we  were  not  without.  The  surgeon  made  use  of 
it  in  many  cases  with  great  success.  But  I  believe 
that  the  dearness  of  these  articles  will  hinder 
them  from  being  furnished  in  large  quantities. 
And  I  do  not  think  this  so  necessary- ;  for  though 
they  may  assist  other  things,  I  liave  no  great 
opinion  of  them  alone.  Nor  have  I  a  higher 
opinion  of  vinegar.  My  people  had  it  very  spar- 
ingly during  the  voyage  ;  and  towards  the  latter 
part,  none  at  all ;  and  j-et  we  experienced  no  ill 
effect  from  the  want  of  it.  The  custom  of  wash- 
ing the  inside  of  the  ship  with  vinegar  I  seldom 
observed,  thinking  that  fire  and  smoke  answered 
the  purpose  much  better. 

But  the  introduction  of  the  most  sahitary  articles 


202  JAMES  COOK. 

either  as  provisions  or  medicines  will  generally 
prove  unsuccessful,  unless  supported  by  certain 
regulations.  The  crew  were  at  three  watches, 
except  upon  some  extraordinary  occasions.  By 
this  means  they  were  not  so  much  exposed  to  the 
weather  ;is  if  they  had  been  at  w;itch-and-watch  ; 
and  had  generally  dry  clothes  to  shift  themselves, 
when  they  happened  to  get  wet.  Care  was  also 
taken  to  exi)ose  them  as  little  to  wet  weather  as 
jiossible. 

Proper  methods  were  used  to  keep  their  pei^sons, 
hammocks,  bedding,  clothes,  etc..  constantly  clean 
and  dry.  Eiiual  care  was  taken  to  keep  the  ship 
clean  and  dry  betwixt  decks.  Once  or  twice  a 
week  she  was  aired  with  fires;  and  whentliis  could 
not  be  done,  she  was  smoked  with  gunpowder, 
mixed  with  vinegar  and  water.  I  had  also 
fre«iuently  a  fire  made  in  an  iron  pot  at  the  bottom 
of  the  well,  which  was  of  great  use  in  purifying 
the  air  in  the  lower  parts  of  the  ship.  To  this,  and 
to  cleanliness,  as  well  in  the  ship  as  amongst  the 
people,  too  great  attention  cannot  be  paid.  The 
least  neglect  occasions  a  putrid  and  disagreeable 
smell  below,  which  nothing  but  fires  will  remove. 
Proper  attention  was  paid  to  the  ship's  coppers,  so 
that  they  were  kept  constantly  clean.  The  fat 
which  boiled  out  of  the  salt  beef  ami  j^ork  I  never 
suffered  to  be  given  to  the  people. 

I  was  careful  to  take  in  water  wherever  it  was  to 
be  got,  even  though  we  did  not  want  it ;  because  I 
look  upon  fresh  water  from  the  shore  to  be  more 
wholesome  than  that  which  has  been  kept  some 
time  on  board  a  ship.  Of  this  essential  article  we 
were  never  at  an  allowance,  but  had  always  i)len- 
ty  for  every  necessary  purpose.  Navigators  in 
general  cannot,  indeed,  expect,  nor  would  they 
wish  to  meet  with  such  advantages  in  this  respect 
as  fell  to  my  lot.  The  nature  of  our  voyages  car- 
ried us  into  very  high  latitudes.  But  the  hard- 
ships and  dangers  inseparable  from  that  situ- 
ation were  in  some  degree  compensated  by  the 
singular  felicity  we  enjoyed  of  extracting  inex- 
haustible supplies  of  fresh  water  from  an  ocean 
strewed  with  ice. 


JOSEPH  COOK.  203 

We  came  to  few  places  where  either  the  art  of 
man,  or  the  bounty  of  nature,  had  not  provided 
some  sort  of  refreshment  or  otlier,  either  la  the 
animal  or  the  vi?getable  waj".  It  was  my  first  care 
to  procure  whatever  of  an}-  kind  could  be  met  with, 
by  every  means  in  my  power  ;  and  to  oblige  our 
people  to  make  use  thereof,  both  by  example  and 
authority.  But  the  benefits  arising  from  refresh- 
ments of  any  kind  soon  became  so  obvious,  that  I 
liad  little  occasion  to  recommenil  rlie  one  or  to 
exert  the  other. 

COOK,  Joseph,  an  Anerican  theological 
writer  and  lecturer,  burn  at  Ticonderoga, 
N.  Y.,  in  1838.  lie  received  his  early  educa- 
tion at  Phillips  Academy,  Andover.  In  1858 
he  entered  Yale  College,  which  he  quitted  at 
the  end  of  two  years,  for  Harvard.  After  his 
graduation  at  Harvard,  he  spent  four  years 
in  the  theological  school  at  Andover,  preach- 
ed for  a  year  at  Lynn,  and  then  spent  several 
years  in  travel  and  study  in  Europe.  On  his 
return  to  Boston,  in  1873,  he  began  a  course  of 
lectures  on  the  relations  between  science  and 
religion.  Since  that  time  he  has  given  in  con- 
■  nection  with  the  Boston  Monday  Lectureship, 
several  courses  of  lectures,  which  have  been 
published  under  the  following  titles :  Biology 
(1877),  Transcendentalism  (1877),  Orthodoxy 
(1878),  Marriage,  Conscience,  Heredity  (1879), 
Socialism,  and  Labor  (1880).  Since  that  time 
these  lectures  have  been  continued,  and  have 
been  regularly  printed  in  periodicals. 

THE  UNITY   OF  CONSCIOUSNESS. 

There  is  a  great  fact  known  to  us  more  certainly 
than  the  existence  of  matter  :  it  is  the  unity  of 
consciousness.  I  know  that  I  exist,  and  that  I  am 
One.  Hermann  Lotze's  supreme  argument  against 
materialism  is  the  unity  of  consciousness.  I  know 
that  I  am  I,  and  not  yoit  ;  and  I  know  this  to 
my  very  finger-lips.  That  finger  is  part  of  ray 
organism,  not  of  yours.     To  the  last  extremity  of 


204  JOHN  ESTEN  COOKE. 

every  nerve,  I  know  that  I  am  One.  The  unity  of 
consciousness  is  a  fact  known  to  us  by  much  bet- 
ter evidence  than  the  existence  of  matter.  I  am 
a  natural  realist  in  philosophy,  if  I  may  use  a 
technical  term  :  I  believe  in  the  existence  of 
both  matter  and  mind.  There  are  two  thinjrs  in 
the  universe  ;  but  I  know  the  existence  of  mind 
better  than  I  know  the  existence  of  matter.  Some- 
times in  ^dreams  we  fall  down  precipices  and 
awai;e,  and  lind  that  the  giiarle  1  wa\  age  rocks  had 
no  existence.  But  we  touched  them ;  we  felt 
them  ;  we  were  biiiised  by  tiiem.  Who  knows 
but  tliat  someday  we  may  wake,  and  find  that  all 
matter  is  merely  a  dream?  Even  if  we  do  tiiat,  it 
will  yet  remiiin  true  that  I  am  /.  There  is  more 
support  for  idealism  tiian  for  materialism  ;  but 
there  is  no  sufficient  support  for  either.  If  we  are 
to  reverence  all,  and  not  merely  a  fraction,  of  the 
list  of  axiomatic  or  self-evident  truths,  if  we  are 
not  to  play  fast  and  loose  with  the  intuitions 
which  are  the  eternal  tests  of  verity,  we  shall  be- 
lieve in  the  existence  of  both  matter  and  mind. 
Hermann  Lotze  holds  that  the  unity  of  conscious- 
ness is  a  fact  absolutely  incontrovertible  and  abso- 
lutely inexplicable  on  the  theory  tliat  our  bodies 
are  woven  by  a  complex  of  physical  arrangements 
and  physical  forces,  having  no  co-ordinating  pre- 
siding power  over  them  all.  I  know  that  there  is 
a  co-ordinaimg  jiresiding  i>ower  somewhere  in  me. 
I  am  I.  I  aru  One.  Whence  the  sense  of  a  unity 
of  consciousness,  if  we  are  made  up,  according  to 
Spencers  idea,  or  Huxley's,  of  inlinitely  multiplex 
molecular  mechanisms]:'  We  have  the  idea  of 
a  presiding  power  that  makes  each  man  one  indi- 
viduality from  top  to  toe.  How  do  we  get  it  ?  It 
must  have  a  suliicient  cause.  To  this  hour,  no 
man  has  explained  the  unity  of  consciousness  in 
consistency  with  the  mechanical  theory  of  life. — 
Biology. 

COOKE.  JohnEsten,  an  American  novelist, 
bo!-n  at  Winchester  Va.,  November  3.  1830. 
He  studied  law,  which,  after  a  few  years'  prac- 
tice, lie  abandoned  for  hterature.    Among  his 


JOHN  ESTEN  COOKE.  205 

works  are :  Leather  StocJcing  and  Silk  (1854) ; 
The  Virginia  Comedians  (ISod) \  The  Last  of 
the  Foresters  {Ism);  Henry  St.  John,  Gentle- 
»7.a;i  (1858);  Surry  of  the  Eagles  Nest  (1866); 
Life  of  SiOiieicaU  Jackson  (1866);  Mohun 
(1868);  Fairfax  (1868);  Hilt  to  Hilt  (1869); 
Hammer  and  Rapier  (1S70)  \  Life  of  Robert 
E.  Lee  (1871);  Dr.  Van  Dijke  (1872);  Her 
Majesty  the  Queen  (1873);  Canolles  (1877); 
Stories  of  the  Old  Dominion  (1879);  3Ir. 
G  rant  ley's  Idea  {iS7^)\  and  Virginia,  in  the 
American  Comaionwealth  Series,  (1883). 

THE    HURRICANE    COMMENCES. 

All  Willianisburgh  is  in  tenilic  comiiiution  :  a 
moral  storm  is  raging  there,  and  men  look  about 
them,  measuring  each  other  with  doubtful  eyes. 
At  the  office  of  the  Virgvtiia  Gazette,  an  enor- 
mous crowd  is  collected,  and  within,  are  heard 
the  presses  rolling  rapidly,  and  vainly  striving  to 
strike  off  sufficient  copies  of  the  journal,  to  sup- 
ply the  eager  hands  held  out  to  take  them.  The 
street  is  full  of  people  passing  to  and  fro :  the 
crowd  undulates  ;  a  murmur  rises  which  at  times 
swells  into  a  great  slumt.  Suddenly  the  multi- 
tude raises  its  startled  head.  A  bell  begins  to  toll 
— slowly,  solemnly,  with  a  melancholy  expression, 
which  seems  to  echo  the  feeling  <if  the  crowd. 

The  explanation  of  the  gathering,  of  the  de- 
mand for  copies  of  the  journal,  of  the  tolling  bell, 
is  simple.  The  vessel  lying  yonder  at  the  port  of 
York,  and  just  from  London,  has  brought  the  in- 
telligence of  the  passage  of  the  Stamj)  Act.  For 
this  reason  the  crowd  murmurs,  and  stretches  out 
its  Briarean  hands  towards  the  printing  office, 
where  an  additional  number  has  been  hastily  com- 
posed, containing  the  provisions  of  the  act.  As 
they  receive  the  papers  unfolded,  they  hastUy 
glue  their  eyes  to  them,  and  with  dozens  of  per- 
sons looking  over  their  shoulders,  scan  the  omi- 
nous words.  Upon  a  barrel,  at  some  distance,  is 
mounted  a  man  who  reads  to  that  portion  of  the 
crowd  next  him,  the  contents  of  his  paper.     The 


206  JOHN  ESTEN  COOKE. 

population  of  the  town  flow  backward  and  for- 
ward, as  the  blood  flows  in  the  veins  and  arteries. 
But  the  ofiiceof  the  journal  is  the  heart,  to  which 
all  the  streams  return,  from  which  the  flood 
pours,  ever  making  way  for  others. 

The  crowd  is  for  the  most  part  composed  of 
men  who  seem  to  be  of  humble  rank,  such  as  ai'e 
not  accustomed  to  criticise  very  strongly  any  acts 
of  Government ;  but  among  these  rude  forms  are 
seen  great  numbers  of  the  richly  clad  members  of 
the  House  of  Burgesses,  whose  powdered  heads 
and  embroidered  doublets  present  a  strong  con- 
trast to  the  coarse  fustian  of  the  commoners. 
The  faces  of  the  bm-ghers  are  troubled — doubtful ; 
they  are  to  act,  not  merely  murmur,  as  the  popu- 
lar voice  murmurs  ;  and  the  crisis  is  enough  to  try 
the  soul.  On  one  side,  England  with  her  tremen- 
dous strength,  lier  overwhelming  power  by  land 
and  sea,  and  her  immemorial  prestige  of  sover- 
eignty ;  upon  the  other,  a  few  weak  colonies, 
scattered  over  a  wild  continent,  and  scarcely 
knowing  each  other — or  Avhether  if  one  rises  in  op- 
position, tlie  rest  will  not  march  to  put  her  down. 
On  one  side,  an  act  of  Parliament  armed  with  all 
the  weight  of  a  solemn  resolution  of  that  great 
government ;  upon  the  other,  a  mere  popular  sen- 
timent, which  only  stammers  ••  Libei'ty — the  lib- 
erty of  free  born  Englishmen  !  " 

And  tliis  very  day  the  trial  comes  : — for  Gov- 
ernor Fauquier  will  open  the  House  of  Burgesses, 
and  ofliciall}'  communicate  to  that  body  the  intel- 
hgence  of  the  passage  of  the  act : — and  they  must 
at  once  make  submission  or  throw  down  the 
gauntlet  of  defiance.  The  crowd,  as  they  respect- 
fully make  way  for  them,  follow  them  with  their 
eyes  : — they  seek  to  read  in  the  faces  of  the  burgh- 
ers what  reply  they  deign  to  make  to  his  serene 
Excellency.  .  .  The  commotion  ever  rises  higher, 
and  the  great  wave,  extending  from  the  govei'n- 
or's  palace  to  the  capital,  the  whole  length  of 
Gloucester  street,  surges  to  and  fro,  and  breaks, 
into  a  foam  of  cries  and  furious  gestures  every- 
where.   And  still  the  bell  tolls  mournfully,  and 


JOHN  ESTEN  COOKE.  207 

ever  and  anon  rise  those  shouts  which  mount  to 
the  gathering  clouds  above. 

But  now  another  sound  startles  the  multitude. 
A  cannon  roars  from  the  palace,  sending  its  hoarse 
sombre  voice  upon  the  wind  which  now  begins  to 
rise.  And  then  a  drum  is  heard.  The  governor 
lias  set  out  from  the  palace  for  the  capital,  there 
to  open  the  House  of  Burgesses.  Before  him  ride 
his  body-guard  with  drawn  sabres,  and  the  face  of 
the  old  man  is  seen  through  the  window  of  his 
splendid  chariot,  which  is  drawn  slowly  onward 
by  six  glossy  horses,  who  toss  their  rosetted  heads 
and  push  aside  the  muttering  crowd  with  their 
chests. 

The  crowd  mutters  inarticulately  :  gazes  side- 
wise  at  the  cortege  slowly  passing.  The  govern- 
or raises  his  head,  and  pointing  with  his  wliite 
jewelled  finger  through  the  window  of  the  chariot, 
says  to  one  of  the  gentlemen  who  ride  with  him  : 
"  What  is  that  bell  V  " 

"They  began  tolling  it  upon  the  intelligence 
this  morning,  your  Excellency." 

The  governor  shakes  his  head  and  sinks  back  in 
his  chariot,  muttering,  "Well,  well,  the  die  is 
thrown  ! " 

The  crowd  mutter  too,  and  with  ever-increas- 
ing rage:  the  cavalcade  is  followed  by  groans 
■  and  murmurs  which  are  menacing  muruuii  s.  So 
it  continues  all  day  ;  the  chariot  goes  slowly  back 
again  under  the  now  lurid  sky,  and  disappears 
within  tlie  palace  gates.  .  .  . 

Night  draws  on,  lurid  and  tempestuous  :  the  sky 
is  dark  with  clouds,  from  which  issue  thunder  and 
lightning.  The  wind  moans.  The  crowd  has  not 
moved,  and  is  almost  silent,  until  a  light  appears 
approaching  from  the  side  of  York.  They  shout 
then,  and  surge  backward  and  forward,  tumult- 
uously  going  to  meet  the  light. 

Through  the  press  comes  slowly  onward  a  wag- 
on, whose  six  horses  foam  at  the  mouth  and  pant, 
covered  with  sweat.  They  have  galloped  all  the 
way  from  Yorktown.  The  wagon  pauses  in  the 
middle  of  the  square,  and  is  buried  almost  beneath 
the  surge  of  men  who  throw  themselves  upon  it. 


208  JOHN  ESTEN  COOKE. 

The  horses,  unhitched  hastilj-,  are  lashed,  and  dis- 
appear lii<e  shadows,  but  shadows  which  over- 
threw men  as  they  ploughed  their  furious  way  in- 
to the  darkness. 

The  wagon  is  rifled  with  the  rapidity  of  light- 
ning. Tlie  boxes  containing  t lie  blank  stamps  are 
hurled  out  and  })iletl  into  a  mass.  The  crowd  ut- 
ters a  hoarse  shout,  and  the  torcli  is  applied  to 
them.  The  flame  licks  and  clasps  them,  winding 
round  and  through  the  pile  of  half  broken  boxes. 
Then  it  soars  aloft,  and  tlirows  its  glare  upon  the 
crowd,  whose  faces  but  now  were  concealed  l)y 
the  darkness— faces  full  of  rsLge.—The  Virginia 
Comedians. 

THE  DEATH  OF  HUNTEU  JOHN. 

So  the  sunset  waned  away,  and  with  it  the  life 
and  strength  of  the  old  storm-beaten  mountaineer 
— so  grand  yet  powerless,  so  near  to  death  }-et  so 
very  cheerful. 

"  I  'm  goin',"  he  murmured  as  the  red  orb  touch- 
ed the  mountain.  ''I'm  goin',  my  darlm's  ;  I  al- 
ways loved  you  all,  my  children.  Darlin',  don't 
cry,"  he  murmured  feebly  to  Alice,  whose  heart 
was  near  breaking.  '•  don't  any  of  you  cry  for  me.'' 

The  old  dim  eyes  again  dwelt  tenderly  on  the 
loving  faces,  wet  with  tears,  and  on  those  trembling 
lips.  There  came  now  to  the  aged  face  of  the 
rude  mountaineer,  an  expression  of  grandeur  and 
majesty,  wliich  illumined  the  broad  brow  and  eyes 
like  a  heavenly  light.  Then  those  eyes  seemed  to 
have  found  what  they  were  seeking,  and  were 
abased.  Their  gi-andeur  changed  to  humility, 
their  light  to  shadow,  their  Are  to  softness  and 
unspeakable  love.  The  thin  feeble  hands,  stretch- 
ed out  upon  the  cover  were  agitated  slightly,  the 
eyes  moved  slowly  to  the  window  and  thence  re- 
turned to  the  dear  faces  weeping  round  t'he  bed ; 
then  whispering  : 

" The  Lord  is  good  to  me!  he  told  me  he  was 
comin'  'fore  the  night  was  here ;  come  !  come — 
Lord  Jesus — come  ! "  the  old  mountaineer  fell  back 
with  a  low  sigh  :  a  sigh  so  low  that  the  old  sleep- 
ing hound  dreamed  on. 


I'HILIP  PENDLETON  COOKE.  209 

The  life  strings  parted  without  sound  ;  and  Hunt- 
er John,  that  so  long  loved  and  clierished  soul, 
that  old  strong  form  which  had  been  hardened  in 
so  many  storms,  that  tender  loving  heart — ah, 
more  than  all,  tliat  grand  and  tender  heart— had 
passed  as  calmly  as  a  little  babe  from  the  cold 
shadowy  world  to  that  otlier  world  :  the  world, 
Ave  trust,  of  light,  and  love,  and  joy. — Leathep 
Stocking  and  Silk. 

MAY. 

Has  the  old  glory  passed 

From  the  tender  May — 
That  never  the  echoing  blast 
Of  bugle-horn  merry,  and  fast 
Dying  away  like  the  Past, 

Welcomes  the  daj-  ? 

Has  the  old  beauty  gone 

From  the  golden  May — 
That  not  any  more  at  dawn 
Over  the  flowery  lawn. 
Or  knolls  of  tlie  forest  withdrawn. 

Maids  are  at  play  ? 

Is  the  old  freshness  dead 
Of  the  fairy  May  ?— 
,  Ah  !  the  sad  tear-drops  unshed  ! 

Ah  !  the  young  maidens  unwed  ! 
Golden  locks— cheeks  rosy  red  ! 
Ah  !  where  are  they  ? 

COOKE.  Philip  Pendleton,  an  Americari 
poet,  brother  of  John  Esten  Cooke,  born  at 
Martinsburg,  Va.,  Oct.  26,  1816,  died  Jan.  20, 
1850.  He  was  educated  at  Princeton,  and 
was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1837.  In  1847  he 
published  Fro issart  Ballads  and  Other  Poems. 
Though  best  known  as  a  poet,  he  contributed 
many  sketches  and  other  prose  articles  to  the 
Southern  Literary  Messenger  and  other  peri- 
odicals. His  poem  Florence  Vane^  has  been 
translated  into  several  languages. 


210  PHILIP  PENDLETON  COOKE. 

FLORENCE    VANE. 

I  loved  thee  long-  and  dearly, 

Florence  Vane  ; 
My  life's  bright  dream  and  early 

Hath  come  again  ; 
I  renew  in  my  fond  vision 

My  heart's  dear  pain 
My  hopes  and  thy  derision, 

Florence  Vane  ! 

The  rain,  lone  and  hoary, 

The  ruin  old, 
Where  thou  didst  hark  my  story, 

At  even  told. 
That  sjjot,  the  hues  Elysian 

Of  slc}'  and  ]jlain 
I  treasure  in  my  vision. 

Florence  Vane  ! 

Thou  was  lovelier  than  the  roses 

In  their  prime; 
Thy  voice  excelled  the  closes 

Of  sweetest  rhyme  ; 
Thy  iieart  was  as  a  river 

Witliout  a  main, 
Would  I  had  loved  thee  never, 

Florence  Vane. 

But  fairest,  coldest  wonder  ! 

Thy  glorious  clay 
Lieth  the  green  sod  under — 

Alas  the  day  ! 
And  it  boots  not  to  remember 

Thy  disdain, 
To  quicken  love's  pale  ember, 

Florence  Vane  ! 

The  lilies  of  the  valley 

By  young  gi-aves  weep, 
The  pansies  love  to  dally 

Where  maidens  sleep. 
May  their  bloom,  in  beauty  vying, 

Never  wane 
W^here  thine  earthly  part  is  lying, 

Florence  Vane. 


ROSE  COOKE.  liU 

COOKE,  Rose  (Terry),  an  American  story- 
writer  and  poet,  born  at  Hartford,  Conn., 
February  17,  1827.  She  has  written  numerous 
stories  and  poems  in  various  periodicals,  some 
of  which  have  been  collected  into  volumes. 
Among  these  are.  Somebody's  Neighbors ; 
The  Sphinx's  Children;  Root-bound:  and 
Steadfast  (1886). 

AUNTS   AND   NEPHKW. 

Aunt  Hiildah  and  Aunt  Hannah  sat  in  the 
kitchen — Amit  Iluklah  holt  upright  in  a  straight- 
backed  wooden  chair,  big  silver-bowed  spectacles 
astride  her  liigli  nose,  sewing  cari)et-rags  wiih 
such  energy  tliat  her  eyes.snapi^ed,  and  lier  brown, 
wrinkled  fingers  flew  back  and  fortli  like  the 
spokes  of  a  rapid  wheel ;  Aunt  Hannah  in  a  low, 
creaky  old  rocker,  knitting  diligenth'  l)ut  placidly, 
and  rocking  geidly.  You  could  almost  hear  her 
purr,  and  you  wanted  to  stroke  her ;  but  Aunt 
Huldah  ! — an  electric  machine  could  not  be  less 
desirable  to  handle  than  she,  or  a  chestnut-burr 
pricklier. 

The  back-log  simmered  an<l  sputtered ;  the 
hickory-sticks  in  front  shot  up  bright,  soft  flames  ; 
jmd  through  the  two  low,  green-paned  windows 
the  pallid  sun  of  February  sent  iu  a  pleasant  shin- 
ing on  the  clean  kitchen  floor.  Cooking-stoves 
were  not  made  then,  nor  Merrimac  calicoes.  The 
two  old  Women  had  stuff  i)etticoats  and  homespun 
short-gowns,  clean  mob-caps  over  tiieir  decent 
graj'  hair,  and  big  blue-check  aprons ;  hair-dye, 
wigs,  flowered  chintz,  and  other  fineries  had  not 
reached  the  lonely  farms  of  Dorset  in  those  dajs. 
"  Spinsters  "  was  not  a  mere  name.  The  big  wool- 
wheel  stood  in  one  corner  of  the  kitchen,  and  a 
little  flax-wheel  by  the  window.  In  summer  hot V 
would  be  moved  to  the  great  garret,  where  it  w.v.s 
cool  and  out  of  the  way. 

"  Curus,  ain't  it?"  said  Aunt  Huldah.  "Fres- 
dom  never  come  home  before,  later  "n  nine-o'clock 
Ix'll,  and  he  was  mortal  might}'  then ;  kep"  his 
tongue  between  his  teeth  same  way   he  did  to 


212  ROSE  COOKE. 

breakfast  this  mornin".  There  *s  suthin'  a-goin'  on, 
Hanner,  you  may  depend  on  "t." 

"Mabhe  he  needs  some  wormwood-tea,"  said 
Aunt  Ilannali,  wlio,  like  Miss  Hannah  More, 
thouglit  tlie  only  two  evils  in  the  world  were  sin 
and  bile,  and  charitably  preferred  to  lay  tilings 
first  to  the  physical  disorder. 

'•I  du  b'lieve,  Hanner.  you  think  'riginal  sin  is 
nothin"  l)ut  a  bad  stomick." 

"  Ef  "t  aiu"t  'riginal  sin,  it 's  actual  transgression 
prett}-  often,  Huld\-,"  returned  the  placid  old  lady 
with  a  gentle  cackle.  The  Assnnbly's  Catechism 
had  been  ground  into  them  both,  as  any  old- 
fashioned  New-Englander  will  observe,  and  they 
quoted  its  forms  of  speech,  as  Boston  people  do 
Emerson's  Essays,  by  "an  automatic  action  of  the 
unconscious  nervous  centres.'' 

The  door  opened,  and  Freedom  walked  in, 
scraping  his  ijoots  upon  the  husk-mat,  as  a  man 
will  Avho  has  lived  all  his  days  with  two  old 
maids,  but  nevertheless  spreading  abroad  in  that 
clean  kitchen  an  odor  of  the  barn  that  spoke  of 
"chores,"  yet  did  not  disturb  the  accustomed 
nostrils  of  liis  aunts.  He  was  a  middle-sized, 
rather  "stocky"  man,  with  a  round  head  well 
covered  with  light-curling  short  hair,  that  re- 
venged itself  for  being  cut  too  short  to  curl  by 
standing  on  end  toward  every  point  of  the  com- 
pass. You  could  not  call  him  a  common-looking 
man  :  something  in  his  keen  blue  eye,  abrupt  nose, 
steady  mouth,  and  square  chin,  always  made  a 
stranger  look  at  him  twice.  Rugged  sense,  but 
more  rugged  obstinacy,  shrewdness,  keen  per- 
ception, tempered  somewhat  by  a  certain  kindli- 
ness that  he  himself  felt  to  be  his  weak  spot — all 
these  were  to  be  read  in  Freedom  Wheeler's  well- 
bronzed  face,  sturdy  figure,  positive  speech,  and 
blunt  manner. 

He  strode  up  to  the  fireplace,  sat  down  in  an 
arm-chair  rudely  shaped  out  of  wood  hj  his  own 
hands,  and  plunged,  after  his  fashion,  at  once  into 
the  middle  of  things. 

"Aunt  Huldy  and  Aunt  Hanner,  I'm  a-goin' 
to  git  married."' 


ROSE  COOKE.  213 

The  domestic  bombshell  burst  in  silence.  Aunt 
Hannah  dropped  a  stitch,  and  couldn  't  see  to  pick 
it  up  for  ;it  least  a  minute.  Aunt  Huldah's  scis- 
sors snipped  at  tlie  i-ags  with  a  vicious  snap,  as  if 
tliey  were  responsible  agents,  and  she  would  end 
their  proceedings  then  and  there  ;  presently  she 
said  — 

*'  Well.  I  am  beat ! ''  To  which  rather  doubtful 
utterance  Freedom  made  no  reply,  and  the  scis- 
sors snipped  harder  yet. 

Aunt  Hannah  recovered  herself  first.  "Well, 
I  'm  real  glad  on  "t,"  purred  she.  It  was  her  part 
to  do  the  few  amenities  of  the  family. 

"  I  do'no  whether  I  be  or  not,  till  I  hear  who 
'tis,"  di\vly  answered  Aunt  Huldah,  who  was  ob- 
viously near  akin  to  Freedom. 

"It's  Lowh^  Mallory,"  said  the  short-spoken 
nephew,  who  by  this  time  was  whittling  briskly  a 
peg  for  his  ox-yoke. 

"  Du  tell !"  said  Aunt  Hannah  in  her  lingering, 
deliberate  tones,  the  words  running  into  each  other 
as  she  spoke.  "She's  jest's  clever *s  the  day  is 
long.  You  've  done  a  good  thing,  Freedom,  's 
sure  's  you  live." 

"  He  might  ha' done  wuss  ;  that 's  a  fact."  And 
with  tkis  approval  Freedom  seemed  satisfied;  for 
he  brushed  his  chips  into  the  fire,  ran  his  fingers 
through  his  already  upright  hair,  eyed  his  peg 
with  the  keen  aspect  of  a  critic  in  pegs,  and  went 
off  to  the  barn.  He  knew  instinctively  that  his 
aunts  must  have  a  chance  to  talk  the  matter 
over. 

"This  is  the  beateree  I  "  exclaimed  Aunt  Hul- 
dah as  the  door  shut  after  him.  "  Lowly  Mallory, 
of  all  creturs  !  Freedom's  as  masterful  as  though 
he  Avas  the  Lord  above,  by  natur"  :  and  ef  he  gets 
a  leetle  softly  cretur  like  that,  without  no  more 
grit  'n  a  November  chicken,  he  '11  ride  right  over 
everything,  and  she  won't  darst  to  peep  nor  mut- 
ter a  mite.     Good  land  ! " 

"Well,  well,"'  murmured  Aunt  Hannah,  "she 
is  a  kind  o'  feeble  piece,  but  she 's  real  clever  ;  an' 
I  do'no  but  what  it 's  as  good  as  he  could  do.  Ef 
she  was  like  to  him,  hard-headed,  "n  sot  in  her 


214  ROSE  COOKE. 

way,  I  tell  ye,  Huldy ,  the  fur  'd  fiy  mightily  ;  and 
it 's putty  bad  to  liave  fight  to  honae  when  there's 
a  fanrly  to  fetch  up.".  .  .  . 

Aunt  Huldah  jiicked  up  the  rags  at  her  feet, 
piled  them  into  a  splint  basket,  hung  the  shears 
on  a  steel  chain  by  her  side,  and  lifting  her 
tall,  gaunt  figure  from  the  chair,  betook  herself 
upstairs.  But  Aunt  Hannah  kept  on  knitting. 
She  was  the  thinker,  and  Huldah  the  doer,  of  the 
famil}'.  Now  lier  thoughts  ran  before  her  to  the 
coming  change,  and  she  sighed  ;  for  she  knew  her 
nephew  thoroughly,  and  she  pitied  the  gentle, 
sweet  nature  that  was  to  come  in  contact  with  his. 
Dear  Aunt  Hannah  !  She  had  never  had  any  ro- 
mance in  her  own  life  :  she  did  not  know  any- 
thing about  love,  except  as  the  placid  and  quite 
clear-eyed  affection  she  felt  for  Freedom,  who 
was  her  only  near  relation,  and  she  saw  little  Low- 
ly Mallory's  future  on  its  hardest  side.  But  she 
could  not  help  it ;  and  her  natiu-e  was  one  that 
never  frets  against  a  difficulty,  any  more  than  the 
green  turf  beats  against  the  rock  to  whose  edge  it 
clings.  ,  .  . 

Lowly  Mallory  was  a  fragile,  slender,  delicate 
girl,  with  sweet  gra}"  e3es  and  plenty  of  brown 
hair  ;  pale  as  a  spring  anemone,  with  just  such 
faint  pinkness  in  her  lips  and  on  her  high  cheek- 
bones as  tints  that  pensile,  egg-shaped  bud,  when  its 
"  Small  flower  layeth 
Its  fairy  gem  beneath  some  giant  tree  " 

on  the  first  warm  dajs  of  May.  She  had  already 
the  line  of  care  tliat  marks  New  England  women 
across  the  foreiiead  with  the  mark  of  Cain — 
the  signal  of  a  life  in  which  work  has  murdered 
health  and  joy  and  freedom  ;  for  Lowly  was  the 
oldest  of  ten  children,  and  her  mother  was  bed- 
ridden. .  .  .  Poor  little  Lowly  !  Her  simple,  len- 
der heart  went  out  to  her  husband  like  a  vine  feel- 
ing after  a  trellis  ;  and,  even  when  she  found  it 
was  only  a  bowlder  that  chilled  and  repelled  her 
flight  ardors  and  timid  caresses,  she  did  still  what 
that  vine  does — flung  herself  across  and  along  the 
granite  faces  of  the  rock,   and  turned  her  trem- 


ROSE  COOKE.  'Ho 

bling  blossoms  sunward,  where  life  and  lisbt  were 
free  and  sure.— Freedom  Wheeler's  Controversy. 

ANOTEER    DAUGHTER. 

It  was  witlv  an  impotent  rage  beyond  speech 
that  Freedom  took  the  birth  of  another  daughter, 
—a  frail,  tiny  creature,  trembling  and  weak  as  a 
new-born  lamb  in  a  snow-drift,  but  for  that  very 
reason  rousing  afresh  in  Lowly's  breast  the  eternal 
floods  of  mother-love,  the  only  love  that  never 
fails  among  all  earthly  passions,  the  only  patience 
that  is  never  weary,  the  sole  true  and  abiding 
trust  for  the  helpless  creatures  who  come  into  life 
as  waifs  from  the  great  misty  ocean  to  find  a  shelter 
or  a  grave.  Lowly  was  not  only  a  mother  accord- 
ing to  flesh— for  there  are  those  whose  maternity 
goes  no  further,  and  there  are  childless  women 
who  have  the  motherlinoss  that  could  suffice  for  a 
countless  brood — but  she  had,  too,  the  real  heart : 
she  clung  to  her  weakling  with  a  fervor  and  asser- 
tion that  disgusted  Freedom  and  astounded  Aunt 
Huldah,  who,  like  the  old  Scotch  woman,  sniffed 
at  the  idea  of  children  in  heaven:  "No,  no!  a 
hantle  o'  weans  there !  an'  me  that  could  never 
abide  bairns  ony  where  !     I  '11  no  believe  it." 

"  It  does  beat  all,  Hanner,  to  see  her  take  to  that 
skinny  miser'ble  little  critter  !  The  others  was 
kind  o'  likely,  all  on  'em  ;  but  this  is  the  dreadful- 
est  weakly,  peeked  thing  I  ever  see.  I  should, 
think  she'd  be  sick  on 't." 

"I  expect  mothers — anj-way  them  that's  real 
motherly,  Huldy— thinks  the  most  of  them  that 
needs  it  the  most.  I  've  seen  women  with  chil- 
dren quite  a  spell  now,  bein'  out  nussin'  'round, 
an'  I  allers  notice  that  the  sickly  ones  gets  the 
most  lovin'  an'  cuddlin'.  I  s'pose  it 's  the  same 
kind  o'  feelin'  the  Lord  hez  for  sinners :  they  want 
him  a  sight  more  "n  the  righteous  do." 

"Why,  Hanner  Wheeler,  what  be  you  a-thinkin' 
of  !  Where 's  your  Catechis'  ?  Ain't  all  men  by 
nater  under  the  wrath  an'  cuss  o'  God  'cause  they 
be  fallen  sinners?  And  here  you  be  a-makin' out 
he  likes  em  better 'n  good  folks." 

"Well,    Huldj-,    I    warn't    a  thinkin"   of   Gate- 


216  ROSE  COOKE. 

chism  :     I  was  a-thinkin"  about  wliat  it  sez  in  the 
Bible.-' 

Here  tlie  new  baby  cried  ;  and  Aunt  Huldah, 
confounded  but  unconvinced,  gave  a  loud  sniff, 
and  carried  olf  Shearjashub  and  Marah  to  tlie  red 
liouse,  wliere  their  fights  and  roars  and  general 
insubordination  soon  restored  her  faitli  in  the 
Catechism. — Freedom  Wheeler's  Controversy. 

PARSON  tucker's    MARRIAGE  EXHORTATION. 

But  Parson  Tucker's  career  was  not  to  be  monot- 
onous. His  next  astonisliing  performance  was  at 
a  wedding.  A  very  pretty  young  girl,  an  orphan, 
living  in  the  house  of  a  relative,  equally  poor  but 
grasping  and  ambitious,  was  about  to  marry  a 
young  man  of  gi-eat  wealth  and  thoroughly  bad 
character :  a  man  whom  all  men  knew  to  be  a 
drunkard,  a  gambler,  and  a  dissolute  fellow, 
though  the  only  son  of  a  cultivated  and  very 
aristocratic  family.  Poor  Emily  Manning  had 
suffered  all  those  deprivations  and  mortifications 
which  result  from  living  in  a  dependent  condition, 
aware  that  her  presence  was  irksome  and  unwel- 
come ;  while  her  delicate  organization  was  over- 
taxed with  work  whose  limits  were  as  indefinite 
as  the  food  and  clothing  which  were  its  only  re- 
ward. She  had  entered  into  this  engagement  in  a 
sort  of  desperation,  goaded  on  by  the  widowed 
sister-in-law  with  whom  she  lived,  and  feeling 
that  nothing  could  be  much  worse  than  her  pi'es- 
ent  position.  Parson  Tucker  knew  nothing  of  this, 
but  he  did  know  the  chai'acter  of  Royal  Van 
Wj'ck ;  and  when  lie  saw  the  pallid,  delicate, 
shrinking  girl  beside  this  already  worn-out,  de- 
based, bestial  creature,  ready  to  put  herself  into 
his  hands  for  life,  the  "daimon"  laid  hold  upon 
him,  and  spoke  again.  He  opened  the  service,  as 
was  customary  in  Hartland,  with  a  short  address ; 
but  surely  never  did  such  a  bridal  exhortation 
enter  the  ears  of  man  or  woman  before. 

"My  friends."  he  began.  "  matrimony  is  not  to 
be  lightly  nndertaken,  as  the  matter  of  a  day  ;  it 
is  an  awful  compact  for  life  and  death  that  ye 
enter  into  here.      Young  man,  if  thou  hast  not 


ROSE  COOKE.  217^ 

within  thyself  the  full  purpose  to  treat  this  woman 
witli  pure  respect,  loyal  service,  and  tender  care  ; 
to  guard  her  soul's  innocence  as  well  as  her  bodily 
welfare  ;  to  cleave  to  her  only,  and  keep  tiiyself 
from  eA'il  thoughts  and  base  indulgences  for  her 
sake — if  thou  art  not  fit,  as  well  as  willing,  to  be 
priest  and  king  of  a  clean  household,  standing 
unto  her  in  character  and  act  in  God's  stead  so  far 
as  man  may,  draw  back  even  now  from  thine  in- 
tent ;  for  a  lesser  purpose  is  sacrilege  here,  and 
will  be  damnable  infamy  hereafter." 

Roj-al  Van  Wyck  opened  his  sallow  gi-ecn  eyes 
with  an  insolent  stare.  He  would  have  sworn 
roundly  had  not  some  poor  instinct  of  propriety 
restrained  him  ;  as  it  was,  he  did  not  speak,  but 
looked  away.  He  could  not  bear  the  keen,  deep- 
set  ej-es  tixed  upon  him  ;  and  a  certain  gatint 
majesty  in  the  parson's  outstretched  arm  and  se- 
vere countenance  daunted  hini  for  the  moment. 
But  Thomas  Tucker  saw  tliat  he  had  no  intention 
of  accepting  this  good  advice,  so  he  turned  to 
Emih'. 

"Daughter."  he  said,  "if  thou  art  about  to  en- 
ter into  this  solemn  relation,  pause  and  consider. 
If  thou  hast  not  such  confidence  in  this  man  that 
thj'  heai't  faileth  not  an  iota  at  the  prospect  of  a 
life-long  companionship  with  him  :  if  thou  canst 
not  trust  him  utterly,  respect  him  as  thy  lord  and 
head ;  yield  him  an  obedience  joj-ful  and  secure 
next  to  that  thou  givest  to  God  :  if  he  is  not  to 
thee  the  one  desirable  friend  and  lover  ;  if  thou 
hast  a  thought  so  free  of  him  that  it  is  possible  for 
thee  to  imagine  another  man  in  his  place  without 
a  shudder  :  if  thou  art  not  willing  to  give  thj-self 
to  him  in  the  bonds  of  a  life-long,  inevitable  cove- 
nant of  love  and  service  :  if  it  is  not  the  best  and 
sweetest  thing  earth  can  offer  thee  to  be  his  wife 
and  the  mother  of  his  children — stop  now  ;  stop 
at  the  very  horns  of  the  altar.  lest  thou  commit 
the  worst  sin  of  woman,  sell  thy  birthright  for  a 
mess  of  pottage,  and  find  no  place  for  repentance, 
though  thou  seek  it  carefully  and  with  tears." 

Carried  away  with  his  zeal  for  truth  and  right- 
eousness, speaking  as  with  the  sudden  inspiration 


218  ROSE  COOKE. 

of  a  prophet,  Parson  Tucker  did  not  see  the  terror 
and  the  paleness  deepening,  as  he  spoke,  on  the 
bride's  fair  countenance.  As  he  extended  liis 
hand  toward  her,  she  fell  in  a  dead  faint  at  his 
feet.  All  was  confusion  in  an  instant.  The  bride- 
groom swore,  and  Mrs.  Manning  screamed,  while 
tlie  relations  crowded  about  the  insensible  girl, 
and  tried  to  i-evive  her.  She  was  taken  at  once 
upstairs  to  her  room,  and  the  wedding  put  off  till 
the  next  day,  as  Mrs.  Manning  announced. — T/ie 
Sphinx's  Children  and  Other  People's. 

TRAILING  ARBUTUS. 

Darlings  of  the  forest ! 

Blossoming  alone 
When  Earth's  grief  is  sorest 
For  her  jewels  gone — 
Ere  the  last  snow-drift  melts,  your  tender  buds 
have  blown. 

Tinged  with  color  faintly, 

Like  the  morning  sky, 
Or  more  pale  and  saintly, 

Wrapped  in  leaves  ye  lie, 
Even  as  children  sleep  in  faith's  simplicity. 

There  the  wild  wood-robin 

Hymns  your  solitude. 
And  the  rain  comes  sobbing 
Through  the  budding  wood, 
While  the  low  south-wind  sighs,  but  dare  not  be 
more  rude. 

Were  your  p\ire  lips  fashioned 

Oxit  of  air  and  dew  : 
Starlight  unimpassioned, 
Dawn's  most  tender  hue — 
And  scented  by  the  woods  that  gathered  sweets 
for  you  ? 

Fairest  and  most  lonely, 
From  the  world  apart, 
Made  for  beauty  only, 

Veiled  froni  Nature's  heart, 
With  such  unconscious  grace  as  makes  the  dream 
of  Art ! 


ROSE  COOKE.  219 

Were  not  mortal  sorrow 

An  immortal  shade, 
Then  would  I  to-morrow 
Such  a  flower  be  made, 
And  live  in  the  dear  woods  where  my  lost  child- 
hood played. 

IT  IS  MORE  BLESSED. 

Give  !  as  the  morning  that  flows  out  of  heaven  ; 
Give  !  as  the  waves  when  their  channel  is  riven ; 
Give  !  as  the  free  air  and  sunshine  are  given; 

Lavishly,  utterly,  carelessly  give. 
Not  the  waste  drops  of  thy  cup  overflowing. 
Not  the  faint  sparks  of  thy  hearth  ever  glowing, 
Not  a  pale  bud  from  the  June  rose's  blowing  ; 

Give  as  He  gave  thee,  who  gave  thee  to  live. 

Pour  out  thy  love  like  the  rush  of  a  river 
Wasting  its  waters,  for  ever  and  ever. 
Through   the  burnt  sands  that  reward  not  the 
giver : 

Silent  or  songful,  thou  nearest  the  sea. 
Scatter  thj^  life  as  the  Summer  shower's  pouring ! 
Wliat  if  no  bird  tiu-ovigh  the  pearl-rain  is  soaring? 
What  if  no  blossom  looks  upward  adoring? 

Look  to  the  life  that  was  lavished  for  thee  ! 

'Give,  though  thy  heart  may  be  wasted  and  weary, 
Laid  on  an  altar  all  ashen  and  dreary  ; 
Though  from  its  pulses  a  faint  miserere 

Beats  to  thj^  soul  the  sad  presage  of  fate, 
Bind  it  with  cords  of  unshrinking  devotion  ; 
Smile  at  the  song  of  its  restless  emotion  ; 
'Tis  the  stern  hymn  of  eternitj'"s  ocean  ; 

Hear  !  and  in  silence  thy  future  await. 

So  the  wild  wind  strews  its  perfumed  caresses, 
Evil  and  thankless  the  desert  it  blesses. 
Bitter  the  wave  that  its  soft  pinion  presses, 

Never  it  ceaseth  to  whisper  and  sing. 
What  if  the  hard  heart  give  thorns  for  thy  roses? 
What  if  on  rocks  thy  tired  bosom  reposes  ? 
Sweetest  is  music  with  minor-keyed  closes, 

F'aiiest  the  vines  that  on  ruin  will  cling. 


320  ROSE  COOKE. 

Almost  the  day  of  thy  giving  is  over  ; 
Ere  from  tlie  grass  dies  tlie  bee-haunted  clover, 
Thou  wilt  have  vanished  from  friend  and  from 
lover. 

What  shall  tin'  longing  avail  in  the  grave? 
Give  as  the  heart  gives  wliose  fetters  are  breaking, 
Life,    love,    and  hope,   all  thy   dreams  and  thy 

waking, 
Soon,  heaven's  river  thy  soul-fever  slaking. 

Thou  shalt  know  God  and  the  gift  that  he  gave. 

INDOLENCE. 

Indolent  I  indolent  I — Yes  I  am  indolent ! 

So  is  the  grass  growing  tenderly,  slowly  ; 

So  is  the  violet  fragrant  and  lowly. 
Drinking  in  quietness  peace,  and  content ; 

So  is  tlie  bird  on  the  light  branches  swinging, 

Idly  his  carol  of  gratitude  singing, 
Only  on  living  and  loving  intent. 

Indolent  !  indolent ! — Yes  I  am  indolent ! 

So  is  the  cloud  overhanging  the  mountain  ; 

So  is  the  tremulous  wave  of  a  fountain, 
Uttering  softly  its  silvery  psalm  : 

Nerve  and  sensation  in  quiet  reposing. 

Silent  as  blossoms  the  night-dew  is  closing, 
But  the  full  heart  beating  strongly  and  calm. 

Indolent  I  indolent  I — Yes  I  am  indolent, 
If  it  be  idle  to  gather  my  pleasure 
Out  of  creation's  uncoveted  treasure  : 

Midnight  and  morning,  bj--  forest  and  sea  ; 
Wild  with  the  tempest's  sublime  exultation, 
Lonely  in  Autumn's  forlorn  lamentation. 

Hopeful  and  happy  with  Spring  and  the  bee. 

Indolent !  indolent !    Are  ye  not  indolent  ? 

Thralls  of  the  earth,  and  its  usages  weary ; 

Toiling    like    gnomes  where    the    darkness   is 
dreary  : 
Toiling  and  sinning  to  heap  up  your  gold  I 

Stifling  the  heavenward  breath  of  devotion  ; 

Crushing  the  freshness  of  every  emotion  ; 
Hearts  like  the  dead  which  ai-e  pulseless  and  cold .' 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER.  221 

Indolent !  indolent !  Art  thou  not  indolent? 
Thou  who  art  living  unloving  and  lonely, 
Wrapped  in  a  pall  wiiieh  will  cover  thee  only  ; 

Shrouded  in  selfishness,  piteous  ghost ! — 

Sad  eyes  behold  thee,  and  angels  are  weeping 
O'er  thy  forsaken  and  desolate  sleeping  ! 

Art  thou  not  indolent? — Art  thou  not  lost? 

COOPER,  James  Fenimore,  an  American 
novelist,  born  at  Burlington,  New  Jersey, 
Sept.  15, 1789,  diedatCooperstown,  New  York, 
Sept.  14,  1851.  At  the  age  of  thirteen  he  was 
admitted  to  Yale  College,  and  on  quitting  col- 
lege, entered  the  Navy.  In  1811,  he  resigned 
his  commission,  married,  and  settled  at  West- 
chester, N.  Y.  His  first  novel.  Precaution, 
was  a  failure.  The  Spy,  published  in  1821, 
showed  his  real  power,  and  met  with  great 
success.  It  was  followed,  in  rapid  succession, 
by  The  Pioneers,  the  first  of  the  Leather- 
Stocking  series  (1823) ;  The  Pilot  (1823) ;  Lion- 
el Lincoln  {\?>2^)\  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans 
(1826);  The  Prairie  (1826);  The  Red  Rover 
(1827);  The  Wejit  of  Wi sh-t on- Wish  (1827);  The 
Water-tvifch  (1830);  The  Bravo  {1881} ;  Heiden- 
mauer  (1832);  The  Headsman  of  Berne  (1833); 
Tlie  Monikins  {180^);  Homeivard  Bound,  and 
Home  as  Found  (1838) ;  The  Pathfinder,  Mer- 
cedes of  Castile,  and  The  Deerslayer  (1841): 
The  Tico  Admirals,  and  Wing  and  Wing 
(1842):  Wyandotte,  The  Aidobiograjjhy  of  a 
Pocket-Handkerchief  and  Ned  Meyers  (1843); 
Afloat  and  Ashore,  and  Miles  WalUngford 
(1844);  The  Chainbearer,  and  Satanstoe  (1845); 
The  Redskiiis  (1846);  The  Crater,  or  Vidcan's 
Peafc  (1847);  Oak  Openings,  and  Jack  Tier 
1848);  The  Sea  Lions  (18^9);  The  Ways  of  the 
Hour  (1850).  Besides  his  novels,  Cooper  wrote 
A  Navcd  History  of  the  United  States  (1S39); 
The  Lives  of  Distinguished  American  Naval 
Officers (IS-iC) ;  and  several  volumes  of  notes  on 
his  travels  in  Europe. 


222  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 

THE  ESCAPE  OF  WHARTON  WITH  HARVEY  BIRCH. 

The  person  who  was  ushered  into  the  apart- 
ment, preceded  by  C*sar,  and  followed  by  the 
matron,  was  a  man  beyond  tlie  middle  age,  or  who 
might  rather  be  said  to  approacli  the  down-liill  of 
life.  In  stature  he  was  above  the  size  of  ordinary 
men,  thougli  his  excessive  leanness  might  contrib- 
ute in  deceiving  as  to  his  height ;  his  counte- 
nance was  sharp  and  unbending,  and  every  mus- 
cle seemed  set  in  rigid  compression.  No  joy,  or 
relaxation,  appeared  ever  to  have  dwelt  on  feat- 
ures tliat  frowned  habitualh-.  as  if  in  detestation  of 
the  vices  of  mankind.  The  brows  were  beetling, 
dark,  and  forhidiling,  giving  tlie  promise  of  eyes  of 
no  less  repelling  expression  ;  but  the  organs  were 
concealed  beneath  a  pair  of  enormous  green  gog- 
gles, through  which  they  glared  around  with  a 
fierceness  that  denounc(;d  the  coming  day  of  wrath. 
All  was  fanaticism,  unciiaritableness,  and  denun- 
ciation. Long,  lank  hair,  a  mixture  of  gray  and 
black,  fell  down  his  neck,  and  in  some  degree  ob- 
scured the  sides  of  liis  face,  and  parting  on  his 
forehead,  fell  in  either  direction  in  straight  and 
formal  screens.  On  the  top  of  this  ungraceful  ex- 
hibition was  laid,  impending  forward,  so  as  to 
overhang  in  some  measure  the  whole  fabric,  a 
large  hat  of  three  equal  cocks.  His  coat  was  of  a 
rusty  black,  and  liis  breeches  and  stockings  were 
of  the  same  color  ;  his  shoes  without  lustre,  and 
half  concealed  beneath  huge  plated  buckles. 

He  stalked  into  the  room,  and  giving  a  stiff  nod 
with  his  head,  took  the  chair  offered  him  by  the 
black,  in  dignified  silence.  For  several  minutes 
no  one  broke  this  ominous  i^ause  in  the  conversa- 
tion. Henry  feeling  a  repugnance  to  his  guest 
that  he  was  vainly  endeavoring  to  conquer,  and 
the  stranger  himself  drawing  forth  occasional  sighs 
and  groans,  that  threatened  a  dissolution  of  the  un- 
equal connection  between  his  sublimated  soul  and 
its  ungainly  tenement.  During  this  death-like 
preparation,  Mr.  Wharton,  with  a  feeling  nearly 
allied  to  that  of  his  son,  led  Sarah  from  the  apart- 
ment. His  retreat  was  noticed  by  the  divine,  in 
a  kind  of  scornful  disdain,  who  began  to  hum  the 


JAMES  FENDIORE  COOPER.  223 

air  of  a  popular  psalm-tune,  giving  it  the  full 
richness  of  the  twang  that  distinguishes  the  East- 
ern psalmod}'. 

"Caesar,"  said  Miss  Pevton."'  hand  the  gentle- 
man some  refreshment  ;  he  must  need  it  after  his 
ride." 

'•My  strength  is  not  in  the  things  of  this  life," 
said  the  divine,  speaking  in  a  hollow,  sepulchral 
voice.  '-Thrice  have  I  this  day  held  forth  in  my 
Master  s  service,  and  fainted  not ;  still  it  is  pru- 
dent to  help  tins  frail  tenement  of  clay,  for,  sure- 
ly, '  the  laborer  is  worthy  of  his  hire.  " " 

Opening  a  pair  of  enonxious  jaws,  he  took  a 
good  measure  of  the  protfered  brandy,  and  suffered 
it  to  glide  downwards  with  tliat  sort  of  facility 
with  which  man  is  prone  to  sin. 

"I  apprehend,  then,  sir,  that  fatigue  will  dis- 
able you  from  performing  the  duties  which  kind- 
ness had  induced  you  to  attempt." 

"  Woman  !  "  exclaimed  the  stranger  with  ener- 
gy, "  wh?n  was  I  ever  known  <o  shrink  from  a 
duty?  But,  'judge  not,  lest  ye  be  judged,'  and 
fancy  not  that  it  is  given  to  mortal  eyes  to  fathom 
the  intentions  of  the  Deity."' 

"Nay,"  returned  the  maiden,  meekly,  and 
slightly  disgusted  with  his  jargon,  "I  pretend 
,  not  to  judge  of  either  events  or  the  intentions  of 
my  fellow-creatures,  much  less  of  those  of  Om- 
nipotence." 

"'Tiswell,  woman,  'tis  well,"  cried  the  minis- 
ter, weaving  his  hand  with  supercilious  disdain ; 
"  humility  becometh  thy  sex  and  lost  condition  ; 
thy  weakness  driveth  thee  on  headlong,  like  '  unto 
the  besom  of  destruction. ' " 

Surprised  at  this  extraordinary  deportment, 
yielding  to  that  habit  which  urges  us  to  speak 
reverently  on  sacred  subjects,  even  wlien  perhaps 
we  had  better  continue  silent,  Miss  Peyton 
replied — 

"There  is  a  Power  above,  that  can  and  will  sus- 
tain us  all  in  well-doing,  if  we  seek  its  support  in 
humility  and  truth." 

The  stranger  turned  a  lowering  look  at  the 
speaker,  and  then  composing  himself  into  an  air 


224  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 

of  self-abasement,  he  continued  in  the  same  re- 
pellmg  tones — 

"  It  is  not  everyone  that  crieth  out  for  mercy 
that  will  be  heard.  The  ways  of  Providence  are 
not  to  be  judged  by  men — '  many  are  called,  but 
few  chosen.'  It  is  easier  to  talk  of  humility  than 
to  feel  it.  Are  you  so  humble,  vile  worm,  as  to 
wish  to  glorify  God  by  your  own  damnation?  If 
not,  away  with  you  for  a  publican  and  a 
pharisee ! " 

Such  gross  fanaticism  was  uncommon  in  Amer- 
ica, and  Miss  Peyton  began  to  imbibe  the  impres- 
sion tbat  her  guest  was  deranged  ;  but  remem- 
bering that  he  had  been  sent  by  a  well  known  di- 
vine, and  one  of  reputation,  she  discarded  the 
idea,  and,  with  some  forbearance  observed — 

'•  I  may  deceive  myself,  in  believing  tluit  mercy 
is  proffered  to  all,  but  it  is  so  soothing  a  doctrine 
that  I  would  not  willingly  be  undeceived." 

"  Mercy  is  only  for  the  elect,"  cried  the  stranger, 
with  an  unaccoiuitable  energy  :  "and  you  are  in 
the  '  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death.'  Are  you  not 
a  follower  of  idle  ceremonies,  which  belong  to  the 
vain  Church  that  our  tyrants  would  gladly  estab- 
lish here,  along  with  their  stamp-acts  and  tea- 
laws?  Answer  me  tliat,  woman  ;  and  remember 
that  heaven  hears  your  answer :  are  you  not  of 
that  idolatrous  communion?" 

••I  worship  at  the  altars  of  my  fathers,"  said 
Miss  Peyton,  motioning  to  Henry  for  silence ; 
"  but  bow  to  no  other  idol  than  my  own  infirmi- 
ties," 

'•Yes,  yes,  I  know  ye,  self-righteous  and  papal 
as  ye  are — followers  of  forms,  and  listeners  to 
bookish  preaching :  think  you,  woman,  tliat  holy 
Paul  had  notes  in  his  hand  to  propound  the  word 
to  the  believers  ?  " 

''My  presence  disturbs  you,"  said  Miss  Peyton 
rising;  "  I  will  leave  you  with  my  nephew,  and 
offer  those  prayers  in  jirivate  that  I  did  wish  to 
mingle  with  his." 

So  saying  she  withdrew,  followed  by  the  land- 
lady, who  was  not  a  little  shocked,  and  somewhat 
surprised  by  the  intemperate  zeal  of  her  new  ac- 


JAlilES  FENIMORE  COOPER.  225 

quaintance;  for,  although  tlie  good  woman  be- 
lieved that  Miss  Peyton  and  her  whole  Church 
were  on  the  high  road  to  destruction,  she  w-as  by 
no  means  accustomed  to  liear  such  otTensive  and 
open  avowals  of  their  fate. 

Henry  had  wfth  difficulty  repressed  the  indigna- 
tion excited  by  this  unprovoked  attack  on  his 
meek  and  unresisting  aunt :  but  as  the  door  closed 
on  lier  retiring  figure,  lie  gave  way  to  his  feel- 
ings— 

'•  I  must  confess,  sir,''  ho  exclnimed  with  heat, 
"  that  in  receiving  a  minister  of  God  I  thought  I 
was  admitting  a  Chi-istian  ;  and  one  who,  by  feel- 
ing his  own  weaknesses,  knew  how  to  pity  the 
frailties  of  others.  You  have  wounded  the  meek 
sjiirit  of  an  excellent  woman,  and  I  acknowledge 
bat  little  inclination  to  mingle  in  prayer  with  so 
intolerant  a  spirit." 

The  minister  stood  erect,  with  grave  composure, 
following  with  his  eyes,  in  a  kind  of  scornful  pity, 
the  retiring  females,  and  suffered  tlie  expostula- 
tion of  the  youth  to  be  given,  as  if  unworthy  of 
his  notice.  A  third  voice,  however  spoke — "  Such 
a  denunciation  would  have  dri\en  many  women 
into  fits ;  but  it  has  answered  the  purpose  well 
enough  as  it  is." 

'  Who 's  that  ? "  cried  the  prisoner,  in  amaze- 
ment, gazing  around  the  room  in  quest  of  the 
speaker. 

"It  is  I,  Captain  Wharton,"  said  Harvey  Birch, 
removing  the  spectacles,  and  exhibiting  his  pierc- 
ing eyes,  shining  under  a  pair  of  false  eyebrows. 

"Good  Heavens — Harvey  ! " 

"Silence,"  said  the  peddler,  solemnly  ;  "'tis  a 
name  not  to  be  mentioned,  and  least  of  all  here, 
■within  the  heart  of  the  American  army."  Birch 
paused  and  gazed  around  him  for  a  moment,  with 
an  emotion  exceeding  the  base  passion  of  fear, 
and  then  continued  in  a  gloomy  tone,  "  There  are 
a  thousand  halters  in  that  very  name,  and  little 
hope  would  there  be  left  me  of  another  escape, 
should  I  be  again  taken.  This  is  a  fearful  venture 
that  I  am  making ;  but  I  could  not  sleep  in  quiet, 


226  JAMES  FENIMORE  UOOFER. 

and  know  that  an  innocent  man  was  about  to  tlie 
the  deatlx  of  a  dog,  when  I  might  save  him." 

"  No,"  said  Henry,  with  a  glow  of  generous  feel- 
ing on  his  cheek  ;  "if  the  risk  to  yourself  be  so 
heavy,  retire  as  you  came,  and  leave  me  to  my 
fate.  Dunwoodie  is  making  even  now,  powerful 
exertions  in  my  behalf  ;  and  if  he  meets  with  Mr. 
Harper  in  the  course  of  the  night,  my  liberation  is 
certain." 

"  Harper  !  "  echoed  the  peddler,  remaining  with 
liis  hands  raised,  in  the  act  of  replacing  the  spec- 
tacles, ••what  do  you  know  of  Harper?  and  why 
do  you  think  he  will  do  you  service? " 

'•  I  liave  his  promise  ; — you  remember  our  recent 
meeting  in  my  fathers  dwelling,  and  then  he  gave 
an  unasked  promise  to  assist  me." 

"  Yes — but  do  you  know  him?  that  is — why  do 
you  think  he  h;is  the  power  ?  or  what  reason  have 
you  for  believing  he  will  remember  his  word  ?  " 

'•  If  there  ever  was  a  stamp  of  truth,  or  simple, 
honest  benevolence,  in  the  countenance  of  man, 
it  shone  in  his,"  said  Henry  ;  "besides  Dunwoodie 
lias  powerful  fi'iends  in  the  rebel  army,  and  it 
would  be  better  that  I  take  the  chance  where  1 
am,  than  thus  to  expose  you  lo  certain  death  if  de- 
tected." 

"  Captain  Wharton,"  said  Birch,  looking  guard- 
edly around,  and  speaking  with  impressive  seri- 
ousness of  manner,  "  if  I  fail  you,  all  fail  you. 
No  Hai'per  nor  Dunwoodie  can  save  your  life  ;  un- 
less you  get  out  with  me,  and  that  within  the 
hour,  you  die  to-morrow  on  the  gallows  of  a  mui*- 
derer.  Yes,  such  are  their  laws  ;  the  man  who 
fights  and  kills  and  plunders,  is  honored ;  but  he 
who  serves  his  country  as  a  spy,  no  matter  how 
faithfully,  no  matter  how  honestly,  lives  to  be  re^ 
viled,  or  dies  like  the  vilest  criminal !  " 

"  You  forget,  Mr.  Birch,"  said  the  youth,  a  littla 
indignantly,  "that  I  am  not  a  treacherous,  lurk, 
ing  spy,  who  deceives  to  )>etvay  ;  but  innooent  oi 
the  charge  imputed  to  me." 

The  blood  rushed  over  the  pal'^  meagre  feature* 
of  the  peddler,  until  his  face  was  one  glow  of  fire; 
but  it  passed  quickly  away,  and  he  replied — 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER.  227 

"  I  have  told  j-ou  the  truth.  Cassar  met  me,  as 
he  was  goins  on  his  errand  this  morning,  and 
with  liim  I  have  laid  the  plan  which,  if  executed 
as  I  wish,  will  save  you — otherwise  you  are  lost ; 
and  1  again  tell  you,  that  no  other  power  on  earth, 
not  even  Washington,  can  save  you." 

"I  submit,"'  said  the  prisoner,  yielding  to  his 
earnest  manner,  and  goaded  by  the  fears  that 
were  thus  awakened  anew. 

The  peddler  beckoned  him  to  be  silent,  and 
walking  to  the  door,  opened  it,  with  the  stiff, 
formal  air  with  which  he  had  entered  the 
apartment.  '*  Friend,  let  no  one  enter,"  he  said 
to  the  sentinel ;  "we  are  about  to  go  to  prayer, 
and  would  wish  to  be  alone." 

'•I  don't  know  that  any  will  wish  to  interrupt 
you,"  returned  the  soldier  with  a  waggish  leer  of 
his  eye  ;  "but,  should  they  be  so  disposed,  I  have 
no  power  to  stop  them,  if  they  be  of  the  prisoner's 
friends  ;  I  have  my  orders,  and  must  mind  them 
whether  the  Englishman  goes  to  heaven  or  not." 

"  Audacious  sinner  !"  said  the  pi-etended  priest, 
"liave  you  not  the  fear  of  God  before  your  eyes? 
I  tell  you,  as  j'ou  will  dread  punishment  at  the 
last  day,  to  let  none  of  the  idolati'ous  communion 
enter,  to  mingle  in  the  prayers  of  the  righteous." 

"Whew — ew — ew — what  a  noble  commander 
,  you  'd  make  for  Sergeant  Ilollister  !  you  'd  preach 
him  dumb  in  a  roll-call.  Hark'ee  I  '11  thank  you 
not  to  make  such  a  noise  when  you  hold 
forth,  as  to  drown  our  bugles,  or  you  may  get  a 
poor  fellow  a  short  horn  at  his  grog,  for  not  turn- 
ing out  to  evening  parade  ;  if  you  want  to  be 
alone,  have  you  no  knife  to  stick  over  the  door- 
latch,  that  you  must  have  a  troop  of  horse  to 
guard  your  meeting-house '? " 

The  peddler  took  the  hint,  and  closed  the  door 
immediately,  using  the  precaution  suggested  by 
the  dragoon. 

"You  overact  your  part,"  said  young  Wharton, 
in  constant  apprehension  of  discovery;  "your 
zeal  is  too  intemperate." 

"For  a  foot-soldier  and  them  Eastern  militia  it 
might  be,"    said   Harvey  turning  a  bag  upside 


228  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 

down,  that  Caesar  now  handed  him  ;  "  but  these 
dra;j;owiis  are  fellows  that  you  must  brag  down.  A 
faint  heart,  Captain  Wharton,  would  do  but  little 
here  :  but  come,  here  is  a  black  shroud  for  j'our 
good-looking  ct)untenance,"  taking,  at  the  same 
time,  a  jxirchment  mask,  and  fitting  it  to  the  face 
of  Henr}'.  "The  master  and  the  man  must  change 
places  for  a  season." 

"I  don't  tink  he  look  a  bit  like  me,"  said  Caesar, 
with  disgust,  as  he  surveyed  his  young  master 
with  his  new  complexion. 

"Stop  a  minute,  Ca?sar,"  said  the  peddler  with 
the  lurking  drollery  that  at  times  formed  pai't  of 
his  manner,  "  till  we  get  on  the  wool." 

"  He  worse  than  ebber  now,"  cried  the  discon- 
tented African.  "A  think  colored  man  like  a 
sheei).  I  nebber  see  such  a  lip,  Harvey  ;  he  most 
as  big  as  a  sausage  !  " 

Great  pains  had  been  taken  in  forming  the  dif- 
ferent articles  used  in  the  disguise  of  Captain 
Whartoji,  and  when  arranged,  under  tlie  skilful 
superintendence  of  the  peddler,  they  formed  to- 
gether such  a  transformation  that  would  easily 
escape  detection  froni  any  but  an  extraordinary 
observer.  Tiie  mask  was  stuffed  and  shaped  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  preserve  the  peculiarities,  as 
well  as  the  color,  of  the  African  visage  ;  and  the 
wig  was  so  artfully  formed  of  black  and  white 
wool,  as  to  imitate  the  pepper-and-salt  color  of 
Caesar's  own  head,  and  to  exact  plaudits  from  the 
black  himself,  who  thought  it  an  excellent  coun- 
terfeit in  everything  but  quality. 

"  There  is  but  one  man  in  the  American  army 
who  could  detect  you.  Captain  Wharton," 'said 
the  peddler,  surveying  his  work  with  satisfaction, 
"and  he  is  just  now  out  of  our  way." 

"  And  who  is  he?" 

"  The  man  who  made  you  a  prisoner.  He  would 
see  your  white  skin  through  a  plank.  But  strip, 
both  of  you  ;  your  clothes  must  be  exchanged  f  I'om 
head  to  foot." 

Caesar,  who  had  received  minute  instructions 
from  the  peddler  iu  their  morning  interview,  im- 
mediately commenced  throwing  aside  iiis  coarse 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER.  239 

garments,  wliicli  the  youth  took  up,  and  prepar- 
ed to  invest  himself  with,  unable,  however,  to  re- 
pi-ess  a  few  signs  of  loathing.  In  the  manner  of 
the  peddler  there  was  an  odd  mixture  of  care  and 
humor ;  tlie  f firmer  was  the  result  of  a  perfect 
knowledge  of  their  danger,  and  the  means  neces- 
sary' to  be  used  in  avoiding  it ;  and  the  latter  pro- 
ceeded from  the  unavoidably  ludicrous  circum- 
stances befoi-e  him,  acting  on  an  indifference 
Avhich  sprung  from  habit  and  long  familiai'ity 
with  such  scenes  as  the  present. 

"Here,  captain,"  he  said,  taking  up  some  loose 
wool,  and  beginning  to  stuff  the  stockings  of  Ca3- 
sar,  wdiich  were  already  on  the  leg  of  the  prison- 
er;  "  some  judgment  is  necessary  in  shaping  this 
limb.  You  will  have  to  display  it  on  horseback  ; 
and  the  southern  dragoons  are  so  used  to  the  brit- 
tle shins,  that  should  they  notice  your  well-turned 
calf,  they  'd  know  at  once  it  never  belonged 
to  a  black." 

"Golly!"  said  Ca\sar  with  a  chuckle,  that  ex- 
hibited a  mouth  open  from  ear  to  ear,  "  Massa 
Harry  breeches  fit." 

"Anything  but  your  leg,"  said  the  ped- 
dler coolly  pursuing  the  toilet  of  Hemy. 
"  Slip  on  the  coat,  captain,  OA'er  all.  Upon  my 
word  you  would  pass  well  at  a  pinkster  frolic ; 
and  here,  Ceesar,  place  this  powdered  wig  over 
your  curls,  and  be  careful  and  look  out  of  the 
window,  wdienever  the  door  is  opened,  and  on  no 
account  speak,  or  you  will  betray  all." 

"  I  s'pose  Harvey  tink  a  colored  man  an't  got  a 
tongue  like  oder  folk,"  grumbled  the  black  as  he 
took  the  station  assigned  liim. 

Every  tiling  now  was  arranged  for  action,  and 
the  peddler  very  deliberately  went  over  the  whole 
of  his  injunctions  to  the  two  actors  in  the  scene. 
The  captain  he  conjured  to  dispense  with  his  erect 
military  carriage,  and  for  a  season  to  adopt  the 
humble  paces  of  his  father's  negro  :  and  Cassar  he 
enjoined  to  silence  and  disguise,  so  long  as  he 
could  possibly  maintain  them.  Thus  prepared, 
he  opened  the  door,  and  called  aloud  to  the  sen- 
tinel, who  had  retired  to  the  farthest  end  of  the 


230  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 

passage,  in  order  to  avoid  receiving  any  of  that 
spiritual  comfort,  which  lie  felt  was  the  sole 
property  of  another. 

"  Let  the  woman  of  the  house  be  called,"'  said 
Harvej',  in  the  solemn  key  of  his  assumed  charac- 
ter ;  "and  let  her  come  alone.  The  prisoner  is  in 
a  happy  train  of  meditation,  and  must  not  be  led 
from  his  devotions." 

Cccsar  sunk  his  face  between  his  hands  ;  and 
when  the  soldier  looked  into  the  apartment,  he 
thought  he  saw  his  charge  in  deep  abstraction. 
Casting  a  glance  of  huge  contempt  at  the  divine, 
he  called  aloud  for  the  good  woman  of  the  house. 
She  hastened  to  the  summons  with  earnest  zeal, 
entertaining  a  secret  hope  that  she  was  to  be  ad- 
mitted to  the  gossip  of  a  deatli-bed  repentance. 

"  Sister,"  said  the  minister,  in  the  autlioritative 
tones  of  a  master,  "have  you  in  the  house  'The 
Christian  Criminal's  Last  Moments,  or  Thoughts 
on  Eternity,  for  them  who  die  a  violent  death  ?'  " 

"I  never  heai-d  of  the  book  !"  said  the  matron  in 
astonishment. — '•  'Tis  not  unlikely:  tliere  are  many 
books  you  have  never  heard  of  :  it  is  impossible 
for  this  poor  penitent  to  pass  in  peace,  without 
tlie  consolations  of  that  volume.  One  hours  read- 
ing in  it  is  worth  an  age  of  man's  preaching." 

"Bless  me,  what  a  treasure  to  possess! — when 
was  it  put  out?" 

"  It  was  first  put  out  at  Geneva  in  the  Greek 
language,  and  then  translated  at  Boston.  It  is  a 
book,  woman,  that  should  be  in  the  hands  of  every 
Christian,  especially  such  as  die  upon  the  gallows. 
Have  a  horse  i)repared  instantly  for  this  black, 

who  shall  accompany  me  to  my  Brother ,  and 

I  will  send  down  the  volume  yet  in  season.  Bro- 
ther, compose  thy  mind  ;  you  are  now  in  the  nar- 
row path  to  glory."  Caesar  wriggled  a  little  in  his 
chair,  but  he  had  sufficient  recollection  to  conceal 
his  face  with  hands  that  were,  in  their  turn 
concealed  by  gloves.  The  landlady  departed,  to 
comply  with  this  very  reasonable  request,  and  the 
group  of  conspirators  were  again  left  to  them- 
selves. 

"This  is  well,"  said  the  i^eddler,  "but  the  drffi- 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER.  231 

cult  task  is  to  deceive  the  officer  who  commands 
the  guard — he  is  a  lieutenant  to  Lawton.  and  has 
learned  some  of  the  captain's  own  cunning  in 
these  things."  "Remember,  Captain  Wharton," 
continued  he,  with  an  air  of  pride,  ' '  that  now  is 
tlie  moment  when  everything.depends  on  our  cool- 
ness." 

"My  fate  can  be  made  but  little  woi'se  than  it 
is  at  present,  my  worthy  fellow,"  said  Henry  : 
"  but  for  your  sake  I  will  do  all  that  in  me  lies." 

"And  wherein  can  I  be  more  forlorn  and  perse- 
cuted than  I  now  am  ?  "  asked  tlie  peddler,  with 
that  wild  incoherence  wliich  often  crossed  his 
manner.  "  But  1  have  promised  o»«  to  save  you, 
and  to  him  I  liave  never  yet  broken  my  word." 

'"And  who  is  he?"  said  Henry  with  awakened 
interest." 

"No  one." 

The  man  soon  returned,  and  announced  that 
the  horses  were  at  the  door.  Henry  gave  the  cap- 
tain a  glance,  and  led  the  way  downstairs,  first 
desiring  the  woman  to  leave  the  prisoner  to  him- 
self, in  order  that  he  might  digest  the  wholesome 
mental  food  that  he  had  so  lately  received.  A  ru- 
mor of  the  odd  character  of  the  priest  liad  spread 
from  the  sentinel  at  the  door  to  his  comrades  :  so 
.that  when  Harvey  and  Wharton  reached  the  open 
space  before  the  building,  they  found  a  dozen  idle 
dragoons  loitering  about,  with  the  waggish  inten- 
tion of  quizzing  the  fanatic,  and  employed  in  af- 
fected admiration  of  the  steeds. 

"A  fine  horse  !  •  said  the  leader  in  this  plan  of 
mischief  ;  ' '  but  a  little  low  in  flesh  ;  I  suppose 
from  hard  labor  in  your  calling." 

"  My  calling  may  be  laborsome  to  both  myself 
and  this  faithful  beast,  but  then  a  day  of  settling- 
is  at  hand,  that  will  reward  me  for  all  my  outgo- 
ings and  incomings."  said  Birch,  putting  his  foot 
in  the  stirrup,  and  preparing  to  mount. 

"  You  work  for  i^ay,  then,  as  we  fight  for  "t?" 
cried  another  of  the  party. 

"Even  so — 'is  not  the  laborer  worthy  of  his 
hire?'  " 

••Come,  suppose  you  give  us  a  little  preaching  ; 


233  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 

we  have  a  leisure  moment  just  now,  and  there's 
no  telling  how  much  good  you  might  do  a  set  of 
reprobates  like  us,  in  a  few  words  ;  here,  mount 
this  horse-block,  and  take  your  text  where  you 
please." 

The  men  now  gathered  in  eager  delight  around 
the  peddler,  who,  glancing  his  eye  expressively 
towards  the  captain,  who  had  been  suffered  to 
mount,  replied — 

"  Doubtless,  for  such  is  my  duty.  But,  Caesar, 
you  can  ride  up  the  road  and  deliver  the  note — 
the  unhappy  })risoner  will  be  wanting  the  book, 
for  his  hours  are  numbered." 

"Ay — ay,  go  along,  Coesar,  and  get  the  book," 
shouted  half  a  dozen  voices,  all  crowding  eagerly 
around  the  ideal  priest,  in  anticipation  of  a  frolic. 

The  peddler  inwardly  dreaded,  that  in  their  un- 
ceremonious handling  of  himself  and  garments, 
his  hat  and  wig  might  be  displaced,  when  detec- 
tion Avould  be  certain  ;  lie  was  therefore  fain  to 
comply  with  their  request.  Ascending  the  horse- 
block, after  hemming  once  or  twice,  and  casting 
several  glances  at  the  captain,  who  continued  im- 
movable, he  commenced  as  follows  : — 

"I  shall  call  your  attention,  my  brethren,  to 
that  portion  of  Scripture  which  you  will  find  in 
the  second  book  of  Samuel,  and  which  is  written 
in  the  following  words  : — '  And  the  Kin f]  lamented 
over  Aimer,  and  said,  Died  Abneras  a  fool  dieth  ? 
Thy  hands  irere  not  hound,  nor  thy  feet  put  into 
fetters:  as  a  man  falleth  before  wicked  men,  so 
fellest  thou.  And  all  the  people  loept  again  over 
him.''  Csesar,  ride  forward,  I  saj,  and  obtain  the 
book  as  directed  ;  thy  master  is  groaning  in  sjjirit 
even  now  for  the  want  of  it." 

"  An  excellent  text ! "  ci-ied  the  dragoons.  '•  Go 
on — go  on — let  the  snowball  stay  ;  he  wants  to  be 
edified  as  well  as  another." 

"What  are  you  at  there,  scoundrels?"  cried 
Lieutenant  Mason,  as  he  came  in  sight  from  a 
walk  he  had  taken,  to  sneer  at  the  evening  parade 
of  the  regiment  of  militia;  "away  with  every 
man  of  you  to  your  quarters,  and  let  me  find  that 
each  horse  is  cleaned  and  littered,  when  I  come 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER.  233 

round."  The  sound  of  the  officer's  voice  operated 
like  u  charm,  and  no  priest  could  desire  a  more 
silent  congregation,  althougli  lie  miglit  possibly 
have  wished  for  one  tliat  was  more  numerous. 
Mason  had  not  done  speaking  when  it  was  reduced 
to  the  image  of  Csesar  only.  The  peddler  took  that 
opportunity  to  mount,  but  he  had  to  preserve  the 
gi'avity  of  his  movements,  for  the  remark  of  the 
troopers  upon  the  condition  of  their  beasts  was 
but  too  just,  and  a  dozen  dragoon  horses  stood 
saddled  and  bridled  at  hand,  ready  to  receive  their 
riders  at  a  moment's  warning, 

"  Well,  have  you  bitted  the  poor  fellow  within," 
said  Mason,  "  that  he  can  take  his  last  ride  under 
the  curb  of  divinity,  old  gentleman":'" 

"There  is  evil  in  thy  conversation,  profane 
man,"  cried  the  priest,  raising  his  hands  and  cast- 
ing his  eyes  upwards  in  holy  horror;  "so  I  will 
depart  from  thee  unhurt,  as  Daniel  was  liberated 
from  the  lion's  den."' 

"  Off  with  you,  for  a  hypocritical,  psalm-sing- 
ing, canting  rogue  in  disguise,"  said  Mason  scorn- 
full}"  :  "  by  the  life  of  Washington  !  it  worries  an 
honest  fellow  to  see  such  voracious  beasts  of  prey 
ravaging  a  country  for  whicli  he  sheds  his  blood. 
If  I  had  jou  on  a  Virginia  plantation  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  I  'd  teach  you  to  worm  the  tobacco 
with  the  tui-keys." 

"  I  leave  you,  and  shake  the  dust  off  my  shoes, 
that  no  remnant  of  this  wicked  hole  may  tarnish 
the  vestments  of  the  godly." 

"Start,  or  I  will  shake  the  dust  from  your  jack- 
et, designing  knave  !  A  fellow  to  be  preaching  to 
my  men  !  There  's  Hollister  put  the  devil  in  them 
by  his  exhorting ;  the  rascals  were  getting  too  con- 
scientious to  strike  a  blow  tliat  would  raise  the 
skin.  But  hold !  whither  do  you  travel,  master 
blackey,  in  such  godly  company  ?  " 

"He  goes,"  said  the  minister,  hastily  speaking 
for  his  companion,  "to  return  with  a  book  of 
much  condolence  and  virtue  to  the  sinful  youth 
abo%-e,  whose  soid  will  speedily  become  white, 
e,ven    as  his  outwards  are  black  and  unseemly. 


234  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 

Would  you  deprive  a  dyin;?  man  of  the  consolations 
of  religion  ? "' 

"  No,  no,  poor  fellow,  his  fate  is  bad  enough  ;  a 
famous  good  breakfast  his  prim  body  of  an  aunt 
gave  us.  But  harkee,  Mr.  Revelations,  if  the 
youth  must  die,  sei'imdiiin  nrtcm,  let  it  be  under  a 
gentleman's  direction  :  and  my  advice  is,  that  you 
never  trust  that  skeleton  <  f  yours  among  us  again, 
or  I  will  take  the  skin  off.  and  leave  you  naked."' 

*'  Out  upon  thee  for  a  reviler  and  scoffer  of  good- 
ness!"' said  Birch,  movmg  slowly,  and  with  a  due 
observance  of  clerical  dignity,  down  the  road,  fol- 
lowed l>y  the  imaginary  Cgesar  ;  "  but  I  leave  thee, 
and  that  behind  me  that  will  prove  thy  condem- 
nation, and  take  from  thee  a  hearty  and  joyful 
deliverance." 

"  Damn  him."  muttered  the  trooper:  "the  fel- 
low rides  like  a  stake,  and  his  legs  stick  out  like 
tiie  cocks  of  his  hat.  I  wish  I  had  him  below 
these  hills,  where  the  law  is  not  over-particular, 
1  "d •' 

"Corporal  of  the  guard  I — corporal  of  the 
guard  !"'  shouted  the  sentinel  in  tiie  jiassage  to  the 
chambers,  "corporal  of  the  guard  I — corporal  of 
the  guard  ! "' 

The  subaltern  fled  up  the  narrow  stairway  that 
led  to  the  room  of  the  prisoner,  and  demanded 
the  meaning  of  the  outcry. 

The  soldier  was  standing  at  the  open  door  of  the 
apartment,  looking  in  with  a  suspicious  eye  on  the 
supposed  British  officer.  On  observing  his  lieu- 
tenant, he  fell  back  with  habitual  respect,  and  re- 
plied, with  an  air  of  puzzled  thouglit — 

"  I  don't  know,  sir  ;  but  just  now  the  prisoner 
looked  (jueer.  Ever  since  the  preacher  has  left 
him,  he  don't  look  as  he  used  to  do — but,"  gazing 
intently  over  the  shoulder  of  his  oflScer,  "  it  must 
be  him,  too  !  There  is  the  same  powdered  head, 
and  the  darn  in  the  coat,  where  he  was  hit  the  day 
he  had  the  last  brush  with  the  enemy," 

"And  then  all  this  noise  is  occasioned  by  your 
doubting  whether  that  poor  gentleman  is  your 
prisoner  or  not,  is  it,  sirrah?  Who  the  devil  do 
vou  think  it  can  be  else  ?  " 


JAMES  FENIMOKE  COOPER.     T-io 

"I  don't  know  wlio  else  it  can  be,"'  returned 
the  fellow,  siilionly  :  "  but  he  is  grown  thicker 
and  shorter,  if  it  is  lie  ;  and  see  for  yourself,  sir, 
he  shakes  all  over,  like  a  man  in  an  ague."' 

This  was  but  too  true.  C;esar  was  an  alarmed 
auditor  of  this  short  conversation,  and.  from  con- 
gratulating himself  upon  tlic  dexterous  escape  of 
his  young  master,  his  tlioughts  were  very  naturally 
beginning  to  dwell  upon  the  probable  ronsequences 
to  his  owi\  person.  The  pause  that  succeeiled  the 
last  remark  of  the  sentinel  in  no  degree  contribu- 
ted to  the  restoration  of  his  faculties.  Lieuten- 
ant Mason  was  busied  in  examining  witli  liis  own 
eyes  the  suspected  pex'son  of  the  black,  and  Caesar 
was  aware  of  the  fact  by  stealing  a  look  througli 
a  passage  under  one  of  his  arms,  that  he  had  left 
expressly  for  the  purpose  of  reconnoitring.  Cap- 
tain Lawton  would  have  discovered  the  fraud  im- 
mediately, but  JMason  was  by  no  means  so  (piick- 
uighted  as  his  commander.  He  therefore  turned 
i-atlier  contemptuously  to  the  soldier,  and.  speak- 
ing in  an  undertone,  observed — 

"That anabaptist,  methodistical,  c^uaker.  psalm- 
singing  rascal  has  frightened  the  boy  with  liis 
farrago  about  [flames  and  brimstone.  I  "11  step 
in  and  cheer  him  with  a  little  rational  con- 
versation.'' 

• '•  I  have  heard  of  fear  making  a  man  white," 
said  the  soldier,  drawing  back,  and  staring  as  if 
liis  ejes  would  start  from  their  sockets,  "  but  it 
has  changed  the  royal  captain  to  a  black." 

The  truth  was,  that  Csesar,  unable  to  hear  what 
Mason  utteretl  in  a  low  voice,  and  having  every 
liar  ar  iseil  in  him  by  what  had  already  passed, 
incautioush-  removed  the  wig  a  little  from  one  of 
his  ears,  in  order  to  h(>ar  the  better,  without  in  the 
least  remembering  that  its  color  might  prove  fatal 
to  his  disguise.  The  sentinel  had  kept  his  eyes 
fastened  on  his  prisoner,  and  noticed  the  action. 
The  attention  of  Mason  was  mstantlj'  drawn  to 
the  same  object,  and,  forgetting  all  delicacy  for  a 
brother  officer  in  disti-ess,  or,  in  short,  forgetting 
everything  but  the  censure  that  might  alight  on 
his  corns,   the    lieutenant    porang    forward    and 


236  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 

siezed  the  terrified  Afri^^an  by  the  throat ;  for  no 
sooner  had  Cit'sar  heard  liis  color  named,  than  ho 
knew  his  discovery  was  certain  ;  and  at  the  first 
sound  of  Mason's  lieavy  boot  on  the  floor,  he  ai'ose 
from  his  seat,  and  retreated  ^irecipitateiy  to  a  cor- 
ner of  the  room. 

"  Who  are  you?"'  cried  Mason.  da.shing  tlie 
head  of  the  old  man  against  the  angle  of  the  wall, 
at  each  interrogatoiy.  "  who  the  devil  are  you, 
and  where  is  the  Englishman?  Speak,  tiiou 
thunder-cloud  !  Answer  ine,  you  jackdaw,  or  I  "11 
hang  you  on  the  gallows  of  the  spy  I  " 

Cajsar  continued  linn.  Neither  the  tlureats  nor 
the  blows  coultl  extract  any  reply,  until  the  lieu- 
tenant, by  a  very  natural  transition  in  the  at- 
tack, sent  his  heavy  boot  forward  in  a  direction 
that  brought  it  in  direct  contact  with  the  most 
sensitive  part  of  the  negro — his  shin.  The  most 
obdurate  heart  could  not  have  exacted  furtiier 
patience,  and  Caesar  instantly  gave  in.  The  first 
Avords  he  spoke  werc^ — 

"  Golly  !  Massa,  you  t'ink  I  got  no  feelin'?  " 

"  By  Heavens  ! ''  shouted  the  lieutenant,  '"it  is 
the  negro  himself  !  scoundrel  I  where  is  your 
master,  and  who  was  the  priest  ? "'  While  speak- 
ing, he  made  a  movement  as  if  about  to  renew 
the  attack ;  but  Capsar  cried  aloud  for  mercy, 
promising  to  tell  all  that  he  knew. 

"  Who  was  the  priest  ?"  repeated  the  dragoon, 
drawing  back  his  formidable  leg,  and  holding  it  in 
threatening  suspense — 

"Harvey,  Harvey  !  "  cried  Caesar,  dancing  from 
one  leg  to  the  other,  as  he  thought  each  member 
in  turn  might  be  assailed. 

■'Harvey  who.  you  black  villain?"  cried  the 
impatient  lieutenant,  as  he  executed  a  full  meas- 
ure of  vengeance,  bj-  letting  his  leg  fiy. 

"  Birch  I  ■'  shrieked  Caesar,  falling  on  his  knees, 
the  tears  rolling  in  large  drops  over  his  shining 
face. 

"  Harvey  Birch  I "  echoed  the  trooper,  hurling 
the  black  from  him,  and  rushing  from  the  room, 
"  To  arms  !  to  arms  !  fifty  guineas  for  the  life  of 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER.     2^7 

the  peddler-spy — give  no  quarter  to  either.    Mount, 
mount  !  to  arms  !  to  horse  !  " 

During  the  uproar  occasioned  hy  the  assembhng 
of  the  dragoons,  wiio  all  rushed  tuniultviously  to 
their  hoi*ses,  Ctesar  rose  from  the  floor  wliere  he 
had  been  thrown  by  Mason,  and  began  to  exam- 
ine into  his  injuries.  Happily  for  liimself,  he  had 
alighted  on  his  head,  and  consequently  sustained 
no  material  damage. — llie  Spy. 

THE   ARIEL  ON  THE  SHOALS. 

During  this  time  tlie  sea  was  becoming  more 
agitated,  and  the  violence  of  the  wind  was  gradu- 
ally increasing.  The  latter  no  longer  whistled 
amid  the  cordage  of  the  vessel,  but  it  seemed  to 
howl,  surlily,  as  it  passed  the  complicated  ma- 
chinerj'  that  the  frigate  obtruded  on  its  path. 
An  endless  succession  of  while  surges  i-ose  above 
tlie  heavy  billows,  and  the  very  air  was  glittering 
w-ith  the  light  tiiat  was  disengaged  from  the  ocean. 
The  ship  yielded,  each  moment,  more  and  more 
before  the  storm,  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour 
from  the  time  that  she  had  lifted  her  anchor,  she 
was  driven  along  with  tremendous  fury  by  the 
full  power  of  the  gale  of  wind.  Still  the  hardy 
and  experienced  mariners  who  directed  her  inove- 
ments.  held  her  to  the  course  that  was  necessary 
to  their  preservation,  and  still  Gritiitii  gave  forth, 
when  directed  by  their  unknown  pilot,  those 
orders  that  turned  her  in  the  narrow  channel 
where  alone  safety  was  to  be  found.  So  far,  the 
performance  of  his  duty  appeared  easy  to  the 
stranger,  and  he  gave  the  required  directions  in 
those  still,  calm  tones,  that  formed  so  remarkable 
a  contrast  to  the  responsibility  of  his  situation. 
But  when  the  land  was  l:)ecoming  dim,  in  distance 
as  well  as  darkness,  and  the  agitated  sea  alone 
was  to  be  discovered  as  it  swept  by  them  in  foam, 
he  broke  in  upon  the  monotonous  roaring  of  the 
tempest  with  the  sounds  of  his  voice,  seeming  to 
shake  otf  his  apathy,  and  rouse  himself  to  the 
occasion. 

"Now  is  the  time  to  watch  her  closely,  Mr. 
Griffith,"  he  cried  :  "  here  we  get  the  true  tide  and 


238  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 

the  real  danger.  Place  the  best  quartermaster  of 
your  ship  in  those  chains,  and  let  an  oflicer  stand 
by  him,  and  see  that  he  p:ives  us  the  right  water." 

'•  I  will  take  that  office  on  myself,"  said  the 
captain;  "pass  a  light  into  the  weather  main- 
chains." 

"  Stand  by  your  braces  !  "  exclaimed  the  pilot, 
■with  startling  quickness.  '"  Heave  away  that 
lead!" 

The.se  preparations  taught  the  crew  to  expect 
the  crisis,  and  every  officer  and  man  stood  in  fear- 
ful silence,  at  his  assigned  station,  awaiting  the 
issue  of  the  trial.  Even  the  quartermaster  at  the 
conn  gave  out  his  orders  to  the  men  at  the  wheel 
m  deeper  and  lioarser  tones  than  usual,  as  if 
anxious  not  to  disturb  the  quiet  and  older  of  the 
vessel.  While  this  deep  expectation  pervaded  the 
f'*gate,  the  j)iercing  cry  of  the  leadsman,  as  he 
called,  "By  the  mark,  seven,"  rose  above  the 
tempest,  crossed  over  the  decks,  and  appeared  to 
pass  away  to  leeward,  borne  on  the  blast  like  the 
warnings  of  some  water-spirit. 

"  'Tis  well,"  returned  the  pilot  calmly  ;  "  try  it 
again."  The  short  pause  was  succeeded  by  an- 
other cry,  "  And  a  half  five  !  " 

"  She  shoals  !  she  shoals  ! "  exclaimed  Griffith; 
"  keep  her  a  good  full." 

"Ay!  you  must  hold  tlie  vessel  in  command, 
now,"  said  tlie  pilot,  with  those  cool  tones  that  are 
most  appalling  in  critical  moments,  because  they 
seem  to  denote  most  preparation  and  care. 

The  tliird  call,  '"By  the  deep  four!"  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  prompt  direction  from  the  stranger  to 
tack.  Griffith  seemed  to  emulate  the  coolness  of 
the  pilot,  in  issuing  the  necessary  orders  to  execute 
this  manoeuvre. 

The  vessel  rose  slowly  from  the  inclined  position 
into  which  she  had  been  forced  by  the  tempest, 
and  the  sails  were  shaking  violently,  as  if  to  re- 
lease themselves  from  their  confinement,  while 
the  ship  stemmed  the  billows,  when  the  well- 
known  voice  of  the  sailing-master  was  heard 
shouting  from  the  forecastle  : 

"  Breakers  I  breakers  dead  ahead  I  " 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER.  239 

This  appalling?  sound  seemed  yet  to  be  lingering 
about  the  ship,  when  a  second  voice  cried  : 

'•  Breakers  on  our  lee-bow  !  " 

"We  are  in  a  bight  of  the  shoals,  Mr.  Gray," 
cried  the  confmander.  "  She  loses  her  way  ;  per- 
haps an  anchor  might  hold  her." 

"  Clear  away  that  best  bower!"  shouted  Grif- 
fith through  Jiis  trumpet. 

"Hold  on!"  cried  the  pilot,  in  a  voice  that 
reached  the  very  hearts  of  all  who  heard  Mm  ; 
"  hold  on  everything." 

The  young  man  turned  fiercely  to  the  daring 
stranger  who  thus  defied  the  discipline  of  his 
vessel,  and  at  once  demanded  : 

"Who  is  it  that  dares  to  countermand  my 
orders?  Is  it  not  enough  that  you  run  the  ship 
into  danger,  but  you  must  interfere  to  keep  her 
there  ?    If  another  word " 

"Peace,  Mr.  Griffith."  interrupted  the  captain, 
bending  from  the  rigging,  his  gray  locks  blowing 
about  in  the  wind,  and  adding  a  look  of  wildness 
to  the  haggard  care  that  he  exiiibited  by  the  light 
of  his  lantern  ;  "yield  the  trumpet  to  Mr.  Gray; 
he  alone  can  save  us." 

Griffith  threw  his  speaking-trumpet  on  the  deck, 
and,  as  he  walked  proudly  away,  muttered,  in  bit- 
terness of  feeling  :  "  Then  all  is  lost,  indeed  !  and 
among  the  rest  the  foolish  hopes  with  which  I  vis- 
ited this  coast."  There  was,  however,  no  time  for 
reply  ;  the  ship  had  been  rapidly  running  into  the 
wind,  and  as  the  efforts  of  the  crew  were  paralyzed 
by  the  conti-adictory  ordei-s  they  had  heard,  she 
gradually  lost  her  way.  and  in  a  few  seconds  all 
her  sails  were  taken  aback.  Before  the  crew  un- 
derstood their  situation,  the  pilot  had  applied  the 
trumpet  to  his  mouth,  and,  in  a  voice  that  rose 
above  the  tempest,  he  thundered  forth  his  orders. 
Each  command  was  given  distinctly  and  with  a 
precision  that  showed  him  to  be  master  of  his  pro- 
fession. The  helm  was  kept  fast,  the  head-yards 
swung  up  heavily  against  the  wind,  and  the  vessel 
was  soon  whirling  round  on  her  heel  with  a  retro- 
grade movement. 

Griffith  was  too  nuich  of  a  seaman  not  to  per- 


240  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 

ceive  that  tin-  pilot  lunl  seized  with  a  perception 
almost  intuitive,  the  (inly  method  that  promised  to 
extricate  the  vessel  from  lier  situation.  He  was 
young,  impetuous,  and  proud — but  he  was  also 
generous.  Forgetting  his  resentment  and  his  mor- 
tification, he  rnshed  forward  among  the  men,  and, 
by  liis  presence  and  example,  added  certainty  to 
the  experiment.  The  ship  fell  off  slowly  Ijefore 
the  gale,  and  bowed  her  yards  nearly  to  the  water, 
as  she  felt  the  blast  pouring  its  furj-  on  her  broad- 
side, while  the  surly  waves  beat  violently  against 
lier  stern,  as  if  in  i-eproach  at  departing  from  her 
usual  manner  of  moving. 

The  voice  of  the  pilot,  however,  was  still  heard, 
steady  and  calm,  and  yet  so  clear  and  high  as  to 
reach  every  ear  ;  and  the  obedient  seamen  whirled 
the  yards  at  his  bidding,  in  despite  of  the  tempest, 
as  if  they  handled  the  toys  of  their  childhood. 
When  the  ship  had  fallen  off  dead  before  the  wind, 
her  head-sails  were  shaken,  her  after-yards  trim- 
med, and  lier  helm  shifted,  before  she  had  time  to 
run  upon  the  danger  that  had  threatened  to  lee- 
ward as  well  ;us  to  windward.  The  beautiful  fal)- 
ric,  obedient  to  her  government,  threw  her  bows 
up  gracefully  toward  the  wind  again,  and,  as  her 
sails  were  trimmed,  moved  out  from  among  the 
dangerous  shoals  in  which  she  had  been  embaj'ed, 
as  steadily  and  swiftly  as  she  had  approached 
them.  A  moment  of  breathless  astonishment  suc- 
ceeded this  manoeuvre,  but  there  was  no  time  for 
the  usual  expressions  of  surprise.  The  stranger 
still  held  the  trumpet,  and  continued  to  lift  his 
voice  amid  the  bowlings  of  the  blast,  whenever 
prudence  or  skill  required  any  change  in  the  man- 
agement of  the  ship.  For  an  hour  longer  there 
was  a  fearful  struggle  for  their  preservation,  the 
channel  becoming  at  each  step  more  complicated, 
and  the  shoals  thickening  around  the  mariners 
on  every  side.  The  lead  was  cast  rapidl}-,  and  the 
quick  eye  of  the  pilot  seemed  to  pierce  the  dark- 
ness with  a  keenness  of  vision  that  exceeded  hu- 
man power.  It  was  apparent  to  all  in  the  vessel 
that  they  were  under  the  guidance  of  one  who  un-. 
derstood  the  navigation  thoroughly,  and  their  ex' 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER.  241 

ertions  kept  pace  with  their  reviving  confidence. 
.  .  .  The  ship  was  recovering  from  the  inaction 
of  changing  lior  course  in  one  of  tliose  critical 
tacks  that  she  liful  made  so  often,  wlieu  the  pilot, 
for  the  first  tihic,  addressed  the  commander  of  the 
frigate,  vnIio  still  continued  to  superintend  the  all- 
important  duly  of  the  leadsman. 

"Now  is  the  pinch,"  lie  said,  •'  and  if  the  ship 
behaves  well  we  are  sa,fe  ;  but,  if  otherwise,  all 
we  have  yet  done  will  be  useless." 

The  veteran  seaman  whom  he  addressed,  left 
the  chains  at  this  portentous  notice,  and.  calling 
to  his  first-heutenant,  recjuired  of  the  stranger  an 
explanation  of  his  warning. 

"See  you  you  light  on  the  southern  headland  ?" 
returned  the  pilot  ;  "j-ou  may  know  it  froni  the 
star  near  it — by  its  sinking,  at  times,  in  the  ocean. 
Now  observe  the  hommoc.  a  little  north  of  it, 
looking  like  a  shadow  in  the  horizon — 'tis  a  hill 
far  inland.  If  we  keep  that  light  open  from  the 
hill,  Ave  shall  do  well  ;  but  if  not,  we  shall  surely 
go  to  pieces. 

"  Let  us  tack  again  I  "  exclaimed  the  lieutenant. 

The  pilot  shook  his  head,  as  he  replied  : 

"  There  is  no  more  tacking  or  box-hauling  to  be 
done  to-night.  We  have  barely  room  to  pass  out 
of  the  shoals  on  this  course ;  and  if  we  can 
weather  the  'Devil's  Grip,' we  clear  their  utter- 
most point ;  but  if  not,  as  I  said  before,  there  is 
but  an  alternative." 

"If  we  had  beaten  out  the  way  we  entered," 
exclaimed  Griffith.  '•  we  should  have  done  well." 

•'  Say,  also,  if  the  tide  would  have  let  us  do  so," 
returned  the  pilot,  calmly.  ••Gentlemen,  we 
must  be- prompt  ;  we  have  but  a  mile  to  go,  and 
the  ship  appears  to  fly.  That  topsail  is  not  enough 
to  keep  her  up  to  the  wind  ;  we  want  both  jib  and 
mainsail." 

" 'Tis  a  perilous  thing  to  loosen  canvas  in  such 
a  tempest  ! "  observed  the  doubtful  captain. 

"It  must  be  done."  returned  the  collected 
sti-anger  ;  "  we  perish  without  it — see!  the  light 
already  touches  the  edge  of  the  hommoc  ;  the  sea 
casts  us  to  leeward  .'  " 


242  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 

"  It  shall  be  done  I  "  cried  Griffith,  seizing  the 
trumi)et  from  the  liand  of  the  pilot. 

The  orders  of  the  lieutenant  were  executed 
almost  as  soon  as  issued  ;  and,  everything  being 
ready,  the  enormous  folds  of  the  mainsail  were 
trusted  loose  to  the  blast.  There  was  an  instant 
when  the  result  was  doubtful  ;  the  tremendous 
threshing  of  the  heavy  sail  seemed  to  bid  defiance 
to  all  restraint,  shaking  the  ship  to  her  centre  ; 
but  art  and  strength  prevailed,  and  gi-adually  the 
canvas  was  distended,  and.  bellying  as  it  filled, 
was  drawn  down  to  its  usual  place  by  the  power 
of  a  hundred  men.  The  ve.ssel  yielded  to  this  im- 
mense addition  of  force,  and  bowed  before  it  like 
a  reed  bending  to  a  breeze.  But  the  success  of 
the  measure  was  announced  by  a  joyful  cry  from 
the  stranger,  that  seemed  to  burst  from  his  inmost 
soul. 

"She  feels  it!  she  springs  her  luff!  observe," 
lie  said,  "  the  light  opens  from  the  hommoc  al- 
ready :  if  she  will  only  bear  her  canvas,  we  shall 
go  clear  ! " 

A  report,  like  that  of  a  cannon,  inteiTuptcd  his 
exclamation,  and  something  resembling  a  white 
cloud  was  seen  drifting  before  the  wind  from  the 
head  of  the  ship,  till  it  was  driven  into  the  gloom 
far  to  leeward. 

"Tistlie  jib,  blown  from  the  l)olt  ropes,"  said 
the  commander  of  the  frigate.  "  This  is  no  time 
to  spread  Ught  duck,  but  the  mainsail  may  stand  it 
yet." 

'•The  sail  would  laugh  at  a  tornado,"  returned 
the  lieutenant ;  "'  but  the  mast  springs  like  apiece 
of  steel." 

"Silence  all  !  "  cried  the  pilot.  "  Now,  gentle- 
men, we  shall  soon  know  our  fate.  Let  her  luff — 
luff  you  can  !  ' 

This  warning  effectually  closed  all  discourse  ; 
and  the  hardy  mariners,  know  ing  that  they  had 
already  done  all  in  the  power  of  man  to  insure 
their  safety,  stood  in  breathless  anxiety,  awaiting 
the  result.  At  a  short  distance  ahead  of  them  the 
whole  ocean  was  white  with  foam,  and  the  waves, 
instead  of  rolling  on  in  regular  succession,  appear- 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER.  243 

ed  to  be  tossing  about  in  mad  gambols.  A  single 
streak  of  dark  billows,  not  balf  a  cable's  length 
in  width,  could  be  discerned  running  into  this 
chaos  of  water  ;  but  it  was  soon  lost  to  the  eye 
amid  the  confusion  of  the  disturbed  element. 
Along  this  nariow  path  the  vessel  moved  more 
heavily  than  before,  being  brought  so  near  the 
wind  as  to  keep  her  sails  touching.  The  pilot  si- 
lently proceeded  to  the  wheel,  and  with  his  own 
hand,  he  undertook  the  steerage  of  the  ship.  No 
noise  proceeded  from  the  frigate  to  interrupt  the 
horrid  tumult  of  the  ocean  ;  and  slie  entered  the 
channel  among  the  breakers,  with  the  silence  of  a 
desperate  calmness.  Twenty  times,  as  the  foam 
rolled  away  tt)  leeward,  tlie  crew  were  on  the  eve 
of  uttering  their  joy.  aa  tliey  supposed  the  vessel 
past  the  danger  ;  but  breaker  after  breaker  would 
still  heave  up  before  them,  following  each  other 
into  the  general  mass,  to  check  their  exultation. 
Occasionally  the  liuttering  of  the  sails  would  be 
heard  ;  and  when  the  looks  of  the  startled  seamen 
were  turned  to  the  wheel,  they  beheld  the  stranger 
grasping  the  spokes,  with  his  quick  eye  glancing 
from  the  water  to  the  canvas.  At  length  the  ship 
reached  a  point  where  she  appeared  to  be  rushing 
directly  into  tlie  jaws  of  destruction,  when  sud- 
^denly  her  course  was  changed,  and  her  head  reced- 
ed rapidly  from  the  wind.  At  the  same  instant 
the  voice  of  the  pilot  was  heard  shouting :  "Square 
away  the  yards ! — in  mainsail ! "' 

A  general  burst  from  the  crew  echoed  ''Square 
away  the  yards  !  "  and,  quick  as  thought,  the  fri- 
gate w^as  seen  gliding  along  the  channel  before  the 
v.ind.  The  eye  had  hardly  time  to  dwell  on  the 
foam,  which  seemed  like  clouds  driving  in  the 
heavens,  and  directly  the  gallant  vessel  issued 
from  her  perils,  and  rose  and  fell  on  the  heavy 
waves  of  the  sea. — TJie  Pilot. 

ENCOUNTER  WITH  A  PANTHER, 

By  this  time  they  had  gained  the  summit  of  the 
mountain,  where  they  left  the  highway,  and  pur- 
sued their  course  under  the  shade  of  the  stately 
trees  that  crowned  the  eminence.    The  day  was 


344  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 

becoming  warm,  and  the  girls  plunged  more  deep- 
ly into  the  forest,  as  they  found  its  invigorating 
coohiess  agreeably  conti'asted  to  the  excessive  heat 
they  luid  experienced  in  the  ascent.  The  conver- 
sation, as  if  by  mutual  consent,  was  entirely 
changed  to  the  little  incidents  and  scenes  of  their 
walk,  and  every  tall  phie,  and  every  shrub  or  flow- 
er, called  forth  some  simple  expression  of  admira- 
tion. In  this  manner  they  proceeded  along  the  mar- 
gin of  the  precipice,  catching  occasional  glimpses 
of  the  placid  Otsego,  or  pausing  to  listen  to  the 
rattling  of  wheels  and  the  sounds  of  hammers 
that  rose  from  the  valley,  to  mingle  the  signs  of 
men  with  the  scenes  of  nature,  when  Elizabeth  sud- 
denly started,  and  exclaimed  : 

••  Listen  !  There  are  the  cries  of  a  child  on  this 
mountain !  Ts  there  a  clearing  near  us,  or  can 
some  little  one  have  strayed  from  its  parents?" 

"Such  things  frequently  happen,"  returned 
Louisa.  "Let  us  follow  the  sounds  :  it  may  be  a 
wanderer  starving  on  the  hill."' 

Urged  by  this  consideration,  the  females  pur- 
sued the  low,  mournful  sounds,  that  proceeded 
from  the  forest,  with  quick  impatient  sfeps. 
More  than  once  the  ardent  Elizabeth  was  on  the 
point  of  announcing  that  she  saw  the  sufferer, 
when  Louisa  caught  her  by  the  arm,  and  pointing 
behind  them,  cried,  "  Look  at  the  dog  I "' 

Brave  had  been  their  companion  from  the  time 
the  voice  of  his  young  mistress  lured  him  from 
his  kennel,  to  the  ])resent  moment.  His  advanced 
age  had  long  before  deprived  him  of  his  activity  ; 
and  when  his  companions  stopped  to  view  the 
scenery,  or  to  add  to  their  bouquets,  the  mastitf 
would  lay  his  huge  frame  on  the  ground  and 
await  their  movements^  with  iiis  eyes  closed,  and 
a  listlessness  in  his  air  that  ill  accorded  with  the 
character  of  a  protector.  But  when,  aroused  by 
this  cry  from  Louisa,  Miss  Temple  turned,  she  saw 
the  dog  with  his  eyes  keenly  set  on  some  distant 
■  object,  his  head  bent  near  the  ground,  and  his 
hair  actually  rising  on  his  body,  through  fright  or 
anger.  It  was  most  probably  the  latter,  for  he 
was  gi-owling  in  a  low  key,  and  occasionally  show- 


JAMES  FENIMORE  (COOPER.  245 

ing  his  teeth  in  a  manner  that  would  liave  terri- 
fied his  mistress,  had  slie  not  so  well  known  his 
good  qualities. 

"Brave  !  "  she  said,  "  he  quiet,  Brave  I  wliat  do 
you  see,  fellow  >  " 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  rage  of  the  mas- 
tiff, instead  of  being  at  all  diminished,  was  very 
seiisihly  increased.  He  stalked  in  front  of  the 
ladies,  and  seated  himself  at  the  feet  of  his 
mistress,  growling  louder  than  before,  and  occa- 
sionally giving  vent  to  his  ire  by  a  short,  surly 
barking. 

"  What  does  he  see?"  said  Elizabeth  ;  "  there 
must  be  some  animal  in  sight." 

Hearing  no  answer  from  her  companion.  Miss 
Tem])le  turned  her  head,  and  beheld  Louisa, 
standing  with  her  face  whitened  to  the  color  of 
death,  and  her  finger  pointing  upward,  with  a  sort 
of  flickering,  convulsed  motion.  The  quick  eye 
of  Elizabeth  glanced  in  the  direction  indicated  by 
her  friend,  where  she  saw  the  fierce  front  and 
glaring  eyes  of  a  female  panther,  fixed  on  them  in 
horrid  malignitj*.  and  threatening  to  leap. 

"Let  us  fly,"  exclaimed  Elizabeth,  graspingthe 
arm  of  Louisa,  whose  form  yielded  like  melting 
snow. 

There  was  not  a  single  feeling  in  the  tempera- 
ment of  Elizabeth  Temple  that  could  prompt  her 
todeserta  companion  in  such  an  extremit}-.  Sliefell 
on  her  knees,  by  the  side  of  the  inanimate  Louisa, 
tearing  from  the  person  of  her  friend,  with  instinct- 
ive readiness,  such  parts  of  her  dress  as  might  ob- 
struct her  respiration,  and  encouraging  their  only 
safeguard,  the  dog,  at  the  same  time,  by  the 
sounds  of  her  voice. 

■'Courage,  Brave  I "  she  cried,  her  own  tones 
beginning  to  tremble,  "courage,  courage,  good 
Brave  ! " 

A  quarter-grown  cttb,  that  had  hitherto  been 
unseen,  now  appeared,  dropping  from  the  branches 
of  a  sapling  that  grew  under  the  shade  of  the 
beech  which  held  its  dam.  This  ignorant,  but 
vicious  Ci'eatuie,  approached  the  dog,  imitating 
the  actions  and  sounds  of  its  parent,  but  exhibit- 


246  JAMES  FENIMORI-:  COOPER. 

ing  a  strange  mixture  of  the  playfulness  of  a 
kitten  with  the  ferocity  of  its  race.  Standing  on 
its  hind-legs,  it  would  rend  the  bark  of  a  tree  with 
its  forepaws,  and  play  the  antics  of  a  cat ;  and 
then,  b}^  lashing  itself  with  its  tail,  growling,  and 
scratching  the  eartli,  it  would  attempt  the  mani- 
festations of  anger  that  rendei-ed  its  parent  so 
terrific.  All  this  time  Brave  stood  firm  and  un- 
daunted, his  short  tail  ei'ect,  his  body  drawn  back- 
ward on  its  haunches,  and  his  eyes  following  the 
movements  of  both  dam  and  cub.  At  every  gam- 
bol played  by  the  latter,  it  ai>proached  nigher  to 
the  dog,  the  growling  of  the  three  becoming  more 
horrid  at  each  moment,  until  tlie  younger  beast, 
overleaping  its  intended  bound,  fell  dii'ectly  before 
the  mastiff.  There  was  a  moment  of  fearful  cries 
and  struggles,  but  they  ended  almost  as  soon  as 
commenced,  by  the  cub  appearing  in  the  air, 
hiu'led  from  the  jaws  of  Brave,  with  a  violence 
that  sent  it  against  a  tree  so  forcibly  as  to  render 
it  completely  senseless. 

Elizabeth  witnessed  the  short  struggle,  and  her 
blood  was  warming  with  the  triumph  of  the  dog, 
when  she  saw  the  form  of  the  old  panther  in  the 
air.  springing  twenty  feet  from  the  branch  of  the 
beech  to  the  back  of  the  mastiff.  No  words  of 
ours  can  describe  the  fury  of  the  conflict  that  fol- 
lowed. It  was  a  confused  struggle  on  the  dry 
leaves,  accompanied  by  loud  and  terrific  cries. 
Miss  Temple  continued  on  her  knees,  bending  over 
the  form  of  Louisa,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  animals, 
with  an  interest  so  horrid,  and  yet  so  intense,  that 
she  almost  forgot  her  own  stake  in  thu  result.  So 
rapid  and  vigorous  were  the  bound<4  of  the  inhab- 
itant of  the  forest,  that  its  active  frame  seemed 
constantly  in  the  au-,  v.hile  the  dog  nobly  faced 
his  foe  at  each  successive  leap.  When  the  panther 
lighted  on  the  shoulders  of  the  mastiff,  which  was 
its  constant  aim,  old  Brave,  though  torn  with  her 
talons,  and  stained  with  his  own  blood,  that  al- 
ready flowed  from  a  dozen  wounds,  would  shake 
off  his  furious  foe  like  a  feather,  and  rearing  on 
his  hind-legs,  rush  to  the  fray  again,  with  jaws 
distended  and  a  dauntless  eye.      But  age,  and  his 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER.  247 

pampered  life,  greatly  disqualified  the  noble  mas- 
tiff for  siu'h  a  struggK-.  In  everything  but  cour- 
age he  was  only  tlie  vestige  of  what  he  had  once 
been.  A  higher  bound  tlian  ever  raised  tlie  wary 
and  furious  beast  far  beyond  the  reach  of  tlie  dog, 
who  was  makuig  a  desperate  but  fruitless  dash  at 
her,  from  whiclishe  alighted  in  a  favorable  posi- 
tion, on  tlie  back  of  her  aged  foe.  For  a  single 
moment  only  could  the  panther  remain  there,  the 
great  strength  of  the  dog  returning  with  a  convul- 
sive effort.  But  Elizabeth  saw,  as  Brave  fastened 
his  teeth  in  the  side  of  his  enemy,  that  the  collar 
of  brass  around  his  neck,  which  had  been  glitter- 
ing througliout  the  h-ay,  was  of  the  color  of  blood, 
artd  directly,  that  his  frame  was  sinking  to  the 
earth,  where  it  soon  lay  prostrate  and  helpless. 
Several  mighty  efforts  of  the  wild-cat  to  extricate 
herself  from  the  jaws  of  the  dog  followed,  but 
they  were  fruitless,  until  the  mastiff  turned  on  his 
back,  his  lips  coUajised,  and  his  teeth  loosened, 
wlien  the  short  convulsions  and  stillness  that  suc- 
ceeded announced  the  death  of  poor  Brave. 

Elizabeth  now  lay  wholly  at  the  mercy  of  the 
beast.  There  is  said  to  be  something  in  the  front 
of  the  image  of  the  Maker  that  daunts  the  hearts 
of  the  inferior  beings  of  his  creation  ;  and  it  would 
seem  that  some  such  power  in  the  present  instance 
suspended  the  threatened  blow.  Tlie  eyes  of  the 
monster  and  the  kneeling  maiden  met  for  an  in- 
stant, when  the  former  stooped  to  examine  her  fal- 
len foe  ;  next  to  scent  her  luckless  cub.  From  the 
latter  examination  it  turned,  however,  with  its 
eyes  apparently  emitting  flashes  of  lire,  its  tail 
lashing  its  sides  furiously,  and  its  claws  projecting 
inches  from  her  broad  feet. 

Miss  Temple  did  not  or  could  not  move.  Her 
liands  were  clasped  in  the  attitude  of  prayer,  but 
her  eyes  were  still  drawn  to  her  terrible  enemy — 
her  cheeks  were  blanched  to  the  whiteness  of  mar- 
ble, and  her  lips  were  slightlj^  separated  with  hor- 
ror. The  moment  seemed  now  to  have  arrived  for 
the  fatal  termination,  and  the  beautiful  figure  of 
Elizabeth  was  bowing  meekly  to  the  stroke,  when 


248  JAMES  FENl.MORH  C'OOl'EK. 

a  rustling  of  leaves  behind  seemed  rather  to  mock 
the  organs  than  to  meet  her  ears. 

"  Hist !  hist  !  "  said  a  low  voice,  "  stoop  lower, 
gal ;  your  bonnet  hides  the  creature's  head." 

It  was  rather  the  yielding  of  nature  than  a  com- 
pliance with  this  unexpected  order,  that  caused 
the  head  of  our  heroine  to  sink  on  her  bosom  ; 
when  she  heard  the  report  of  the  rifle,  the  whiz 
of  the  bullet,  and  the  enraged  cries  of  the  beast, 
who  was  rolling  over  on  the  earth,  biting  its 
own  flesh,  and  tearing  the  twigs  and  branches 
M  ithin  its  reach.  At  the  next  instant  the  form  of 
the  Leather-Stocking  rushed  by  her,  and  he  called 
aloud  : 

"Come  in.  Hector,  come  in,  old  fool;  'tis  a 
hard-lived  animal,  and  may  jump  agin." 

Natty  fearlessly  maintained  his  position  in  front 
of  the  females,  notwithstanding  the  violent  bounds 
and  threatening  aspect  of  the  wounded  panther, 
which  gave  several  indications  of  returning 
strength  and  ferocity,  until  his  rifle  was  again 
loaded,  when  he  stepped  up  to  the  enraged  ani- 
mal, and,  placing  the  muzzle  close  to  its  head, 
every  spark  of  life  was  extinguished  by  the  dis- 
ciuuge. — The  Pioneers. 

MABEL  IX  THE  BT.OCX-HOrSK. 
■\Yhilo  the  light  lasted,  the  .  ituation  of  our  hero- 
ine was  sulliciently  alarming  ;  but,  as  the  shades 
of  evening  gradually  gathered  over  the  island,  it 
oecame  fearfully  appalling.  By  this  tiuie  the  sav- 
ages had  wrought  themselves  up  to  the  point  of 
fury,  for  the}^  had  possessed  themselves  of  all  the 
riquor  of  the  English,  and  their  outcries  and  ges- 
ticulations were  those  of  men  truly  possessed  of 
evil  spirits.  All  the  efforts  of  their  French  leader 
to  restrain  them  Avere  entirely  fruitless,  and  he 
nad  wisely  withdrawn  to  an  adj.acent  island, 
where  he  "had  a  sort  of  bivouac,  that  he  might 
keep  at  a  safe  distance  from  friends  so  apt  to  run 
into  excesses.  Before  quitting  the  spot,  however, 
this  officer,  at  great  risk  to  his  own  life,  succeeded 
in  extinguishing  the  fire,  and  in  securing  the  ordi- 
nary means  to  re-light  it.   This  precaution  ho  took 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER.  249 

lest  the  Indians  should  Inirn  the  block-house,  the 
preservation  of  -whicli  was  necessary  to  the  pre- 
servation of  his  future  plans.  He  would  gladly 
have  removed  all  the  arms  also,  but  this  he  found 
impracticable,  the  warriors  clinging  to  their  knives 
and  tomahawks  with  the  tenacity  of  men  who  re- 
garded a  point  of  honor  as  long  as  a  faculty  was 
left ;  and  to  carry  oft  the  rifles,  and  leave  behind 
liim  the  very  weapons  that  were  generally  used  on 
such  occasions,  would  have  been  an  idle  expedi- 
ent. The  extinguishing  of  tlie  fire  proved  to  be 
the  most  prudent  measure,  for  no  sooner  was  the 
officer's  back  turned  than  one  of  the  warriors,  in 
fact,  proposed  to  fire  the  block-house.  Arrow- 
head had  also  withdrawn  from  the  group  of 
drunkards  as  soon  as  he  found  that  they  were 
losing  their  senses,  and  had  taken  possession 
of  a  hut,  where  he  had  thrown  himself  on  the 
straw,  and  sought  the  rest  that  two  wakeful  and 
watchful  nights  rendered  necessary.  It  followed 
that  no  one  Avas  left  among  the  Indians  to  care  for 
Mabel — if,  indeed,  any  knew  of  her  existence  at  all ; 
and  the  proposal  of  the  drunkard  was  received 
with  yells  of  delight  by  eight  or  ten  more  as  much 
intoxicated  and  habitually  brutal  as  himself. 

This  was  the  fearful  moment  for  Mabel.  The 
Indians,  in  their  present  condition,  were  reckless  of 
any  rifles  that  the  block-house  might  hold  ;  though 
they  did  retain  dim  recollections  of  its  containing 
living  beings — an  additional  incentive  to  their  en- 
terprise— and  they  approached  its  base,  whooping 
and  leaping  like  demons.  As  yet  they  were  ex- 
cited, not  overcome,  by  the  liquor  ihey  had  drunk. 
The  first  attempt  was  made  at  the  door,  against 
which  they  ran  in  a  body  ;  but  the  solid  structure, 
which  was  built  entirely  of  logs,  defied  their  ef- 
forts. The  rush  of  a  hundred  men,  with  the  same 
object  would  have  been  useless.  Tliis  SlabeJ,  how- 
ever, did  not  know,  and  her  heart  seemed  to  leap 
into  her  mouth  as  she  heard  the  heavy  shock  at 
each  renewed  effort.  At  length,  when  she  found 
that  the  door  resisted  these  assaults  as  if  it  were  of 
stone,  neither  trembling  nor  yielding,  and  only 
betraying  its  not  beinsr  a  part  of  the  wall  by  rat- 


250  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 

tling  a  little  on  its  heavy  hinges,  her  courage  re- 
vived, and  she  seized  the  first  moment  of  a  cessa- 
tion to  look  down  tlirougli  the  loop,  in  order,  if 
possible,  to  learn  the  extent  of  her  danger.  A  si- 
lence for  which  it  wa.s  not  easy  to  account,  stimu- 
lated her  curiosity,  for  nothing  is  so  alarming  to 
those  who  are  conscious  of  the  presence  of  immi- 
nent danger,  as  to  be  unable  to  trace  its  approach. 

Jlabel  found  that  two  or  three  of  the  Iroquois 
had  been  rakin;:;  the  embers,  where  tliey  had  found 
a  few  small  coals,  and  witii  these  they  were  en- 
deavoring to  light  a  fire.  The  interest  with  which 
they  labored,  the  hope  of  destroying,  and  the  force 
of  habit,  enabled  them  to  act  intelligently  and  in 
unison,  so  long  as  their  fell  object  was  kept  in 
view.  A  white  man  would  have  abandoned  in 
despair  the  attempt  to  light  a  tire  with  coals  that 
came  out  of  the  ashes  resembling  sparks;  but 
these  children  of  t^ie  forest  had  many  expedients 
that  wei'e  unknown  to  civilization.  By  the  aid  of 
a  few  dry  leaves,  which  they  alone  knew  where  to 
seek,  a  blaze  was  finally  kindled,  and  then  tlie  ad- 
<lition  of  a  few  light  sticks  made  sure  of  the  ad- 
vantage that  had  been  obtained.  When  Mabel 
stooped  down  over  the  loop,  the  Indians  were 
inaking  a  pile  of  brush  against  the  door,  and  as 
she  remained  gazing  at  their  proceedings,  slic  saw 
the  twigs  ignite,  the  flame  dart  from  branch  to 
branch,  until  the  whole  pile  was  crackling  and 
snapping  under  a  bright  blaze.  The  Indians  now 
gave  a  yell  of  triumph,  and  returned  to  their  com- 
panions, well  assured  that  the  work  of  destruction 
was  commenced.  Mabel  remained  looking  down, 
scarcely  able  to  tear  herself  away  from  the  spot, 
so  intense  and  engrossing  was  the  interest  she  felt 
in  the  progress  of  the  fire.  As  the  pile  kindled 
throughout,  however,  the  flames  mounted,  until 
tliey  flashed  so  near  her  eyes  as  to  compel  her  to 
retreat.  Just  as  she  readied  the  opposite  side  of 
the  room,  to  which  she  had  retired  in  her  alarm,  a 
forked  stream  shot  up  through  the  loop-hole,  the 
lid  of  which  she  had  left  open,  and  illuminated 
the  rude  apartment  with  Mabel  and  her  desolation. 
Our  heroine  now  naturally  enough  supposed  that 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER.  251 

her  hour  was  come,  for  tlie  door,  the  only  means  of 
retreat,  had  been  blocked  up  bj-  the  brush  and  fire, 
with  hellish  ingenuity,  and  she  addressed  herself, 
as  she  believed  for  the  last  time,  to  her  Maker  in 
prayer.  Her  eyes  were  closed,  and  for  more  than 
a  minute,  her  gpirit  was  abstracted  ;  but  the  inter- 
ests of  the  world  too  strongly  divided  lier  feelings 
to  be  altogether  suppx-essed  ;  and  when  they  in- 
voluntarily opened  again,  she  perceived  that  the 
streak  of  flame  was  no  longer  flaring  in  the  room, 
though  the  wood  around  the  little  aperture  had 
kindled,  and  the  blaze  was  slowly  mounting  under 
the  impulsion  of  a  current  of  au-  that  sucked  in- 
ward. A  barrel  of  water  stood  in  a  corner,  a)id 
Mabel,  acting  more  by  instinct  than  by  reason, 
caught  up  a  vessel,  filled  it,  and,  pouring  it  on  the 
■wood  with  a  trembling  hand,  succeeded  in  extin- 
guishing the  fire  at  that  particular  spot.  The 
smoke  prevented  her  from  looking  down  again 
for  a  couple  of  minutes  ;  but,  when  she  did,  her 
heart  beat  high  with  delight  and  hope  at  finding 
that  the  pile  of  blazing  brush  had  been  overturned 
and  scattered,  and  that  water  had  been  thrown  on 
the  logs  at  the  door,  wliich  was  still  smoking, 
though  no  longer  burning. 

'•  "Who  is  there?"  said  Mabel,  with  her  mouth 
at  the  loop.  "  What  friendly  hand  has  a  merciful 
Providence  sent  to  my  succor  ?  " 

A  light  footstep  Avas  audible  below,  and  one  of 
those  gentle  pushes  at  the  door  Avas  heard,  which 
just  moved  the  massive  beams  on  the  hinges. 

"  Who  wishes  to  enter?  Is  it  \'ou,  dear,  dear, 
uncle  ! " 

"Salt-water  no  here.  St.  Lawrence  sweet- 
water,"  Avas  the  answer.  "  Open  quick — want  tO 
come  in." 

The  step  of  Mabel  was  never  lighter,  or  her 
moA'ements  more  quick  and  natural,  than  Avhile 
she  w^as  descending  the  ladder  and  turning  the 
bars,  for  all  her  motions  were  earnest  and  active. 
This  time  she  thought  only  of  her  escape,  and  she 
opened  the  door  Avith  a  rapidity  that  did  not  ad- 
mit of  caution.  Her  first  impulse  Avas  to  rush 
into  the  open  air,  in  the  blind  hope  of  quitting  the 


252  SUSAN  FEN  I  MORE  COOPER. 

block-house,  but  Jun(>  repulsed  tlie  attempt,  and, 
entering,  she  coolly  ban-ed  the  door  again  before 
she  would  notice  Mabel's  eager  efforts  to  embi-ace 
her. 

■'  Bless  you — bless  you,  June,"  cried  our  hero- 
ine, most  fervently — "  You  are  sent  by  Provi- 
dene  to  be  my  guardian  angel  ! "' 

"No  hug  so  tight" — answered  the  Tuscarora 
woman.  '•  Pale-face  woman  all  cry  or  all  laugh. 
Let  June  fasten  door." 

Mabel  became  more  rational,  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes the  two  were  again  in  the  upper  room,  seat- 
ed as  before,  hand  in  hand,  all  feeling  of  distrust 
or  rivalry  between  them  being  banished  on  the 
one  side  by  the  consciousness  of  favors  received, 
and  on  the  other  by  the  consciousness  of  favors 
confei'red. — Tlie  Pathfinder. 

COOPER,  Susan  Fenimore,  an  American 
author,  daughter  of  James  Fenimore  Cooper, 
was  born  in  1825.  She  is  the  auther  of  Rural 
Hours  (1850) ;  Rhyme  and  Reason  of  Country 
Life  (1854) ;  Country  Rambles ;  and  A  Tribute 
to  the  Character  of  Washington  (1858). 

THE  VrOODS  IN  AUTITHN. 

The  hanging  woods  of  a  mountainous  country 
are  especially  beautiful  at  this  season  ;  the  trees 
throwing  out  their  branches,  one  above  another, 
in  bright  variety  of  coloring  and  outline,  every  in- 
dividual of  the  gay  throng  having  a  fancy  of  his 
own  to  humor.  The  oak  loves  a  deep,  rich  red,  or 
a  warm  scarlet,  though  some  of  his  family  are  par- 
tial to  yellow.  The  chestnuts  are  all  of  one  shade- 
less  mass  of  gold-color,  from  the  highest  to  the  low- 
est branch.  The  bass-wood  or  linden,  is  orange. 
The  aspen,  with  its  silvery  stem  and  branches,  flut- 
ters in  a  lighter  shade,  like  the  ^^■Tought  gold  ai 
the  jeweller.  The  sumach,  with  its  long  pinnated 
leaf,  is  of  a  brilliant  scarlet.  The  pepperidge  is  al- 
most purple,  and  some  of  the  ashes  approach  the 
same  shade  during  certain  seasons.  Other  ashes, 
with  the  birches  and  beach,  hickory  and  elms, 
have  their  own  tints  of  vellow.      Tliat  beautitul 


THOMAS  COOPER.  253 

and  common  vine,  the  Virginia  creepei',  is  a  vivid 
cherry-color.  The  sweet-gum  is  vermilUon.  The 
Viburnum  tribe  and  dog-woods  are  dyed  in  lake. 
As  for  the  maples,  they  always  rank  first  among 
the  show  ;  there  is  no  other  tree  which  contrib- 
utes singly  so  much  to  the  beauty  of  the  season, 
for  it  unites  more  of  brilliancj'  with  more  of  va- 
riety, than  any  of  its  companions  ;  with  us  it  is 
also  more  common  than  any  other  tree.  Here 
you  have  a  soft-maple,  vivid  scarlet  from  the 
iiighest  to  the  lowest  leaf  ;  there  is  another,  a 
sugar-maple,  a  pure  sheet  of  gold  ;  this  is  dark 
crimson  like  the  oak,  that  is  vermillion;  another 
is  parti-colored,  phik  and  yellow,  green  and  red  ; 
3'onder  is  one  of  a  deep  purplish  hue  ;  this  is  still 
green,  that  is  mottled  in  patches,  another  is 
shaded  ;  still  another  blends  all  these  colors  on  its 
own  branches,  in  capricious  confusion,  the  dif- 
ferent limbs,  the  separate  twigs,  the  single  leaves, 
varying  from  each  other  in  distinct  colors,  and 
shaded  tints.  And  in  every  direction  a  repetition 
of  this  magnificent  picture  meets  the  eye  :  in  the 
woods  that  skirt  the  dimpled  meadows,  in  the 
thickets  and  copses  of  the  fields,  in  the  bushes 
which  fringe  the  brook,  in  the  trees  which  line 
the  streets  and  road-sides,  in  those  of  the  lawns 
,and  gardens— brilliant  and  vivid  in  the  nearest 
groves,  gradually  lessening  in  tone  upon  the  far- 
ther woods  and  successive  knolls,  until,  in  the 
distant  back-ground,  the  hills  are  colored  by  a 
mingled  confusion  of  tints,  which  defy  the  eye  to 
seize  them, — Rural  Hours. 

COOPER,  Tho:\ias,  an  English  journalist 
and  poet,  born  at  Leicester  in  1805.  He  was 
apprenticed  to  a  shoemaker.  While  working 
at  his  trade  he  made  himself  master  of  the 
Latin,  Greek,  Hebrew,  and  French  languages, 
and  at  the  age  of  twenty-three  became  a 
schoolmaster.  He  came  to  be  a  recognized 
leader  among  the  Chartists,  and  in  1842  was 
tried  for  sedition  and  conspiracy,  found 
guilty,  and  sentenced  to  two  years'  imprison- 


254  EDWARD  COPLESTON. 

ment.  While  in  prison  he  wrote  a  poem,  The 
Purgatory  of  Suicides,  and,  several  other 
works.  After  his  release ,  he  engaged  in  the 
political  and  social  movements  of  the  day, 
and  in  general  literature.  He  wrote  several 
novels,  among  which  are  Alderman  Ralph 
(1853),  and  The  Family  Feud  (1854).  Up  to 
this  time  he  had  been  an  avowed  skeptic  in 
matters  of  religion.  But  a  change  came  over 
his  views  in  1855,  and  he  set  up  in  London  a 
series  of  evening  lectures  against  skepticism, 
which  Avere  continued  until  1858,  when  he  be- 
gan traveling  through  England  and  Scotland, 
lecturing  on  the  Evidences  of  Christianity. 
In  1872  he  put  forth  an  Autobiography ;  and 
in  1878  appeared  a  collection  of  his  Poetical 
Works,  the  best  of  which  is  Tlie  Baron's  Yide 
Feast:  a  Christmas  Rhyme,  originally  pub- 
lished in  18i6. 

CHRISTMAS-TIME. 

How  joyously  the  lady-bells 

Shout  through  the  bluff  north  breeze 
Loudly  his  boisterous  bugle  swells  ! 

And  though  the  brooklets  freeze. 
How  fair  the  leafless  hawthorn-tree 
Waves  with  its  hoar-frost  tracery  ! 
While  sun-smiles  throw  o'er  stalks  and  stems 
Sparkles  so  far  transcending  gems, 
The  bard  would  gloze  who  said  their  sheen 

Did  not  out-diamond 
All  brighter  gauds  that  man  hath  seen, 
Worn  by  eartli's  proudest  king  or  queen, 

In  pomp  and  grandeur  throned. 
— The  Baron's  Yule  Feast. 

COPLESTON,  Edward,  an  English  clergy- 
man and  author,  born  in  1776,  died  in  1849. 
He  became  a  Fellow  of  Oriel  College,  Oxford, 
in  1795,  Professor  of  Poetry  in  the  Universi- 
ty, in  1802,  and  Bishop  of  Llandaff  and  Dean 
of  St.  Paul's,  in  1827.  He  was  the  author  of 
Advice  to  a  Young  Reviewer,  a  piece  of  play- 


EDWxiRD  COPLESTON,  255 

ful  satire  (1807) ;  The  Examiner  Examined 
(1809) ;  Three  Replies  to  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
view (1810-11) ;  Prcelectiones  Academicce 
(1813);  An  Inquiry  into  the  Doctrines  of  Ne- 
cessity and  'Predestination  (1821),  various 
Sermo7is,  and  several  papers  contributed  to 
the  Quarterly  Review.  The  pure  Latin  of  the 
Prcelectiones  is  much  admired.  The  Three 
Replies  were  written  in  answer  to  criticisms 
on  the  system  of  teaching  in  Oxford,  publish- 
ed in  the  Edinburgh  Revieic. 

RESTRAINT   IN   EDUCATION. 

Plans  of  education  can  never  create  great  men. 
It  is  a  weak  and  mistaken  opinion  one  now  and 
then  meets  with  in  the  world  ;  and  all  the  testi- 
mony of  history  and  experience  will  never  wholly 
explode  it.  Native  vigor  and  persevering  exertion 
are  the  rare  qualities  which  lead  to  excellence  of 
every  kind.  These  qualities,  it  is  true,  may  be  aid- 
ed, encouraged,  and  directed  by  method.  Still  it 
cannot  hapjien  that  the  method  best  adapted  for 
the  generality  of  cases  will  exactly  suit  each. 
Tiie  charge  of  education  is  a  weighty  one,  and 
many  interests  are  involved  in  it :  it  must  be  con- 
ducted Avith  a  Adew  to  the  general  benefit  ;  and 
rules  Jiot  always  liked,  not  always  profitable  to  in- 
dividuals, must  be  enforced.  Some,  perhaps,  will 
be  impatient,  and  overshoot  the  convoy,  in  hopes 
of  making  a  better  maa'ket.  But  it  is  at  their  own 
peril ;  and  as  the  advantage  is  precarious,  so  is  the 
failure  unpitied,  and  without  remedy. 

There  are  again  many  who  speak,  there  are 
some  even  who  have  written  upon  education,  as  if 
in  its  best  form  it  were  one  continued  system  of 
restraint,  of  artificial  guidance,  and  over-ruling 
inspection.  The  mind,  they  tell  us,  may  be 
moulded  like  wax  ;  and  wax- work,  truly,  is  all 
these  plans  will  make  of  it.  .  .  .  Heaven,  and  the 
guardian  genius  of  English  liberty  preserve  us 
from  lliis  degrading  process.  We  want  not  men 
who  ai-e  clipped  and  espaliered  into  any  form 
which  the  wliini  of  the  gardener  niav  dictate,  or 


256  ATHANASE  COQUEREL. 

the  narrow  limits  of  his  parterre  require.  Let  our 
saplings  take  their  full  .spread,  and  send  forth 
their  vigorous  shoots  in  all  the  boldness  and  varie- 
ty of  nature.  Their  luxuriance  nmst  be  pruned ; 
their  distortions  rectified  ;  tlie  rust  and  canker  and 
caterpillar  of  vice  carefully  kept  from  them  ;  we 
must  dig  round  them,  and  water  them,  and  re- 
plenish the  exhaustion  of  the  soil  by  continual 
dressing.  The  sunbeams  of  heaven,  and  the  ele- 
ments of  nature  will  do  the  rest. 

In  the  first  stages  indeed  of  infancy  and  boy- 
hood, restraint  must  be  continually  practiced,  and 
liberty  of  action  abridged.  But,  in  proportion  as 
reason  is  strengthened,  freedom  should  be  extend- 
ed. At  some  of  our  public  schools,  it  is  said,  this 
freedom  is  indulged  to  a  dangerous  extent.  The 
charge  may  be  just ;  and  if  so,  the  evil  calls  aloud 
for  correction.  But  when  a  student  is  sent  to  the 
university,  he  ought  to  iinderstand  that  he  must 
think,  in  a  great  measure,  and  act,  for  himself. 
He  is  not  to  be  forever  watched,  and  checked,  and 
controlled,  till  he  fancies  that  everything  is  right 
which  is  not  forbidden;  as  if  there  were  no  con- 
science within  him,  and  no  God  above  him,  to 
whom  he  is  accountable.  Obedience  is  indeed  a 
virtue  even  in  man;  but  it  is  obedience  founded  in 
right  reason,  not  in  fear.  Unless  joined  witli  this 
principle,  virtue  itself  hardly  deserves  the  name. 
Unless  some  choice  be  left  it,  some  voluntary  ac- 
tioti  to  try  its  steadiness,  how  sliall  ifc  approve  it- 
self to  be  virtue? — Reply  to  the  Edinburgh  Review. 

COQUEREL,  Athanase  Lauuent  Charles, 
a  French  clergyman  and  author,  born  in  1795, 
died  in  1868.  He  was  educated  by  his  aunt, 
an  Englishwoman,  author  of  Letters  from 
France.  Having  completed  his  theological 
studies  at  Montauban,  he  preached  for  twelve 
years  in  Holland.  In  1830  he  was  called  to 
Paris,  where  he  spent  the  rest  of  his  life.  He 
established  a  periodical  entitled  Le  ProteMant, 
which  was  continued  untill  the  end  of  1833, 
in  which  year  Coquerel  was  chosen  a  member 


ATHANASE  COQUEREL.  257 

of  the  Consistory.  In  conjunction  witk  Ar- 
taud,  he  edited  the  Libre  Exanien  for  two 
and  a  half  years.  Hoping  to  bring  about  a 
union  between  the  Protestants  of  France,  he 
estabhshed  in  1841,  a  periodical  Le  Lien.  In 
this  year,  he  also  published  a  Reply  to  the 
Lehen  Jesu  of  Strauss.  In  184S  he  became  <'i 
member  of  the  National  Assembly,  and  later, 
of  the  Legislative  Assembly,  but  did  notecase 
to  discharge  his  pastoral  duties.  Coquerel 
was  a  prolific  writer  of  sermons,  which  have 
been  published  in  8  volumes.  Among  his 
other  works  are  Biographie  Sacree  (1825-26) ; 
Histoire  sainfe  et  Analyse  de  la  Bible  (1839); 
Orthodoxie  vioderne  (1642);  and  Christologie 
(1858). 

His  son,  Athanase  Josue  Coquerel, 
(1820-1875),  was  also  an  eloquent  preacher, 
and  a  writer.  He  succeeded  his  father  as 
editor  of  Le  Lien  and  took  part  in  establishing 
the  Nouvelle  Revue  de  Theologie.  His  imortho- 
dox  theology  brought  upon  him  the  censure  of 
the  Paris  Consistory,  and  he  was  forbidden 
to  preach ;  but  the  Protestant  Liberal  Union 
.enabled  him  to  continue  in  the  pulpit. 
Among  the  works  of  Coquerel  the  younger 
are  Jean  Calas  et  sa  Famille  (1858) ;  Des 
Beaux-Arts  en  Italie ;  La  Saint  Barthelemy 
(1860) ;  Precis  de  V  Eglise  reformee  (1862) ; 
Le  Cafholicisme  et  le  Protestant isme  consid- 
eree  dans  leiir  origine  et  leur  developpjement 
(1864) :  Libres  Etudes,  and  La  Conscience  et  la 
Foi  (1867). 

MYSTERY   OF  FREE    AVILL. 

It  has  been  seen,  that  in  the  exercise  of  oui 
powers,  the  fact  of  the  will  or  of  liuman  freedom 
is  always  observed  ;  it  would  be  impossible  that 
the  exercise  of  those  powers  sliould  by  constrain! 
attain  the  end  for  which  God  ]ias  imparted  them. 
An  intelhgence  searching  after  truth  in  spite  of  it- 
self ;  a  morality  practicing  virtue  against  its  will-, 


258  ATHANASE  COQUEREL. 

affections  lovin<^  by  constraint ;  sensitiveness  ac- 
cepting invohmtaiy  happiness,  are  all  so  many 
flagrant  contradictions  in  terms.  A  mental  power 
is  not  a  power  except  so  far  forth  as  it  is  inde- 
pendent. Man  is  then  free  in  his  part  of  the  .finite, 
as  God  is  in  the  infinite  ;  tliat  is  to  say,  that  man 
acts  in  his  qnality  of  man  with  the  same  independ- 
ence, that  (lod  acts  as  God  ;  or,  in  other  terms 
still,  freedom  is  power,  man  is  ])Owcrful  as  man, 
God  is  powerful  as  God. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  mystery  of  free  will — 
that  ancient  stone  of  stumbling  in  all  religions,  all 
systems  of  philosophy,  and  all  schools,  lies  in  the 
jioint  of  separation  of  the  two  powers,  tlie  creat- 
ing power  and  the  power  created.  To  ask  how  a 
man  is  free,  is  to  ask  how  the  Creator,  his  work 
being  finished,  separated  himself  and  kept  him- 
self separate  from  his  creature,  and  leaves  him 
to  himself  :  it  is  to  ask  wiiat  method  God  i)ursues 
to  constitute  an  individuality.  Obviously  God 
alone  knows. 

Obviously  too,  tliis  our  insuperal)le  and  necessa- 
ry ignorance  of  the  manner  in  wliich  the  Creator 
effects  tlie  Avithilrawal  of  his  power  or  his  will, 
and  i-emains  in  his  individuality  when  he  leaves 
the  creature  to  his  own,  can  in  no  respect  weaken 
the  certainty  which  we  have  of  our  own  freedom. 
A  fact,  lying  without  us,  obscure,  unknown,  inex- 
plicable, by  no  means  invalidates  the  certainty  of 
a  fact  within  us,  of  which  we  are  conscious.  That 
ignorance  does  not  destroy  this  knowledge,  that 
obscurity  does  not  overshadow  this  light. 

The  same  mystery  appears  again  in  inactive  ex- 
istences. We  know  not  how  the  Creator's  power 
ceases  to  weigh  upon  free  l)eings,  raises  and  keeps 
raised  the  sluices  of  the  will.  We  know  no  better 
the  manner  in  which  creative  power  detaches  it- 
self from  matter,  and  leaves  physical  laws  and 
secondary  causes  to  play  their  part. 

The  qiiestiou  is  not  then  respecting  the  freedom 
of  the  will,  since  it  presents  itself  identically 
\vherc  there  is  no  liberty.  We  do  not  comprehend 
how  God  should  leave  two  Greeks  in  the  age  of 
Pericles  to  choose,  one  to  be  Socrates  and  the  other 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  259 

Anytus.  or  two  Jews  in  the  age  of  Augustus,  one 
to  be  Caiaphas  and  the  otlier  St.  Paul ;  and  we 
know  no  better  how  God  leaves  the  heavenly 
bodies  to  attract  one  another  in  the  direct  ratio 
of  their  masses,  and  in  the  inverse  ratio  of  their 
distances.  The  same  obscurity  conceals  the  means 
of  accomplisliing  the  moral  and  the  physical  law, 
althougfli  on  the  one  hand  lliere  is  freedom,  and 
on  the  other  coercion.  Tliis  illustration  loses 
nothing  of  its  value,  if  we  adopt  the  system  which 
supposes  that  the  Creator  i)reserves  creation  by  the 
constant  maintenance  of  order  and  life,  not  by 
laws  fixed  and  established,  as  it  were,  once  forall, 
but  by  a  continuous,  suitable,  and  efticient  inter- 
vention. In  tliis  system,  its  advocates  adopt  the 
doctrine  of  an  immutable  will,  continually  mani- 
festing itself  in  the  regulation  of  creation  ;  in  tiiat 
more  usually  received,  we  believe  in  laws  which 
never  fall  into  desiietude  :  this,  however,  is  mere- 
ly a  vast  and  fiagra;it  dispute  about  words ;  tlie 
whole  discussion  is  impregnated  with  notions  of 
time  and  space,  both  of  which  are  foreign  to  God, 
The  laws  of  nature  only  remain  in  force  beca,use 
God  so  wills;  and  who  does  not  pen-eive  that 
when  we  speak  of  an  infinite  being,  acts  succeed- 
ing each  other  without  relaxation,  interval,  or 
diminution,  and  laws  wliose  force  is  consecutively 
maintained,  come  pi-eciselj'  to  the  same  thing? 
At  the  bottom  of  this  dispute,  there  are  merely 
human  ideas  transferred  to  God.— Chi'isfologic. 

CORNEILLE,  Pierre,  a  French  dramatist, 
born  at  Rouen,  in  1606,  died  in  16S4.  His 
father  was  royal  advocate  of  the  marble 
table  of  Normandj^  and  Master  of  waters  and 
forests  in  the  viscounty  of  Rouen.  He  was 
educated  at  the  Jesuits'  College,  studied  law, 
and  in  1624,  took  the  oaths.  It  is  said  that  his 
first  play  Melite,  produced  in  1629,  was 
founded  on  personal  experience.  Though 
popular,  this  play  was  not  prophetic  of  its 
author's  greatness.  It  was  followed  by  Cli- 
tandre,  La  Vetar,  La  GaJcric  dv  Palais,  La 


260  PIERRE  CORNEILLE. 

Suivante,  and  La  Place  Royal.  In  1635  ap- 
peared Medea,  which,  saysGuizot,  "inaugu- 
rated tragedy  in  France."  In  the  previous 
year  Corneille  had  been  enrolled  among  the 
five  poets  employed  by  Richelieu  to  consti  uct 
plays  on  his  plots,  and  under  his  direction. 
He  did  not  prove  sufficiently  docile  to  retain 
the  Cardinal's  favor.  By  altering  the  third 
act  of  the  TJiuileries,  a  play  arranged  by 
Richelieu,  he  gave  great  oflfenco.  When,  in 
J  036,  he  produced  his  tragedy,  The  Cid,  he 
"was  attacked  on  all  sides  by  envious  contem- 
poraries, who  asserted  that  everything  in  the 
play  that  was  not  stolen  was  altogether  bad. 
Corneille  defended  himself  proudly ;  and  not- 
withstanding the  adverse  criticism  of  his 
enemies,  saw  his  play  a  triumphant  success. 
He  withdrew  to  Rouen,  where  he  spent  the 
next  three  years  in  quiet.  ,  In  1639.  he  pub- 
lished Horace,  with  a  dedication  to  Richelieu, 
who,  his  jealousy  appeased,  bestowed  500 
crowns  a  year  upon  the  poet,  and  forAvarded 
his  marriage  with  Marie  de  Lamperiere. 
China,  also  appeared  in  1639,  and  Polyeucte 
in  1640.  These  plays  are  regarded  as  Coi*- 
neille's  masterpieces.  La  Mort  de  Pompee, 
and  the  comedy  Le  Menteur,  followed  in  1643, 
and  Rodogune  in  1644.  Theodore,  the  poefs 
next  play  was  a  failure.  His  remaining  plaj'S 
are  Heraclius  (1647):  Andromede,  and  Don 
Sancho  d'Aragon  (1650);  Nicomede  (1651); 
Pertharite  (1653) ;  (Edijye  (1659) ;  La  Toison 
d'  Or  (1660);  Sertorius  (1662);  Sophonisbe 
(1663) ;  Othon  (1664) ;  Agesilas  (1666) ;  Attila 
(1667);  Tite  et  Berenice  (1670);  Pidcherie 
(1672),  and  Surena  (1674).  Between  1653  and 
1659  he  wrote  three  Discourses  on  Dramatic 
Poetry,  the  Examens  printed  at  the  end  of 
his  plays,  and  made  a  metrical  translation  of 
the  Imitation  of  Christ.  The  tide  of  Cor- 
neille's  genius  had  ebbed  since  the  appearance 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  261 

of  Rodogune.  Even  by  his  greatest  admirers 
his  last  two  plays  were  acknowledged  to  be 
failures. 

In  1647  Corpeille  was  made  a  member  of  the 
Academy,  and  in  1663  he  was  allowed  a  pen- 
sion of  2,000  livres.  This  pension  was  sus- 
pended from  1674  to  16S1,  and  again  in  1683, 
and  the  poet  suffered  all  the  pangs  of  poverty. 
"I  am  satiated  with  glory  and  starving  for 
money,"  said  he  to  an  admirer.  It  is  said 
that  owing  to  the  interposition  of  Boileau, 
who  offered  to  resign  his  own  pension  in  favor 
of  Corneille,  the  King  sent  the  poet  200  pis- 
toles, which  reached  him  tv/o  days  before  liis 
death. 

FROM  THE  CID. 

Sanchez. — Alvarez  comi?s  !    Now  probe  his  hoi 

low  heart,  [ceit, 

Now  while  your  thouglits  are  warm  with  his  de- 

And  mark  how  calmly  he  "11  evade  the  charge. 

My  Lord,  I  'm  gone.  [E.vit.] 

Gormaz. — I  am  thy  friend  forever. 

[Alvarez  enters.] 
Alvarez. — My  Lord,  the  king  is  walkiiig  forth 
to  see 
The  prince,  his  son,  begin  his  horsemanship  : 
If  you're  inclined  to  see  him,  I'll  attend  you. 

Gorm. — Since  duty  calls  me  not,  I've  no  delight 
To  be  an  idle  gaper  on  anotlier's  business. 
You  may,  indeed,  find  pleasure  in  the  office, 
Which  you've  so  artfully  contrived  to  lit. 
Alv. — Contrived,  my  Lord ?    I'm  sorry  such  a 
thought 
Can  reach  the  man  wliom  I  so  late  embraced. 
Gorm. — Men  are  not  always  what  they  seem. 
This  honor, 
AVhich,  in  another's  v.-rong  you  "ve  bartered  for, 
Was  at  the  price  of  those  embraces  bought. 

Alv. — Ha!  bought?     For  shame!  suppress  this 
poor  suspicion  ! 
For,  if  you  think,  you  can't  but  be  convinced 
The  naked  honor  of  Alvarez  scorns 


26a  PIERRE  CORNEILLE. 

Such  base  disguise.    Yet  pause  a  moment  :— 
Since  our  great  master  with  such  kind  concern, 
Himself  has  interposed  to  heal  our  feuds, 
Let  us  not,  tiiankless,  rob  him  of  the  glory, 
And  undeserve  the  grace  by  new,  false  fears. 
Gonn. — Kings  are,  alas  !  but  men,  and  formed 
like  us. 
Subject  alike  to  be  by  men  deceived  : 
Tlie  bhishing  court  from  this  rash  choice  will  see 
How  blindly  he  o'crlooks  superior  merit. 
Could  no  man  lill  the  place  but  worn  Alvarez? 
^l?i'.— Worn  more  witli  wounds  and  victories 
than  age. 
AVho  stands  befoi-o  him  in  great  actions  past? — 
But  I  "m  to  blame  to  lu-ge  that  mei'it  now, 
Whicli  will  but  shock  what  reasoning  may  con- 
vince. 
Gor?«.— The  fawning  slave  !     O  Sancliez.  how  I 

thank  thee  !  [Aside.] 

Alv. — You  have  a  virtuous  daughter,  I  a  son. 
Whose  softer  hearts  our  mutual  liands  have  raised 
Even  to  the  sununit  of  expected  joy  ; 
If  no  regard  to  me,  yet  let,  ;it  least. 
Your  pity  of  their  passions  rein  j-our  temper. 

Goivi.—O  needless  care  !  to  nobler  objects  now, 
That  son,  be  sure,  in  vanity,  pretends  : 
While  his  high  fathers  wisdom  is  prefen-ed 
To  guide  and  govern  our  great  monai-ch's  son. 
His  proud,  aspiring  heart  forgets  Ximena. 
Tiiink  not  of  him,  but  your  superior  care  ; 
Instruct  the  royal  youth  to  rule  with  awe 
His  future  subjects,  trembling  at  his  frown  ; 
Teach  him  to  bind  the  loyal  heart  in  love, 
The  bold  and  factious  in  the  chains  of  fear  : 
Join  to  these  virtues,  too,  your  warlike  deeds  ; 
Inflame  him  with  the  vast  fatigues  you've  borne, 
But  now  are  past,  to  show  him  by  example. 
And  give  him  in  the  closet  safe  reuiiwn ; 
Read  him  what  scorching  suns  he  must  endure, 
What  bitter  nights  must  wake,  or  sleejt  in  arms, 
"To  countermarch  the  foe,  to  give  the  alarm, 
And  to  his  own  great  conduct  owe  the  day  ; 
Mark  him  on  charts  the  order  of  the  battle. 
And  make  hiai  from  yom-  manuscripts  a  hero. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  263 

^Zy.— Ill-tempered  man  !    thus  to  provoke  the 
heart 
Whose  tortured  patience  is  thy  only  friend  ! 

Goj-j;;.— Thou  only  to  thyself  canst  be  a  friend  : 
I  tell  thee,  false  Alvarez,  thou  hast  wronged  nie, 
Hast  basely  robbed  mo  of  my  merit's  right, 
And  intercepted  our  young  prince's  fame. 
His  youth  with  me  had  found  the  active  proof, 
The  living  practice  of  experienced  war  ; 
This  sword  had  taught  him  glory  in  the  field. 
At  once  his  great  example  and  his  guard  ; 
His  unfledged  wings  from  me  had  learned  to  soar, 
And  strike  at  nations  trembling  at  my  name  : 
This  I  had  done,  but  thou,  with  servile  arts. 
Hast,  fawning,  crept  into  our  master's  breast. 
Elbowed  superior  merit  from  his  ear, 
And,  like  a  courtier,  stole  his  son  from  glory. 
Ah: — Hear  me,  proud  man  !  for  now  I  burn  to 
speak,  [thee ; 

Since  neither  truth  can  sway,  nor  temper  touch 
Thus  I  retort  with  scorn  thy  slanderous  rage  : 
Thou,  thou,  the  tutor  of  a  kingdom's  heir? 
Thou  guide  the  passions  of  o'erboiling  youth. 
That  canst  not  in  thy  age  yet  rule  thy  own? 
For  shame  !  retire,  and  purge  thy  imperious  heart, 
Reduce  thy  arrogant,  self-judging  pride. 
•Correct  the  meanness  of  thy  grovelling  soul, 
Chase  damned  suspicion  from  thy  manly  thoughts. 
And  learn  to  treat  with  honor  thy  superior. 

(rOJ*?n.— Superior,  ha  I  dar'st  thou  provoke  me, 
traitor  ?  [fatal ! 

.4/1'.— Unhand  me,  ruffian,  lest  thy  hold  prove 
Gorm. — Take  that,  audacious  dotard  ! 

[Strikes  him.] 
Alv. —  O  my  I)lood, 

Flow  forward  to  my  arm  to  chain  this  tiger  ! 
If  thou  art  brave,  now  bear  thee  like  a  man, 
And  quit  my  honor  of  this  vile  disgrace  ! 

\Tlicy  fight;  Alvarez  is  disarmed.] 
O  feeble  life,  I  have  too  long  endured  thee  ! 

Oonn. — Thy    sword   is  mine ;     take    back  the 
inglorious  trophy, 
Which  would  disgrace  thy  victor's  thigh  to  wear. 
Now  forward  to  thy  charge,  read  to  the  prince 


264  PIERRE  CORNEILLE. 

This  martial  lecture  of  uiy  famed  exploits ; 

And  from  this  wholesome  chastisement  learn  thou 

To  temi^tthe  patience  of  otfended  honor  !   [Escit.\ 

Ale. — O  rage  !  O  wild  despair  !  O  helpless  age  ! 
Wert  thou  but  lent  me  to  survive  my  honor? 
Am  I  with  martial  toils  worn  giay,  anil  see 
At  last  one  hour's  bliglit  lay  waste  my  laurels? 
Is  this  famed  arm  to  me  alone  defenceless? 
Has  it  so  often  propped  this  empire's  j^lory, 
Fenced,  like  a  rampart,  the  Castilian  throne. 
To  me  alone  disgraceful,  to  its  master  useless? 
O  sharp  remembrance  of  departed  glory  ! 
O  fatal  dignity,  too  dearly  purchased  ! 
Now.  haughty  Goriuaz,  now  guide  thou  my  prince; 
Insulted  honor  is  unht  to  ajiproach  him. 
And  thou,  once  glorious  weapon,  fare  thee  well, 
Old  servant  worthy  of  an  abler  master  I 
Leave  now  forever  his  abandoned  side. 
And,  to  revenge  him,  grace  some  nobler  arm  I — 

[('<  trios  enters.] 
My  son  !  O  Carlos  I  canst  thou  bear  dislionor'/ 

Carlos. — Wliat  villain  dares  occasion.  Sir,  the 
question  'f 
Give  me  his  name  :   the  proof  shall  answer  him. 

..4/1'. — O  just  reproacli !  O  prompt.  I'esentful  fire  ! 
My  blood  rekindles  at  thy  manly  flame, 
And  glads  my  laboring  heart  with  youth's  return. 
Up,  up,  my  son — I  cannot  s^^eak  my  shame — 
Revenge,  revenge  me  I 

Carl. —  O,  my  rage  I— of  what? 

Ale. — Of  an  indignity  so  vile,  my  heart 
Redoubles  all  its  torture  to  repeat  it. 
A  blow ,  a  blow,  my  l)oy  I 

Carl. —  Distraction  !  fury  I 

Alv. — In  vain,  ahts  !  this  feeble  arm  assailed 
"With  mortal  vengeance  the  aggressor's  lieart ; 
He  dallied  with  my  age,  o'erborne,  insulted  ; 
Therefore  to  tliy  young  arm,  for  sure  revenge. 
My  soul's  distress  commits  my  sword  and  cause  : 
Pursue  iiim,  Carlos,  to  the  world's  last  bounds. 
And  from  his  heart  tear  back  our  bleeding  honor  ; 
Nay,  to  inflame  thee  more,  thou 'It  lind  his  brow- 
Covered  with  laurels,  and  far-flamed  his  prowe.ss  : 
O,  I  have  seen  him,  dreadful  in  the  field, 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  365 

Cut  tlirougli  whole  squadrons  his  destructive  way, 
And  snatch  the  gore-dyed  standard  from  the  foe  ! 

Carl. — O,  rack  not  with  his  fame  my  tortured 
heart. 
That  burns  to  know  him  and  ecHpse  his  glory  ! 

Alv. — Though  I  forsee  't  will  strike  thy  soul  to 
hear  it, 
Yet,  since  our  gasping  honor  calls  for  thy 
Relief — O  Carlos  ! — 't  is  Ximena's  father 

Carl—  Ha  ! 

Alv. — Pause  not  for  a  reply — I  know  th)'  love, 
I  know  the  tender  obligations  of  thy  heart, 
And  even  lend  a  sigh  to  thj'  distress. 
I  grant  Ximena  dearer  tlian  thy  life  : 
But  wounded  honor  uuist  surmount  them  both. 
I  need   not  urge   thee   more,    thou  know'st  my 

wrong  ; 
'T  is  in  thy  heart — and  in  thy  hand  the  vengeance  : 
Blood  only  is  the  baha  for  grief  like  mine, 
Which  till  obtained,  I  will  in  darkness  mourn, 
Nor  lift  my  eyes  to  light  till  thy  return. 
But  haste,  o'ertake  this  blaster  of  my  name. 
Fly  swift  to  vengeance,  and  bring  back  my  fame  ! 

[Exit.] 

Carl. — Relentless  heaven  !    is    all    tliy  thunder 
gone  ? 
Not  one  bolt  left  to  finish  my  despair? 
Lie  still,  my  heart,  and  close  this  deadly  wound  I 
Stir  not  to  thought,  for  motion  is  thy  ruin  ! — 
But  see,  the  frighted  poor  Xnnena  comes, 
And  with  her  tremblings  strike  thee  cold  as  death  ! 
My  helpless  father  too,  o'erwhelmed  with  shame. 
Begs  his  dismission  to  his  grave  u  ith  honor. 
Ximena  weeps  ;  heart-pier(;ed,  Alvarez  groans  : 
Rage  hf ts  my  sword,  and  love  arrests  my  arm. 
O  double  torture  of  distracting  woe  ! 
Is  there  no  mean  between  these  sharp  extremes  ? 
Must  honor  perish,  if  I  spare  my  love  i 
O  ignominio  j'=!  pity  !  shameful  softness  ! 
Must  I,  to  right  Alvarez,  kill  Ximena  ? 
O  cruel  vengeance  I  O  heart-wounding  honor  I 
Shall  I  forsake  her  in  her  soul's  extremes, 
Depress  the  virtue  of  her  filial  tears. 
And  bury  in  a  tomb  our  nuptial  joy? 


266  PIERRE  CORNEILLE. 

Shall  that  just  honor,  that  subdued  her  heart. 
Now  build  its  fame  relentless  on  her  sorrows  ? 
Instnict  me.  Heaven,  that  gav'st  me  tliis  distress, 
To  choose,  and  bear  me  worthy  of  my  being  ! 
O  love,  forgive  me,  if  my  hurried  soul 
Should  act  with  error  in  this  storm  of  fortune  ! 
For  Heaven  can  tell  what  pangs  I  feel  to  save 

thee  !— 
But,  hark  !  the  shrieks  of  drowning  honor  call ! 
"Tis  sinking,  gasping,  wliile  I  stand  in  pause  ; 
Plunge  in,  my  heart,  and  save  it  from  the  billows  ! 
It  will  be  so — the  blow 's  too  sharp  a  pain ; 
And  vengeance  has  at  least  this  just  excuse, 
That  even  Xiniena  bluslies  wliilo  I  bear  it ; 
Her  generous  heart,  that  was  by  honor  won. 
Must,  when  that  honor's  stained,  abjure  my  love. 
O  peace  of  miml,  farewell  I    Revenge,  I  come. 
And  raise  thy  altar  on  a  mournful  tomb !     [Exit.] 
— Transl.  o/Cibber. 

FROM  CINNA. 

Livia. — You  know  not  yet  all  the  conspirators  : 
Your  Euiilie  is  one  ;  behold  her  here  ; 

Cinna. — Ye  gods,  'tis  she  ! 

Augustus. —         Thou  too,  my  daughter  !  thou  ! 

Emilie. — Yes  ;    all  that  he  has  done  was  done 
for  me. 
And  I  was.  Sire,  the  cause  and  the  reward. 

Aug. — What  !  doth  the  love  that  but  to-day  had 
birth 
AVithin  thy  heart,  thus  carry  thee  away 
To  die  for  him  ?  too  soon  dost  thou  abandon 
Thy  soul  to  transports  such  as  these,  too  soon 
Thou  lovest  well  the  lover  I  have  given. 

Emil. — Tliis  love,  O  sovereign,    which  doth  me 
expose 
To  your  displeasure  was  not  swiftly  born 
At  your  command  :  the  flame  within  our  hearts, 
Unknown  to  you,  was  kindled  long  ago  ; 
Four  years  and  more  have  we  its  secret  kept. 
But  though  I  loved  him,  though  for  me  he  burned, 
A  hatred  stronger  than  the  strongest  love 
Has  been  tlie  bond  that  l)ound  our  souls  together  ; 
And  never  had  I  given  hope  to  him. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.    .  267 

Had  he  not  sworn  t'  avenge  me  for  my  father. 
I  made  him  swear  it :  then  he  souglit  his  friends. 
Heaven  snatched  success  away,  and  I  am  come 
To  offer  up  a  victim,  not  to  save 
His  life  by  taldng  on  myself  his  crime  ; 
After  that  crime  his  death  is  only  just, 
And  baffled  treason  has  no  claim  to  mercy. 
To  die  before  him,  and  rejoin  my  sire 
Is  all  I  hope,  and  all  that  brings  me  here, 

Aug.—O  heaven  !  how  long,  and  by  what  right, 
dost  thou 
"Within  my  very  doors  conspire  against  me? 
For  her  debaucheries  I  banished  Julia. 
And  then  my  love  made  choice  of  Emilie  : 
Unworthy  of  my  favor  too  she  proves. 
One  soiled  my  honor,  one  my  blood  would  spill, 
Ar,d  each  l.e"  iwssion  blindly  following. 
One  is  immodest,  one  a  parricide. 
Thus,  child,  dost  thou  repay  my  kindnesses  ! 

Emil. — My  father's  cares  for  you  were  thus  re- 
paid, [youth. 

^Jtgr.— Remember  with  what  love  I  taught  thy 

^»ji7.— Yours  did  he  guide  with  the  same  ten- 
derness. 
He  was  your  teacher  ;  you  were  his  assassin, 
And  you  have  led  me  in  the  way  of  crime. 
,  In  this  alone  we  differ— your  ambition 
Did  immolate  my  father,  and  the  wrath 
That  justly  burns  within  me,  at  his  blood 
Unjustly  shed,  would  immolate  3'ou  now. 

Liv. — Too  much  of  this  !     Remember,  Emilie, 
That  he  full  well  thy  father  has  repaid. 
His  death,  whose  memory  thy  fury  fires, 
AVas  of  Octavius  a  crime,  not  (;'a?sar. 
All  crimes  of  State  committed  for  the  crown 
Heaven  pardons  us  when  it  the  crown  bestows, 
And  in  the  sacred  rank  where,  by  its  favor, 
We  dwell  to  day.  the  past  is  justified. 
The  future  unforbidden  :  -uiio  can  attain 
This  power  may  not  be  counted  culpable  ; 
Whatever  he  has  done,  whatever  may  do, 
He  is  inviolable  :  all  our  wealth 
We  owe  to  him,  our  days  are  in  his  hand. 
No  right  have  we  above  our  sovereign's  own. 


268  .   PIERRE  CORNEILLE. 

Emil. — Trul)-,  in  what  you  heard  me  say  but 
now, 
I  spoke  to  exasperate  the  emperor, 
Not  to  defend  myself  ;  then  punish,  Caesar, 
These  traitor  charms  wliich  of  your  favorites 
Have  ingrates  made  :  cut  ofl  my  mournful  days, 
That  yours  may  be  secure  ;  for  if  my  wiles 
Have  Cinna  drawn  away  from  his  allegiance, 
Other  brave  men  like  him  I  can  seduce. 
More  to  bo  feared  am  I,  you  more  in  danger, 
If  I  both  love  and  kindred  must  avenge  I 

Cui.— Seduced  me  !  you  !  what  mortal  pangs  I 
suffer 
Dishonored  thus  by  her  wliom  I  adore  ! 
Here  nuu;t  the  Iruih  be  told  :  before  I  loved  her. 
This  plot  was  formed  by  me  alone,  and  when 
I  found  her  deaf  to  all  the  i)rayers  of  love. 
And  deemed   that  she  to  other  thoughts  might 

listen, 
I  spoke  to  her  of  vengeance,  of  her  sire. 
His  death  untimely,  your  severity. 
And  with  my  heart,  I  olTered  her  my  arm  : 
How  sweet  is  vengeance  to  a  woman's  soul  I 
By  that  I  sought,  by  that  1  won  her  love.    • 
For  my  small  merit  she  would  none  of  me  ; 
She  could  not  slight  the  arm  that  would  avenge 

her. 
She  has  conspired  but  by  my  artifice  ; 
The  author  I,  she  the  accomplice  only. 

J^hhV.— Cinna,  what  darest  thou  say?   is  this 
thy  love. 
To  take  away  my  honor  in  tiie  hour 
When  I  must  die ?    Thus  dost  tliou  cherish  me  ? 

Ct«.— Die,  but  in  dying  sully  not  my  glory  ! 

Emil— Inline  fades  if  Ciesar  Mill  believe    thee 
now. 

Cin. — And  mine  is  lost  if  to  yourself  you  take 
All  that  which  follows  on  a  deed  so  noble. 

Emil— Take  then  thy  part  of  it.,  and  leave  me 
mine  ; 
That  can  be  lessened  but  by  lessening  thine. 
Glory  and  pleasure,  shame  and  torment  all 
Belong  alike  to  those  who  truly  love. 
Two  Ron\an  souls  are  ours,  O  emperor  1 


THOMAS  (»RNEILLE.  269 

And  joining  our  desires  we  join  our  hate  ? 
Bitter  resentment  for  our  kindred  lost 
Taught  us  our  duty  in  the  self-same  breath. 
Our  hearts  united  in  the  noble  plan  ; 
Together  did  cue  generous  souls  conspire  ; 
We  seek  together  now  a  glorious  death, 
You  will  unite,  you  cannot  sever  us  ! 

Aug. — Ingrate,  perfidious  pair  !  my  enemy 
Greater  than  .Vntony  and  Lepidus, 
I  will  unite  you,  yea,  I  will  imite  you, 
Since  this  you  crave  !     'Tis  well  to  feed  the  fires 
With  which  you  burn,  and  well  it  is  that  knowing 
What  anijuates  my  vengeance,  earth  and  heaven 
Should  stand  astonished  at  the  expiatio)i, 
As  well  as  at  the  crime  ! 

—Transl.  of  Amelia  D.  Aldex. 

CORNEILLK.  Thomas,  the  younger  bro- 
ther of  Pierre,  a  French  dramatist,  born  in 
1625,  died  in  1709.  After  completing  his  stud- 
ies at  tlie  Jesuits'  College  in  Rouen,  he  went 
to  Paris,  and  influenced  by  his  brother's  ex- 
ample, turned  his  attention  to  the  drama.. 
His  first  piece,  Les  Engagements  du  Hasard 
was  acted  in  1647.  Timocrate  (IQo^),  was  one 
of  the  most  successfid  of  French  plays,  being 
i^presented  every  night  for  six  successive 
months.  Of  the  tragedies,  Darius  (1660), 
Stilicon  (Um.Camma,  de Eeine  Galatie(imi), 
and  Laodicr,  Heine  de  Capimdoce  (1668).  Pierre 
Corneillc  said  that  he  Avished  he  had  written 
them.  Notwithstanding  their  twenty  years' 
difference  in  age,  the  brothers  Corneille  lived 
in  singular  harmony.  They  married  sisters 
differing  in  age  like  themselves,  occupied  the 
same  house,  and  employed  the  same  servant. 
The  property  of  their  waves  was  not  divided 
until  after  the  death  of  Pierre.  Thomas  suc- 
ceeded his  brother  in  the  Academj^.  He  was 
the  author  of  thirty-six  plays.  Among  those 
not  previously  mentioned  are  the  comedies, 
V  Amour  d  la  Mode  (1653),   Le  GeoUer  de  soi- 


270  THOMAS  CORNEILLE. 

ineme  (1657).  Les  Illustres  Enneniis  (1654),  Le 
Festin  de  St.  Pierre  (1672),  and  the  tragedies, 
Berenice  (1657),  Pyrrhus  (1661),  La  Mort  d' 
Annibal  (1669),  Ariane  (1672),  and  Le  Comte 
(V  Essex  (1678).  Corneille  also  made  a  com- 
plete translation  of  Ovid's  Metamorphoses, 
and  just  before  his  death  completed  a  large 
Geographical  and  Historical  Dictionary,  the 
labor  of  fiteen  years. 

THE  GRIEF  OP   ARIADNE. 

Nerine. — O  calm  this  grief  !  where  will  it  carry 
thee  ? 
Knowest  thou  not  the  loudness  of  thy  cries 
Will  bear  thy  wild  designs  throughout  the  palace? 

Ariadne.— What  matter  if  afar  my  plaints  are 
heartl  ? 
Lovers  betrayed  have  oft  been  seen  and  known  : 
Others  ere  this  in  faith  have  lacking  been, 
But  never  was  it  as  with  me,  Nerine. 
By  the  warm  love  I  've  borne  for  Theseus 
Have  I  deserved  to  see  myself  despised  ? 
Of  all  that  I  have  done  behold  the  fruit ! 
I  fled  for  him  alone  ;  from  me  he  flees. 
For  him  alone  I  have  disdained  a  crown  : 
Winning  my  sister,  he  conspires  my  loss. 
Each  day  new  pledges  of  my  faith  are  given  : 
On  him  I  blessings  lieap  ;  he  overwhelms 
My  soul  with  woes  ;  relentless,  to  the  end 
He  follows  me,  and  when  I  fondly  strive 
His  death  to  hinder,  tears  my  life  awaj'. 
After  the  shameful  scandal  of  a  deed 
So  base,  no  more  I  feel  astonishment 
That  he  should  fear  again  my  face  to  see  : 
Shame  makes  him  shun  a  meeting,  but  at  length, 
He  must  again  behold  me  :  then  I  '11  prove 
His  power  to  stand  against  the  memory 
Of  all  he  owes  me  ;   for  my  tears  shall  speak, 
And  if  he  sees  them,  he  is  conquered  quite. 
No  more  will  I  restrain  them,  and  his  heart 
By  this  same  weakness  shall  be  overwhelmed, 
And  his  lost  tenderness  again  be  won. 

— Ariane. 

CORNWALL,   Barry.     See    Procter, 
Bryax  "    . 


LOUISE  STUART  COSTELLO.  271 

COSTELLO,  Louise  Stuart,  a  British  his- 
torical and  miscellaneous  writer,  born  in 
1799,  died  in  1870.  Having  lost  her  father  iu 
early  youth,  she  aided  in  the  support  of  her 
mother  and  brother,  by  her  work  as  an  art- 
ist. When  sixteen  years  of  age  she  publish- 
ed The  Maid  of  Cyprus  and  other  Poems. 
Her  later  works  are  Songs  of  a  Stranger 
(IS25);  Specimens  of  the  Early  Poetry  of 
France  (1835);  A  Summer  among  the  Bo- 
cages  and  Vines  (IS-iO);  The  Quee  us  Poisoner, 
a  historical  romance,  (1841) ;  Beam  and  the 
Pyrenees  and  Memoirs  of  Eminent  English- 
t6'o?ne?i  (1844) ;  The  Rose-Gardeu  of  Persia,  a 
translation  of  Persian  poems  (1845) ;  The  Falls, 
Lakes,  aiid  Mountains  of  North  Wales  (1845); 
Clara  Fane,  a  novel  (1848);  Memoir  of  Mary 
of  Burgundy  (1853),  and  Memoir  of  Anne  of 
Brittany  (1855). 

THE  VEILED  FIGURE  AT  LE  MANS. 

After  considerable  toil,  Ave  reached  the  plat- 
form where  once  stood  the  chateau,  and  where 
still  stands  a  curious  building,  all  towers  and  tour- 
elles,  some  ugly,  and  some  of  graceful  form,  the 
latter  apparently  of  the  period  of  Cliarles  VI.  Im- 
•mediately  before  the  steps  in  the  square  above  us 
rose  the  catliedral,  which  we  came  upon  una- 
wares ;  and  exactly  in  front  of  us,  in  an  angle, 
partly  concealed  by  the  broad  shadow,  we  per- 
ceived a  figure  so  mysterious,  so  remarkable,  that 
it  was  impossible  not  to  create  in  the  mind  of  the 
beholder  the  most  interesting  speculations.  Tliis 
extraordinary  figure  deserves  particular  descrip- 
tion, and  I  hope  it  may  be  viewed  by  some  person 
more  able  than  myself  to  explain  it,  or  one  more 
fortunate  than  I  was  in  obtaining  information  re- 
specting it.  .  .  . 

Seated  in  an  angle  of  the  exterior  walls  of  the 
cathedral,  on  a  rude  stone,  is  a  reddish-looking 
block,  which  has  all  the  appearence  of  a  veiled 
priest,  covei-ed  with  a  large  mantle,  which  con- 
ceals his  hands  and  face.    The  height  of  the  figure 


572  SOPHIE  C'On^IN. 

is  about  eight  feet  as  it  sits;  the  feet,  huge  unform- 
ed masses,  covered  with  wliat  seems  drapery,  are 
sujiported  on  a  square  pedestal,  which  is  again 
Bustained  by  one  larger,  wliich  projects  from  the 
aiigle  of  the  building.  The  veil,  tlie  ample  man- 
tle, and  two  under-gai'ments,  all  flowing  in  grace- 
ful folds,  and  defining  the  shape,  may  be  clearly 
di.-tiuguishcd.  No  features  are  visil^le,  nor  are 
the  limbs  actually  apparent,  except  through  the 
uninterrupted  waving  lines  of  the  drapery,  or 
what  may  be  called  so.  A  part  of  thesitleof 
what  seems  the  head  has  been  sliced  off,  other- 
wise the  block  is  entire.  It  would  scarcely  ap- 
pear to  have  been  sculptured,  but  has  the  effect  of 
one  of  those  sports  of  Nature  in  which  she  delights 
to  offer  representations  of  forms  which  the  fancy 
can  shape  into  symmetry.  There  is  something 
singularly  Egyptian  about  the  form  of  this  swath- 
ed figure  :  or  it  is  like  those  Indian  idols,  wJiose 
contours  are  scarcely  defined  to  the  eye.  It  is  so 
wrapped  up  in  mystery,  and  so  surrounded  with 
ol)livinn.  that  tlie  mind  is  lost  in  amazement  in 
contemplating  it.  Di<l  it  belong  to  a  worship  long 
since  swei)t  away? — was  it  a  god  of  the  Gauls,  or 
a  veiled  Jupiter? — how  came  it  squeezed  in  be- 
tween two  walls  of  the  great  churcii,  close  to  the 
ground,  yet  supported  by  steps? — why  was  it  not 
removed  on  the  introduction  of  a  purer  worship? 
— how  came  it  to  escape  destruction  when  saints 
and  angels  fell  around  it? — who  plnced  it  there, 
and  for  what  purpose  ?  Will  no  zealous  antiqua- 
rian, on  his  way  from  a  visit  to  the  wondrous  cir- 
cle of  Camas  and  the  gigantic  Dolmens  of  Sau- 
mur,  pause  at  Le  Mans,  at  this  obscure  corner  of 
the  cathedral,  opposite  the  huge  Pans  de  Gorron, 
and  tell  the  Morld  the  meaning  of  this  figure  with 
the  stone  veil? — Beam  and  the  Pyrenees. 

COTTIN,  Sophie  CRistaud),  a  French  au- 
-thor,  born  at  Tonneins,  in  1773,  died  in  1807. 
She  was  educated  at  Boi'deaux,  was  married 
at  the  ago  of  seventeen,  and  was  a  widow  at 
twenty.  From  her  mother  she  inherited  a 
passion  for  books.    Left  without  cliildren  she 


SOPHIE  COTTIN.  ^  373 

turned  to  literature  for  relief  from  loneliness. 
Her  first  work,  Claire  D'Albe,  was  published 
anonymously  in  1798,  the  proceeds  of  its  sale 
being  given  to  a  proscribed  friend  who  was 
leaving  Frange.  It  was  followed  by  Malvina 
in  1800,  Amelia  Mansfield  in  1802,  Matilda, 
Princess  of  England,  in  1805,  and  Elizabeth; 
or  the  Exiles  of  Siberia  in  1806.  This  touch- 
ing story  of  filial  devotion  added  greatly  to 
Mme.  Cottin's  fame.  It  recoiuits  the  hard- 
ships and  sufferings  of  a  young  girl,  journey- 
ing on  foot  from  Tobolsk  to  Moscow  to  obtain 
pardon  for  her  exiled  father. 

A  WE.\RY  JOURNEY. 

In  tlie  course  of  her  journey  Elizabetli  often  met 
with  objects  wluclx  ailected  her  compassionate 
heart  in  a  degree  liardly  inferior  to  lier  own  dis- 
tress. Sometimes  she  encountered  wretches 
chained  together,  who  were  condemned  to  work 
for  life  in  tlie  mines,  or  to  inhabit  the  dreary  coasts 
of  Angara,  and  sometimes  she  came  across  troops 
of  emigrants,  who  were  destined  to  people  the 
new  cit}',  building,  by  the  Emperor's  order,  on  the 
confines  of  Cluna ;  some  on  foot,  and  others  on 
the  cars  which  conveyed  the  animals,  poultry,  and 
.baggage.  Notwithstanding  these  were  crmiinals, 
who  had  been  sentenced  to  a  milder  doom,  for 
oflfences  which  might  have  been  punished  with 
death,  they  did  not  fail  to  excite  compassion  in 
her.  But  wlien  she  met  exiles  escorted  by  an 
Officer  of  State,  whose  noble  mien  called  to  her 
mind  her  father,  slie  could  not  forbear  shedding 
tears  at  their  fate.  Sometimes  she  offered  tliem 
consolation  ;  pity,  however,  was  the  only  gift  she 
had  to  bestow.  Witli  that  she  soothed  their  soi*- 
rovvs,  and  by  a  return  of  pity  must  she  now  de- 
pend for  subsistence  ;  for  on  her  arrival  at  Voldo- 
mir,  all  she  had  was  one  rouble.  She  had  been 
nearly  three  months  in  her  journey  from  Sarapol 
to  Yoldomir,  but,  through  the  kind  hospitality  of 
the  Russian  peasants,  who  never  take  any  pay- 
ment for  milk  and  bread,  her  little  treasure  had 


274  SOPHIE  COTTIN. 

not  been  yet  exhausted.  Now  all  began  to  fail ; 
her  feet  were  almost  bare,  and  her  ragged  dress 
ill-defended  her  from  a  frigidity  of  atmosphere 
which  had  already  sunk  the  thermometer  thirty 
degrees  below  the  freezing  point,  and  which  in- 
creased daily.  The  ground  was  covered  with 
snow  more  than  two  feet  deep.  Sometimes  it 
congealed  while  falling,  and  appeared  like  a 
shower  of  ice,  so  thick  that  earth  and  sky  were 
equally  concealed  froni  view.  At  other  times  tor- 
rents of  rain  rendered  the  roads  almost  impassable; 
or  gusts  of  wind  arose,  so  violent  that  to  defend 
herself  from  their  rude  assaults,  she  was  obliged 
to  dig  a  hole  in  the  snow,  covering  her  head  with 
large  pieces  of  the  bark  of  pine-trees,  which  she 
dexterously  strii)ped  off,  as  she  had  seen  done  by 
the  inhabitants  of  Siberia. 

One  of  these  tempestuous  hurricanes  had  raised 
the  snow  in  thick  clouds,  and  had  created  an  ob- 
scurity so  impenetrable  that  Elizabeth,  no  longer 
able  to  discern  tlie  road,  and  stumbling  at  every 
step,  was  obliged  to  stop.  She  took  refuge  under 
a  rock  to  which  she  clung  as  firmly  as  she  could, 
that  she  might  withstand  the  fury  of  a  storm 
which  overthrew  all  around  her.  Whilst  she  was 
in  this  perilous  situation,  with  her  head  bent  down, 
a  confused  noise,  that  appeared  to  issue  from  be- 
liind  the  spot  where  she  stood,  raised  a  hope  that 
a  better  shelter  might  be  found.  With  difficulty 
she  tottered  round  the  rock,  and  discovered  a 
kibitlci,  which  had  been  overtm-ned  and  broken, 
and  a  hut  at  no  great  distance.  She  implored  en- 
trance. An  old  woman  opened  the  door ;  and 
struck  with  the  wretchedness  of  her  appearance — 
'•My  poor  child  !  ■'  said  she,  "■whence  dost  thou 
come,  and  why  art  thou  wandering  thus  alone  in 
this  dreadful  weather  V"  To  this  interrogation 
Elizabeth  made  her  usual  r^ply  :  "  I  come  from 
beyond  Tobolsk,  and  am  going  to  St.  Petersburg 
to  solicit  Tuy  father's  pardon." 

At  these  words  a  man  who  was  sitting  in  a 
corner  of  the  room,  suddenly  raised  his  head  from 
between  his  hands,  and  regarding  her  with  an  air 
of  astonishment,  exclaimed  :    '•  Is  it  possible  that 


SOPHIE  COTTIN.  ^T.l 

you  come  from  so  remote  a,  country,  alone,  and 
during  this  tenipestuovis  season,  to  solicit  pardon 
for  your  father?  Alas!  my  poor  child  would 
perhaps  liave  done  as  much,  but  the  barbarians 
tore  me  from  ]\er  arms,  leaving  her  in  ignorance 
of  my  fate.  She  knows  not  wliat  has  become  of 
me.  She  cannot  plead  for  merc3\  Never  shall  I 
again  behold  her — the  affecting  thought  will  kill 
me  ;  separated  forever  from  my  child,  I  cannot 
live.  Now  indeed  that  I  know  my  doom,"  con- 
tinued the  unhappy  father,  "  I  might  inform  her 
of  it ;  I  have  written  a  letter  to  her,  but  the  car- 
rier belonging  to  this  kibitki,  who  is  returning  to 
Riga,  the  place  of  her  abode,  will  not  undertake 
the  charge  of  it  without  some  small  compensation, 
and  I  cannot  offer  him  any.  Not  a  single  kopeck 
do  I  possess  :  the  barbarians  ha^-e  stripped  me  of 
everything." 

Elizabeth  drew  from  her  pocket  the  last  rouble 
she  had,  and  asked  in  timid  accents,  as  she  pre- 
sented it  to  the  unfortunate  exile  :  "  If  that  would 
be  enough  !  "  He  pressed  to  his  lips  the  generous 
hand  that  was  held  forth  to  succor  him,  and 
offered  the  money  to  the  carrier.  Like  the 
widow's  mite,  Heaven  bestowed  its  blessing  on 
the  offering.  The  carrier  M-as  satisfied  and  took 
charge  of  the  letter.  Thus  did  her  noble  sacrifice 
"  produce  a  fruit  worthy  of  her  heart ;  it  relieved 
the  agonized  feelings  of  a  parent,  and  carried 
consolation  to  the  wounded  bosom  of  a  child.  .  .  . 

From  Voldomir  to  the  village  of  Pokroff  the 
road  lies  through  extensive  forests  of  oaks,  elms, 
aspens,  and  wild  apple-trees.  These  trees  afford 
an  asylum  to  banditti.  In  winter,  as  the  boughs 
despoiled  of  their  foliage  form  but  a  poor  hiding- 
place,  these  bands  of  robbers  are  less  formidable. 
Elizabeth,  however,  during  her  journey,  heard 
numerous  accounts  of  thefts  that  had  been  com- 
mitted. A  few  versts  from  Pokroff'  the  high-road 
had  been  destroyed  by  a  hurricane,  and  travellers 
proceeding  to  Moscow  were  obliged  to  make  a  con- 
siderable circuit  through  swamps  occasioned  by 
the  inundations  of  the  Volga.  These  were  now 
hardened  by  the  frost  to  a  solidity  equal  to  dry 


276  SOPHIE  COTTIN, 

land.  Elizabeth  endeavored  to  follow  the  route 
■wiiich  had  been  pointed  out  to  her  ;  but  after 
walking  for  more  than  an  hour  over  this  icy  des- 
ert, through  wliich  were  no  traces  of  a  road,  she 
found  herself  in  a  swampy  marsh,  from  which 
every  endeavor  to  extricate  herself  was  for  a  long 
time  in  vain.  At  length,  Avith  great  ditficulty, 
she  attained  a  little  hillock.  Covered  with  mud, 
and  exhausted  with  fatigue,  she  seated  herself  up- 
on a  stone  to  rest,  and  to  dry  her  sandals  in  the 
sun,  which  at  that  moment  shone  in  full  lustre. 
The  environs  of  this  spot  appeared  to  be  perfectly 
desolate  :  no  signs  of  a  human  dwelling  were  vis- 
ible ;  solitude  and  silence  prevailed  around.  She 
found  that  she  must  have  strayed  far  away  from 
the  road,  and,  notwithstanding  all  the  courage 
with  which  she  was  endued,  her  heart  failed. 
Her  situation  was  alarming  in  the  extreme  ;  be- 
hind was  tiie  bog  she  had  just  crossed,  and  before 
her  an  immense  forest,  tluough  which  no  track 
was  to  be  distinguished. 

At  length  day  began  to  close  ;  and  notwith- 
standing her  extreme  weariness,  she  had  to  pro- 
ceed in  search  of  shelter  for  the  night.  In  vain 
did  she  wander  about,  sometimes  following  one 
track  and  then  another.  No  object  presented  it- 
self to  revive  her  hopes,  no  sound  reanimated  her 
drooping  spirits ;  that  of  a  human  voice  would 
have  filled  her  heart  with  joy.  Suddenly  she  heard 
voices,  and  some  men  issued  from  the  forest.  She 
hastened  towards  them,  but  their  savage  au*  and 
stem  countenances  dismayed  her.  All  tlie  stories 
she  had  heard  of  banditti  immediately  occurred  to 
her,  and  she  feared  a  judgment  awaited  her  for 
the  temerity  with  which  she  had  indulged  the  idea 
that  a  special  Providence  watched  over  her  pre- 
servation, and  she  fell  upon  her  knees  to  humble 
herself  in  the  presence  of  God.  The  troop  advanc- 
ed and  stopped  before  Elizabeth,  and  regarding 
lier  with  surprise  and  curiosity,  demanded  whence 
she  came,  and  what  had  brought  her  there.  With 
downcast  eyes  she  replied  that  she  had  come  from 
beyond  Tobolsk,  and  that  she  was  going  to  Saint 
Petersburg,  to  solicit  from  the  Empeior  a  pardon 


JOSEPH  COTTLE.  277 

for  her  father.  She  added  that,  having  lost  her 
way,  she  was  now  seeking  for  a  refuge  for  the 
niglit.  The  men  were  astonished,  and  asked  her 
what  mone}'  she  had  to  undertake  so  long  a  jour- 
ney. Slie  showed  tliem  the  little  coin  given  to 
her  by  the  boatman  of  tlie  Volga. 

"  Is  that  all?"  they  asked. 

"  It  is  all,"  she  replied. 

At  this  answer,  delivered  with  a  candor  that 
enforced  belief,  the  robbers  looked  at  each  other 
with  amazemeni.  They  \\-ere  not  moved  nor  soft- 
ened. Rendered  callous  by  long  habits  of  vice,  an 
action  of  such  noble  lieroism  as  that  of  Elizabeth 
had  no  such  influence  over  their  souis,  but  it  ex- 
cited wondei-.  They  could  not  comprehend  what 
they  felt  necessitated  to  believe,  and  restrained  by 
a  kind  of  veneration,  they  dared  not  injure  the  ob- 
ject of  Heaven's  evident  protection  ;  so  passing 
on,  they  said  to  each  other:  "Let  us  leave  her  ; 
some  supex-natural  Power  shields  her." 

Elizabeth  hurried  from  them.  She  had  not 
penetrated  far  into  the  forest  before  four  roads, 
crossing  each  other,  presented  themselves  to  her 
view.  In  one  of  the  angles  which  they  formed 
was  a  little  chapel  dedicated  to  the  Virgin,  and 
over  it  a  post  inscribed  with  the  names  of  the 
towns  to  which  the  roads  led.  Elizabeth  prostrat- 
ed herself  to  offer  her  grateful  acknowledgments 
to  the  Omnipotent  Being  who  had  preserved  her  : 
the  robbers  were  not  mistaken,  she  was  protected 
by  a  supernatural  Power. — The  Exiles  of  Sibena. 

COTTLE,  Joseph,  an  English  author,  born 
about  1770,  died  in  1853.  He  was  a  booksel- 
ler and  publisher  in  Bristol.  He  was  the  au- 
thor of  Malvern  Hills,  Alfred,  The  Fall  of 
Cambria,  and  Reminiscences  of  Coleridge 
and  Sonfhey,  whose  earlier  works  he  had 
published. 

THE  PANTISOCRACY. 

At  the  close  of  the  year  1794,  a  clever  young 
man  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  of  the  name  of 
Robert  Lovell,  who  had  married  a  Miss  Fricker, 


378  JOSEPH  COTTLE. 

informed  me  that  a  few  friends  of  liis  from  Ox- 
ford and  Caual)ridge,  with  liimself,  were  about  to 
sail  to  America,  and  on  the  banks  of  the  Susque- 
hanna, to  form  a  Social  Colony,  in  wliich  there 
was  to  be  a  community  of  proj)erty,  and  where  all 
that  was  selfish  was  to  be  proscribed.  None,  he 
said,  wei'e  to  be  admitted  into  their  numbers,  but 
tried  and  incorruptible  characters ;  and  he  felt 
quite  assured  that  he  and  his  friends  would  be 
able  to  realize  a  state  of  society  free  from  the 
evils  and  turmoils  that  then  agitated  the  world, 
and  to  present  an  example  of  the  eminence  to 
which  men  might  arrive  under  the  unrestrained 
influence  of  sound  principles.  He  now  paid  me 
the  compliment  of  saying  that  he  would  be  happy 
to  include  me  in  this  select  assemblage  wiio,  un- 
der a  state  which  he  called  Pantisocracy,  were,  he 
hoped,  to  regenerate  the  whole  complexion  of  so- 
ciety ;  and  that,  not  by  establishing  formal  laws, 
but  by  excluding  all  the  little  deteriorating  pas- 
sions, injustice,  "  wrath,  anger,  clamor,  and  evil 
speaking,"  and  thereby  setting  an  example  of 
"Human  Perfectibility.'".  .  .  . 

"  How  do  you  go  'i "  said  I.  !My  young  and  ar- 
dent friend  instantly  replied  : 

••We  freight  a  ship,  carrying  out  with  us 
ploughs,  and  other  implements  of  husbandry." 

The  thought  occurred  to  me,  that  it  might  be 
more  econojnical  to  purchase  such  articles  in 
America  ;  but  not  too  nuich  to  discourage  the  en- 
thusiastic asjjirant  after  happiness,  I  forebore  all 
reference  to  the  accumulation  of  difficulties  to  be 
surmounted,  and  merely  inquired  who  were  to 
compose  his  company.  He  said  that  onlj'  four  had 
as  yet  absolutely  engaged  in  the  enterprise  :  Sam- 
uel Taylor  Coleridge,  from  Cambridge  (in  whom 
I  understood  the  plan  to  have  originated) ;  Robert 
Southey  and  George  Burnet,  from  Oxford,  and 
himself.  "Well,"  I  replied,  "when  doyou  set  sail?" 
He  answered,  "  Very  shorth'.  I  soon  expect  my 
friends  from  the  Universities,  when  all  the  prelim- 
inaries will  be  adjusted,  and  we  shall  joyfully  cross 
the  blue  waves  of  the  Atlantic."  "  But."  said  I, 
"  to  freight  a  ship,  and  sail  out  in  the  high  style 


JOSEPH  COTTLE.  279 

of  gentlemen  agriculturists,  will  require  funds. 
How  do  you  u\anage  this  V  "  "  We  all  contribute 
what  we  can,"  said  he,  "  and  I  shall  introduce  all 
my  dear  friends  to  you,  imme<liately  on  their  ar- 
rival at  Bristol.".  .  .  . 

One  morning' shortly  after,  Robert  Lovell  called 
on  me,  and  introduced  Robert  Southey.  Never 
will  the  impression  be  effaced,  produced  on  me  by 
this  young  man.  Tall,  dignified,  possessing  great 
suavity  of  manners  :  an  eye  piercing,  with  a 
countenance  full  of  genius,  kindliness  and  intelli- 
gence, I  gave  him  at  ouce  the  right  hand  of  fel- 
lowship, and  to  the  moment  of  his  decease,  tiiat 
cordiality  was  never  withdrawn.  .  .  . 

After  some  considerable  delay,  it  was  at  length 
announced  that  on  the  coining  morning  Samuel 
Taylor  Coleridge  would  arrive  in  Bristol,  as  the 
nearest  and  most  convenient  port :  and  where  he 
was  to  reside  but  a  short  time  before  tlie  favoring 
gales  were  to  waft  him  and  his  friends  across  the 
Atlantic.  Robert  ho\e]\  at  length  introduced  Mr. 
Coleridge.  I  instantly  descried  his  intellectual 
character  ;  exhibiting,  as  he  did,  an  eye,  a  brow, 
and  a  forehead,  indicative  of  commanding  genius. 
Interviews  succeeded,  and  these  increased  the  im- 
pression of  respect.  .  .  . 

Though  the  ship  was  not  engaged,  nor  the  least 
I)reparation  made  for  so  long  a  voyage,  still  the 
delights  and  wide-spreading  advantages  of  Pant- 
isocracy  formed  one  of  their  everlasting  themes  of 
conversation.  It  will  excite  merely  an  innocent 
smile  in  the  reader  at  the  extravagance  of  a  youth- 
ful and  ardent  mind,  when  he  Jearns  that  Robert 
Lovell  stated  with  great  seriousness,  that— after 
the  minutest  calculation  and  inquiry  among  prac- 
tical men — the  demand  on  their  labor  would  not 
exceed  two  hours  a  day  ;  that  is,  for  the  produc- 
tion of  absolute  necessaries.  The  leisure  still 
remaining  might  be  devoted,  in  convenient  frac- 
tions, to  the  extension  of  their  domain,  by  pros- 
trating th.e  sturdy  trees  of  the  forest,  where  "lop 
and  top."  witiiout  cost,  would  supply  their  cheer- 
ful winter  lire  ;  and  the  trunks,  when  cut  into 
planks,  without  any  other  expense  than  their  own 


280  CHARLES  COTTON. 

pleasant  labor,  M'oiild  form  the  sties  for  their  pigs, 
and  the  linnies  for  their  cattle,  and  the  barns  for 
their  produce  ;  reserving  the  choicest  timbers  for 
their  own  comfortable  dwellings.  But  after  every 
claim  that  might  be  made  on  their  manual  labor 
liave  been  discharged,  a  large  portion  of  time 
would  still  remain  for  their  own  individual  pur- 
suits, so  that  tliey  might  read,  converse,  and  even 
write  books. — Reminiscences  of  Coleridge  and 
Southey. 

COTTON,  Charles,  an  English  poet,  born 
in  163U,  died  in  1687.  lie  was  educated  at 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  At  twenty- 
eight  he  succeeded  to  the  family  estates, 
which,  though  nominally  large,  had  become 
greatlj-  euctmibered  by  the  extravagance  of 
his  father.  He  lived  the  life  of  a  jolly  country 
gentleman,  always  in  want  of  more  money 
than  he  had.  He  wrote  a  good  deal  of  verse, 
either  original  or  translated  from  the  French 
and  Italian.  Among  his  friends  was  Izaak 
Walton;  and  the  best  of  Cotton's  verse  grew 
out  of  this  intimacy : 

INVITATION  TO   IZAAK  WALTON. 

Whilst  in  this  cold  and  blustering  clime, 

Where  bleak  winds  howl,  and  tempests  roar, 

We  pass  away  the  roughest  time 
Has  been  of  many  years  before  : 

Whilst  from  the  most  tempestuous  nooks, 
The  dullest  blasts  our  peace  invade, 

And  by  great  rains  our  smallest  brooks 
Are  almost  navigable  made  ; 

Whilst  all  the  ills  are  so  improved 

Of  this  dead  quarter  of  the  year. 
That  even  you,  so  much  lielovcd. 

We  would  not  now  wish  with  us  here  : 

In  this  estate,  I  say,  it  is 

Some  comfort  to  us  to  suppose 
That  in  a  better  clime  than  this. 

You.  our  dear  friend,  have  more  repose  ; 


CHARLES  COTTON.  2^1 

An<l  some  delight  to  me  the  while. 

Though  Nature  now  does  weep  in  rain, 
To  think  that  I  have  seen  her  smile, 

And  haply  I  may  do  again. 
If  the  all-ruling  Power  please 
We  live  to  see  anotlier  May, 
AVe  '11  recompense  an  age  of  these 

Foul  days  in  one  line  fishing-day. 

We  then  shall  have  a  day  or  two. 

Perliaps  a  week,  wherein  to  try 

What  the  best  master's  hand  ran  do 

With  the  most  deadly  killing  tly. 

A  day  with  not  too  bright  a  beam  ; 

A  warm,  but  not  a  scorching  sun  : 
A  southern  gale  to  curl  tlie  stream  : 

And,  master,  half  our  work  is  done. 
Then,  whilst  behind  some  bush  we  wait 

The  scaly  people  to  betray. 
We  "11  prove  it  just,  with  treacherous  bait 

To  make  the  preying  trout  our  prey  ; 
And  think  ourselves,  in  such  an  hour. 

Happier  than  those,  though  not  so  high, 
Who,  like  leviathans,  devour 

Of  meaner  men  the  smaller  fry. 
This,  my  best  friend,  at  my  poor  home, 
Shall  be  our  pastime  and  our  theme  ; 
But  then— should  you  not  deign  to  come. 
You  make  all  this  a  flattering  dream. 

NO  ILLS  BUT   WHAT   WE  MAKE. 

There  are  no  ills  but  what  we  make 

Bv  giving  shapes  and  names  to  things, 
Which  is  the  dangerous  mistake 

That  causes  all  our  sufferings. 
O  fruitful  grief,  the  world's  disease  ! 

And  vainer  man  to  make  it  so. 
Who  gives  his  miseries  increase. 

By  cultivating  his  own  woe  ! 
We  call  that  sickness  which  is  health ; 

That  persecution  which  is  grace  ; 
That  poverty  whici.  is  true  wealth  ; 
And  that  dishonor  which  is  praise. 


28S  NATHANIEL  COTTON. 

Alas  !  our  time  is  here  so  short, 
That  in  what  state  see  er  'tis  spent, 

Of  joy  or  woe,  does  not  import, 
Provided  it  be  innocent. 

But  we  may  make  it  pleasant  too. 

If  we  will  take  our  measures  right, 
And  not  what  Heaven  has  done  undo 

By  an  unruly  appetite. 
The  M-orld  is  full  of  beaten  roads. 

But  yet  .so  slippery  withal, 
That  where  one  walks  secure  'tis  odds 

A  hundred  and  a  hundred  fall. 

Untrodflen  paths  are  then  the  best;. 

Where  the  frequented  are  unsure  • 
And  he  comes  soonest  to  his  rest 

Whose  io\n-ncy  has  been  most  secure. 
It  is  content  alone  that  makes 

Our  pilj:;rimaf;e  a  pleasure  here  ; 
And  who  buys  sorrow  cheapest,  talces 

An  ill  commodity  too  dear. 

COTTON,  Nathaniel,  an  English  physician 
and  poet,  bom  in  1707,  died  in  1788.  He  was 
noted  for  his  skill  in  the  treatment  of  mental 
diseases.  He  conducted  a  private  lunatic 
asylum,  and  among  his  patients  was  Cowper, 
who  makes  special  mention  of  his  "  well- 
known  humanity  and  sweetness  of  temper." 
He  published  Visions  in  Verse,  designed  for 
children  (1751) ;  and  after  his  death  was  pub- 
lished a  collection  of  his  TFw/L-s  in  Prose  and 
Verse. 

THE  FIRESIDE. 

I. 
Dear  Chloe.  while  the  busy  crowd, 
The  vain,  the  wealthy,  and  the  proud, 

In  folly's  maze  advance  ; 
Though  singularity  and  pride 
Be  called  our  choice,  we  "11  step  aside. 

Nor  join  the  giddy  dance. 


NATHANIEL  COTTON.  iI83 

II. 
From  the  gay  wdrkl  wc  "11  oft  retire 
To  our  own  family  and  lire, 

Where  love  our  lioura  employs  ; 
No  noisy  neighbor  enters  here  ; 
Nor  interniecklling  .stranger  re;ir, 

To  s2X)il  our  lieartfelt  joys. 
III. 
K  solid  iiuppincss  we  prize. 
Within  our  breaat  this  jewel  lies  ; 

And  they  are  fools  who  roam  : 
The  world  has  nothing  to  bestow  : 
From  our  own  selves  our  joys  uuist  flow, 

And  that  dear  hut — our  home. 
IX. 
Our  portion  is  not  large,  indeed  ; 
But  then  how  little  do  we  need  I 

For  nature's  calls  are  few  : 
In  this  the  art  of  living  lies. 
To  want  no  more  than  may  suffice 

And  make  that  little  do. 
XIII. 
Thus,  hand  in  hand,  through  life  we  11  go; 
Its  checkered  paths  of  joy  and  woe 

With  cautious  steps  we  '11  tread  ; 
Quit  its  vain  scenes  without  a  tear, 
AVithout  a  trouble  or  a  fear, 

And  mingle  with  the  dead  : 

XIV. 

While  conscience,  like  a  faithful  friend, 
Shall  through  the  gloomy  vale  attend. 

And  cheer  our  dying  breath  : 
Shall,  when  all  other  comforts  cease, 
Like  a  kind  angel,  wliis^ier  peace, 

And  smooth  the  bed  of  death. 

TO-MORUOVV. 
"  To-morrow,"  didst  thou  say  ? 
Methought  I  heard  Horatio  say,   "  To-morrow."— 
Go  to— I  will  not  hear  of  it.     "  To-morrow  '.  " 
'Tis  a  sharper  who  stakes  his  penmy 
Against  thy  plenty  ;  who  takes  thy  ready  cash 
And  jiaya    thee    naught    but   wishes,  hopes,  and 
promises, 


284  VICTOR  COUSIN. 

The  currency  of  idiots.     Injurious  bankrupt, 
That  gulls  the  easy  creditor  !     "  To-mcrrow  I "' 
It  is  a  period  nowhere  to  he  found 
In  all  the  hoary  registers  of  Time, 
Unless,  perchance,  in  the  fool's  calendar  ! 
Wisdom  disdains  the  word,  nor  ln^Uls  suciety 
With  those  who  own  it.— No,  my  Horatio, 
'Tis  Fancy's  child,  and  Folly  is  its  father  ;        [less 
Wrought  of  such  stulT  as  dreams  are,  aud  as  base- 
As  the  fantastic  visions  of  the  evening. 

But  soft,  my  friend :  arrest  the  present  moments  ; 
For.  be  assured,  they  are  all  arrant  tell-tales  : 
And  though  their  ilight  be  silent,  and  their  path 
Trackless  as  the  winged  couriers  of  the  air. 
They  post  to  heaven,  and  there  record  thy  folly: 
Because,  tho'  stationed  on  the  important  watch, 
Thou,  like  a  sleeping,  faithless  sentinel, 
Didst  let  them  pass  unnoticed,  imimproved. 
And  know,  for  that  thou  slumberest  on  the  guard, 
Thou  shalt  be  made  to  answer  at  the  bar 
For  every  fugitive  ;  and  when  thou  thus 
Shalt  stand  imi)ieaded  at  the  higli  tril)unal, 
Of  hoodwinked  Justice,  who  shall  tell  thy  audit  ? 

Then  stay  the  present  instant,  dear  Horatio  I 
Imprint  the  marks  of  wisdom  on  its  wings. 
Tis  of  more  worth  than  kingdoms,  far  more  pre- 
cious 
Than  all  the  crimson  treasures  of  life's  fountains  ! 
Oh,  let  it  not  elude  thy  grasi),  but,  like 
The  good  old  patriarch  upon  record, 
Hold  the  Ueet  angel  fast  until  he  bless  thee  ! 

COUSIN,  A'iCTOR,  a  French  philosophical 
writer,  born  November  2S,  1792,  died  .January 
16,  1867.  He  was  educated  at  the  Lycee 
Charlemagne,  in  Paris,  where  he  received  the 
highest  honors.  At  the  organization  of  the 
Normal  School  his  name  was  inscribed  first 
on  the  list  of  pupils.  He  was  then  eighteen 
years  of  age.  At  the  end  of  two  years  he  was 
appointed  Greek  Tutor  in  the  school,  and  in 
1814  Master  of  the  Conferences.  His  mind 
had  been  directed  towards  philosophy  by  the 


VICTOR  COUSIN.  ^85 

teachings  of  Lai'omiguiere  and  Roy er-Col lard, 
and  when  in  181;")  he  was  appointed  assistant 
to  the  latter  in  the  Sorbonne,  he  throw  him- 
self with  entl}usiasm  into  the  battle  against 
the  sensualistic  philosophy  of  the  day.  He 
studied  the  Scottish  metaphysicians,  and  the 
German  speculative  systems  of  philosophy, 
and  made  the  acijuaintance  of  the  must  dis- 
tinguished German  philosophers,  during  his 
vacations  spent  in  that  country.  On  his 
second  visit  to  Germany,  in  1824,  he  was  ac- 
cused of  plotting  against  the  Government, 
was  arrested  at  Dresden,  sent  to  Bei-lin,  and 
kept  a  prisoner  for  six  months.  The  accusa- 
tions against  him  having  been  proved  ground- 
less, he  was  released. 

The  Normal  School  was  suppressed  in  1822, 
and  upon  Cousin's  return  to  Fz*ance,  he  was 
not  permitted  to  resume  his  lectures  at  the 
University.  In  1828  he  received  a  new  ap- 
pointment as  Professor  in  the  Faculty  of 
Literature.  His  clearness  of  expression,  hi^' 
beauty  of  style,  his  powers  of  generalization, 
his  moderation  in  philosoph}',  religii)n,  poli- 
tics, rendered  these  lectures  a  brilliant  suc- 
cess,  and  drew  around  him  a  crowd  of  en- 
thusiastic scholars.  In  1830  he  was  made  a 
member  of  the  Council  of  Public  Instruction, 
in  1832  a  Peer  of  France,  and  later.  Director  of 
the  Normal  School.  In  this  canacity  he  put 
forth  his  efforts  to  organize  primary  education 
in  France,  inspecting  the  schools  of  Frank- 
fort, Weimar,  Leipsic,  and  Berlin,  and  mak- 
ing valuable  reports  on  the  state  of  public 
education  in  those  cities.  In  1840  he  became 
a  member  of  the  Academy  of  Moral  and 
Political  Science,  and  Minister  of  Public  In- 
struction in  the  Cabinet  of  Thiers.  After  the 
coiq^  d'etat  of  Dec.  2,  1851,  he  was  deprived  of 
his  position  as  permanent  member  of  the 
Council  of  Public  Instruct' r^i.      A  decree  of 


286  VICTOR  COUSIN.. 

1852  placed  him  in  the  rank  of  honorary  pro- 
fessorss,  with  Villemain  and  Guizot.  Cousin 
was  an  indefatigable  Avorker.  Between  1820 
and  1827,  he  published  editions  of  Proclus 
and  Descartea,  and  Fragmens  Philosophiqiics 
(1826):  between  1830  and  1835,  four  volumes 
of  the  translation  of  Plato,  a  new  edition  of 
the  Fragmens,  with  a  valuable  preface,  and  a 
work  on  the  Metapliijsics  of  Aristotle,  with  a 
translation  of  the  first  two  books.  The  In- 
edited  Worhi  of  Abclard  and  the  Cours  de  la 
Philosojyhieaitpcarcd  in  1836;  a  translation  of 
Tonneniaun's  Manual  of  the  History  of  Phi- 
losophy (1839) ;  the  completed  translation  of 
Plato  in  13  aoIs.  (1840) ;  Cours  de  VHistoire 
de  la  Philosophie  Morale  an  XVII.  Siecle 
(1810-1);  Cours  de  rilistoire  de  la  Philosophie 
Moderne,  and  CEuvres  Philosophiqucs  de 
Mai)ie-de-Biran,  with  a  Preface,  in  itself  a 
treatise  on  Philosophy  (ISllj ;  Lc(-ons  de  Phil- 
osojjhie  snr  Kant  (lS-i2) ;  Des  Pensees  de  Pas- 
cal (lS-i.2);  Nouveaux  Fragmens  (1817);  Petri 
Abelardi  Opera  (1819):  Etudes sur  les Fenwies 
etlaSociete  du  XVII.  Siecle  (ISoS),  and  The 
True  the  Beautiful  and  the  Good,  being  a 
new  edition  of  the  Cours  de  la  Philosophie 
(1851).  Cousin  also  contributed  a  great 
variety  of  papers  to  the  French  literary  and 
philosophical  Reviews. 

ANALYSIS  OF  FREE  ACTION. 

Free  action  is  a  plienomenon  which  contains 
several  different  elements  combined  together.  To 
act  freely,  is  to  wrforui  an  action  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  being  able  not  to  perform  it;  now, 
to  perform  an  action  with  the  consciousness  of  be- 
ing able  not  to  perform  it,  supposes  that  we  have 
preferred  performing  it  to  not  performing  it ;  to 
commence  an  action  when  we  are  able  not  to  com- 
mence it,  is  to  have  preferred  commencing  it ;  to 
continue  it  wlien  we  sfie  able  to  suspend  it,  is  to 
have  preferred  continuing  it ;  to  carry  it  thrvnigh 


VICTOR  COUSIN.  287 

when  we  are  able  to  abandon  it,  is  to  have  pre- 
ferred accomplishing  it.  Now,  to  prefer  supposes 
that  we  had  motives  for  preferring,  motives  for 
performing  this  action,  and  motives  for  not  per- 
forming it ;  that  we  were  acquainted  with  these 
motives,  and  that  we  have  preferred  a  part  of 
them  to  the  I'est :  in  a  word,  preference  supposes 
the  knowledge  of  motives  for  and  against. 
Whether  these  motives  are  passions  or  ideas,  errors 
or  truths,  this  or  that,  is  of  no  consequence  ;  it  is 
important  only  to  ascertain  what  faculty  is  here 
in  operation  ;  that  is  to  say.  what  it  is  that  recog- 
nizes these  motives,  which  prefers  one  to  the 
other,  which  judges  that  one  is  preferable  to  the 
other  ;  for  this  is  preciselj"  what  we  mean  l)y  pre- 
ferring. Now  what  is  it  that  knows,  that  judges, 
but  intelligence?  Intelligence  therefore  is  the  fac- 
ulty which  prefers.  But  in  order  to  prefer  cer- 
tain motives  to  otliers.  to  judge  that  some  are 
preferable  to  others,  it  is  not  sufficient  to  know 
tliese  different  motives,  we  nmst  moreover  have 
weighed  and  com]>ared  them  ;  we  must  have  de- 
liberated on  these  motives  in  order  to  form  a  con- 
clusion ;  in  fact,  to  prefer,  is  to  judge  definitively, 
to  conclude.  What  then  is  it  to  deliberate?  It  is 
nothing  else  than  to  examine  with  doubt,  to  esti- 
mate the  relative  value  of  different  motives  with- 
out j'et  perceiving  it  with  the  clear  evidence  that 
commands  judgment,  conviction,  preference. 

Now,  what  is  it  that  examines,  what  is  it  that 
doubts,  what  is  it  that  judges  that  we  should  not 
yet  judge  in  order  to  judge  better?  Evidently  it 
is  intelligence — the  same  intelligence  which,  at  a 
subsequent  period,  after  having  passed  many  pro- 
visional judgments,  will  abrogate  them  all,  will 
judge  that  they  are  less  true,  less  reasonable  than 
a  certain  other ;  will  pass  tins  latter  judgment, 
Avill  conclude  and  prefer  after  having  deliberated. 
It  is  in  intelligence  that  the  phenomenon  of  prefer- 
ence takes  place,  as  well  as  the  other  phenomena 
which  it  supposes.  Thus  far,  then,  we  are  still  in 
the  sphere  of  intelligence,  and  not  in  that  of  action. 
Assuredly  intelligence  is  subjected  to  conditions  ; 
no  one  cxamineC)  who  does  not  wish  to  examine  ; 


288  VICTOR  COUSIN. 

and  the  will  intervenes  in  deliberation  ;  but  this  is 
the  simple  condition,  not  tlie  foundation,  of  the 
phenomenon  ;  for,  if  it  be  true,  that  without  the 
faculty  of  willing,  idl  examination  and  all  delib- 
eration would  be  impossible,  it  is  also  true  that 
the  faculty  itself  which  examines  and  which  de- 
liberates— the  faculty  which  is  the  peculiar  subject 
of  examination,  of  deliberation,  and  of  all  judg- 
ment, provisional  or  definitive,  is  intelligence.  De- 
lil)eration  and  conclusion,  or  preference,  are  there- 
fore facts  purely  intellectual.  Let  us  continue 
our  analysis. 

We  liave  conceived  different  motives  for  jjer- 
forniing  or  not  i>erforming  an  action  ;  we  have 
deliberated  on  these  motives,  antl  we  liave  pre- 
ferred some  of  them  to  others  ;  we  have  concluded 
that  we  ought  to  perform  it  rather  than  not  to 
])erform  it :  but  to  conclude  that  we  ought  to  per- 
form, and  to  perform,  are  not  the  same  thing. 
Wlien  intt'higence  has  judged  that  wo  ought  to 
do  this  oi  that,  for  such  or  such  motives,  it  re- 
mains to  proceed  to  action  ;  in  the  first  place  to 
resolve  to  assume  our  part,  to  say  to  ourselves, 
not  I  ought  to  do.  but  I  u-ill  to  do.  Now,  the 
faculty  which  says  I  ouglit  to  do,  is  not  and  can- 
not be  the  faculty  which  says  I  will  to  do,  I 
resolve  to  do.  The  ofBce  of  intelligence  here 
closes  entirely.  I  ought  to  do  is  a  judgment  ;  I 
will  to  do  is  not  a  judgment,  nor  consequently  an 
intellectual  phenomenon.  In  fact,  at  the  moment 
when  we  form  the  resolution  of  doing  a  particular 
action,  we  form  it  with  the  consciousness  of  being 
able  to  form  the  contrary  resolution.  Here  then 
is  a  new  element  which  should  not  be  confounded 
with  the  preceding ;  this  element  is  will ;  just 
before  it  was  our  business  to  judge  and  to  know  ; 
nov.-  it  is  our  business  to  will.  To  will,  I  say,  and 
not  to  do  ;  for  precisely  as  to  judge  that  we  ought 
to  do  is  not  to  will  to  do,  so  to  will  to  do  is  not  in 
itself  to  do.  To  will  is  an  act,  not  a  judgment ; 
but  an  act  altogether  internal.  It  is  evident  that 
this  act  is  not  action  properly  so  c.dled  ;  in  order 
to  arrive  at  action,  we  L.iust  i^ass  from  the  inter- 
nal splicre  of  will  to  the  sphere  of  the  external 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY^  289 

•world,  in  which  is  definitively  accomplished  the 
action  wliich  j'oii  had  at  first  conceived,  deliber- 
ated on,  and  preferred  ;  wliich  you  then  wiHeil  : 
and  which  it  was  necessary  to  execute.  If  there 
were  no  external  world,  there  would  be  no  con- 
summated action  ;  and  tliere  must  not  only  be  an 
extei-nal  world  ;  the  power  of  will  also,  wliicli  we 
have  recognized  after  the  jiower  of  compreliend- 
ing  and  of  judging,  must  be  connected  with 
another  power,  a  pliysical  power,  which  serves  it 
as  an  instrument  with  which  to  attain  the  extei'- 
nal  world.  Suppose  that  the  will  were  not  con- 
nected with  organization,  there  would  be  no 
bridge  between  the  will  and  the  external  world  ; 
no  external  action  would  be  possible.  The  physi- 
cal power,  necessary  to  action,  is  organization  ; 
and  in  this  organization,  it  is  acknowledged  tliat 
the  muscular  system  is  the  special  instrument  of 
the  will.  Take  away  the  muscular  s\-stem,  no 
effort  would  any  longer  be  possible,  consequently, 
no  locomotion,  no  movement  wliatever  would  be 
possible  ;  and  if  no  movement  were  possible,  no 
external  action  would  be  possible.  Thus,  to  re- 
capitulate, the  wllole  action  which  we  undertook 
to  analyze  is  resolved  into  three  elements  perfectly 
distinct  :  1.  the  intellectual  element,  which  is 
comjjosed  of  the  knowledge  of  the  motives  for 
and  against,  of  deliberation,  of  preference,  of 
choice  :  2.  the  voluntary  element,  which  consists 
entirely  in  an  internal  act,  nameh'  the  resolution 
to  do ;  3.  the  physical  element,  or  the  external 
action. — Coiws  cle  VHistoire  de  la  Philosophie. 

COWLEY,  Abraham,  an  English  poet  and 
essayist,  born  in  1618,  died  in  1G67.  His 
father  died  shortly  before  the  poet's  birth, 
and  his  mother  obtained  his  admission  to 
Westminister  School  as  a  king's  scholar. 
While  very  young  he  began  to  write  verses, 
being  moved  thereto,  he  tells  us,  by  a  copy 
of  the  Faerie  Oueene,  which  lay  in  his 
mother's  parlor,  and  ■which  he  read  until  it 
filled  his  brain,  he  says,  "  with  such  chimes  of 


1/ 


290  ABRAHAM  COWLEY. 

verse  as  never  since  have  leit  ringing  there." 
In  his  tenth  year  he  composed  a  Tragicall 
History  of  Piramus  and  Thisbe,  and  two 
years  kiter  Covstantia  and  Philetus.  At 
Westminister  he  displayed  extraordinary 
mental  activity,  and  wrote  in  his  thirteenth 
year  an  Elegy  on  the  Deaf h  of  Dudley,  Lord 
Carlton,  which  with  the  first  two  poems  wore 
printed  under  the  title  of  Poetical  Blossoms. 
At  eighteen,  Cowley  entered  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  Avhere  he  distinguished  himself 
as  a  scholar,  and  wrote  one  book  of  the 
Davideis,  of  which  three  other  books  were 
afterwards  written.  Love's  Riddle  and  a 
Latin  comedy,  the  Naufragiiun  Jocidare, 
were  pi-inted  in  1638,  and  in  iG41  was  printed 
The  Guardian,  a  di-amatic  work,  acted  on  the 
occasion  of  Prince  Charles  passing  through 
Cambridge.  Cowley's  devotion  to  the  royal 
cause,  caused  his  expulsion  from  Cambridge, 
and  he  went  to  Oxford.  In  IGlG.he  followed 
the  queen  to  Paris,  where  he  remained  ten 
years,  devoting  himself  unreservedly  to  the 
royal  service,  deciphering  the  secret  corres- 
pondence of  the  king  and  queen,  and  luider- 
takiug  perilous  journeys  to  other  countries, 
in  fmiherance  of  their  cause.  In  1647,  a  col- 
lection of  his  love-verses,  entitled  The  Mis- 
tress, was  published.  Though  now  entirely 
neglected,  it  was  the  most  popular  reading  of 
its  day.  In  1656  Cowley  went  secretly  to 
England,  was  arrested,  and  forced  to  give 
bail  in  £1000  for  his  future  behavior.  He  uoav 
published  a  volume  of  his  collected  poems,  and 
found  himself  the  most  highly  esteemed  poet 
of  his  time.  On  the  death  of  Cromwell,  he 
escaped  to  France,  and  returned  to  England 
only  at  the  Restoration.  The  poet,  who  had 
reason  to  expect  some  return  from  the  royal 
family  for  his  long  and  valuable  services,  was 
at    first  neglected.     Through  the  efforts  of 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY.  2^1 

Lord  St.  Albans  he  was  at  length  given  a 
lease  of  the  queen's  lands  at  Chei-tsey,  where 
he  spent  the  last  j-ears  of  his  life  in  the  rural 
retirement  which  he  had  longed  for,  but 
which  lie  found  it  impossible  to  enjoy.  He 
Avas  buried  In  Westminister  Abbey  near 
Chaucer  and  Spenser.  His  poems,  so  highly 
pi-aised  in  his  life  time  are  now  little  read, 
though  not  a  few  of  them  are  quite  well 
worth  reading.  His  Essays  are  pleasing  speci- 
mens of  English  prose. 

OP  MYSELF. 

This  only  grant  me,  that  my  means  may  lio 
Too  low  for  envy,  for  contempt  too  high. 

Some  honor  I  would  liavo, 
Not  from  great  deeds,  but  good  alone  : 
The  ujiknown  are  better  than  ill-known  ; 

Rumor  can  ope  tlie  grave. 
Acqiiaintance  I  would  have,  but  when  't  depends 
Not  on  t!ie  number,  but  the  clioice  of  friends. 

Books  should,  not  business,  entertain  the  light, 
And  sleep,  as  undisturb'd  as  death  the  night. 

My  house  a  cottage  more 
Than  palace  ;  and  should  fitting  be 
For  all  my  use,  no  luxurj'. 

My  garden  painted  o'er 
With    Nature's  hand,    not  Art's ;    and  pleasures 

yield, 
Horace  might  envy  in  his  Sabine  field. 

Thus  would  I  double  my  life's  fading  space  ; 
For  he,  that  runs  it  well,  twice  runs  his  race. 

And  in  this  true  delight, 
These  unbought  sports,  this  happy  state, 
I  would  not  fear,  nor  wish,  mj-  fate  ; 

But  boldly  say  each  night : 
To-moiTOw  let  my  sun  his  beams  display. 
Or  in  clouds  hide  them  :  I  have  liv'd  to-day. 

A   FREE   LIFE. 

"Where  honor  or  where  conscience    oes  not  bind, 
No  other  law  shall  shackle  me  ; 


392  ABRAHAM  COWLEY. 

Slave  to  myself  I  will  not  be  ; 

Nor  shall  my  future  actions  be  confined 

By  my  own  present  mind. 

Who  by  resolves  and  vows  engaged  does  stand 
For  days  that  yet  belong  to  Fate, 
Does,  like  an  unthrift.  mortgage  his  estate 

Before  it  falls  into  his  hand. 

The  bondman  of  the  cloister  so 

All  that  he  does  receive  does  always  owe  ; 

And  still  as  time  comes  in,  it  goes  away, 

Not  to  enjoy,  but  debts  to  pay. 

Unliappy  slave  I  and  pupil  to  a  bell ! 

Which  his  hour's  work,  as  well  as  hours,  does  tell  I 

Unhappy  to  the  last,  the  kind  releasing  knell. 


MAKK  THAT  SWIFT   ARROW. 

Mark  that  swift  arrow,  how  it  cuts  the  air, 

How  it  outruns  tliy  following  eye  ! 

Use  all  persuasions  now,  and  rry 
If  thou  canst  call  it  back  or  stay  it  there, 

That  way  it  went  ;  but  thou  shalt  find 

No  track  is  left  behind. 

Fool  I  'tis  thy  life,  and  the  fond  .archer  thou. 

Of  all  the  time  thou  'st  shot  away. 

I  '11  bid  thoe  fetch  but  Yesterday, 
And  it  shall  be  too  hard  a  task  to  do. 

Besides  repentance,  what  canst  find 

That  it  hath  left  behind? 

Our  life  is  carried  with  too  strong  a  tide  ; 

A  doubtful  cloud  our  sul)stance  bears, 

And  is  the  horse  of  all  our  years  : 
Each  day  doth  on  a  winged  whirlwind  ride. 

We  and  our  glass  run  out,  and  must 

Both  render  up  our  dust. 

But  his  past  life  who  without  grief  can  see, 
Who  never  thinks  his  end  too  near. 
But  says  to  Fame,  thou  art  mine  heir — 

That  man  extends  life's  natural  brevity 

To  outlive  Nestor  in  a  day. 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY.  293 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  RICHAKD  CRASIIAW. 

Poet  and  Saint !  to  thee  alone  are  given 

The  two  most  sacred  names  of  eurtli  and  heaven  ; 

The  hard  and  rarest  union  which  can  be, 

Next  to  tliat  of  jCiodhead  with  humanity. 

Long  did  tlie  Muses,  banished  shives,  abide. 

And  built  vain  pyramids  to  mortal  pride. 

Like  Moses  thou  (cho'  spells  and  charn)s  withstand) 

Has  brought  them  home,  back  to  their  Holy  Land. 

Ah,  wretched  we  !  poets  of  earth  !  but  thou 

Wert,  living,  the  same  poet  thou  'rt  now, 

Whilst  angels  sing  to  thee  their  airs  divine, 

And  joy  in  an  applause  so  great  as  thine. 

Equal  society  with  them  to  hold. 

Thou  need'st  not  make  new  songs,  but  say  the  old  ; 

And  they  (kind  spirits !)  shall  rejoice  to  see 

How  little  less  than  they  exalted  man  may  be. 

HEAVEN. 

Sleep  on  !    Rest,  quiet  as  thy  conscience,  take. 
P'or  though  thou  sleep'st  thyself,  thy  God  "s  awake. 
Above  the  subtle  foldings  of  the  sky. 
Above  the  well-set  orbs'  soft  harmony  ; 
Above  those  petty  lamps  tliat  gild  the  night. 
There  is  a  place  o'ertiown  witli  hallowed  light ; 
W'here  heaven,  as  if  it  left  itself  behind. 
Is  stretched  out  far,  nor  its  own  bounds  can  find  : 
•Here  peaceful  flames  swell  up  the  sacred  place, 
Nor  can  the  glory  contain  itself  in  tlv  endless  space. 
For  there  no  twilight  of  the  sun's  dull  ray 
Glimmers  upon  the  pure  ana  native  da3^ 
No  pale-faced  moon  does  in  stolen  beams  appear. 
Or  with  dim  taper  scatters  darkness  there. 
On  no  smooth  sphere  the  restless  seasons  slide, 
No  circling  motion  doth  swift  time  divide  ; 
Nothing  is  there  to  come,  and  nothing  pas^, 
But  an  eternal  Now  does  always  last. 
— T7ie  Davidei^. 

THE  GRASSHOPPER. 
[After  Anaa-eon.] 
Happy  insect !  what  can  be 
In  happiness  compared  to  thee? 
Fed  with  nourisliment  divine, 


294  ABRAHAM  COWLEY. 

Thf;  devry  morning's  gentle  wine  ' 

Nature  waits  upon  tlie(!  still, 

And  thy  verdant  cup  does  fill ; 

'Tis  filled  wherever  thou  dost  tread, 

Nature's  self  's  thy  Ganymede. 

Thou  dost  drink,  and  dance,  and  sing. 

Happier  than  the  happiest  king  ! 

All  the  fields  whicli  thou  dost  see, 

All  the  plants  belong  to  thee  ; 

All  that  summer  hours  produce, 

Fertile  made  with  early  juice. 

Man  for  thee  does  sow  and  plough  ; 

Farmer  he,  and  landlord  thou  ! 

Thou  dost  innocently  enjoy  ; 

Nor  does  thy  luxury  destroy. 

The  shepherd  gladly  lieareth  tliee. 

More  harmonious  than  he. 

The  country  hinds  with  gladness  hear, 

Prophet  of  the  ripened  year  ! 

Thee  Ph(i?bus  loves,  and  does  inspire  ; 

Phoebus  is  himself  tliy  sire. 

To  thee,  of  all  things  upon  earth, 

Life  is  no  longer  than  tliy  mirth. 

Happy  insect !  happy  thou, 

Dost  neither  age  nor  winter  know.       [sung, 

But  when  thou 'st  drunk,  and  danced,  and 

Thy  fill,  the  flowery  leaves  among — 

Voluptuous  and  wise  withal. 

Epiciu'ean  animal ! — 

Satiate  with  thy  summer  feast, 

Thou  retir'st  to  endless  rest. 

OF  OBSCURITY. 

If  we  engage  into  a  large  acquaintance  and 
various  familiarities,  we  set  open  our  gates  to  the 
invaders  of  most  of  our  time  :  we  expose  our  life 
to  a  quotidian  ague  of  frigid  impertinences,  which 
would  make  a  wise  man  tremble  to  think  of. 
Now,  as  for  being  known  much  bj'^  sight,  and 
pointed  at,  I  cannot  comprehend  the  honor  that 
lies  in  that :  whatsoever  it  be,  every  mountebank 
has  it  more  than  the  best  doctor,  and  the  hang- 
man more  than  the  lord  chief  justice  of  a  city. 
Every  creature  has  it.  both  of  nature  and  art,  if  it 


WILLIAH  COWPER.  29r. 

be  any  ways  extraordinary.  It  was  as  often  said, 
"This  is  that  Bucephahis,"  or  "This  is  that  In- 
citatiis,"  when  they  were  led  prancing  through  the 
streets,  as  "  This  is  that  Alexander,"  or,  "  This  is 
that  Domitian  ; "  and  truly,  for  the  latter,  I  take 
Incitatus  to  have  been  a  much  more  honorable 
beast  than  his  master,  and  more  deserving  tlie 
consulship,  than  he  the  empire. 

I  love  and  commend  u  true  good  fame,  because 
it  is  tlie  sliadow  of  virtue ;  not  that  it  dolh  any 
good  to  the  body  which  it  acc<impanies,  but  it  i-s 
an  efficacious  sliadow,  and,  like  that  of  St.  Peter, 
cures  the  diseases  of  others.  The  best  kind  of 
glory,  no  doubt,  is  that  wJiich  is  reflected  from 
honesty,  such  as  was  the  glory  of  Cato  and 
Aristides  ;  but  it  was  Iiarmful  to  them  both,  and 
is  seldom  benelicial  to  an}'  man  whilst  he  lives  ; 
what  it  is  to  him  after  his  death,  I  cannot  sa}-, 
because  I  love  not  philosophy  merely  notional  and 
conjectural,  and  no  man  wlio  has  made  tlie  ex- 
periment has  been  so  kind  as  to  come  back  to  in- 
form us.  Upon  the  whole  matter,  I  account  a 
person  who  has  a  moderate  mind  and  fortune, 
and  lives  in  the  conversation  of  two  or  tluee 
agreeable  friends,  with  little  commerce  in  tl'.e 
world  besides,  who  is  esteemed  well  enough  by  his 
few  neighbors  tliat  know  him,  and  is  truly  irre- 
proachable by  any  body  ;  and  so,  after  a  liealtli- 
ful  quiet  life,  before  the  great  inconveniences  of 
old  age,  goes  more  silently  out  of  it  than  he  came 
in  (for  I  would  not  have  him  so  much  as  cry  iu  the 
exit) :  this  innocent  deceiver  of  the  world,  as 
Horace  calls  him,  this  "  muta  persona."  I  take  to 
have  been  more  happy  in  his  part,  than  the  great- 
est actors  that  fill  the  stage  with  show  and  noise, 
naj',  even  than  Augustus  himself,  who  asked  v.'ith 
his  last  breath,  whether  he  had  not  played  his 
farce  very  well. — Essays. 

COWPER,  William,  an  English  poet,  born 
November  26,  1731,  died  April  25,  1800.  His 
father  Avas  Rector  of  Berkbamstead,  in 
Hampshire,  sprung  from  an  ancient  family, 
which  could  trace  its  descent  in  an  uninter- 


296  WILLIAM  COW  PER. 

I'upted  line  to  the  time  of  Edward  IV.  (1450). 
His  mother,  Ann  Donne,  was  daughter  of 
the  Dean  of  St.  Pauls,  who  was  descended 
from  Henry  III.  (1250),  through  four  distinct 
lines.  She  died  when  "William,  her  eldest 
living  boy  was  six  years  old,  leaving  besides 
him  an  infant  son. 

A  few  months  after  his  mother's  death  Cow- 
per  was  placed  at  a  private  school,  where  for 
two  years  he  was  cruelly  bullied  by  the  elder 
pupils.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  he  was  placed  in 
"Westminster  School,  where  he  became  an  ex- 
cellent scholar.  At  seventeen  he  was  articled 
to  a  London  solicitor;  but  he  paid  no  attention 
to  legal  studies.  His  uncle,  Ashley  Cowper, 
a  man  of  considerable  fortune,  resided  in  Lon- 
don, and  it  was  arranged  that  the  youth 
should  pass  his  Sundays  at  his  uncle's  resi- 
dence. Mr.  Ashley  Cowper  had  two  daugh- 
ters, Theodora  and  Harriet,  just  growing  up 
into  womanhood.  A  warm  attachment 
sprang  up  between  William  Cowper  and  his 
cousin  Theodora.  Harriet  became  in  time  the 
wife  of  Mr.  Hesketh,  afterwards  made  a  baron- 
et: she  is  the  Lady  Hesketh  who  came 
many  years  after  to  be  a  warm  friend  of 
"William  Cowper.  "When  he  came  of  age  he 
received,  through  the  influence  of  an  uncle  a 
small  government  appointment,  and  took 
chambers  in  the  Inner  Temple,  ostensibly  to 
study  law,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty-four  was 
formally  called  to  the  bar,  but  with  no  pur- 
pose of  practising  the  profession.  There  w^ere 
two  or  three  government  positions,  to  which 
the  right  of  nomination  was  vested  in  one  of 
his  uncles;  and  he  looked  forward  to  obtain- 
ing one  of  these. 

Mr.  Ashley  Cowper  began  to  look  unfavor- 
ably upon  a  marriage  between  his  daughter 
and  nephew.  ' '  If  you  marry  William  Cow- 
per," he  said  to  her,  "  what  will  you  do  '  " — 


WILLIAM  COWPER.  297 

•*  Do,  Sir  ? "  replied  Theodora,  ''  wash  all  day, 
and  ride  out  on  the  great  dog  at  night. "  He 
at  length  positively  forbade  the  union,  and 
prohibited  his  nephew  from  visiting  at  his 
house,  alleging  for  his  reason  his  decided  ob- 
jection to  the  marriage  of  cousins.  The  final 
parting  took  place  about  1752,  and  the  lovers 
never  met  again.  Theodora  never  forgot  him, 
and  in  after  years  found  occasion  for  doing 
him  great  service.  She  died  in  1824,  at  the 
age  of  about  eighty,  having  survived  Cow- 
per  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century.  When 
near  her  end  she  sealed  up  all  the  letters  and 
verses  which  he  had  addressed  to  her,  and 
placed  them  in  the  hands  of  a  female  triend. 
This  friend  died  in  the  same  year  with  The- 
odora ;  and  the  papers  fell  into  the  hands  of  a 
relative,  by  whom  a  portion  of  them  was  pub- 
lished in  1825,  under  the  title  of  Early  Poems. 

The  first  symptoms  of  the  mental  malady 
with  which  Cowper  was  aillicted  during  the 
greater  part  of  his  life  manifested  themselves 
when  he  was  about  twenty-four.  Of  this  he 
wrote  long  after  in  one  of  his  letters,  ' '  I  was 
struck  with  such  a  dejection  of  spirits  as  none 
l^nt  they  who  have  felt  the  same  can  have 
the  least  conception  of.  Day  and  night  I  was 
upon  the  back,  lying  down  in  horror  and  ris- 
ing up  in  despair."  This  period  of  gloom 
passed  away  in  a  few  months;  but  to  reap- 
pear after  a  few  years  in  a  more  aggravated 
form.  His  father  who  had  married  again, 
died  suddenly  in  1756,  leaving  very  little  to 
his  sons;  and  Cowper  was  before  long  re- 
duced to  pecuniary  straits.  A  couple  of 
government  offices — that  of  Reading  Clerk 
and  Clerk  of  the  Journals  to  the  House  of 
Lords — to  which  his  uncle,  Major  Cowper 
had  the  right  of  presentation — fell  vacant,  and 
Cowper  was  offered  his  choice  between  them. 
He   chose  the  latter,  the  less  lucrative  but 


298  WJI.LIAM  COW  PER. 

more  private  one.  But  it  was  necessary  that 
he  should  jjass  an  examination  as  to  his  fit- 
ness to  perfoi'ni  the  quite  formal  duties  re- 
quired of  him.  "A  thmiderbolt,"  he  says, 
"  would  have  been  as  welcome  to  me  as  this 
intelligence."  For  six  months  he  tried  in 
vain  to  prepare  himself  for  the  examination. 
Then  his  reason  quite  gave  way.  Three 
times  he  attempted  suicide.  In  the  autumn 
of  1703  he  sent  for  Major  Cowper,  and,  in 
spite  of  all  remonstrances,  threw  up  the 
nomination.  At  this  time  he  wrote  those 
wild  and  whirling  verees  which  show  .3ome- 
thing  of  the  natui'e  of  the  great  cloud  of  dark- 
ness wliich  enveloped  him: 

LINES  WRITTEN  DUUING  A  PERIOD  OF  INSANITY. 
Hatred  Jind  vengeance — my  eternal  portion, 
Scarce  can  endure  delay  of  execution — 
Wait  with  impatient  readiness  to  seize  my 
Soul  in  a  moment. 

Damned  below  Judas,  more  abliorred  than  he  was, 
Who  for  a  few  pence  sold  his  holy  Master  ! 
Twice  betrayed.  Jesus  nie,  the  last  delinquent, 
Deems  the  profanest. 

Man  dlsavowR,  and  Deity  disowns  me  ; 
Heil  might  artord  my  miseries  a  shelter  ; 
Tlierefore  Hell  keeps  her  ever-hungry  mouths  all 
Bolted  against  me. 

Hard  lot .  encompa.ssed  -with  a  thousand  dangers, 
Weary,  faint,  trembling  witli  a  thousand  terrors, 
I'm  called,  if  vanquished,  to  receive  a  sentence 
Worse  than  Abiram's. 

Him  the  vindictive  rod  of  angry  Justice 
Sent  quick  and  howling  to  the  centre  headlong ; 
I,  fed  with  judgment,  in  a  fleshly  tomb,  am 
Buried  above  ground. 

In  December,  1763,  Cowper  was  placed  by 
his  friends  in  the  private  asylum  for  lunatics, 


AVILLIAM  t'OWPER,  200 

at  St.  Albans,  kept  by  Dr.  Nathaniel  Cotton, 
a  physician  of  rare  worth  and  capacity,  the 
author  of  several  poems  of  no  inconsiderable 
merit.  Here  he  remained  for  two  years,  and 
by  slow  degrees  regained  his  sanity.  His 
younger  brother  Avas  now  a  Fellow  of  a  Cam- 
bridge College,  and  Cowper,  in  order  to  be 
near  him,  took  up  his  residence  at  Hunting- 
don, the  nearest  place  where  suitable  accom- 
modations could  be  obtained. 

Almost  by  accident  he  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Mr.  Unwin,  a  clergyman  who  occu- 
pied a  large  house,  and  received  pupils  to  be 
prepared  for  the  University.  The  Unwins 
were  persuaded  to  receive  Cowper  as  a 
boarder,  and  a  warm  attachment  sprung  up  be  • 
tween  them  which  was  only  broken  by  death. 
But  two  years  alter.  Mi".  Unwin  was  killed 
by  being  thrown  from  his  horse.  He  had  ex- 
pressed the  wish  that  in  case  of  his  death, 
Cowper  should  still  have  a  home  with  his 
widow. 

Mary  Unwin  was  left  with  quite  limited 
means,  and  the  great  house  was  given  up. 
She  with  Cowper  took  up  their  residence  in 
the  neighboring  parish  of  Olney,  of  which 
John  Newton  was  curate.  Cowper  became  a 
kind  of  informal  lay  assistant  to  the  ener- 
getic Newton.  He  visited  the  parishioners, 
read  prayers  with  the  sick,  and  even  con- 
ducted extempore  prayers.  But  the  strong 
meat  which  Avas  nourishment  to  the  robust- 
minded  Newton,  proved  deleterious  to  Cow- 
per. In  the  doctrine  of  Predestination  New- 
ton saw  an  assured  guarantee  that  final  sal- 
vation was  sure  to  all  the  elect ;  Cowper  saw 
in  it  equal  assurance  of  final  reprobation  to 
the  non-elect — of  whom  he  believed  himself 
to  be  one.  His  insanity  returned  in  the  most 
aggravated  form.     He  himself ,  writing  years 


30<)  WILLIAM  COWPER. 

after,  records  the  characteristics  of  his  mental 
condition  at  this  tnne: 

cowper's  third  period  of  insanity. 

I  was  suddenly  reduced  from  my  wonted  rate  of 
understanding  to  an  ahnost  childisli  imbecility. 
1  did  not  lose  my  senses,  but  I  lost  the  power  to 
exercise  them.  I  could  return  a  rational  answer 
even  to  a  difficult  question  ;  but  a  (juestion  was 
necessary,  or  I  never  spoke  at  all.  This  state  of 
mind  was  accompanied,  as  I  suppose  it  to  be  in 
most  cases  of  the  kind,  with  misapprehension  of 
things  and  persons,  that  made  me  a  a  ery  intracta- 
ble patient.  I  believed  that  every  body  hated  me, 
and  that  Mrs.  Unwin  hated  me  most  of  all  ;  was 
convinced  that  all  my  food  wag  poisoned,  together 
with  ten  thousand  megrims  of  the  same  sort." 

The  conviction  of  his  own  certain  reproba- 
tion settled  itself  more  and  more  deeply  in  his 
mind.  He  believed  that  God  required  liim  to 
sacrifice  his  own  life,  and  attempted  over  and 
over  again  to  commit  suicide.  He  refused  to 
pray  or  to  attend  divine  service;  nor  would 
he  for  a  time  visit  Newton  at  the  Rectory; 
then,  having  one  day  been  persuaded  to  go 
there,  he  refused  to  leave;  and  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  remain.  This  mental  alienation 
lasted  many  months,  during  Avhich  Mrs.  Un- 
win devoted  herself  wholly  to  his  care.  No 
mother  or  sister,  or  wife  could  have  done 
more  for  him  than  she  did,  and  when  he  was 
induced  to  leave  the  Kectory  she  took  him  to 
her  home.  Some  time  before  this  attack 
Cowper,  at  the  suc^gestion  of  Newton,  and 
with  his  co-operation,  projected  the  Olncy 
Hymns.  Of  these  Cowper  wrote  nearly 
eighty,  some  of  ■which  hold  a  high  place  in 
English  Eymnology.  The  one  last  written, 
composed  in.  June,  1773,  is  the  best  known  of 
all: 


WILLIAM  COWPER.  301 

IIGHT  SHINING  IN  DARKNESS. 

God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 

His  wonders  to  perform  : 
He  plants  his  footsteps  in  the  sea, 

And  rides  upon  tlie  storm. 

Deep  in  unfathomable  mines, 

Willi  never-failing  skill, 
He  treasures  up  his  bright  designs, 

And  works  his  sovereign  will. 

Ye  fearful  saints,  fresh  courage  take  ; 

Tlie  clouds  ye  so  much  dread 
Are  big  with  mercy,  and  shall  break 

In  blessings  on  your  head. 

Judge  not  the  Lord  by  feeble  sense, 

But  trust  him  for  his  grace  : 
Behind  a  frowning  providence 

He  hides  a  smiling  face. 

His  purposes  will  ripen  fast, 

Unfolding  every  hour  ; 
The  bud  maj^  have  a  bitter  taste, 

But  sweet  will  be  the  flower. 

Blind  unbelief  is  sure  to  err. 

And  scan  his  work  in  vain  : 
God  is  his  own  interpreter, 

And  he  will  make  it  plain. 

The  dozen  years  following  this  recovery— 
up  to  1791— were  probably  the  happiest,  cer- 
tainly by  far  the  most  active,  in  the  life  of 
Cowper.  His  abode  was  still  with  ]\Irs.  Un- 
win.  He  occupied  himself  with  gardening 
and  carpentering,  and  found  his  amusement 
in  petting  animals:  hares,  rabbits,  guinea- 
pigs,  dogs,  and  several  kinds  of  birds.  His 
cousin.  Lady  Hesketh,  now  took  up  her  resi- 
dence not  far  from  him ;  and  in  time  he  be- 
came acquainted  with  Lady  Austen,  a  widow, 
rich,  beautiful,  and  clever,  in  whose  society 
and  friendship  he  found  great  delight.      He 


302  WILLIAM  COWPER. 

was  now  about  fifty,  and  up  to  thio  time  ho 
had  written  only  a  few  hundred  hues  of 
poetry  worthy  of  remembrance.  In  1781  he 
printed  anonymously  a  very  poor  poem,  upon 
a  very  unpleasant  subject,  entitled  Anti- 
thelyphthora.  Mrs.  Qnwin  urged  him  to 
choose  a  worthier  theme,  suggesting  as  a  sub- 
ject The  Progress  of  Error.  He  began  at 
once,  and  in  a  few  weeks  wrote  not  only  that, 
but  Truth,  Table  Talk,  Expostulation,  Ilojye, 
Charity,  Retirement,  and  Conversation — all 
of  them  being  moral  satires.  These  were 
published  in  a  volume  iu  1782.  One  evening 
Lady  Austen  diverted  him  by  telling  the 
story  of  the  adventurous  ride  of  John  Gilpin. 
Befoi-e  morning  Cowi)er  had  put  the  story 
into  verse.  It  was  printed  in  a  newspaper, 
and  soon  because  the  most  popular  ballad  of 
the  day.  Lady  Austen  not  long  afterwards 
urged  Cowper  to  try  his  powers  at  writing 
blank  verse,  giving  him  as  a  subject  the  Sofa 
on  which  she  happened  to  be  sitting.  The 
result  was  the  poem  entitled  The  Task,  which 
extended  far  beyond  what  had  been  thought 
of  by  either  the  poet  or  his  friend.  It  was 
published  in  1785,  and  at  once  secured  for 
Cowper  the  undisputed  rank  of  the  foremost 
poet  of  his  time.  But  before  The  Task  was 
completed,  the  fair  friendship  between  Cow- 
per and  Lad}'  Austen  came  to  an  end.  Mrs. 
Unwin,  now  past  three-score,  became  strange- 
ly jealous  of  the  fascinating  Lady  Austen, 
and  told  Cowper  that  he  must  forego  one  of 
the  two.  The  claims  of  gratitude  were  para- 
mount in  the  estimation  of  Cowper,  and  he 
wrote  a  sorrowful  farewell  letter  to  Lady 
Austen,  setting  forth  the  circumstances 
which  rendered  it  necessary  that  their  inno- 
cent intimacy  should  cease. 

When  The   Task  Avas  published,  the  book- 
seller urged  Cowper  to  undertake  a  transla- 


WILLIAM  UO^Vl'ER.  ^03 

tion  of  Iloiner.  This  Avas  published  in  1791, 
and  for  it  Cowper  received  £1,000.  He  was 
then  urged  to  edit  an  edition  of  Milton,  to  be 
magnificently  illustrated  by  Fuseli.  Cowper 
translated  the  Latin  and  Italian  poems  of 
Milton;  but  did  no  more.  For  the  end  of  his 
mental  soundness  was  close  at  hand.  But 
one  last  gleam  of  earthly  happiness  had  been 
reserved  for  him.  Early  in  1790  he  received 
a  visit  from  John  Johnson,  a  Cambridge 
undergraduate,  a  grandson  of  a  brother  of 
Cowper's  mother— dead  now  for  three-and- 
fifty  years,  but  still  held  in  loving  remem- 
brance. Returning  to  his  home  Johnson  told 
his  aunt,  Mrs.  Bodham,  who  had  been  a  play- 
fellow of  Cowper's  childhood,  that  she  Avas 
still  held  in  kindly  remembrance  by  the  poet, 
wdiereupon  she  sent  to  him  that  portrait  of 
his  mother  Avhich  occasioned  the  Avritiug  of 
the  touching  poem,  one  of  the  best  of  all 
Avhich  CoAvper  Avrote. 

In  the  next  year  Mary  UuAvin  had  an  at- 
tack of  paralysis,  Avhich  left  her  feeble  in 
body,  impaired  in  mind,  and  querulous  in 
temper.  CoAvper  failed  too.  He  had  had  an- 
other attack  of  insanity,  during  Avliich  ho 
again  attempted  suicide.  He  partially  re- 
covered; but  strange  fancies  haunted  him. 
He  imagined,  Avhen  he  awoke  in  the  morning, 
that  he  heard  mysterious  voices  speaking  to 
him ;  Mrs.  UuAvin  shared  in  the  delusion ;  the 
two  fell  under  the  influence  of  a  knavish 
schoolmaster,  Avho  professed  to  interpret  these 
voices,  and  managed  to  get  much  money  for 
his  services.  Cowper's  grand-nepheAv,  John- 
son, being  informed  of  his  deplorable  condi- 
tion came  to  him,  but  found  him  in  a  state  of 
brooding  melancholy.  Mrs,  Unwin  died  in 
1790.  Cowper  lived  four  years  longer,  for 
the  greater  part  of  the  time  nearly  bereft  of 
understanding;  but  Avith  noAv  and  then  arc- 


304  WILLIAM  COWPER. 

turn  to  reason.  The  last  of  these  returns  took 
place  about  a  year  before  he  passed  into  his 
rest.  In  March,  1799,  he  was  able  to  under- 
take the  revision  of  his  Homer ;  wrote  several 
short  poems  in  Latin  and  English.  The  last  of 
these  was  The  Castaway,  composed  March  20, 
founded  on  a  story  told  by  Anson,  of  a  sailor 
drowning  at  sea.  This  poem,  comprifv'np;  a 
dozen  stanzas,  thus  concludes : 

THE  TWO  CASTAWAYS. 

I  therefore  purpose  not,  or  dream, 

Descanting  on  his  fate, 
To  give  the  melancholy  theme 

A  more  enduring  date  : 
But  misery  still  delights  to  trace 
Its  semblance  in  another's  case. 

No  voice  divine  the  storm  allayed, 

No  light  propitious  shone, 
When  snatched  from  all  effectual  aid, 

We  perished,  each  alone. 
But  I  beneath  a  rougher  sea. 
And  whelmed  in  deeper  gulfs  than  he. 

A  year  and  a  month  more  of  almost  uncon- 
scious earthly  existence  was  alotted  to  Cow- 
per,  and  then  he  entered  into  his  rest,  lacking 
a  few  months  of  the  term  of  three-score  yeai'S 
and  ten.  " From  the  moment  of  his  death," 
wrote  his  kinsman,  "until  the  coffin  was 
closed,  the  expression  into  which  his  counte- 
nance had  settled  was  that  of  calmness  and 
composure,  mingled,  as  it  were,  with  a  holy 
surprise." 

All  the  poems  by  which  Cowper  will  be 
held  in  remembrance  were  produced  within 
the  space  of  a  dozen  years,  and  after  he  had 
passed  the  age  of  half  a  century.  Not  a  few 
of  these  are  characterized  by  a  keen  sense  of 
humor,  hardly  to  be  looked  for  from  one  the 
greater  part  of  whose  life  was  passed  upon 


WILLIAM  COWPER.  305 

the  very  verge  of  insanity.  In  our  citations 
we  follow  very  nearly  the  chronological  order 
of  their  composition. 

LORD  CHESTERFIELD. 

All  tlie  muses  weep  for  thee, 
But  every  tear  shall  scald  thy  memory  ; 
The  Graces  too,  while  virtue  at  their  shrine 
Lay  bleeding  under  that  soft  hand  of  thine. 
Felt  eacli  a  mortal  stab  in  her  own  breast, 
Abliorred  the  sacrifice  and  cursed  the  priest. 
Thou  polished  and  high-finished  foe  to  truth, 
Graybeard  corrupter  of  our  listening  youtli, 
To  purge  and  skim  away  the  filth  of  vice. 
That,  so  refined,  it  might  the  more  entire. 
Then  pour  it  on  the  morals  of  thy  son. 
To  taint  his  heart,  was  wortliy  of  thine  own  I 
Now,  while  the  poison  all  high  life  prevades, 
AVrite,  if  thou  canrst,  one  Letter  from  the  Shades, 
One,  and  only  one,  charged  with  deep  regret, 
That  thy  worst  part — thy  principles — live  yet ; 
One  sad  epistle  thence  may  cvn-e  mankind 
Of  the  plague  spread  by  bundles  left  behind. 
— The  Progress  of  Error. 

THE  PIOUS  COTTAGER  AND  VOLTAIRE. 

Yon  cottager,  who  weaves  at  her  own  door — 

Pillow  and  bobbins  all  her  little  store — 

Content,  though  mean,  and  cheerful  if  not  gay 

Shuffling  her  threads  about  the  'ivelong  day, 

Just  earns  a  scanty  pittance,  ar,: .  at  night 

Lies  do\An  secure,  her  heart  ami  pocket  light ; 

She.  for  her  hvimble  sphere  by  nature  fit. 

Had  little  understanding  and  no  wit ; 

Receives  no  praise,  but  though  her  lot  be  such — 

Toilsome  and  indigent — she  renders  much  ; 

Just  knows,  and  knows  no  more,  her  Bible  true— 

A  truth  the  witty  Frenchman  never  knew  ; 

And  in  that  charter  reads,  with  sparkling  eyes. 

Her  title  to  a  treasure  in  the  skies. 

Oh  happy  peasant !  Oh  unhappy  bard  I 

His  tlie  mere  tinsel,  hers  the  ricli  reward  ; 

He,  praised  perhaps  for  ages  yet  to  come. 


306  WILLIAM  COWPER. 

She,  never  heard  of  half  a  mile  from  home  ; 
He,  lost  in  eiTors  his  vain  heart  prefers, 
She,  safe  in  the  simplicity  of  hers. 
—Truth. 

WHITEFIELD. 

Leiiconomus  *  (beneath  well-sounding  Greek 

I  slur  a  name  a  poet  must  not  speak) 

Stood  pilloried  on  infamy's  liigh  stage, 

And  bore  the  pelting  scorn  of  half  an  age  ; 

Tlie  very  butt  of  slander  and  the  blot 

For  every  dart  that  malice  ever  shot. 

The  man  that  mentioned  Jtim  at  once  dismissed 

All  mercy  from  his  lips,  and  sneered  and  hissed : 

His  crimes  were  such  as  Sodom  never  knew, 

And  perjury  stood  up  to  swear  ail  true  ; 

His  aim  was  mischief,  and  his  zeal  pretence, 

His  speech  rebellion  against  common  sense  ; 

A  knave,  wlien  tried  ou  Honesty's  just  I'ule, 

And  when  by  tliat  of  Reason,  a  mere  fool  ; 

The  world's    best    comfort  was,   his    doom  was 

passed  : 
Die  when  he  might,  he  must  be  damned  at  last ! 

Now,  Trutli,  perform  thine  otiice  :  waft  aside 
The  curtain  drawn  by  Prejudice  and  Pxide  ; 
Reveal  (the  man  is  dead)  to  wondering  eyes 
The  more  than  monster  in  his  proper  guise  : 
He  loved  the  world  that  hated  him  ;  the  tear 
That  dropped  upon  the  Bible  was  sincere  ; 
Assailed  by  scandal  and  the  tongue  of  strife, 
His  only  answer  was  a  blameless  life  ; 
And  he  that  forged,  and  he  that  threw  tlie  dart, 
Had  each  a  brother's  interest  in  his  heart. 
Paul's  love  of  Christ,  and  steadiness  unbribed. 
AVere  copied  close  in  him,  and  well  transcribed. 
He  followed  Paid  :  his  zeal  a  kindred  flame, 
His  apostolic  charity  the  same  : 
Like  him  ci'oss&d  cheerfully  tempestuous  seas, 
Forsaking  country,  kindred,  friends,  and  ease  ; 
Like  him  he  labored,  and.  like  him,  content 
To  bear  it.  suffered  shame  where'er  lie  went. — 
Blush,  Calumny  !  and  write  upon  his  tomb 
(If  honest  eulogy  can  spare  thee  room), 

*Letikos,  ■•white"  and  nomas,  ■•fit-ld." 


WILLIAM  COWPER.  307 

Thy  deep  repentance  of  thy  thousand  lies 
"Which,  aimed  at  him,  have  pierced  the  offended 

skies ; 
And  say  :     Blot  out  my  sin,  confessed,  deplored, 
Against  Thine  image  in  thy  s;iint.  O  Lord  1 
— Hope. 

JOHN-  HOWARD. 

Patron  of  else  the  most  despised  of  men, 
Accept  the  tribute  of  a  stranger's  pen  : 
Verse,  like  tlie  laurel,  its  immortal  meed, 
Should  be  the  guerdon  of  a  noble  deed. 
I  may  alarm  thee,  but  I  fear  the  shame 
(Charity  chosen  as  my  field  and  aim) 
I  must  incur,  forgetting  Howard's  name. 

Blest  with  all  wealth  can  give  thee,  to  resign 
Joys  doubly  sweet  to  feelings  quick  as  thine. 
To  quit  the  bliss  thy  rural  scenes  bestow, 
To  seek  a  nobler  amidst  scenes  of  woe  : 
To  travei-se  seas,  range  kingdoms,  and  liring  home, 
Not  the  proud  monuments  of  Greece  and  Rome, 
But  knowledge  such  as  dungeons  only  teach. 
And  only  sympathy  like  thine  could  reacli  :   • 
That  grief  sequestered  from  the  public  stage. 
Might  smooth  her  feathers  and  enjoy  her  cage, 
Speaks  a  divine  ambition,  ami  a  zeal, 
The  boldest  patriot  might  be  proud  to  feel. — 
'  Oh  that  the  voice  of  clamor  and  debate. 
That  pleads  for  peace  till  it  disturbs  the  State, 
Were  hushed  in  favor  of  thy  generous  plea — 
The  poor  thy  clients,  and  Heaven's  smile  thy  fee  ! 
— Chariiy. 

The  Task  Avas  begun  in  1781,  and  finished 
in  about  four  years,  having  been  published  in 
17S5. 

GENESIS  OF  THE  SOFA. 

I  sing  Tlie  Sofa.     I  who  lately  sang 

Truth,  Hope,  and  Charity,  and  touched  with  awe 

Tlie  .solemn  chords,  and  with  a  trembling  hand, 

Escaped  witli  pain  from  that  adventurous  flight. 

Now  seek  repose  upon  an  humbler  theme  : 

The  theme  though  humble,  yet  august,  and  prouil 

The  occasion — for  tlie  Fair  commands  the  song. 


308  WILLIA]\I  COWPER. 

Timp  was,  wlien  clothing  sumptuous  or  for  use, 
Save  their  old  painted  skins,  our  sires  had  none. 
As  yet  black  breeches  were  not ;  satin  smooth, 
Or  velvet  soft,  or  plush  witli  shaggy  pile. 
The  hardy  chief  upon  the  rugged  rock 
Washed  by  the  sea,  or  on  the  gravelly  bank 
Thrown  up  by  wintry  torrents  roaring  loud, 
Fearless  of  wrong,  reposed  his  weary  strength. 
Tliose  barbarous  ages  past,  succeeded  next 
Tlie  birthday  of  Invention,  weak  at  first, 
Dull  in  design,  and  clumsy  to  perform. 
Joint-stools  were  then  created  ;  on  three  legs 
Upborne  they  stood  : — three  legs  upholding  firm 
A  massy  slab,  in  fashion  square  or  round. 
On  such  a  stool  immortal  Alfred  sat, 
And  swayed  the  scejjtre  of  his  infant  realms  ; 
And  such  in  ancient  halls  and  mansions  drear 
May  still  be  seen,  but  perforated  sore 
And  drilled  in  holes  the  solid  oak  is  found. 
By  worms  voracious  eating  through  and  through. 

At  length  a  generation  more  refined 
Improved  the  simple  plan  ;  made  three  legs  four, 
GaAe  them  a  twisted  form  vermicular. 
And  o'er  the  seat  with  plenteous  wadding  stuffed 
Induced  a  splendid  cover,  green  and  blue. 
Yellow  and  red,  of  tapestry  richly  wrought 
And  woven  close,  or  needlework  sublime. 
There  might  ye  see  the  piony  spread  wide, 
The  fvdl-blown  rose,  the  shepherd  and  his  lass, 
Lap-dog  and  lambkin  with  black  staring  eyes, 
And  parrots  with  twin  cherries  in  their  beak. 

Now  came  tlie  cane  from  India,  smooth  and 
bright 
With  Nature's  varnish,  severed  into  stripes 
That  interlaced  each  other:  these  supplied 
Of  texture  firm  a  lattice-work,  that  braced 
The  new  machine,  and  it  became  a  chair. 
But  restless  was  the  chair ;  the  back  erect 
Distressed  the  weary  loins,  that  felt  no  ease  ; 
The  slippery  seat  betrayed  the  sliding  part 
That  pressed  it,  and  the  feet  hung  dangling  down, 
Anxious  in  vain  to  find  the  distant  floor. 
These  for  the  rich  ;    the    rest,   whom   fate   had 
placed 


WILLIAM  COWPER.  309 

In  modest  mediocrity,  content 
With  base  materials,  sat  on  weil-tanned  hides 
Obdurate  and  unyielding,  glassy  ,smoi>tl). 
With  here  and  there  a  tuft  of  crimson  yarn, 
Or  scarlet  crewel  in  the  cushion  fixed  : 
If  cushion  might  be  called,  what  hard^^r  seemed 
Than  the  firm  oak  of  which  the  frame  wasformec?. 
No  want  of  timber  then  was  felt  or  feared 
In  Albion's  happy  isle.     The  lumber  stood 
Ponderous,  and  fixed  by  its  own  massy  weight. 
But  elbows  still  were  wanting  ;  these,  some  say, 
An  alderman  of  Cripplegate  contrived, 
And  some  ascribe  the  invention  to  a  priest, 
Burly  and  big,  and  studious  of  his  case. 
But  rude  at  first,  and  not  with  easy  slope 
Receding  wide,  they  pressed  against  the  ribs. 
And  bruised  the  side  and  elevated  high 
Taught  the  raised  shoulders  to  invade  the  ear*' 
Long  time  elapsed  or  e'er  our  rugged  sires 
Complained,  though  incommodiously  pent  in, 
And  ill  at  ease  beliind.     The  Ladies  lirst 
'Gan  murmur,  as  became  the  softer  sex. 
Ingenious  Fancy,  never  better  pleased 
Than  when  employed  to  accommodate  the  fair^ 
Heard  the'sweet  moan  with  pity,  and  devised 
The  soft  settee  ;  one  elbow  at  each  end, 
And  in  the  midst  an  elbow,  it  received. 
United  yet  divided,  twain  at  once. 
So  sit  two  kings  of  Brentford  on  one  throne  ; 
And  so  two  citizens  wlio  take  the  air 
Close  packed  and  smiling,  in  a  chaise  and  one. 
But  relaxation  of  the  languid  frame 
By  soft  recumbency  of  outstretched  limbs, 
Was  bliss  reserved  for  happier  days ; — so  slow 
The  growth  of  what  is  excellent,  so  harJ 
To  attain  perfection  in  this  nether  ■v\urld 
Thus  first  Necessity  invented  stools, 
Convenience  next  suggested  elbow  ch aire, 
And  Luxury  the  accomplished  Sc/o  last 
—Tlie  Task,  Book  I. 

ON  SLAVERY. 

Oh  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 
Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade, 


aiO  WILLIAM  COWPER. 

Where  rumor  of  oppression  and  deceit, 
Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war 
Might  never  reach  nie  more  !    My  ear  is  pained, 
My  soul  is  sick  with  every  day's  report 
Of  wrong  and  outrage  with  which  earth  is  filled. 
There  is  no  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart — 
It  does  not  feel  for  man  ;  the  natural  bond 
Of  brotherhood  is  severed  as  the  llax 
That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  fire. 
He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 
Not  colored  like  his  own,  and  having  power 
To  enforce  the  wrong,  for  sucli  a  worthy  cause 
Dooms  and  devotes  him  <i.s  his  lawful  prey. 
Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 
Abhor  each  other.     Mountains  interposed, 
IMake  enemies  of  nations,  who  had  else 
Like  kindred  drops  been  mingled  into  one. 
Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys. 
And  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  b(;  deplored 
As  human  Nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot, 
Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his  sweat 
With  stripes,  that  Mercy  with  a  bleeding  Iieart 
Weeps  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast. 
Then  what  is  man  ?    And  what  man  seeing  tills, 
And  having  human  feelings,  does  not  blush 
And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man? 
I  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  my  ground, 
To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  while  I  sleej). 
And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  all  the  wealth 
That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earned. 
No  :  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's 
Just  estimation  prized  above  all  price, 
I  had  much  rather  be  myself  the  slave 
And  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  him. 
—Tne  Tusk,  Book  II. 

DOMESTIC  HAPPINESS. 

Domestic  Happiness,  thou  only  bli-ss 

Of  Paradise  that  has  survived  the  fall ! 

Though  few  now  taste  thee  unimpaired  and  pure, 

Or  tasting  long  enjoy  thee  !  too  infirm. 

Or  too  incautious,  to  preserve  thy  sweets 

Unmixed  with  drops  of  bitter,  which  neglect 

Or  temper  sheds  into  th}-  cryftal  cup  ; 


WILLIAM  COWPER.  Sll 

Thou  art  the  nurse  of  Virtue,  in  thine  arms 
She  smiles,  appearing,  as  in  truth  she  is. 
Heaven-born,  and  destined  to  the  skies  again. 
Thou  art  not  known  where  Pleasure  is  adored, 
Tliat  reeling  goddess  witii  the  zoneless  waist 
And  wandering  eyes,  still  leaning  on  the  arm 
Of  Novelty,  her  fickle,  frail  support : 
For  thou  art  meek  and  constant,  hating  change. 
And  finding  in  tlie  calm  of  trutli-tried  love 
Joj's  that  her  stormy  raptures  never  yield. 
—TJie  Task,  Book  III. 

TO   WINTER. 

0  Winter  !  ruler  of  the  inverted  year, 

Thy  scattered  hair  with  sleet  like  ashes  filled. 
Thy  breath  congealed  upon  thy  lips,  tliy  cheeks 
Fringed  with  a  beard  made  white  witli  other  snows 
Than  those  of  age.  thy  forehead  wrapp'd  in  clouds, 
A  leafless  branch  thy  sceptre,  and  tliy  throne 
A  sliding  car,  indebteii  to  no  wheels, 
But  urged  by  storms  along  its  slippery  way  ; 

1  love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seem'st. 

And  dreaded  as  tliou  art.     Thou  liold'st  the  sun 
A  prisoner  in  the  yet  undawning  east. 
Shortening  his  journey  between  morn  and  noon. 
And  hurrying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay, 
Down  to  the  rosy  west ;  but  kindly  still 
Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 
Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease. 
And  gathering,  at  short  notice,  in  one  group 
The  family  dispersed,  and  fixing  thought. 
Not  less  dispersed  by  daylight  and  its  careg. 
I  crown  thee  King  of  intimate  deliglits. 
Fireside  enjoyments,  homeborn  happiness. 
And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 
Of  undisturbed  retirement,  and  the  hours 
Of  long  uninterrupted  evening  know. 
—Hie  Task,  Book  IV. 

THE  GAMES  OF  KINGS. 

Great  princes  have  great  playthings.  Some  have 
play 
At  hewing  mountains  into  men,  and  some 
iM  building  human  wonders  mountain  high. 


313  WILLIAM  COWPER. 

Some  have  amused  tlie  dull  sad  years  of  life, 
Life  spent  in  indolence,  and  therefore  sad, 
Willi  schemes  of  monumental  fame  ;  and  sought 
By  pyramids  andmausolean  pomp. 
Short-lived  themselves,  to  immortalize  their  bones. 
Some  seek  diversion  in  the  tentefl  field. 
And  make  the  sorrows  of  mankind  their  sport. 
But  war's  a  game,  which,  were  their  subjects  wise, 
Kings  would  not  play  at.     Nations  would  do  well 
To  extort  their  truncheons  from  the  puny  hands 
Of  heroes,  whose  inlirm  and  baby  minds 
Are  gratified  with  mischief,  and  who  spoil. 
Because  men  suffer  it.  their  toy  the  world. 
—The  Task,  Book  V. 

TRUE  LIBERTi", 

There  is  yet  a  liberty  unsung 
By  poet.s,  and  by  senators  unjjraised, 
\Vhicli  monarclis  cannot  grant,  nor  all  the  powere 
Of  earth  and  hell  confederate  take  away  ; 
A  liberty  which  persecution,  fraud, 
Oppression,  prisons,  have  no  power  to  bind  : 
AVhich  whoso  tastes  can  be  enslaved  no  more  ; 
'Tis  liberty  of  hefirt,  derived  from  Heaven, 
Bought  with  His  blood  who  gave  it  to  mankind, 
And  sealed  with  the  same  token.     It  is  held 
By  charter,  and  that  charter  sanctioned  sure 
By  the  unimpeachable  and  awful  oath 
And  promise  of  a  God.     His  other  gifts 
All  bear  the  royal  stamp  that  speaks  them  His, 
And  are  august,  but  this  transcends  them  all. 
—The  Ta^k,  Book  V. 

THE  FUTURE  GOLDEN   AGE. 

The  groans  of  nature  in  this  nether  world, 
Which  Heaven  has  heard  for  ages,  have  an  end. 
Foretold  by  prophets,  and  by  poets  sung, 
Whose  fire  was  kindled  at  the  prophet's  lamp. 
The  time  of  rest,  the  promised  sabbath,  comes. 
Six  thousand  years  of  sorrow  have  well-nigh 
Fulfilled  their  tardy  and  disastrous  course 
Over  a  sinful  world  :  and  what  remains 
Of  this  tempestuous  state  of  human  things, 
Is  merely  as  the  working  of  the  sea 


WILLIAM  COWPER.  313 

Before  a  calm,  that  rocks  itself  to  rest : 
For  He  whose  car  the  winds  are,  and  the  clouds 
The  dust  that  waits  upon  His  sultry  march, 
When  sin  hath  moved  Him,  and  His  wrath  is  hot. 
Shall  visit  earUi  in  mercy  ;  shall  descend 
Propitious,  in  His  chariot  paved  with  love, 
And  wliat  His  storms  have  blasted  and  defaced 
For  man's  revolt,  shall  with  a  smile  repair.  .  .  . 

Oh  scenes  surpassing  fable,  and  yet  true. 
Scenes  of  accomplished  bliss  I  which  who  can  see, 
Though  but  in  distant  prospect,  and  not  feel 
His  soul  refreshed  with  fortaste  of  the  joy  'i 
Rivers  of  gladness  water  all  the  earth. 
And  clothe  all  climes  with  beauty  ;  the  reproach 
Of  barrenness  is  past.     The  fruitful  field 
Laughs  with  abundance  :  and  the  land  once  lean, 
Or  fertile  only  in  its  own  disgrace. 
Exults  to  see  its  thistly  curse  repealed. 
The  various  seasons  woven  into  one. 
And  that  one  season  an  eternal  spring. 
The  garden  feels  no  blight,  and  needs  no  fence, 
For  there  is  none  to  covet,  all  are  full. 
The  lion,  and  the  libbard.  and  the  bear 
Graze  with  the  fearless  flo'jks  ;  all  bask  at  noon 
Together,  or  all  gambol  in  the  shade 
Of  the  same  grove,  and  drink  one  common  stream. 
Antipathies  are  none.     No  foe  to  man 
Lurks  in  the  serpent  now  :  the  mother  sees. 
And  smiles  to  see,  her  infant's  playful  hand 
Stretched  forth  to  dally  with  the  crested  worm, 
To  stroke  his  azure  necJc,  or  to  receive 
The  lambent  homage  of  his  arrowy  tongue. 
All  creatures  worship  man,  and  all  mankind 
One  Lord,  one  Father.     Error  has  no  place  : 
That  creeping  pestilence  is  driven  away  : 
The  breath  of  Heaven  has  chased  it.     In  the  heart 
No  passion  touches  a  discordant  string, 
But  all  is  harmony  and  love.     Disease 
Is  not :  the  pure  and  uncontaminate  blood 
Holds  its  due  coui-se,  nor  fears  the  frost  of  age. 
One  song  employs  all  nations,  and  all  cry, 
'•  Worthy  the  Lamb,  f  ^r  He  was  slain  for  us  !  " 
The  dwellers  in  the  vales  and  on  the  rocks 
Shout  to  each  other,  ard  the  mountain- tops 


314  WILLIAM  COWPER. 

From  distant  mountains  eatcli  the  Hying  joy, 
Till,  nation  aftei*  nation,  taught  the  strain, 
Earth  rolls  the  rapturous  liosanna  round. 
— 27ie  Task,  Book  YI. 

CONCLUSION   OF   "  THE  TASK." 

So  life  glides  smoothly  and  by  stealth  away. 

More  golden  than  that  age  of  fabled  gold 

Renowned  in  ancient  song  ;  not  vex(!d  with  care 

Or  stained  witii  guilt,  beneficent,  approved 

Of  God  and  man,  and  peaceful  in  its  end. 

So  glide  my  life  away  !  and  so  .it  last, 

My  share  of  duties  decently  fulfilled, 

May  some  disease,  not  tardy  to  perform 

Its  destined  office,  yet  with  gentle  stroke, 

Dismiss  me  weary  to  a  safe  retreat, 

Beneatli  the  turf  that  I  have  often  trod. 

It  shall  not  grieve   me,   then,  that  once,  when 

called 
To  dress  a  Sofa  with  the  flowers  of  vei-se, 
I  played  awhile,  obedient  to  the  fair, 
With  that  light  task  ;  but  soon,  to  please  her  more, 
"Whom  ilowcrs  alone  I  knew  would  little  please, 
Let  fall  the   unfinished   wreath,  and  roved   for 
fruit  ;  [true. 

Roved  far,  and  gatiiered  mucii :  some  harsh,  'tis 
Picked  from  the  tliorns  and  briars  of  reproof, 
But  Avholesome,  well-digested  ;  grateful  some 
To  palates  that  can  taste  immortal  truth, 
Insipid  else,  and  sure  to  be  despised. 
But  all  is  in  His  hand  whose  praise  I  seek. 
In  vain  the  Poet  sings  and  the  World  hears, 
If  He  regard  not,  though  divine  the  theme. 
'Tis  not  in  artful  measures,  in  the  chime 
And  idle  tinkling  of  a  minstrel's  lyre. 
To  charm  His  ear,  whose  eye  is  on  the  heart. 
Whose  frown  can  disappoint  the  proudest  strain. 
Whose  approbation  prosper — even  mine. 
—The  Task,  Book  VI. 

Before  the  commencement  of  The  Task, 
and  after  its  completion,  Cowpei*  wrote  many 
short  j)oems,  some  gay  and  sportive,  some 
keen  and  satirical,  some  solemn  and  pathetic. 


WILLIAM  COWPEK.  S15 

These,  in  the  best  collective  editions  of  his 
Works  are  grouped  together  under  the  title, 
"Miscellaneous  Poems,— 1779  to  1799." 

NOSE  r«.  EYES  :   in  re  spectacles. 
Between  Nose  and  Eyes  a  strange  contest  arose, 

The  Spectacles  set  them  unhappily  wrong  ; 
Tlie  point  in  dispute  was,  as  all  the  world  knows, 

To  which  the  said  Sjiectacles  ought  to  belong. 

So  Tongue  was  the  lawyer,  and  argued  the  cause 
With  a  great  deal  of  skill,  aud  a  wig  full  of 
learning  ; 

Wilde  Chief-Baron  Ear  sat  to  balance  the  laws, 
So  famed  for  his  talent  in  nicely  discerning. 

"  In  behalf  of  the  Nose  it  will  quickly  appear. 
And  your  lordship,"'  he  said,  "will  undoubted- 
ly find. 

That  tlie  Nose  has  had  Spectacles  always  in  wear, 
Which  amounts  to  possession  time  out  of  mind." 

Then  holding  the  Spectacles  up  to  the  court — 
"  Your  lordship  observes  thej^  are  made  with  a 
straddle. 

As  wide  as  the  ridge  of  the  Nose  is  ;  in  short. 
Designed  to  sit  close  to  it,  just  like  a  saddle. 

'"Again,  would  j'our  lordship  a  moment  suppose 
(Tis  a  case  that  has  happened,  and  may  be  again) 

That  the  visage  or  countenance  had  not  a  Nose, 
Pray  who  would,  or  who  could,  wear  Spectacles 
then  ? 

"On  the  whole  it  appears,   and   my  argument 

shows. 

With  a  reasoning  the  court  %vill  never  condemn. 

That  the  Spectacles  plainly   were   made  for  the 

Nose, 

And  the  Nose  was  as  plainly  intended  for  them." 

Then  shifting  his  side  (as  a  lawyer  knows  how). 
He  pleaded  again  in  behalf  of  the  Eyes  : 

But  wliat  were  his  arguments  few  people  know. 
For  the  court  did  not  think  they  were  etjually 
wise. 


316  WILLIAM  COWPER. 

So  liis  lordship  decreed  with  a  grave  solemn  tone, 
Decisive  and  clear,  without  one  if  or  but — 

■*  That,  whenever  the  Nose  put  his  Spectacles  on. 
By    dayli.<;ht    or    candlelight — Eyes  should    be 
shut:'' 

THE   NIGHTINGALE   AND  GLOW-WORM. 

A  Nightingale,  that  all  day  long 
Hath  cheered  the  village  with  his  song, 
Nor  yet  at  eve  his  note  suspended, 
Nor  yet  when  eventide  was  ended, 
Began  to  feel  as  well  he  might, 
The  keen  demands  of  appetite  ; 
When,  looking  eagerly  around, 
He  spied  far  otT,  upon  the  ground, 
A  something  shining  in  the  dark. 
An<l  knew  the  glow-worm  by  his  spark  ; 
So  stooping  down  from  hawthorn  top. 
He  thought  to  put  him  in  his  crop. 
The  worm,  aware  of  his  intent. 
Harangued  him  thus,  right  eloquent : — 

"  Did  you  admire  my  lamp,"  <{Uoth  he, 
"As  umch  as  I  your  niinsti-elsy. 
You  would  abhor  to  do  me  wrong, 
As  much  as  I  to  spoil  your  song  ; 
For  'twas  the  self-same  power  Divine 
Taught  you  to  sing  and  me  to  shine. 
That  you  with  music,  I  with  light. 
Might  beautify  and  cheer  the  night." 
The  songster  heard  his  short  oration, 
And,  warbling  out  his  ajjprobation. 
Released  him,  as  my  story  tells, 
And  founil  a  supper  somewhere  else. 

Hence  jarring  sectaries  may  learn 
Their  real  interest  to  discern  ; 
That  brother  should  not  war  with  brother 
And  worry  and  devour  each  other  ; 
But  sing  and  sliine  with  sweet  consent, 
Till  life's  poor  transient  night  is  si)ent. 
Respecting  in  each  other's  case 
The  gifts  of  nature  and  of  grace. 

Those  Christians  best  deserve  the  name, 
Who  studiously  make  peace  their  aim  ; 
Peace  both  the  duty  and  the  prize 
Of  him  that  creeps  and  him  that  tlies. 


WILLIAM  COWPER.  Sr 


YARDLEY  OAK. 


Survivor  sole,  and  hardly  such,  of  ail 

That  once  lived  here,  thy  brethren  !  at  my  birth, 

(Since  which  I  number  three-score  winters  past), 

A  shattered  veteran,  hoUow-trunked  perhaps. 

As  now,  and  wftli  excoriate  forks  deform, 

Relics  of  ages  !  could  a  mind,  imbued 

With  trutli  from  heaven,  created  thing  adore, 

I  might  with  reverence  kneel,  and  worship  tliee.  .  . 

Thou  wast  a  bauble  once  ;  a  cup  and  ball 
Which  babes  might  play  with  ;    and  the  thievish 

Seeking  her  food,  with  ease  might  have  purloined 

Tlie  auburn  nut  tliat  held  thee,  swiillowing  down 

Thy  yet  close-folded  latitude  of  Ik  aghs 

And  all  thine  embryo  vastness  at  a  gulp. 

But  Fate  thy  growth  decreed  ;  autumnal  rains 

Beneath  thy  parent  tree  mellowed  the  soil 

Designed  thy  cradle  ;  and  a  skipping  deer. 

With  pointed  hoof  dibbling  the  glebe,  jn-eiKired 

The  soft  receptacle,  in  which,  secure. 

Thy  rudiments  should  sleep  the  winter  through.  .  . 

Thou  fell'st  mature  ;  and,  in  the  loamy  clod 
Swelling  with  vegetative  force  instinct 
Didst  burst  thine  egg,  as  theii-s  the  fabled  Twins, 
Now  stars  :  two  lobes  protruding,  paired  exact  ; 
A  leaf  succeeded,  and  another  leaf, 
And,  all  the  elements  thy  puny  growth 
Fostering  i)ropitious,  thou  becamest  a  twig.  .  .  . 

Time  made  thee  M-hat  thou  wast,  king  of  the 
woods  ; 
And  time  hath  made  thee  what  thou  art — a  cave 
For  owls  to  roost  in.     Once  thy  spreading  boughs 
D'erhungthe  champaign  ;  and  the  numerous  flocks 
That  grazed  it,  stood  beneath  that  ample  cope 
Uncrowded,  yet  safe  sheltered  from  the  storm. 
No  flock  frequents  thee  now.     Thou  hast  outlived 
Thy  popularity,  and  art  become 
(Unless  verse  rescue  thee  awhile)  a  thing 
Forgotten,  as  the  foliage  of  thy  youth.  .  .  . 

Thought  cannot  spend  itself,  comparing  still 
The  great  and  little  of  thy  lot,  thy  growth 
From  almost  nullity  into  a  state 
Cf  matchless  grandeur,  and  declension  thence, 


318  WILLIAM  COWPER. 

Slow,  into  sufli  magnificent  decay. 
Time  was  wlien,  bottling  on  tliy  leaf,  a  fly 
Could  shake  tlM?e  to  the  root— and  time  has  been 
"When  tempests  could  not.     At  thy  firmest  age 
Thou  hadst  within  tiiy  bole  solid  contents. 
That  might  have  ribbed  the  sides  and  planked  the 

deck 
Of  some  flagged  admiral ;  and  tortuous  arms, 
The  shipwright's  darling  treasure,  didst  present 
To  tlie  four-quartered  winds,  robust  and  bold. 
Warped  into  tough  knee-timber,  many  a  load  I 
But  the  axe  spared  thee  ;  and  therefore  to  Time 
'J'lie  task  was  left  to  whittle  tliee  away 
With  his  sly  scythe,  whose  ever-nibbling  edge. 
Noiseless,  an  atom  and  an  atom  more, 
Disjoining  from  the  rest,  has,  unobserved, 
Acliievod  a  labor,  which  had.  far  and  wide, 
By  man  performed,  made  all  the  forest  ring. 

Embowelled  now,  and  of  thy  ancient  self 
Possessing  naught  but  the  scooped  rind,  that  seems 
A  huge  throat  calling  to  the  clouds  for  drink, 
Which  it  would  give  in  rivulets  to  thy  foot, 
Thou  temjitest  none,  but  ratlier  much  forbid'st 
The  feller's  toil,  which  thou  could  ill  requite. 
Yet  is  thy  root  sincere,  sound  as  the  rock, 
A  quarry  of  stout  spui's.  and  knotted  fangs. 
Which,  crook'd  into  a  thousand  whimsies,  clasp 
The  stubborn  soil,  and  hold  thee  still  erect. 
So  stands  a  kingdom,  whose  foundation  yet 
Fails  not  in  virtue,  and  in  wisdom  laid, 
Tliougli  all  the  superstructure,  by  the  tootli 
Pulverized  of  venality,  a  sliell 
Stands  now,  and  semblance  only  of  itself  I 

OX  THE  RECEIPT  OF  MY   MOTHERS  PICTURE. 

Oh  that  those  lips  had  language  I     Life  has  passed 
With  nie  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine  :  tliine  own  sweet  smile  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me  ; 
Voice  only  fails — else  how  distinct  they  say, 
"Grieve  not,  my  child  ;  chase  all  thy  fears  away  ! " 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize — 
The  art  that  baffles  Time's  tvrannic  claim 


WILLIAM  COWPEH.  319 

To  onenrh  it  !)  here  sliines  on  me  still  the  saino. 
Faithful  i-emembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here  ! 
Who  bidst  me  honor  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a  inothcr  lost  so  long. 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  jnecept  were  her  own  ; 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief — 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 
A  raomenlary  dieani,  that  thou  art  she. 

My  mother!   when   1   learned  that  tluni    wast 
dead. 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  tiie  tears  I  shed  ': 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son — 
"Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun  ? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss ; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile  I — it  answei-s — Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day, 
1  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away. 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu  ! 
But  was  it  such? — It  was. — Where  thou  art  gone 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  xmknown  : 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 
Tiie  parting  words  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more  ! 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  (piick  return. 
What  ardently  I  wished,  I  long  believed. 
And,  disappointed  still,  Avas  still  deceived  ; 
By  expectation  every  day  beguiled. 
Dupe  of  to-moiTow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrows  spent, 
I  learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot  ; 
But.  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no 
more. 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor  ; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way, 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapped 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  capped, 


S20  WILLIAM  COVVFER. 

'Tis  now  become  a  liistoiy  little  known, 

That  once  we  culled  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 

Short-lived  possession  !     But  the  record  fair, 

Tliat  niemor}-  kc'e|)3  of  all  thy  kindness  there, 

Still  outlives  many  a  stonn,  that  has  ellaced 

A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced  : 

Tliy  nij^htly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 

That  thou   miglitst  know  me  safe  and  warmly 

laid  : 
Thy  morning  Ixiunties  ere  I  left  my  home — 
Tlie  biscuit,  or  confectionery  plum  : 
The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  liestowed 
By  thy  own  hand,   till    fresh    they    shone    and 

glowetl : 
All  this,  anil,  more  endearing  still  than  all, 
Thy  constant  ilow  of  love,  tliat  knew  no  fall. 
Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks, 
Tliat  Inimor  interposed  too  often  makes; 
All  this  still  legible  in  Memory's  pagr. 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age. 
Adils  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honors  to  tlue  as  my  numU'rs  may  ; 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial.  Ijut  sincere. 
Not  seorned  in  heaven,  though  little  noticed  here. 
Could  Tin:e.  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours. 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flowere. 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin, 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  wliile. 
^Vouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head  and 

smile). 
Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear. 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them 

here  ? 
I  would  not  tnist  my  heart : — the  dear  delight 
i5eems  so  to  be  desired,  i>erhaps  I  might. 
Jjiii  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much, 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark,  from  ^Vlbion's  coast 
(The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean  crossed) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  Avell-havened  isle. 
Where  spices  breatne,  and  brighter  seasons  smile. 


CHRISTOPHER  CHRISTIAN  (OX.       ;5-21 

There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
Wliile  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her.  fanning  light  her  streamers  gaj- ; 
So  tliou,  with  sails  how  swift !   hast  reached  the 

bliore. 
Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  i-oar ; 
And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchored  by  tliy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 
Always  from  i)ort  withheld,  always  distressed— 
Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-tossed. 
Sails   ripped,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass 

lost; 
And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  i)rosperous  course. 
Yet,  oh,  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he  ! 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  ti)  me. 
My  boast  is  not  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth  ; 
But  higher  far  my  ])roud  j^retensions  rise — 
The  son  of  i)arents  passed  into  the  skies. 
And  now,  farewell  1 — Time  unrevoked  has  run 
His  wonted  coui-se  ;  yet  what  1  wished  is  done. 
By  Contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain. 
1  .seem  to  have  lived  ni}'  childhood  o'er  again  : 
To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were  mine. 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine  ; 
And.  while  the  wings  of  fancy  still  are  free. 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 
Time  lias  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft — 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 

COX,  Christopher  Christian,  an  Ameri- 
can physician  and  poet,  born  at  Baltimore  in 
1816.  He  graduated  at  Yale  College  in  1835: 
entered  upon  medical  practice  in  1838 ;  was 
appointed  Brigade  Surgeon  of  the  U.  B.  in 
1860,  and  Surgeon-General  of  Maryland  in 
1863.  He  was  elected  Lieutenant-governor  of 
Maryland  in  1863 ;  and  was  President  of  the 
Board  of  Health  at  Washington,  in  1871.  In 
1879  he  went  as  Commissioner  to  the  World's 


■y22       siK  G::oRca':  william  cox. 

Fair  in  Australia.   Ilis  poems  appeared  niaiu- 
\y  in  periodicals. 

OXE  YEAR  AGO. 
What  stars  have  faded  from  our  sky? 
What  Jiopes  unfolded  but  to  die  ! 
What  dreauis  so  fondly  pondered  o'er, 
Forever  lost  the  hue  they  wore  : 
How  like  a  dealh-knell,  sad  and  slow, 
Kolls  Ihiuuj^li  the  soul.  •■  One  Year  Ago  I  " 

Where  is  the  face  we  loved  to  greet  ? 
Tiie  form  that  graced  the  fireside  seat? 
The  gentle  smile,  the  winning  way, 
That  blessed  oiu-  life-path  day  by  day? 
Where  lied  those  accents  soft  and  low, 
That  thrilled  our  hearts  '•  One  Year  Ago  ?  " 

Ah  !  vacant  is  the  fireside  chair, 

The  smile  that  won  no  longer  there  : 

From  door  and  hall,  from  porch  and  lawn, 

The  echo  of  that  voice  is  gone  ; 

And  we  who  linger  oidy  know 

How  much  was  lost  '•  One  Yeai"  Ago  I " 

Beside  her  grave  the  marble  white 
Keeps  silent  guard  by  day  and  night ; 
Serene  she  sleeps,  nor  heeds  the  tread 
Of  footsteps  near  her  lowly  bed  : 
Her  pulseless  breast  no  more  may  know 
The  pangs  of  life  '•  One  Year  Ago." 

But  why  repine  ?    A  few  more  years, 
A  few  more  broken  sighs  and  tears, 
And  we,  enlisted  with  the  dead. 
Shall  follow  where  her  steps  have  led  ; 
To  that  far  world  rejoicing  go 
To  which  she  passed  "  One  Year  Ago." 

COX,  Sir  Geokge  William,  an  English 
clergyman  and  author,  born  in  1827.  He  was 
educated  at  Rugby,  and  at  Trinity  College, 
Oxford;  and  entered  Holy  Orders  in  1S50. 
On  the  death  of  an  uncle,  Sir  Edmund  Cox, 
in  1877,  he  succeeded  to  the  baronetcy.     He  is 


SlK  (JKORGE  WILLIAM  < 'OX.  :}>3 

the  author  of  Poems,  Legendary  and  Histori- 
cal (1850) ;  Life  of  St.  Boniface  (1853) ;  Tales 
from  Greek  Mythologij,  and  The  Great  Per- 
sian War  (1861) ;  Tales  of  the  Gods  and  He- 
roes (1802) ;  Tales  of  Thebes  and  Argos  (1863) ; 
A  Manual  of  Mythology  (1867);  Latin  and 
Teutonic  Christendom  and  Tli.e  Mythology  of 
the  Aryan  Nations  (1870) ;  A  History  of  Greece 
and  The  Crjisada;  (1874) ;  A  General  History 
of  Greece  to  the  death  of  Alexander  the  Great 
(1877) ;  History  of  British  Rale  in  India 
(1881);  Introductio)i  to  the  Science  of  Coin- 
■parative  Mythology  cuid  Folk-lore  (1881); 
Lives  of  Greek  Statesmen  (1885).  Ho  also  as- 
sisted iu  editing  The  Dictionary  of  Science, 
Literature,  and  Art,  and  has  contributed 
articles  to  the  Encyclopmdia  Britannica. 

CHARACTERISTICS  OF  GREEK  MYTHOLOGY. 
Living  in  a  land  of  ice-bound  fjords  and  desolate 
fells,  hearing  the  niovirnful  wail  of  the  waving 
pine-branclies,  looking  on  the  stem  strife  of  frost 
and  lire,  Avitnessing  year  by  year  the  death  of  the 
short  lived  summer,  the  Northman  was  inured  to 
sombre  if  not  gloomy  thought,  to  the  rugged  in- 
dependence of  the  country  as  opposed  to  the  arti- 
iicial  society  of  a  town.  His  own  sternness  was 
but  the  reflection  of  the  land  in  wliich  he  lived  ; 
and  it  was  reflected,  in  its  turn,  in  the  tales  which 
he  told,  whether  of  the  heroes  or  the  gods.  The 
Greek,  dwelling  in  sunnier  regions,  where  the  in- 
terchange of  summer  and  winter  brought  with  it 
no  feelings  of  overpowering  gloom,  exhibited  in 
his  words  and  songs  the  happiness  which  he  ex- 
perienced in  himself.  Caring  less,  perhaps,  to 
hold  commvinion  with  the  silent  mountains  and 
the  lieaving  sea,  he  was  drawn  to  tlie  life  of  cities, 
where  he  could  share  his  joys  aJid  sorrows  with 
his  kinsmen.  The  earth  was  his  mother  :  the 
gods  who  dwelt  on  Olympus  had  the  likeness  of 
men.  without  their  pains,  or  their  doom  of  death. 
There  Zeus  sat  on  his  golden  throne,  and  beside 
him  was  the  glorious   ApoUon,   not  the  deified 


334  Sir  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CGX. 

jnan,  but  tlie  sun-gofl  invested  with  a  iiuman  per- 
sonality. But  ( witii  wluitever  niodifications  caused 
by  climate  and  circumt;tances)  both  were  inherit- 
ors of  a  common  mythologj',  which  with  much 
that  was  beautiful  and  good  united  also  much 
that  was  repulsive  and  immoral.  Both,  from  the 
ordinary  speech  of  their  conmion  forefathers,  had 
framed  a  number  of  legends  which  had  their  gross 
and  impure  aspects,  but  for  tliegrossness  of  which 
they  were  not  (as  we  have  seen"),  and  they  could 
not  be,  responsible. 

But  if  the  mythology  of  the  Greeks  is  in  sub- 
stance and  in  development  the  same  as  that  of  the 
North,  they  differed  widely  in  their  later  historj-. 
That  of  tile  (Jreeks  passed  tiu'ough  the  stages  of 
growth,  matvu'ity,  and  decay,  without  any  violent 
external  repression.  The  mythical  language  of 
the  exirliest  age  had  supplied  them  with  an  inex- 
haustible fountain  of  legendary  narrative  ;  and 
the  tales  so  framed  had  received  an  implicit  be- 
lief, which,  though  intense  and  unque5;tioning, 
could  scarcely  be  called  religious,  and  in  no  sense 
could  be  regarded  as  moral.  ^Vnd  just  because 
the  belief  accorded  to  it  was  not  moral,  the  time 
came  gradually  when  thoughtful  men  rose  througii 
earnest  elTort  (rather,  we  would  say,  through  Di- 
vine guidance)  to  the  conviction  of  higher  and 
clearer  truth.  If  even  the  Greek  of  the  Heroic 
age  found  in  his  mythology  neither  a  i-ule  of  life 
nor  the  ideal  of  that  Deity  whom  in  his  heart  he 
really  worshipped,  still  less  would  this  be  the  case 
with  the  poets  and  philosophers  of  later  times.  To 
-.^sclivlus,  Zeus  was  the  mere  name  of  a  god  whose 
actions  were  not  those  of  the  sons  of  Kronos ;  to 
Sophocles  it  made  no  difference  whetlier  he  were 
called  Zeus  or  by  any  other  name,  as  long  as  he 
night  retain  the  conviction  of  His  eternity  and 
His  righteousness.  .  .  .  Socrates  might  teach  the 
strictest  responsibility  of  man  to  a  i)erfect!y  im- 
partial judge,  even  wlule  he  spoke  of  the  mysticnl 
tribvuial  of  Minos,  Rhadaraanthus,  and  Aiakos. 
He  was  accused  indeed  of  introducing  new  gods. 
This  charge  he  denied,  and  with  truth  :  but  in  no 
sense  whatever  was  he  a  woi-shipper  of  the  Ohm- 


SAMUEL  HANSON  COX.  325 

pian  Zeus,  or  of  the  Phcebos  who  smote  the 
Pythian  dragon. — Myihologij  of  the  Aryan  Na- 
tions. 

COX,  Samuel  Hanson,  an  American  clergy- 
man and  author,  born  at  Leesville,  New  Jer- 
sey, in  179;5,  died  in  1880.  He  was  brought 
lip  in  the  Society  of  Friends ;  studied  law,  but 
abandoned  it  for  the  ministry,  ajid  was  pastor 
of  Presbyterian  churches  in  New  York  and 
Brooklyii.  He  Avas  for  a  time  Professor  of 
Sacred  Rhetoric  in  Auburn  Theological  Semi- 
nary, and  of  Ecclesiastical  History  in  Union 
Theological  Seminary,  New  York ;  and  after- 
wards President  •  of  Ingham  University. 
Among  his  works  are:  Quakerism  not  Chris- 
tianity;  Theopneustoii,  or  Select  Scriptures 
considered,  and  Interviews  Memorable  and 
Useful,  from  Memory  reproduced. 

CH.YLMERS  IN  THE  PULPIT. 
As  Chalmers  entered  from  the  vestry  and  as- 
cended the  pulpit,  there  was  sometliing  at  once 
simple  and  unaffected,  on  the  one  hand,  and 
solemn,  and  engaged,  and  absorbed,  on  the  otiier, 
jn  liis  manner  and  expression.  His  stature  ap- 
peared shorter  than  I  expected ;  but  his  counte- 
nance, with  no  glare  or  ostentation,  seemed 
gathered  to  a  point,  in  tranquil  but  fixed  concen- 
tration :  as  if  he  had  a  message  to  deliver  and  a 
work  to  do,  and  as  if  he  would  do  that,  and  care 
for  nothing  else,  on  the  present  occasion.  When 
he  began  to  speak,  though  I  had  heard  of  his  Fife- 
shire  accent,  or  rather  broad  Scotch  brogue,  the 
sonorous  quaintness  and  earnestness  of  his  voice 
sui'prised  me.  .  .  .  Some  of  his  expressions  were 
simple,  filial,  and  beautiful,  as  well  as  touching, 
in  an  eminent  degree.  One  I  will  quote,  as  I  well 
remember  it,  in  the  main:  "May  our  luve  for 
tha,  our  Master  and  Lard,  ba  true  and  pramative  ; 
may  it  ba  like  that  of  apowstles  and  the  Kras- 
chuns  of  the  martyr  ages :    may   wa  sarve  tha 


326  SAMUEL  SULLIVAN  COX. 

bakous  wa  luve  tha,  and  luve  tha  bakous  wa  de- 
light to  do  tha  honor."  I  give  tliese  as  tlie  best 
approximate  specimens  of  his  enunciation  and  his 
utterance  that  I  can  recollect  or  command — cer- 
lamly  from  no  thought  or  allowance  of  caricature, 
and  ^vith  a  tender  demur  lest  I  should  seem  to 
disparage  him  with  any  reader.  His  peculiarities 
soon  lo.st  their  quality  as  strange  or  ungrateful, 
and  became  eas}-  and  musical  alike  to  the  ear  and 
the  mind.  The  strength  and  wealth  of  his 
thoughts  soon  carried  us  in  the  wake  of  his  pros- 
perous mental  navigation,  and  we  all  felt  the 
pleasure  and  the  safety  of  such  a  helmsman,  as 
we  sailed  with  him,  unanimous  and  happy,  with 
the  port  of  the  celestial  city  almost  peering  to  our 
view.  Indeed,  as  I  became  wonted  to  his  voice 
and  his  way,  they  lost  all  their  momentary  offence, 
and  seemed  rather  transmuted  by  association,  into 
attractions,  and  beauties,  and  harmonies  of 
masterly  oratorv.  —  Interviews  Memorable  and 
Useful. 


COX,  Samuel  Sullivan,  an  American  poli- 
tician and  author,  born  at  Zanesville,  Ohio, 
Sept.  30,  1824.  He  was  educated  at  Brown 
University,  became  a  lawyer  in  Ohio  and  edi- 
tor of  the  Columbus  Stateanian.  In  1855  he 
was  appointed  Secretary  of  Legation  to  Peru. 
He  was  first  elected  to  Congress  frona  Ohio  in 
1856,  and  served  for  eight  years.  In  1866  he 
took  up  his  residence  in  New  York ;  and  Avas 
elected  to  Congress  from  that  city  in  1868 ; 
and  with  the  exception  of  a  single  term,  was 
re-elected  until  1884.  In  1885  he  Avas  ap- 
l)ointed  Minister  to  Turkey.  He  has  publish- 
ed The  Buckeye  Abroad  (1852) ;  Eight  Years 
in  Congress  (1865) ;  Search  for  Winter  San- 
beams  (1870)]  Why  We  Laugh  (1876);  Free 
Land  and  Free  Trade  (1880);  Arctic  Sun- 
beayns  (1882) ;  Orient  Sunbeams  (1882) ;  and 
Three  Decades  of  Federal  Legislation  (1885). 


ARTHUR  CLEVELAND  COXE.  827 

THE  CITY   OF  MILIANAH. 

I  vviflli  tliat  I  could  give  you  a  pliotograph  of 
Milianah,  warmed  somewhat  by  the  colors  of  the 
flowers  which  make  it  so  fragrant.  I\Iake  to  your 
mind  the  imagery  of  a  plain,  out  of  which,  rising 
through  several  miles  of  gardens,  thei-e  winds  as 
it  rises,  the  road,  up  to  the  gate  in  the  rear  of  the 
city  ;  and  before  you  get  there,  picture  the  lime- 
stone rocks  grottoed,  honeycombed,  and  in-egular 
at  places,  but  all  decorated  with  vine  and  leaf  and 
cascade,  and  surrounded  by  a  staunch  wall,  with- 
in whose  fortiiied  escarpments  a  luxuriance  of 
vegetation  seems  to  surround  a  city  of  elegant 
proportions,  witli  tower  of  churcli  and  dome  of 
mosque,  and  all  Hashing  wliite  and  clean  as  one  of 
its  own  cascades  under  the  African  sun— tlien  you 
liave  Milianah  !  It  is  the  glory  of  Algiers  !  Enter 
within  its  gates !  Walk  around  its  plaza  I  Hero 
we  find  embowered  in  foliage,  in  tlie  centre  of  the 
large  square,  a  Venetian  Campanella.  It  stands 
alone  and  sounds  the  hour  for  Moslem  and  Chris- 
tian. Go  down  the  wide  avenue  to  the  soutii  side 
of  the  cit)-,  and  you  lind  yourself  looking  from 
the  precipitous  walls  upon  the  grand  views  be- 
iieath  and  afar!  You  see  no  frowning  beetled 
bi-ow  of  rocky  fort,  fortified  by  art  and  nature. 
Tliat  is  here,  but  it  is  visible  only  from  below. 
You  gaze  down  amidst  the  wild  bryony,  creep- 
ing about  the  rocky  sides,  making  hanging  gar- 
dens of  these  walls,  creeping  about  wliere  the  cac- 
tus, the  rocks,  the  pomegranates  and  the  fountains, 
tlie  figs  and  the  waterfalls  in  promiscuous  luxnri- 
anc-e  form  a  foregroimd.  While  at  tlie  end  of  the 
long  plain,  more  than  twenty  miles  distant,  the 
mountains  stand,  one  range  above  the  other,  and 
the  second  above  the  third,  long  intervals  between, 
for  seventy  miles  and  mOre,  tintil  tlie  eye  from 
Milianah  seizes,  as  upon  its  last  outpost  of  the 
vision,  the  mountain  range  fi'om  which  the  begin- 
nings of  the  Desert  appear.— ^4  Search  for  Winter 
Sunbeams. 

COXE,  Arthur  Cleveland,  an  American 
clergyman  and  poet,  born  at  Mcndham,  N.  J., 


328  ARTHUR  CLEVELAND  COXE. 

May  10,  1818.  He  is  the  son  of  the  Rev. 
Samuel  Hanson  Cox,  He  was  educated  at 
the  University  of  New  York,  and  at  the 
General  Theological  Seminary,  from  which 
he  graduated  in  1841.  In  1S(J5  he  wns  conse- 
crated Bishop  of  Western  New  York.  Among 
his  numerous  publications  a"e:  Advent,  a 
Mystery  (1837) ;  Atkwold,  a  lioniaunt  (1838) ; 
Christian  Ballads  (1840);  Athanasion  and 
other  Poems  (1843) ;  Halloice'en  (1844) ;  Said, 
a  Mystery  (1845) :  Sermons  on  Doctrine  and 
Duty  (1854);  Impressions  of  England  (185G); 
Criterion  {\8C){)) ;  Moral  Reforms  (\8Q%)  \  Signs 
of  the  Times  (1870);  The  Bible  Rhyme  (1873); 
Apollos,  or  the  Way  of  God  (1873) ;  Covenant 
Prayers  (1875),  and  The  Penitential  (1882). 

WATCHWORDS. 

"\Ve  are  living — we  are  dwelling 

In  a  grand  and  awful  time  ; 
In  an  age,  on  ages  telling, 

To  be  living  is  sublime. 

Hark  !  the  waking  up  of  nations, 

Gog  and  Magog  to  the  fray  : 
Hark  !  wbat  soundeth  is  Creation's 

Groaning  for  its  latter  day. 

Will  ye  play,  then?  will  ye  dally 
With  your  music,  with  j'our  wine  ? 

Up  I  it  is  Jehovah's  rally  I 
God's  own  arm  hath  need  of  thine. 

Hark  I  the  onset  I  will  ye  fold  your 

Faith-clad  arms  in  lazy  lock  ? 
Up,  oh  up.  thou  drowsy  soldier ! 

"Worlds  are  charging  to  the  shock. 

Worlds  are  charging — heaven  beholding  1 

Thou  hast  but  an  hour  to  fight ; 
Now,  the  blazoned  cross  unfolding, 

On — right  onward,  for  the  right ! 


J 


ARTHUR  CLEVELAND  COXE.  ;329 

What !  still  hug  thy  dream}'  slumbers? 

'Tis  no  time  for  idling  play  : 
"Wreaths  and  dance,  and  poet-numbers 

Flout  them  !    We  must  work  to-day. 

Fear  not !  spurn  the  worldling's  laughter ; 

Thine  ambition  trample  thou  I 
Thou  slialt  find  a  long  Hereafter 

To  be  more  than  tempts  thee  now. 

On  !  let  all  the  soul  within  you 

For  the  truth's  sake  go  abroad  ! 
Strike  !  let  every  nerve  and  sinew 

Tell  on  ages— -tell  for  God  ! 

THE   heart's  SOXG. 

In  the  silent  midnight  M^atches, 

List — thy  bosom-door  ! 
How  it  knocketh,  knocketh,  knocketh, 

Knocketh  evermore  ! 
Say  not  'tis  thy  jmlse's  beating  ; 

"Tis  thy  heart  of  sin 
"Tis  th}'  Saviour  knocks,  and  crietli 

Rine,  and  let  me  in  I 

Death  comes  down  with  reckless  footstep 

To  the  hall  and  hut : 
Think  you  Death  will  stand  a-knocking 

Whei  e  the  door  is  shut ! 
Jesus  waiteth — waiteth — waiteth  ; 

But  thy  door  is  fast  ! 
Grieved,  away  th}"  Saviour  goeth  ; 

Death  breaks  in  at  last. 

Then  'tis  thine  to  stand — entreating 

Christ  to  let  thee  in  :  : 

At  the  gate  of  heaven  beating, 

Wailing  for  thy  sin. 
Nay,  alas  !  thou  foolish  virgin, 

Hast  thou  then  forgot, 
Jesus  Avaited  long  to  know  thee. 

But  he  knows  thee  not  ! 

MARCHING  ONWARD. 

March — march — march  ! 

flaking  sounds  as  they  tread. 


330         ARTHUR  CLEVELAND  COXE. 

Ho — ho  !  how  they  step. 

Going  down  to  the  dead ! 
Every  stride,  every  tramp. 

Every  footfall  is  nearer  : 
And  dimmer  each  lamp 

As  darkness  grows  drearer  ; 
But  lio  !  how  they  marcli. 

Making  sounds  as  they  trearl  ; 
Ho — ho  !  how  they  step. 

Going  down  to  the  dead  ! 

March — march — march  I 

Making  sounds  as  they  tread, 
Ho — ho,  how  the}-  laugh, 

Going  down  to  the  dead  ! 
How  they  whirl — how  they  trip, 

How  tliey  smile,  how  they  dally, 
How  hlitliesome  they  skip, 

Going  down  to  the  valley  ; 
Oil — ho,  how  they  march. 

Making  sounds  as  they  tread  ; 
Ho — ho,  liow  tliey  skip. 

Going  down  to  tlie  dead  ! 

March — march — march  I 

Earth  groans  as  they  tread  ! 
Each  carries  a  skidl ; 

Going  down  to  tlie  dead  ! 
Every  stride — every  stamp, 

Every  footfall  is  bolder  ; 
"Tis  a  skeleton's  tramp, 

With  a  skull  on  his  shoulder  I 
But  ho,  how  he  steps 

With  a  Jiij-li-tossing  head, 
That  clay-cover"d  bone, 

Going  down  to  tlie  dead  ! 

SAUL  ox   CARMEL. 

What,  here  inCainiel !     I  "ve  forgot  myself, 
And  strayed  too  far  !  What  fiend  hath  led  me  thus, 
To  seat  me  in  the  shadow  of  my  sins. 
And  bawl  accusing  memories  in  mine  ear 
Oh,  our  good  deeds  are  frail  of  life  as  we, 
But  follies  are  immortal ;  and  this  Conscience, 
Haunts,  like  the  voice  of  God,  our  every  turn  ; 


^V1LL1AM  COXE.  i331 

Or,  in  tlio  soundings  of  a  guilt.y  soul. 

Lies,  like  the  water  in  a  dismal  well. 

A  mirror  to  tb.e  sleepless  eye  of  heaven. 

Wliere  shall  the  Earth  afford  a  rest  for  Saul  ! 

Or,  do  I  wander  with  the  brand  of  Cain 

Burned  on  nn'-soul,  that  thus  I  find  no  {xsace  1 

Good  grave  why  waitest  thou  ?     I  meet  my  sin, 

Turn  where  I  may  ;  and  worst  of  all,  Oh  Lord, 

There  hangs  tliat  cursed  trophy  over  me. 

Like  thine  impending  judgment !     It  brings  back 

In  this  sad  hour,  old  Samuers  curse  at  Gilgal. 

And  re-affirnis  that  sentence.     Oh,  the  lips  ■ 

May  not  recall,  that  said  it.     Can  it  be, 

There  now  is  no  appeal  I     God"s  oracle. 

Those  dear  old  lips  that  bade  me  first  be  king. 

In  all  the  artless  greenness  of  my  youth. 

Are  cold,  cold  clay — but  this  sad  pomp  survives. 

Prolonging  echoes  of  his  awful  words. 

That  ring  in  memory's  ear.  They  weigh  me  down  ! 

Oh.  that  my  pride  e'er  reared  that  B.abel-pile  ! 

T\\ine  o'er  it  ye  rank  vines  :  eat  into  it. 

Thou  strong-toothed  Time;  wind,    storm,    rome 

crumble  it. 
Nay.  let  compassionating  tluinderbolts 
Blast  it  and  uie  together  ;  lest  hereafter. 
Our  children's  children  stand  and  point  al  ii. 
Yea.  and  cast  stones,  and  say— Behold  Saul's  Folly. 
Where  shall  I  turn  !     I  have  let  water  out, 
And  here  's  an  ocean  breaking  through  the  breach: 
Dam  and  embankment  tottering  under  me. 
While  I  stand  trembling,  and  do  gnaw  my  tongue. 
Like  a  lost  spirit  conning  life's  misdeeds. 
Go  down,  old  sun— thou  seest  my  decline 
As  I  see  thine  :  but  Oh,  for  me,  to-morrow 
Comes  never  more,  or  only  comes  i:i  clouds, 
And,  like  a  star  burnt  out,  I  set  forever. 
—Saul,  A  Mystery . 

COXE,  William,  an  English  clergyman 
and  author,  born  in  1747,  died  iu  1828.  As 
tutor  to  young  noblemen,  he  spent  many 
years  in  travel,  and  published  two  volumes. 
Travels  in  Switzerland  (1778-1801) ;  and  Trav- 
els in  Poland,  Bnssia,  Sweden,  and  Denmark 


332  WILLIAM  COXE. 

(1778-84).  He  also  published  Memoirs  of  the 
Life  and  Administration  of  Sir  Robert  Wal- 
pole  (1798) ;  Memoirs  of  Lord  Walpole  (1802) ; 
History  of  the  House  of  Austria  (1807j;  Mem- 
oirs of  the  Kings  of  Spain  of  the  House  of 
Bourboti  (1813);  Memoirs  of  the  Duke  of 
j\[a rlborough  {ISiG-ld).  His  last  work,  il/em- 
oirsofthe  Pelliam  Administration,  was  pub- 
lished after  his  death,  iu  1^29. 

WALDSTEIX,    OR  AVALLENSTEIX. 

AValdstein,  though  deeply  alTected  ]»y  his  dis- 
mission, had  retired  from  liis  eoininand  with  the 
full  confidence  that  his  ruling  star  had  not  yet  at- 
tained its  zenith,  and  his  fertile  genius  had  de- 
A'ised  the  means  to  render  his  restoration  to  power 
almost  inevitable.  He  was  followed  into  his  re- 
treat by  the  principal  officei-s  of  his  army,  whom 
liis  immense  riches  enabled  him  to  attach  to  his 
person,  and  who  looked  up  to  him  for  present 
support,  as  well  as  future  advancement.  He  took 
up  his  principal  residence  at  Prague,  wliere  he 
built  a  magnificent  palace,  and  lived  in  a  stjde  of 
splendor  more  resembling  a  king  than  a  subject  in 
disgrace.  .  .  .  Six  barons,  and  as  many  knights 
attended  his  j^erson  ;  four  gentlemen-ushers  pre- 
sented those  who  Avere  admitted  to  the  honor  of 
an  audience  ;  sixty  pages,  belonging  to  the  most 
illustrious  families,  were  entertained  at  his  ex- 
pense, and  instructed  by  the  ablest  masters  in  the 
whole  circle  of  the  arts  and  sciences.  His  stew- 
ard of  the  household  was  a  baron  of  the  higheet 
rank,  and  even  tlie  chamberlain  of  the  emperor 
(juitted  the  court  to  exercise  that  office  in  his  es- 
tablishment. .  .  . 

His  recent  disgrace  and  increasing  anxiety  to 
recover  his  former  authority,  had  totally  changed 
the  disposition  of  his  mind,  and  robbed  him  of 
that  freedom,  openness,  and  affability  which  dis- 
tinguished his  early  career.  In  the  midst  of  splen- 
dor and  magnificence  Waldstein  lived  in  a  state 
of  gloom,  solitude,  and  impenetrable  taciturnity, 
absorbed  in  dreams  of  past  grandeur,  or  jirojccts 


WILLIAM  COXE.  333 

of  future  ambition  ;ind  vengeance,  maintaining 
with  his  own  hand  fin  extensive  and  regular  cor- 
respondence witli  every  part  of  Europe,  and  witli 
all  the  great  actors  on  the  scene  of  affairs. 

Tocomijlete  the  portrait  of  so  singular  a  cliarac- 
ter,  in  person  ho  Avas  tall  and  thin,  liis  complexion 
sallow,  his  hair  red  and  short,  liis  eyes  small  and 
sparkling,  his  gait  and  manner  indicative  of  sul- 
lenness  and  distrust,  and  the  few  words  which 
broke  his  liabitual  silence  were  uttered  in  a  harsh 
and  disagreeable  tone  of  voice.  He  was  sudden, 
fierce,  and  ungovernable  in  his  anger,  implacable 
in  his  resentment,  capricious  and  fanciful  in  his 
commands,  extravagant  equally  in  rewards  and 
punishments.  He  was  an  enemy  to  flattery,  and 
insensible  to  temptation ;  (piick  in  discovering 
merit,  and  ready  to  reward  it.  In  his  dependents 
he  encouraged  a  si)irit  of  rashness  and  enterprise  ; 
he  termed  high  and  magnificent  resolutions  tlie 
effects  of  a  well  qualilied  soul ;  a  prompt  action. 
a  new  thouglit,  an  unusual  audacity,  were  the 
surest  ways  to  secure  his  favor.  He  was  grand 
and  lofty  in  his  ideas,  impassioned  for  glory,  and 
disdained  dissimulation,  or  any  vice  which 
evinced  baseness  and  timidity'  of  character.  De- 
spising riches,  except  as  the  agent  of  his  greatness, 
he  was  unbounded  ia  his  liberalities,  and  was  ac- 
customed to  say,  that  no  gold  was  equal  to  tho 
weight  of  a  valiant  soldier,  that  great  hopes  fol- 
lowed great  rew-ards,  and  the  greatest  recompenses 
produced  botii  the  best  troops  and  most  skillful 
officers. — Hisiori/  of  the  House  of  Austria. 

GUSTAVUS  ADOLPHUS. 

Thus  fell  Gustavus  Adolphus  in  the  thirty-eighth 
year  of  his  age,  one  of  the  greatest  monarchs  who 
ever  adorned  a  throne.  As  an  individual,  lie  was 
religious  without  bigotry  or  affectation,  temperate, 
and  a  pattern  of  conjugal  fidelity  and  domestic 
affection.  Though  unable  to  conquer  at  all  times 
a  constitutional  warmth  of  temper,  he  possessed 
all  the  scial  virtues,  and  the  conciliation  of 
courtesy,  in  so  high  a  degree,  that  no  individual 
was  ever  admitted  lo  his  converse  without  being 


834  FREDERICK  S.  COZZENS. 

charmed,  or  left  liis  presence  dissatisfied.  To  all 
these  amiable  qualities,  he  united  the  learning  of 
u  scholar,  and  the  accomi^lishnients  of  a  gentle- 
man. As  a  statesman  he  was  firm,  sagacious,  and 
l)rovident,  embracing  equally  the  grand  features 
and  minute  details  of  the  most  extensive  plans. 
As  a  general,  he  surpassed  his  contemporaries  in 
his  knowledge  of  all  the  branches  of  the  military 
art,  in  a  bold,  inventive,  and  fertile  genius.  His 
intuitive  sagacity,  undisturbed  presence  of  mind, 
and  extensive  foresiglit,  were  warmed  and  ani- 
mated by  an  intrepidity  more  than  heroic.  No 
commander  was  ever  more  ready  to  expose  his 
pei-son  to  dangers,  or  more  willing  to  share  the 
fatigues  and  liardshii^s  of  his  troops  ;  lie  was  ac- 
customed to  say,  "  Cities  are  not  taken  by  keeping 
in  tents ;  as  scholars,  in  the  absence  of  the  master, 
shut  tiieir  books,  so  my  troops,  without  my  pres- 
ence, would  slacken  their  blows."  Like  many 
other  great  men,  lie  was  a  predestinarian,  from  a 
l)ious  submission  to  the  decrees  of  an  all-wise 
Providence.  To  those  who  urged  him  to  spare  his 
person,  he  replied,  '•  My  hour  is  written  in  heaven, 
and  cannot  be  reversed  on  earth."  Gustavus 
created  a  new  system  of  tactics,  and  formed  an 
army  which  was  without  a  i>arallel  for  its  excel- 
lent discipline  and  for  its  singular  vigor,  precision, 
and  imity  in  action.  lie  conquered,  not  by  dint 
of  numbers,  or  the  impulse  of  a  fortunate  rash- 
ness, but  by  the  wisdom  and  profoundness  of  his 
combinations,  by  his  irresistible  j^et  bridled  si>irit 
of  entei-prise,  by  that  confidence  and  heroism 
wliich  he  infused  into  his  troops.  Since  the  days 
of  Alexander,  the  progress  of  no  conqueror  has 
been  equally  rapid  :  since  the  time  of  (yiesar,  no 
individual  has  united,  in  so  consummate  a  degree, 
all  the  qualities  of  the  gentleman,  the  statesman, 
and  the  soldier. — Histonj  of  the  House  of  Austria, 

COZZENS,  Frederick  Swartwout,  an 
American  luimorous  writer,  born  in  1818, 
died  in  ISOi).  He  is  the  author  of  Prismatics 
(1853);  The  Sparrowgrass  Papers  (1S56»; 
Acadia,  a    Sojourji  amotig   the  Blue  Xoscs 


FREDERICK  S.  COZZENS.  335 

(1858) ;    Sayings  of  Dr.  Bmhtchacker  (1867) ; 
aud  Fitz-Gveene  Halleck,  a  Memorial  (18(58). 

MR.    SPARROWGRASS  CHIRPS  A   LITTLE. 

'•The  first  flurry  of  Bnow,"'  said  I,  making  a 
show  of  shakmg  off  a  few  starry  flakes  from  my 
hat,  "the  first  sky-signals  of  winter.  It  is  a 
good  tiling  to  have  winter  in  tlie  country.  Tliere 
is  something  cheery  in  the  prospect  of  roaring 
fires  ;  and  Christmas  trees,  glittering  with  tapers— 
and  golden  eggs— and  sugar-hearts— and  wheels — 
and  harps  of  sparry  sweets  ;  and  jnpes  and  tabors  ; 
and  mince  pies ;  and  ringing  sieighbells  ;  and 
robes  of  fur,  and  reeking  horses ;  and  jjonds  with 
glassy  floors,  alive  with,  and  rattling  under  the 
mercurial  heels  of  skaters.  ,  .  .  All  the  poets 
love  winter,  why  should  not  everybody  ? 

'  AViiiter  "s  the  time  to  which  the  poet  looks 

For  hiving  his  sweet  thoujrhts,  and  making  honey-books.' 

"I  feel  as  if  I  woidd  like  to  chirp  a  little  this 
evening.  Mrs.  Sparrow  (t.  What  fchall  we  have? 
Lamb?  Let  me  read  you  Dream  Children,  or, 
perhaps.  Fuller  woidd  be  newer— old  Fuller ! 
Here  he  is :  the  ancient  and  venerable  D.D.  Now, 
my  dear,  The  Good  Wife/'  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass 
bridled  up,  and  was  all  smiles.     Then  I  read  : 

•■St.  Paul  to  theColossians(iii.  18).  first adviseth 
women  to  submit  themselves  to  their  husbands, 
and  then  counselleth  men  to  love  tlieir  wives. 
And  sure  it  Avas  fitting  that  women  should  have 
their  lesson  given  them,  because  it  was  hardest  to 
be  learned,  and,  therefore,  they  need  have  the 
more  time  to  con  it." 

•'H"ml'  said  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass,  ••St.  Paul! 
He  was  a  wise  man  [ironically].     Read  on." 

"  She  keeps  liouse  if  she  have  not  her  husband's 
company  {that  you  always  have),  or  leave,  for  her 
patent,  to  go  abroad." 

Mrs.  Sparrowgrass  wislied  to  know  what  "  pat- 
ent" meant,  in  that  sense.  •'My  dear,"  said  L 
'•  '  patent'  is  a  writ  or  privilege,  given  or  granted." 
Then  I  continued  :  "  For  the  house  is  the  woman's 
centre.  It  is  written  :  •  The  sun  ariseth  ;  man 
goeth  forth  unto  hir- work  and  to  his  labor  until 


330  FREl^F.RICK  S.  COZZENS. 

the  evening'  (Psalm  civ.  22)  :  but  it  is  said  of  tlie 
good  woman  :  '  She  riseth  while  it  is  yet  night ' 
(Prov.  xxxi.  15).  For  man  in  the  race  of  his  wurk 
starts  from  the  rising  of  the  sun.  because  liis  busi- 
ness is  without  doors,  and  not  to  be  done  without 
the  light  of  heaven  ;  but  tlie  woman  hath  her 
work  wiihin  the  house,  and,  therefore,  can  make 
the  sun  rise  by  lighting  of  a  candle."' 

"  Was  Dr.  Fuller  married  ?  "  quotli  IMrs.  S. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  probably  two  inindred  yeai-;* 
ago."  ♦ 

"H'ml"  said  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass. — The  tipar' 
roicyraas  Papers. 

OH.    A   COUNTRY   HOME  FOlt  MK  ! 

Oh.  a  country  home  for  me  I    where  the  clove 

blo.ssoms  blow  : 
And  the  robin  builds  his  nest  in  the  old  cherr/^ 

bough  ; 
"Where  the  roses,  and  the  honey-buds  are  clinginji 

to  the  wall. 
Each  a  perfumed  cup  of  jewels  when  the  !-uii> 
drops  fall. 
"Where  the  leaves  antl  lights  are  blending, 
And  the  swallows  soar  and  sing. 
And  the  iron  chain  and  bucket  drips 
Above  the  silver  sju-ing  : 
Oh,  a  country  home  for  me  I 

When  the  sun  is  in  the  west,  and  the  winds  are 

lulled  to  rest, 
And  the  baljc  sleeps  on  its  mother's  arm,  the  robin 

in  her  nest : 
When  the  cottage  taper  twinkles    through  the 

lattice,  and  the  gloom 
Of  the  du.sky  trellis  roses,   and   the  woodbine's 
bloom  : 
W^hen  the  moon  is  on  the  wave, 
And  the  shadows  in  the  grove, 
How  sweet  to  wander  side  bj*  side 
With  those  we  dearly  love  : 
Oh,  a  country  home  for  me  ! 
— Sparvoii'grass  Pcqjcrs. 


GEORGE  CRABBE.  337 

THEREFORE. 

I  'd  kind  o"  like  to  have  a  cot 
Fixed  on  some  sunny  slope  ;  a  spot 

Five  acres  more  or  less  ; 
With  nia^iles,  cedars,  chestnut  trees, 
And  i)ophxrs  wliitening  in  the  lu-eeze. 

"Twonld  suit  my  taste,  I  guess. 
To  have  the  i)orch  with  vines  o"erhinig, 
With  pendant  bells  of  woodbine  swung. 

In  every  bell  a  bee  ; 
And  round  my  latticed  window  spread 
A  clump  of  roses  white  and  red. 

To  solace  mine  and  me, 
I  kind  o"  think  I  should  desire 
To  hear  about  the  lawn  a  choir 
Of  wood-birds  singing  sweet ; 
And  in  a  dell.  I  'd  have  a  brook 
Where  1  might  sit  and  read  my  book. 

Such  should  be  my  retreat  : 
Far  from  the  city's  crowds  and  noise 
Where  I  could  rear  my  girls  and  boys — 

I W  have  some  two  or  three, 
And  if  kind  Heaven  should  bless  my  store 
AV^ith  five,  or  six,  or  seven  more, 

How  happy  I  would  be. 
'—Spa rroirgraiis  Papers. 

CRABBE,  George,  an  English  poei,  born 
December  24.  1754,  died  Feb.  8.  18o2.  He  was 
the  son  of  a  collector  of  customs  living  at 
Aldborotigh.  SufTolk.  He  early  displayed  a 
love  of  books,  and  ■while  a  schoolboy  began 
to  make  verses.  He  was  apprenticed  to  a 
surgeon,  but  disliked  the  profession,  and  in 
1780  went  to  London,  intending  to  apply 
himself  to  literature.  His  first  efforts  were 
unsuccessful.  A  poem,  The  Candidate. 
brought  him  nothing,  owing  to  the  failure  of 
the  publisher.  In  his  distress  he  applied  to 
Edmund  Burke,  who  befriended  him,  intro- 
duced him  to  Dodsley,  the  publisher,  and  to 


338  GEORGE  CRABBE. 

Reynolds,  Johnson,  and  Fox.  Crabbe  now 
published  The  Library,  which  was  well  re- 
ceived. At  Burke's  suggestion,  he  entered 
the  Church,  and  in  1782  was  appointed  curate 
in  Aldborough.  The  next  year  he  published 
Tlie  Village,  and  in  1785,  The  Neivspaper. 
He  wrote  no  more  for  twenty-four  years. 
Through  the  influence  of  Burke,  he  became 
chaplain  to  the  Duke  of  Rutland,  and  later 
obtained  the  rectorship  of  a  church  in  Dor- 
setshire, Six  years  afterwards  he  was  pre- 
sented to  two  other  rectories,  and  in  1818,  to 
that  of  Trowbridge,  where  he  spent  his  last 
tranquil  years.  In  1809  he  publislied  Tlie 
Parish  Register,  the  success  of  which  encour- 
aged hin^  to  further  efforts.  Tiie  Borough. 
appeared  in  1810,  Tales  in  Verse,  in  1812,  and 
Tales  of  the  Hall  in  1819.  Crabbe  depicted 
life  as  he  saw  it  among  the  niral  poor.  His 
characters  are  not  porcelain;  but  common 
clay,  and  many  of  them  stained  and  marred 
by  poverty  and  sin.  Tramps,  gipsies,  vaga- 
bonds and  paupers  are  often  the  subjects  of 
his  verse,  and  he  spares  no  detail  in  depicting 
their  temptations,  vices,  and  woes.  HisjDOw- 
er  lies  in  his  absolute  truthfulness.  His  de- 
scriptions are  often  painful,  but  here  and  there 
is  some  exquisite  picture  of  constancy  and 
nobility,  like  that  of  the  mourning  girl  at  her 
lovers  grave,  or  the  portrait  of  Isaac  Ashford, 
"  the  wise  good  man,  contented  to  be  poor." 

ISAAC  ASHFORD. 

Next  to  these  ladies,  but  in  nouglit  aUicd, 
A  noblo  peasant.  Isaac  Ashford,  died. 
Noble  he  was,  contemning  all  things  mean, 
His  truth  unquestioned  and  his  soul  serene  : 
Of  no  man's  presence  Isaac  felt  afraid  ; 
At  no  man's  question  Isaac  looked  dismayed  : 
Shame  knew  him  not ;  he  dreaded  no  disgrace  ; 
Truth,  simple  truth,  was  written  in  his  face  : 
Yet  while  the  serious  thought  his  .'oul  approved, 


GEORGE  CRABBE.  339 

Cheerful  ho  seemed,  and  gentleness  he  loved, 

To  blLss  domestic  he  his  heart  resigned, 

And  with  the  firmest  had  the  fondest  mind  : 

Were  others  joyful,  he  looked  smiling  on. 

And  gave  allowance  where  he  needed  none  ; 

Good  he  refusetl  with  future  ill  to  buy, 

Nor  knew  a  joy  that  caused  reflection's  sigh  ; 

A  friend  to  virtue,  his  unclouded  breast 

No  envy  stung,  no  jealousy  distressed  ; 

(Bane  of  the  poor  !   it  wounds  their  weaker  mind, 

To  miss  one  favor  which  their  neighbors  lind)  : 

Yet  far  was  he  from  stoic  pride  removed  ; 

He  felt  humanely,  and  he  warmly  loved. 

I  marked  his  action,  when  his  infant  died. 

And  his  old  neighbor  for  offence  was  tried  : 

Tlie  still  tears,  stealing  down  tliat  furrowed  check, 

Spoke  pity,  plainer  than  the  tongue  can  speak. 

If  pride  were  his,  'twas  not  their  vulgar  pride 

Who,  in  their  base  contempt,  the  great  deride  ; 

Nor  prido  in  learning  :  though  my  Clerk  agreed. 

If  fate  should  call  him,  Ashford  might  succeed  ; 

Nor  pride  in  rustic  skill,  although  we  knew, 

None  his  superior,  and  his  equals  few  : — 

But  if  tiiat  spirit  in  his  soul  had  place, 

It  was  the  jealous  pride  that  shuns  disgrace  ; 

A  pride  in  honest  fame,  by  virtue  gained, 

In  sturdy  boys  to  virtuous  labors  trained  : 

Pride    in    the  power  that  guards  his  country's 

coast 
And  all  that  Englishmen  enjoy  and  boast  ; 
Pride  in  a  life  that  slander's  tongue  defied — 
In  fact  a  noble  passion,  misnamed  Pride. 

He  had  no  party's  rage,  no  sectary's  wliim. 
Christian  and  countryman  was  all  with  him  : 
True  to  his  church  he  came  :  no  Sunday-shower 
Kept  him  at  home  in  that  important  hour  : 
Nor  his  lirm  feet  could  one  persuading  sect, 
Bv  the  strong  glare  of  their  ]:!ew  light  direct ; 
••  On  hope,  in  mine  own  sober  light  I  gaze, 
But  should  be  blind,  and  lose  it,  in  your  blaze." 
In  times  severe,  Avhen  many  a  sturdy  swain 
Felt  it  his  pride,  his  comfort,  to  complain  ; 
Isaac  their  wants  would  soothe,  his  own  would 
hide. 


340  GEORGE  CRABBE. 

And  feel  in  that  his  comfort  and  his  pride.  .  .  . 

I  feel  Ids  absence  in  the  hours  of  prayer, 
And  view  his  seat,  and  sigli  for  Isaac  there  : 
I  see  no  more  those  white  locks  thinly  spread 
Round  the  bald  polisli  of  that  honored  liead  ; 
No  more  that  awful  glance  on  playful  wight, 
Compeird  to  kneel  and  tremble  at  the  sight, 
To  fold  liis  fingers,  all  in  dread  the  while, 
Till  Mister  Ashford  softened  to  a  smile  : 
No  more  that  meek  and  suppliant  look  in  prayer, 
Nor  the  pure  faith  (to  give  it  force),  are  there  ;— 
But  he  is  blest,  and  I  lament  no  more 
A  wise  good  man  contented  to  be  poor. 

—The  Parish  BecjlHtcr. 

THE  GIPSIES. 

On  either  side 
Is  level  fen.  a  prospect  wild  and  wide,  [plied  : 

With  dikes  on  eit4ier  hand  by  ocean's   self  sup- 
Far  on  the  right  the  distant  sea  is  seen, 
And  salt  the  springs  that  feed  the  marsh  between: 
Beneath  an  ancient  bridge  the  straitened  tlood 
Rolls  through  its  sloping  banks  of  slimy  mud  ; 
Near  it  a  sunken  boat  resists  the  tide, 
That  frets  and  hurries  to  the  opposing  side  ; 
The  nishes  sharp  that  on  the  borders  grow, 
Bend  their  brown  flowerets  to  the  stream  below, 
Impure  in  all  its  course,  in  all  its  progress  slow  : 
Here  a  gi-ave  Flora  scarcely  deigns  to  bloom. 
Nor  wears  a  rosy  blush,  nor  sheds  perfume  : 
The  few  dull  flowers  that  o'er  the  place  are  spread, 
Partake  the  nature  of  their  fenny  bed. 
Here  on  its  wiry  stem.  u\  rigid  bloom 
Grows  the  salt  lavender  that  lacks  perfume  : 
Here  the  dwarf  sallows  creep,  the  septfoil  harsh, 
And  the  soft  slimy  mallow  of  the  marsh. 
Low  on  the  ear  the  distant  billows  sound, 
And  just  in  view  appears  their  stony  bound  ; 
No  hedge  nor  tree  conceals  the  glowing  sun. 
Birds,  sa-^e  a  Avatery  tribe,  the  district  shun 
■  Nor  chirp  among  the  reeds  where  bitter  waters  ran. 
Again  the  country  was  enclosed,  a  wide 
And  sandy  road  has  banks  on  eitlier  side  ; 
When  lo?  a  hollow  on  the  left  appeared. 


I 


GEORGE  CRABBE.  :541 

And  there  a  Gipsy-teut  their  tribe  had  roared  : 
'Tvvas  open  spread  to  catch  the  morning  sun, 
And  they  had  now  their  early  meal  begun, 
When  two  brown  boys  just  left  their  grassy  seat, 
The  early  traveller  with  their  prayers  to  greet : 
While  yet  Orlando  held  his  pence  in  hand, 
He  saw  their  sistc"r  on  her  duty  stand  ; 
Some  twelve  years  old,  demure,  affected,  sly 
Prepared  the  force  of  early  powers  to  tr}-  ; 
Sudden  a  loolc  of  languor  he  descries, 
And  well-feigned  apprehension  in  her  eyes ; 
Trained  but  yet  savage,  in  her  speaking  face 
lie  marked  the  features  of  her  vagrant  race  ; 
When  a  light  laugh  and  roguish  leer  expressed 
The  vice  implanted  in  her  youthful  breast : 
Forth  from  the  tent  her  elder  brother  came, 
Who  seemed  oITended,  yet  forbore  to  blame 
The  young  designer,  but  could  only  trace 
Tlie  looks  of  pity  in  the  traveller  s  face  : 
Within,  the  father,  who  from  fences  nigh 
Had  brought  the  fuel  for  the  fire's  supply,         [by. 
Watched  now  the  feeble  blaze,  and  stood  dejected 
On  ragged  rug,  just  borrowed  from  the  bed. 
And  by  the  hand  of  coarse  indulgence  fed, 
In  dirty  patchwork  negligently  dressed, 
Reclined  the  wife — an  infant  at  her  breast ; 
In  her  wild  face  some  touch  of  grace  remained 
Of  vigor  palsied  and  of  beauty  stained  ; 
Her  blood-shot  eyes  on  her  unheeding  mate 
AVere  wrathfid  turned,  and  seemed  her  wants  to 

state. 
Cursing  his  tardy  aid  ;  her  mother  there 
AVith  Gipsy-state  engrossed  the  only  chair  ; 
Solemn  and  dull  her  look  ;  with  such  she  stands, 
And  reads  the  milk- maid's  fortune  in  her  hands, 
Tracing  the  lines  of  life  ;  assumed  through  years. 
Each  feature  now  the  steady  falsehood  wears  : 
AVith  hard  and  savage  eye  she  views  the  food, 
And  grudging  pinches  their  intruding  brood  ; 
Last  in  the  group,  the  worn-out  grandsu-e  sits. 
Neglected,  lost,  and  living  but  by  fits  ; 
Useless,  despised,  his  worthless  labors  done. 
And  half  protected  by  the  vicious  son, 
AA'ho  lialf  supports  him  ;  he  with  heavy  glance 


342  GEORGE  CRABBE. 

Views  the  voun^  ruffians  who  around  him  rlanrc: 
And,  br  the  sadness  in  his  face,  appears 
To  trace  the  progress  of  their  future  years  : 
Through  wliat  strange  coui-se  of    misery,   vice, 

deceit, 
Must  wildly  wander  each  unpractised  clieat ! 
What  shame  and  grief,  what  punishment  and  pain. 
Sport  of  fierce  passions,  must  eacli  cliild  sustain — 
Ere  they  like  him,  approach  their  latter  end. 
Without  a  hope,  a  comfort,  or  a  frit-nd  ! 
—  Tales  in  Verse. 

A   MOTHERS  BURIAL. 

Then  died  lamented,  in  the  strength  of  life, 
A  valued  Motlier  and  a  faitliful  Wife  ; 
(^alled  not  a\vay,  when  time  had  loosed  each  hold 
On  the  fond  heart,  an<l  each  desire  grew  cold  ; 
But  wlien,  to  all  that  knits  us  to  our  kind. 
She  felt  fast-bound,  as  cliarity  can  bind  ; — 
Not  when  tlio  ills  of  age,  its  pain,  its  care, 
The  drooping  sfjirit  for  its  fate  prepare  ; 
And  each  affection  failing,  leaves  the  heart 
Loosed  from  life's  charm,  and  willing  to  depart : 
But  all  her  ties  the  strong  invader  broke, 
In  all  their  strength,  bj'  one  tremendous  stroke  ! 
Sudden  and  swift  the  eager  pest  came  on, 
And  terror  grew,  till  every  hope  was  gone  : 
Still  those  around  appeared  for  hope  to  seek  ! 
But  viewed  the  sick  and  were  afraid  to  speak. — 
Slowly  the}'  bore,  with  solemn  step,  the  dead  ; 
When  grief  grew  loud,  and  bitter  tears  were  slied. 
My  part  began  ;  a  crowd  drew  near  the  place, 
Awe  in  each  eye,  alarin  in  every  face. 
So  swift  tlie  ill,  and  of  so  fierce  a  kind, 
That  fear  with  pity  mingled  in  eacli  mind  ; 
Fiiends   with   the   husband   came   tlieir   grief   t> 

blend. 
For  good-man  Frankford  was  to  all  a  friend. 
The  last-born  boy  they  held  above  the  bier. 
He  knew  not  grief,  but  crie:-;  expressed  his  fear-. 
Each  difierent  age  and  sex  revealed  its  pain. 
In  now  a  louder,  now  a  lower  strain  ; 
While  the  meek  father,  listening  to  their  tones. 
Swelled  the  full  cadence  of  the  grief  bv  groans. 


GEORGE  CRABBE.  ?•« 

The  elder  sister  strove  her  pangs  to  liide. 
And  sootliing  words  to  younger  minds  applied  r 
"  Be  still,  be  patient ;"'  oft  she  strove  to  saj' ; 
But  failed  as  oft,  and  Aveeping  turned  away. 
Curious  and  S3d,  upon  the  fresh-dug  hill, 
The  village  lads  stood  melancholy  still ; 
And  idle  children,  wandering  to  and  fro 
As  Nature  guided,  took  the  tone  of  woe. 

Arriv(Ml  at  homo,  hoAv  then  they  gazed  around, 
In  every  plac(>^ — where  she  no  more  was  found  ; 
The  seat  at  table  she  Mas  wont  to  fill  : 
The  fireside  chair,  still  set.  but  vacant  still : 
The  garden-walks,  a  labor  all  her  own  ; 
The  latticed  bower,  with  trailing  shrubs  o'ergrown 
The  Sunday-pew  slie  filled  witli  all  her  race — 
Each  place  of  hers  was  now  a  sacred  place, 
That,  while  it  called  up  sorrows  in  the  eyes. 
Pierced  the  full  heart  and  forced  them  still  to  rise 

— Tiie  Parish  Register. 

AN  AUTUMN  SKETCH. 

It  was  a  fair  and  mild  autumnal  sky. 

And  earth's  ripe  treasures  met  the  admiring  eye. 

As  a  rich  beauty  when  the  bloom  is  lost, 

Appears  with  more  magnificence  and  cost : 

The  wet  and  heavy  grass,  where  feet  had  strayed, 

Not  yet  erect,  the  wanderer's  way  betrayed  ; 

Showers  of  the  night  had  swellet!  tlie  deepening 

rill. 
The  morning  breeze  had  urged  the  quickening  mill; 
Assembled  rooks  had  winged  their  seaward  flight, 
By  the  same  passage  to  return  at  night. 
While  proudly  o'er  them  hung  the  steady  kite. 
Then  turned  them  back,  and  left  the  noisy  throng. 
Nor  deigned  to  know  them  as  he  sailed  along. 
Long  yellow  leaves,  from  osiers,  sti-ewed  around. 
Choked  the  dull  stream,   and  hushed  its  feeble 

sound. 
While  the  dead  foliage  dropt  from  loftier  trees, 
Our  squire  beheld  not  with  his  wonted  ease  ; 
But  to  his  own  reflections  made  reply, 
And  said  aloud  :  "  Yes  ;  doubtless  Ave  must  die." 
'  •  We  must, "  said  Richard  ;  ' '  and  we  could  not  live 
To  feel  Avhat  dotage  and  d(;cay  will  give  ; 


;U-1  CJEOIi(iE  CRABBE. 

But  we  yet  taste  whatever  we  behoUl ; 
The  morn  is  lovely,  though  the  air  is  cold  : 
There  is  delicious  quiet  in  this  scene, 
At  once  so  rich,  so  varied,  so  serene  ; 
bounds,  too,  delight  us — each  discordant  tone 
Thus  mingled  pleiise,  that  fail  to  please  alone  ; 
Tliis  hollow  \vind,  this  rustling  of  the  brook, 
Tlie  farm-yard  noise,  the  woodman  at  yon  oak- 
See.  Ine  axe  falls  I— now  listen  to  the  stroke  : 
That  gun  itself,  that  murders  all  this  peace. 
Adds  to  tlie  charm,  because  it  soon  must  cease."' 
—  Talcs  of  ihc  ILiU. 

GRADIAL  APPROACHES   OF  AOE. 

Six  years  had  p;issed,  and  forty  ere  tiie  six. 
When  tinie  began  to  play  his  usual  tricks  ; 
The  locks  once  comely  in  a  virgin's  sight. 
Locks  of  pure  brown,  displayed  the  encroaching 

white  : 
The  blood,  once  fervid,  now  to  cool  bcg.in. 
And  Time's  strong  pressure  to  subdue  tiie  man. 
I  rode  or  walked  as  I  was  wont  before. 
But  now  the  bounding  spirit  was  no  more : 
A  moderate  pace  wouUl  now  my  body  heat ; 
A  walk  of  moderate  length  distress  my  feet, 
I  shewed  my  stranger  guest  those  hills  sublime. 
But  said  :  "The  view  is  poor  ;  we  need  not  climb." 
At  a  friend's  mansion  I  began  to  dread 
Tlie  cold  neat  parlor  and  the  gay  glazed  bed : 
At  home  I  fell  a  more  decided  taste. 
And  must  have  all  things  in  my  order  placed. 
I  cea-sed  to  hunt ;  my  horses  pleased  me  less — 
My  dinner  more  ;  I  leained  to  play  at  chess. 
I  took  my  dog  and  gun,  but  saw  the  brute 
■\Vas  disappointed  that  I  did  not  shoot. 
My  morning  walks  I  now  could  bear  to  lose. 
And  blessed  the  shower  that  gave  me  not  to  choose. 
In  fact,  I  felt  a  languor  stealing  on  ; 
The  active  arm,  the  agile  hand,  were  gone  ; 
Small  daily  actions  into  habits  grew, 
And  new  dislike  to  forms  and  fashions  new. 
I  loved  my  trees  in  order  to  dispose  ; 
I  numbered  peaches,  looked  how  stocks  arose  ; 
Told  the  same  story  oft :— in  short,  began  to  prose. 
—Tales  (>/  the  Hall 


GEORGE  CRABBE.  345 

THE    BETROTHED    LOVERS. 
Yes  !  there  are  real  Mourners — I  have  seen 
A  fair  sad  girl,  mikl,  sufTering.  and  serene  ; 
Attention,  througli  the  day,  her  duties  claimed, 
And  to  be  \isekil  as  resigned  she  aimed  : 
Neatly  she  dressed,  nor  vainly  seemed  t'  expect 
Pity  for  grief,  or  pardon  for  neglect  , 
But  when  her  wearied  parents  sunk  to  sleep. 
She  sought  her  place  to  meditate  and  weep ; 
Then  to  her  mind  was  all  the  jxist  displayed 
That  faithful  31emory  biijigs  to  Sorrow's  aid  : 
For  then  she  thouglit  on  one  regretted  Youth 
Her  tender  trust,  and  his  unquestioned  truth  ; 
In  every  place  she  wandered  wiiere  they  'd  been, 
And  sadly  sacred  held  the  parting  scene  ; 
Where  last  for  sea  he  took  his  leave — that  place 
With  double  interest  would  she  niglitly  trace  ; 
For  long  the  courtsliip  was,  and  he  would  saj'. 
Each  time  he  sailed — "This  once,   and  then  the 

day  :  ' 
Yet  prudence  tariied,  but  when  last  lie  went. 
He  drew  from  pitying  love  a  full  consent. 

Happy  he  sailed,  and  great  tlie  care  she  took, 
That  he  should  softly  sleep,  and  smartly  look  : 
White  was  his  better  linen,  and  his  check 
Was  made  more  trim  than  any  on  tlie  deck  ; 
And  every  comfort  men  at  sea  can  know 
"Was  hers  to  bu\-,  to  make,  and  to  bestow  ; 
For  he  to  Greenland  sailed,  and  much  she  told 
How  he  should  guard  agamst  the  climate's  cold  ; 
Yet  saw  not  danger  :  dangers  he  'd  withstood, 
Nor  could  she  trace  the  lever  in  his  blood  : 
His  mess-mates  smiled  at  flushings  in  his  cheek. 
And  he  too  smiled,  but  .seldom  would  he  speak  ; 
For  now  he  found  tlie  danger,  felt  the  pain, 
With  grievous  symiitoms  he  could  not  explain  ; 
Hope  was  awakened  as  for  home  he  sailed. 
But  quickh"  sank,  and  never  more  prevailed. 

He  called  his  friend,  and  prefaced  with  a  sigh 
A  lover's  message — •'  Thomas  I  must  die  : 
Would  I  could  see  my  Sally,  and  could  rest 
My  throbbing  temples  on  her  faithful  breast, 
And  gazing  go  I — if  not,  this  trifle  take, 
And  say  till  death  I  wore  it  for  her  sake  ; 


.•54(5  GEORGE  rRAF.r5i;. 

Yes  !  I  must  die — blow  on,  sweet  breeze,  blow  on  ! 
Give  me  one  look,  before  my  life  be  gone, 
Oil !  give  me  that,  and  let  me  not  despair, 
One  last  fond  look — and  now  repeat  the  prayer.' 

He  had  his  wish,  had  more.    I  will  not  paint      * 
The  lovers'  meeting  :  she  beheld  him  faint — 
With  tender  fears  she  took  a  nearer  view, 
Her  teiTors  doubling  as  her  hopes  withdrew  ; 
He  ti'ied  to  smile,  and,  half  suceeeding,  said, 
"  Yes  !  I  must  die  : ""  and  hope  forever  fled. 

Still  long  she    nursed   him  :    tender  thoughts 
meantime 
"Wei'e  interchanged  and  hopes  and  views  sublime. 
To  her  he  came  to  die,  and  every  day 
She  took  some  jjortion  of  tiie  dread  away  ; 
With  him  she  prayed,  to  him  his  Bible  read. 
Soothed  the  faint  heart,  and  held  the  aching  head  : 
She  came  with  smiles  the  hour  of  pain  to  cheer  ; 
Apart  she  siglied  ;  alone,  she  shed  the  tear  ; 
Then,  as  if  breaking  from  a  cloud,  she  gave 
Fresli  light,  and  gilt  the  prospect  of  the  gi*ave. 

One  day  he  lighter  seemed,  and  they  forgot 
The  care,  the  dread,  the  anguish  of  their  lot  ; 
They  spoke   with    cheerfulness,    and  seemed  to 

think. 
Yet  said  not  so — "  Perhaps  he  will  not  sink  :  " 
A  sudden  brightness  in  his  look  ai)peared, 
A  sudden  vigor  in  his  voice  was  heard  ; — 
She  liad  been  reading  in  the  Book  of  Prayer, 
And  led  him  forth,  and  placed  him  in  his  chair  ; 
Lively  he  seemed  and  spoke  of  all  he  knew, 
The  friendly  many  and  the  favorite  few  ; 
Nf)r  one  that  day  did  he  to  mind  recall, 
But  she  has  treasured,  and  she  loves  them  all  ; 
When  in  her  way  slie  meets  them,  they  appear 
Peculiar  people — death  has  made  them  dear  ; 
He  named   his  Friend,   but    then  his  hand  she 

pressed 
And  fondly  whispered,  "  Thou  must  go  to  rest ;  " 
"  I  go,"  he  said  ;  but  as  he  spoke,  she  found 
His  hand  more  cold,  and  fluttering  was  the  sound  ! 
Then  gazed  afirighteneu  ;  but  she  caught  a  last, 
A  dj'ing  look  of  love — and  all  was  past ! 

She  placed  a  decent  stone  his  grave  above. 


ISABELLA  C'RATG.  347 

Neatly  engraved— ati  ofYering  -of  her  love  ; 

For  that  slie  wrouj^ht,  for  that  forsook  her  bed, 

Awalce  alike  to  dutj'  and  the  dead  ; 

She  would  have  grieved,  had  friends  presumed  to 

spare 
The  least  assistance — 'twas  her  proper  care. 
Here  will  she  come,  and  on  the  grave  will  sit, 
Folding  her  arms  in  long  abstracted  fit ; 
But  if  observ(>r  pass,  will  take  her  round. 
And  careless  .seem,  for  she  would  not  be  found  ; 
Then  go  again,  and  thus  her  hour  employ. 
While  visions  ])lense  her,  and  while  woes  destroy. 
— The  Borourjh. 

CRAIG  [-KNOX],  Isabella,  a  Scottish 
writer,  born  at  Edinburgh,  in  183L  While 
•working  as  a  seamstress  she  wrote,  over  the 
signature  of  ' '  Isa, "  several  essays  and  poems 
for  The  Scotsman  newspaper,  which  led  to 
her  engagement  upon  the  editorial  staff  of 
that  journal.  In  1857  she  went  to  London, 
and  Avas  engaged  in  the  organization  of  the 
National  Association  for  the  Promotion  of 
Social  Science;  and  was  subsequently  mar- 
I'ied  to  her  countryman,  Mr.  John  Knox. 
She  published  a  volume  of  Poems  in  1S56 ;  in 
1859  she  was  the  successful  competitor,  out  of 
more  than  six  hundred,  for  the  prize  Ode  at 
the  Burns  Centenaiy  Festival;  ktiid  in  1865 
published  The  Duchess  Agnes,  j-nd  Other 
Poems. 

THE  BRIDES  OF  QUAIR. 

A  stillness  crept  about  the  house. 

At  evenfall,  in  noontide  glare  ; 
Upon  the  silent  hills  looked  forth 

The  many-windoweei  house  of  Quair, 

The  peacock  on  the  terrace  screamed  ; 

Browsed  on  the  lawn  the  timid  hare  •, 
The  great  trees  gi-ew  i'  the  avenue, 

Calm  by  the  sheltered  house  of  Quair. 


348  ISABELLA  CRAIO. 

The  pool  was  still  ;  around  its  brim 

The  alders  sickened  all  the  air  : 
There  came  no  nuirnmrs  from  the  streams, 

Tliough  nigh  flowed  Leithen.  Tweed,  andQuair. 

The  days  liold  on  their  wonted  pace. 
And  men  to  court  and  camp  repair, 

Their  part  to  fill  of  good  or  ill. 

"VVliile  women  keep  the  house  of  Quair. 

And  one  is  clad  in  widow's  weeds. 

And  one  is  maiden-like  and  fair. 
And  day  by  day  they  seek  the  paths 

About  the  lonely  lields  of  Quair. 

To  see  the  trout  leap  in  the  streams, 
The  summer  clouds  reflected  there, 

The  maiden  loves  in  maiden  dreams 
To  liang  o'er  silver  Tweed  and  Quair. 

Within,  in  pall-black  velvet  clad, 

Sits  stately  in  her  oaken  chair, 
A  stately  dame  of  ancient  name — 

The  mother  of  the  house  of  Quair. 

Her  daughter  'broiders  by  her  side. 

With  lieavy,  drooping  golden  liair, 
And  listens  to  her  frequent  plaint  : 

"  111  fare  the  brides  that  come  to  Quair ; 

"  For  more  than  one  hath  lived  in  pine. 
And  more  than  one  hath  died  of  care, 

And  more  than  one  liath  sorely  simied, 
Left  lonely  in  the  house  of  Quair  ; 

*'  Alas  !  and  ere  thy  father  died, 

I  had  not  in  his  heart  a  share  : 
And  now — may  God  forefend  her  ill  — 

Thy  brother  brings  his  bride  to  Quair  !  " 

She  came  ;  they  kissed  her  in  the  hall, 
They  kissed  her  on  the  winding  stair  : 

They  led  her  to  the  chamber  high — 
The  fairest  in  the  house  of  Quair. 

'•'Tis  fair,"'  she  said,  on  looking  forth  ; 

"But  v.hat  although  'twere  bleak  and  bare?" 


ISABELLA  CRAIG.  ^49 

She  looked  the  love  she  did  not  speak, 
And  broke  the  ancient  curse  of  Quair. 

*•'  Where'er  ho  dwells,  where'er  lie  goes, 
His  daugers  and  his  toils  I  share." — 

What  need  be  saiil  ?    Siie  was  not  one 
Of  the  ill-fated  brides  of  Quair. 

GOING  OUT  AND  COMING  IN. 

In  that  home  was  joy  and  sorrow 

Where  an  infant  first  drew  breath, 
While  an  aged  sire  was  drawing 

Near  unto  the  gate  of  death. 
His  feeble  pulse  was  failing, 

And  his  eye  was  gi-owing  dim  : 
He  was  standing  on  the  threshold 

When  they  brought  the  babe  to  him. 

While  to  murnmr  forth  a  blessing 

On  the  little  one  he  tried, 
In  his  trembling  arms  he  raised  it, 

Pressed  it  to  his  lips  and  died. 
An  awful  darkness  resteth 

On  the  path  they  both  begin. 
Who  thus  met  upon  the  threshold, 

Going  out  and  coming  in. 

Going  out  unto  the  triumph, 

Coming  in  unto  the  fight — 
Coming  in  unto  the  darkness. 

Going  out  unto  the  light ; 
Although  the  shadow  deepened 

In  the  moment  of  eclipse. 
When  he  passed  through  the  dread  portal, 

Witli  the  blessing  on  his  lips. 

And  to  him  who  bravely  conquers 

As  he  conqured  in  the  strife. 
Life  is  but  tlie  way  of  dying — 

Death  is  but  the  gate  of  life  : 
Yet,  awful  darkness  resteth 

On  the  patli  we  all  begin. 
Where  wo  meet  upon  the  threshold, 

Going  out  and  coming  in. 


850  DINAH  MARIA  CRAIK. 

CRAIK,  Dinah  Maria  (Mulock),  an  Eng- 
lish novelist  and  poet,  bora  at  Stoke-npon- 
Trent,  in  18:26.  Her  first  novel,  The  Ogilvies, 
was  published  in  1849,  and  was  followed  the 
same  year  by  Cola  Monti:  the  Story  of  a 
Genius.  In  18G5  IMiss  Mulock  married  Mr. 
George  Lillie  Craik  the  younger.  She  has 
written  about  thirty  novels,  besides  sketches 
of  life  and  scenery,  i:»oems,  books  for  children, 
and  magazine  articles.  Among  her  works 
are:  OZrce  (1850);  Alice  Learmont,  and  The 
Head  of  the  Family  (1852);  Avillion  and 
Other  Talcs,  Agatha's  Husband,  and  A  Hero 
(1853) ;  Little  Lychetts  (1855) ;  John  Halifax, 
Gentleman  (1856);  Nothing  New  (1857);  A 
Woman's  Thoughts  about  Women  (1858);  A 
Life  for  a  Life,  Poems,  Romantic  Tales,  and 
Bread  upon  the  Wafers  (1850);  Domestic 
Stories,  and  Our  Year,  a  child's  book  (1860); 
Stories  from  Life  (1861);  The  Fairy-Book, 
and  Mistress  and  Maid  (1863) ;  Cliristian''s 
Mistake,  A  Neiv  Year's  Gift  to  Sick  Children, 
and  Home  Tlioughts  and  Home  Scenes,  a  book 
of  poems  (1865) ;  How  to  Win  Loce;  or  Rhodas 
Lesson,  and  A  Noble  Life  (1866);  Two  Mar- 
riages (1867) ;  The  Wornayi's  Kingdom  (1869) ; 
A  Brave  Lady,  and  The  Unkind  Word  (1870) ; 
Fair  France,  Little  Sunshine's  Holiday,  and 
Tiventy  Years  Ago  (1871);  Adventures  of  a 
Brownie,  Ls  it  True  ?■  and  My  Mother  and  I 
(1874);  The  Little  Lame  Prince,  and  Sermons 
Oil f  of  Church  (1S75):  The  Laurel  Bush,  and 
Will  Denbeigh,  Nobleman  (1877);  A  Legacy : 
the  Life  and  Remains  of  J.  Martin  (1878) ; 
Young  Mrs.  Jardine  (1879):  Poems  of  Thirty 
Years  (1880);  His  Little  Mother,  Children's 
Poetry,  and  Plain  Speaking  (1882) ;  and  King 
Arthur  (1886). 

DEATH   OF  irCRIEL,    THE  BLIND    CHILD. 

John  opened  the  large  Book — tlK-  Book  lie  had 


DINAH  MARIA  CRAIK.  851 

t;iuglit  all  his  children  to  long  l(.)r  and  lo  love— 
and  read  out  of  it  their  favorito  historj-  of  Josepli 
and  his  brethren.  The  mother  sat  by  him  at  the 
fireside,  rocking  Maud  softly  on  lier  knees.  Edwin 
and  Walter  settled  themselves  on  the  hearth-rug, 
with  great  eyes  intently  fixed  on  their  father. 
From  behind  him  the  candle-light  fell  softly  down 
on  the  motionless  figure  in  the  bed,  whose  hand 
he  held,  and  whose  face  he  ever  now  and  then 
turned  to  look  at — then,  satisfied,  continued  to 
read.  In  the  reading  his  voice  Lad  a  fatherly, 
flowing  calm — as  Jacob's  might  have  liad.  when 
'•  tlie  children  were  tender,"'  and  lie  gathered  them 
all  around  him  under  the  palm-trees  of  Succoth— 
years  before  he  cried  unto  the  Lord  that  Intter  cry 
(which  John  hurried  over  as  he  read) :  •'  If  T can 
bereaved  of  viy  children,  I  am  bereaved.''' 

P'or  an  hour,  nearly,  we  all  sat  thus,  witii  the 
M-iud  coming  up  the  valley,  howling  in  the  beech.- 
wood,  and  shaking  tiie  casement  as  it  passed  out- 
side. Within,  the  only  sound  was  the  father's 
voice.  This  ceased  at  last ;  he  shut  the  Bible,  and 
put  it  a.side.  The  group — that  last  perfect  house- 
hold pictvn-e — was  broken  up.  It  melted  awav  inlet 
things  of  the  past;  and  became  only  a  ])iclure  i'ur 
evermore. 

"Now,  boys,  it  is  full  time  to  say  good-nigiit. 
There,  go  and  kiss  your  Bister.*'  '-Which?"  said 
Edwin,  in  his  funny  way.  ''  We  've  got  two  now  ; 
and  I  don't  knoAv  which  is  the  biggest  baby.'' 
•'1"11  thrash  you  if  you  ray  that  again,"  cried 
tiuy.  "AVhich,  indeed!  Maud  is  but  the  baby. 
Muriel  will  be  always  sister.''  '•Sister,"  faintly 
laughed  as  she  answered  his  fond  kiss— Guy  was 
often  thought  to  be  her  favorite  brother.  "  Now, 
(VfE  with  you,  boys  ;  and  go  downstairs  quietly — 
mind,  I  say,  quietly." 

They  obeyed— that  is,  as  literally  as  boy-nature 
van  obey  such  an  admonition.  But  an  hour  after, 
I  heard  Guy  and  Edwin  arguing  vociferously  in 
the  dark,  on  the  respective  merits  and  future 
treatment  of  their  two  sisters.  Muriel  and  ]\Iaud. 

John  and  I  sat  up  late  together  that  night.  Ho 
could  not  rest,  even  though  he  told  me  he  had  left 


352  DINAH  MARIA  CRAIK. 

the  motlier  and  her  two  daiigliters  as  cosy  as  a 
nest  of  wood-pigeons.  "We  listened  to  the  wild 
night,  till  it  had  almost  howled  itself  awaj'  ;  then 
our  lire  went  out,  and  we  came  and  sat  over  the 
last  fagot  in  Mrs.  Tod's  kitchen,  the  old  Debate- 
able  Land.  We  began  talking  of  the  long-ago 
time,  and  not  of  this  time  at  all.  The  vivid  pres- 
ent— never  out  of  either  mind  for  an  instant — we 
in  our  conversation  did  not  touch  upon,  by  at 
least  ten  years.  Nor  did  we  give  expression  to  a 
thought  which  strongly  oppressed  me,  and  wiiich 
I  once  or  twice  fancied  I  could  detect  in  John  like- 
wise ;  liow  very  like  this  night  seemed  to  the 
night  when  Mr.  March  died  ;  the  same  silentuess 
in  the  house,  the  same  windy  whirl  without,  the 
same  blaze  of  the  wood-fire  on  the  same  kitchen 
celling.  More  than  once  I  could  almost  have  de- 
luded myself  that  I  heard  the  faint  moans  and 
footsteps  overhead  :  that  the  stairciuse  door  would 
open  and  we  should  see  there  ^Iiss  March,  in  her 
wliite  gown,  ami  her  pale,  steadfast  look. 

*•  I  thiidc  the  mother  seemed  very  well  and  calm 
to-night,'"  I  said,  hesitatingly,  as  we  were  retiring. 
"She  is,  God  help  her — and  us  all  I  *'  "  He  will." 
That  was  all  we  said. 

He  went  up  stairs  the  last  thing,  and  brought 
down  word  that  mother  and  children  were  sound 
asleep. 

"  I  think  I  may  leave  them  vmtil  daylight  to- 
morrow. And  now,  Uncle  Phineas,  goj'ou  to  bed, 
for  you  look  as  tired  as  tired  can  be."' 

I  went  to  bed  ;  but  all  night  long  I  had  dis- 
turbed di-eams.  in  which  I  pictured  t)ver  and  OAer 
again,  first  the  night  Avhen  ]\Ir.  M.'ircli  died,  then 
the  night  at  Longfield,  when  the  little  white 
ghost  had  crossed  by  my  bed's  foot,  into  the  room 
where  ^lary  Baines'  dead  boy  lay.  And  continu- 
ally, towards  morning,  I  fancied  I  heard  tlu-ough 
my  window,  which  faced  the  church,  tlie  faint, 
distant  sound  of  the  organ,  as  when  Muriel  used 
to  play  it. 

Long  before  it  was  daylight  I  rose.  As  I  passed 
the  boy's  room,  Guy  called  out  to  me  ;  "  Halloa  ! 
Uncle  Pliineas.  is  it  a  fine  morning ':*   for  I  want 


DINAH  aiARIA  CRAIK.  353 

to  go  down  into  the  wood  and  get  a  lot  of  beech- 
nuts and  fir-cones  for  sister.  It's  her  birthday  to- 
day, you  know."  It  was  for  her.  But  for  us — O 
Muriel,  our  darling,  darling  child! 

Let  me  liasten  over  the  story  of  that  morning, 
for  my  old  heart  quails  before  it  still.  Jolin  went 
early  to  the  room  upstairs.  It  was  very  still. 
Ursula  lay  calmly  asleep,  with  baby  Maud  on  her 
bosom  ;  on  her  other  side,  with  eyes  wide  open  to 
the  daylight,  lay — that  which  for  more  than  ten 
years  we  had  been  used  to  call  "blind  Muriel." 
She  saw  now.  .  .  . 

Just  the  same  homely  room — half  bed-chamber, 
lialf  a  nursery — the  same  little  curlainless  bed 
where,  for  a  week  past,  wo  had  been  accustom- 
ed to  see  the  wasted  figure  and  small  pale  face  ly- 
ing in  smiling  (piietude  all  day  long. 

It  laj^  there  still.  In  it,  and  in  the  room,  was 
hardly  any  change.  One  of  "Walter's  playthings 
was  in  a  corner  of  the  window-sill,  and  on  the, 
chest  of  drawers  stood  the  nosegay  of  Christma.s 
roses  which  Guy  had  brought  for  his  sister  yester- 
day luorning.  Nay,  her  shawl — a  white,  soft, 
fuiry  shawl  that  she  was  fontl  of  M-earing — re- 
nuiined  still  hanging  uj)  behind  th.e  door.  One 
could  almost  fancy  the  little  maid  liad  just  been 
said  "  good  night"'  to,  and  left  to  dream  the  child- 
ish dreams  on  her  nursery  pillow,  where  the 
small  head  rested  so  peacefully,  with  that  pretty 
babyish  uightcai)  tied  over  the  pretty  curls.  There 
she  was,  the  child  who  had  gone  out  of  the  num- 
ber of  our  children — our  earthly  childi'en — for 
ever. — John  Halifax. 

THE  wife's  confession. 

A  gi'eat  dread,  like  a  great  joy,  always  lies  in 
ambush,  ready  to  leap  upon  us  the  instant  we 
open  our  eyes.  Had  Miss  Gascoigno  known  what 
a  horrible  monster  it  was,  like  a  tiger  at  her 
tlii-oat,  which  sprang  upon  Christian  when  she 
waked  that  morning,  she.  even  she,  might  have 
felt  remorseful  for  the  pain  she  had  caused.  Ye. 
perhaps  she  woidd  not.  lu  this  weary  life  ol 
ours, 


354  DINAH  MARIA  CRAIK. 

"  With  darkness  and  the  death-hour  rounding  it," 
it  is  strange  how  niauy  people  seem  actually  to 
enjoy  making  oilier  people  miserable. 

Christian  rose  and  dressed  ;  for  her  household 
■ways  must  go  on  r.s  usual  ;  she  must  take  her 
place  at  the  breakfast-table,  and  make  it  clieerful 
and  pleasant,  so  that  the  children  might  not  find 
out  anything  Avrong  with  mother.  She  did  so, 
and  sent  them  away  to  their  morning  play — hap- 
py little  souls  I  Then  she  sat  down  to  tiiink  for  a 
little  all  alone.  Not  Avhat  to  do — that  was  already 
decided  ;  but  how  to  do  it — how  to  tell  Dr.  Grey 
in  the  least  painful  way  that  his  love  had  not 
been  the  first  love  she  had  received — and  given  ; 
that  she  had  had  this  secret,  and  kept  it  from 
him,  though  he  was  her  husband,  for  six  long 
months.  .  .  Love  bought  by  a  deception  she  knew 
to  be  absolutely  worthless.  Knowing  now  what 
love  was,  she  knew  this  truth  also.  Had  no  dis- 
covery been  made,  she  knew  that  she  must  have 
told  all  to  Dr.  Grey.  She  hated,  despised  herself 
for  liaving  already  suffered  day  after  day  to  pass 
by  without  telling  him,  though  she  had  continu- 
alh"  intended  to  do  it.  All  this  was  a  just  pun- 
ishment for  lier  cowardice  ;  for  she  saw  now,  as 
she  ha<l  never  .seen  before,  that  every  husband,  ^ 
every  wife,  before  entering  into  the  solemn  bond 
of  marriage,  has  a  right  to  be  made  acquainted 
with  every  secret  of  the  other's  heart,  every  event 
of  the  other's  life  :  that  such  confidence,  then  and 
afterward,  should  know  no  reservations,  save  an«l 
except  trusts  reposed  in  both  before  marriage  by 
other  people,  which  marriage  itself  is  not  justi- 
fied in  considering  annulled.  But  the  final  mo- 
ment being  come,  when  a  day — half  a  day — 
would  decide  it  all — decide  the  whole  future  of 
lierself  and  her  husband.  Christian's  courage 
seemed  to  return.  ,  . 

Aunt  Henrietta  had  spent  the  wliole  night,  ex- 
cept a  brief  space  for  sleeping,  in  thinking  over 
and  talking  over  her  duties  and  her  wrongs,  the 
two  Ijeing  mixed  up  together  in  inextinguishable 
confusion.  Almost  any  subject,  after  being 
churned  up  in  such  a  nature  as  hers  for  twelve 


DINAH  MARIA  CRAIK.  355 

mortal  liours,  would  at  the  eiul  look  (juitc  dilTer- 
cnt  from  what  it  did  at  first,  or  what  it  realJy 
was.  Aiid  so,  witii  all  lionesty  of  purpose,  antl 
with  the  firmest  convictiou  that  it  was  the  only 
means  of  saving  lier  brother-in-law  and  his  faniily 
fro'iU  irretrievable  misery  and  disgrace,  poor  Miss 
Gascoignc  had  broken  throtigh  all  her  habits,  risen, 
dressed,  and  breakfasted  at  an  unearthly  hour, 
and  there  she  stood  at  the  Lodge  door  at  nine  in 
the  morning,  determined  to  "do  her  duty.'' as 
she  expressed  it,  but  looking  miserably  pale,  and 
vainly  restraining  her  agitation  so  as  to  keep  iq)  a 
good  appearence  "  before  the  servants." 

••That  will  do,  Barker.  You  need  not  disturb 
the  master  ;  I  came  at  this  early  hour  just  for  a 
little  cliat  with  your  mistress  and  the  children." 
And  then  entering  the  i)arlor.  she  sat  down  oppo- 
site to  Christian  to  take  breath. 

Mi.ss  Gascoigno  was  really  to  be  pitied.  Mere 
gossip  slie  enjoy(Hl  ;  it  was  her  native  elemenl. 
and  she  had  plunged  i:ito  this  matter  of  Sir  Edwin 
Uniacke  witli  undeniable  eagerness.  But  now. 
when  it  might  be  not  gossip,  but  tlisgrace.  her  ter- 
ror overpowered  her,  .  .  . 

••You  see,  Mrs.  Grey,  lam  come  again,"'  said 
she  very  earnestly.  *•  in  spite  of  everything.  1 
have  come  back  to  advise  with  you.  1  am  ready 
to  overlook  everything,  to  try  and  conceal  every- 
thing. Maria  and  I  have  Ijeen  turning  over  in  our 
minds  all  sorts  of  plans  to  get  you  away  till  this 
has  blown  over— call  it  going  to  the  sea-side,  to 
the  coimtry  with  Arthur — anything,  in  short,  just 
that  you  may  leave  Avonsbridge."" 

"  I  leave  Avonsbridge  I     Why  ?  "' 

"  You  kn.ow  why.  When  you  had  a  lover  l)efore 
your  marriage,  of  whom  you  did  not  tell  your 
Imsband  or  his  friends— when  this  gentleman 
afterwards  meets  you,  Avrites  to  you — I  saw  the 
letter "' 

"  You  saw  the  letter  I "" 

There  was  no  hope.  'She  was  hunted  down,  as 
many  an  innocent  person  h.as  been  before  now,  by 
a  combination  of  evidence,  half  truths,  half  lies, 
or  truths  e,o  twjsted  that  they  assume  th.e  aspect 


356  DINAH  MARIA  CRAIK. 

of  Jies,  and  lies  so  exceedingly  probable  tbat  they 
are  by  even  keen  observers  mistaken  for  truth. 
Passive  and  powerless  Christian  sat.  Miss  Gus- 
coigne  niiglit  say  what  she  would — all  Avons- 
bridge  might  say  what  it  would— she  would  never 
open  her  lips  more.  At  that  moment,  to  preserve 
her  from  going  mad— (she  felt  as  if  sl)e  were— as 
if  the  whole  world  were  whirling  round,  and  God 
had  forgotten  her)— Dr.  Grey  walked  in. 

"Oh,  husband!  save  me  from  her — save  me — 
save  lue!  "she  shrieked,  again  and  again.  And 
without  one  thought  except  that  he  was  there — 
her  one  protector,  defender,  and  stay— she  sprang 
to  him,  and  clung  desperately  to  his  breast.  And 
so.  in  this  unforeseen  and  unpremeditated  manner, 
told— how  or  by  whom,  herself,  i\Iiss  Gascoigne, 
or  both  together.  Christian  never  clearly  remem- 
bered— her  one  secret,  the  one  error  of  her  sad 
gnlhood  was  communicated  to  her  husband. 

He  took  the  revelation  calmly  enougli,  as  he  did 
everything  ;  Dr.  Grey  was  not  the  man  for  tragic 
scenes.  The  utmost  he  seemed  to  think  of  in  this 
one  was  calming  and  soothing  his  wife  as  much 
as  possible,  carrying  her  to  the  sofa,  making  her 
lie  down,  and  leaning  over  her  with  a  sort  of  pity- 
ing tenderness,  of  which  the  only  audible  expres- 
sion was,  "Poor  child  !  poor  child  ! "' 

Christian  tried  to  see  his  face,  but  could  not. 
She  sought  feebly  for  his  hand— his  warm,  firm, 
protecting  hand— and  felt  him  take  hers  in  it. 
Then  she  knew  that  she  was  safe.  No,  he  never 
would  forsake  her.  He  had  loved  her— once  and 
for  always — with  the  love  that  has  strength  to 
liold  its  own  through  everything  and  in  spite  of 
everything.  .  .  . 

The  very  instant  Miss  Gascoigne  was  gone. 
Christian,  throwing  herself  on  her  husband's  neck, 
clasping  him,  clinging  to  him,  ready  almost  to 
fling  herself  at  his  knees  in  her  passion  of  humility 
and  love,  told  him  without  reserve,  without  one 
pang  of  hesitation  or  shame— perhaps,  indeed, 
there  was  little  or  notliing  to  be  ashamed  of — 
everything  concerning  herself  and  Edwin  Uniacke. 
He  listened,   not  making  any  answer,  but  only 


DINAH  MARIA  CRAIK.  .357 

holding  her  fast  in  his  arms,  till  at  length  she  took 
courage  to  look  up  in  his  face.  '•  What !  you  are 
not  angry  or  grieved?  Nay,  I  could  fancy  you 
were  almost  smiling." 

"Yes,  my  clrild  !  Because,  to  tell  you  the  plain 
truth,  I  knew  all  this  before." — Christkui's  Jlis- 
take. 

EDXA   AND   HER  BOYS. 

She  resigned  her  little  fur-slippered  foot  for  the 
twins  to  cuddle — the  rosy,  fat.  good-tempered 
twins,  rolling  about  like  NewfoundlaiMl  puppies 
on  the  hearth-rug— laid  one  hand  on  Bob's  light 
curls,  suffered  Will  to  sieze  the  other,  and  leaned 
her  head  against  the  tall  shoulder  of  her  eldest 
son,  who  petted  his  mother  just  as  if  she  had  been 
a  beautiful  joung  lady.  Thus  '"subdivided,"'  as 
she  called  it,  Edna  stood  among  her  live  sons : 
and  any  stranger  observing  her  might  have 
thought  she  had  never  had  a  care.  But  such  a 
perfect  life  is  impossible ;  and  the  long  gap  of 
years  that  there  was  between  Robert  antl  the 
twins,  together  with  one  little  curl — that,  wrapped 
in  silver  paper,  lay  always  at  the  bottom  of  the 
mother's  housekeeping  purse — could  have  told  a 
different  tale. 

However,  this  was  her  own  secret,  hidden  in 
her  heart.  When  with  her  cliildren,  she  was  as 
merry  as  any  one  of  them  all.  "Come  now.'' 
said  she,  "you  are  such  good  boys,  and  give 
up  cheerfully  your  pleasures,  not  because  mother 
wishes  it,  but  because  it  is  right  " — 

"  And  also  because  mother  wishes  it,"  lovingly 
remarked  Julius. 

"Well,  well,  I  accept  it  as  suih  :  and  in  return 
I  '11  make  you  all  a  handsome  present — of  my 
whole  afternoon.''  Here  uprose  a  shout  of  delight, 
for  every  one  knew  that  the  most  valuable  gift 
their  mother  could  bestow  on  them  was  her  time, 
always  so  Avell  filled  up,  qnd  her  bright,  blithe, 
pleasant  company. 

'•  It  is  settled  then,  boys.  Now  decide.  Where 
will  you  take  me  to  ?  Only  it  should  be  some  nice 
warm  place.     Mother  cannot  stand  the  cold  quite 


358  DINAH  MARIA  CRAIK. 

as  you  boj's  do.  You  must  remember  she  is  not  so 
young  as  she  used  to  be." 

"  She  is— she  is!"  cried  the  sons  in  indignant 
love  ;  and  the  eldest  pressed  her  to  his  warm 
young  bi'east  almost  with  the  tears  in  his  eyes. 
That  deep  affection — almost  a  passion — which 
sometimes  exists  between  an  eldest  son  and  his 
mother,  was  evidently  very  strong  here. 

"  I  know  wliat  place  mamma  would  like  best — 
next  best  to  a  iiin  into  the  country,  where,  of 
course,  we  can't  go  now — I  propose  the  National 
Gallery."  Which  was  rather  good  of  Bob,  who, 
of  himself,  did  not  care  two-pence  for  pictures  ; 
and  when  the  others  seconded  the  motion,  and  it 
was  canned  unanimously,  his  mother  smiled  a 
special  ''Thank  you  "  to  him,  which  raised  the 
lad's  spirits  exceedingly. 

It  was  a  lively  walk  through  the  Clu-istmas 
streets,  bright  with  liolly  and  evergrpcns,  and  re- 
splendent with  every  luxury  that  the  sliops  could 
offer  to  Christmas  purchasers.  But  Edna's  boys 
bouglit  nothing,  and  asked  for  nothing.  Tliey  and 
she  looked  at  all  these  treasures  with  delighted  but 
imenvious  eyes.  Tliey  had  been  brought  up  as  a 
poor  man's  children,  even  as  she  was  a  poor  man's 
wife — educated  from  boyhood  in  that  noble  self- 
denial  whicli  scorns  tu  crave  for  any  thing  which 
it  can  not  justly  have.  There  was  less  need  for 
carefulness  now,  and  every  time  the  mother  look- 
ed at  them — the  five  jewels  of  her  matron  crown 
— she  thanked  God  that  they  would  never  be  drop- 
ped into  the  dust  of  poverty  ;  that,  humanly  speak- 
ing, there  would  be  enough  forthcoming,  both 
money  and  influence,  all  of  their  father's  own 
righteous  earning,  to  set  theui  fairly  afloat  in  the 
world,  before  William  and  she  laid  down  their 
lieads  together  in  the  quiet  sleep  after  tt)il — of 
which  she  began  to  think  perhaps  a  little  more 
than  she  used  to  do.  years  ago.  Yet  when  the 
,  boys  would  stop  lier  Ix^fore  tempting  jeweler's  or 
linen-draper's  shops,  making  her  say  what  she 
liked  best,  Edna  would  answer  to  each  boy's 
question  as  to  what  he  should  give  her  "  when  he 
got  rich " 


DINAH  MARIA  CRAIK.  359 

"Nothing,  my  darling,  nothing.  I  think  j-our 
father  and  I  are  the  richest  people  in  all  this 
world." — T7ie  Womaii's  Kingdom. 

A  mother's  yearning. 

Next  morning  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Trevena  sat  over 
their  early  cafe  by  their  bedroom  tire— welcome 
even  in  June  at  Andermatt— a  comfortable  couple, 
placid  and  loving,  for,  before  returning  to  his 
book,  he  stooped  and  kissed  her  affectionately. 

"You  '11  be  busy  over  your  packing,  mj'  dear, 
for  we  really  will  start  to-morrow,  if  I  get  the  let- 
ters and  some  money  to-day.  Dr.  Franklin  will 
share  our  carriage  to  Fluelen  :  he  can  surely  leave 
his  patient  now.  By-the-bye,  did  you  see  the  baby 
last  night?" 

"Yes;"  and  coming  closer,  slio  laid  her  hand 
on  lier  husband's  arm,  and  her  head  on  his 
slioulder.  "  Can  you  give  me  a  few  minutes,  Aus- 
tin, my  dear?  " 

"A  hundred,  if  ytm  like,  my  darling.  Is  it  to 
speak  about  the  journey  ?  Well,  we  shall  soon  be 
safe  at  home  ;  and  oh.  how  glad  we  shall  be  !  " 

"  Very  glad.  But— it  is  an  empty  home  to  come 
back  to." 

"  How  do  you  mean?  O  yes— I  see  !  ]\Iy  poor 
Susannah  !  You  should  not  have  gone  and  look- 
ed at  that  baby." 

He  spoke  very  tenderly — more  so  than  might 
have  been  expected  from  his  usual  formal  and  ab- 
sent manner.  She  gave  one  little  sob,  then  chok- 
ed it  down,  put  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and 
kissed  him  several  times.  An  outsider  might  have 
smiled  at  the  caresses  of  these  two  elderly  people, 
but  love  never  grows  old,  and  tliey  had  loved  one 
another  all  their  lives. 

"  Don 't  mind  my  crying,  Austin.  Indeed.  I  am 
happy,  quite  happy.  Yesterday,  when  I  sat  un- 
er  the  wall  of  snovr,  and  looked  at  the  beautiful 
sights  all  round  me,  I  thought  how  thankful  I 
ought  to  be,  how  contented  with  my  lot,  how 
blessed  in  my  home  and  my  husband.  And  I 
ceased  to  bo  angry  with  God  for  having  taken 
a\\av  mv  babv." 


S60  DINAH  MAKIA  CRAIK. 

'•  Poor  Susannah— poor  Susannah  !  " 

"  No,  rich  Susannah  !  And  so  I  determined  to 
grieve  no  more  ;  to  try  and  bo  happy  without  a 
child.     But  now " 

••  Weil,  my  darling."' 

"Austin,  I  think  (iod  sometimes  teaches  iis  to 
renounce  a  thing,  and  when,  we  have  quite  re- 
nounced it,  gives  it  hack  to  us  in  some  other 
way." 

"  Wliat  do  you  mean  ?  " 

She  tried  to  speak,  failed  more  tiian  once,  and 
then  said,  softly  and  solemnly:  "I  believe  God 
has  sent  that  child,  whom  its  mother  does  not 
care  for,  to  me — to  iis.     Will  you  let  me  have  it." 

Intense  astonishment  and  bewilderment  were 
written  on  every  line  of  Mr.  Trevenas  grave 
countenance.  '"God  bless  my  soul  I  Susannah, 
what  can  you  be  thinking  of?" 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  this  and  nothing  else 
ever  since  you  told  me  what  Dr.  Franklin  told  you. 
From  that  minute  I  felt  the  childwas  meant  for 
me.  Its  mother  throws  it  away  :  t-he  does  not 
care  a  straw  for  it ;  whilst  I — oh,  Austin,  you 
don't  know! — you  don't  know!''  She  pressed 
her  hands  upon  her  childless  breast  as  if  to  smoth- 
er down  something  tliat  was  almost  agony. 

'■  N.o.  my  dear."  Mr.  Trevena  answered  drjly  ; 
"I  can't  be  expectad  to  know.  And  if  you 
were  not  such  a  verj-  sensible  woman,  I  should 
say  that  you  don't  know  either.  How  can 
respectable  old  folk  like  us  encumber  ourselves 
with  a  baby — a  waif  and  a  stray — a  poor  little 
ci'eature  that  we  know  nothing  on  earth  about': " 

"But  God  does,"  she  answered, — King  Art]iur, 

TOO  I-ATE. 

Could  ye  come  back  to  me,  Douglas,  Douglas, 

In  the  old  likeness  that  I  knew. 
I  would  l)e  so  faithful,  so  loving.  Douglas, 

Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Never  a  scornful  woi'd  should  grieve  ye. 

I  'd  smile  on  ye,  sweet  as  the  angels  do  : 
Sweet  as  your  smile  on  me  shone  ever, 

Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 


I 


DINAH  MARIA  CRAIK.  361 

Oh  !  to  call  back  the  days  that  are  not ! 

My  eyes  were  blinded,  your  words  were  few  : 
Do  you  know  the  truth  now  up  in  heaven, 

Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true? 

I  never  was  worthy  of  you.  Douglas  ; 

Not  half  worthy  the  like  of  you  ; 
Now  all  men  beside  seem  to  me  like  shadows — 

I  love  you,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Stretch  out  your  hand  to  me,  Douglas,  Douglas, 
Drop  forgiveness  from  heaven  like  dew. 

As  I  lay  my  heart  on  your  dead  heart.  Douglas, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

TO   A   WINTER  WIND. 

Loud  wind,  strong  wind,  sweeping  o'er  the  mount- 
ains. 
Fresh  wind,  free  wind,  blowing  from  the  sea. 
Pour  forth  thy  vials  like  streams  from  any  fount- 
ains. 

Draughts  of  life  to  me  ! 

Clear  wind,  cold  wind,  like  a  Northern  giant. 

Stars  brightly  threading  thy  cloud-driven  hair. 
Thrilling  the  blank  night  with  a  voice  defiant, 
Lo  !    I  meet  thee  there  ! 

Wild  wind,  bold  wind,  like  a  strong-armed  angel, 
Clasp  me  round — kiss  me  with  thy  kisses  divine. 
Breathe  in  my  dull  heart  thy  secret  sweet  evangel  — 
Mine,  and  only  mine  I 

Fierce  wmd,    mad   wind,    liowlmg   through    the 
nations. 
Knew'st  thou  how   leapeth  that  heart  as  thou 
goest  by. 
Ah  !    thou  woulds-t   pause  awhile    in    a    sudden 
patience, 

Like  a  human  sigh. 

Sharp  wind,  keen  wind,  cutting  as  word  arrows, 
Empty   thy   quiverful  '    pass  on  I    what  is 't  to 
thee 
Though  in  some  mortal's  eyes  life's  whole  bright 
circle  narrows 

To  one  miserv  ': 


362  DINAH  MARIA  CRAIK. 

Loud  wind,  strong  wind,  stay  thou  in  the  mount- 
ains ! 
Fresh  wind,  free  wind,  trouble  not  the  sea  ! 
Or  lay  thj^  deathly  hand  upon  my  heart's  warm 
fountains, 

Tliat  I  hear  not  thee  I 

I'HLLir,   MY  KIXO. 

Look  at  me  with  thy  large  brown  eyes, 

Philip,  my  King  I 
For  round  thee  the  purple  shadow  lies 
Of  babyliood's  regal  dignities. 
Lay  on  my  neck  thy  tiny  hand. 

With  love's  invisible  sceptre  laden  ; 
I  am  thine  Esther  to  command. 
Till  thou  shalt  find  thy  queen-handmaiden, 
Philip,  my  King! 

Oil,  the  day  when  thou  goest  a-wooing, 

Piiilip,  my  King  ! 
When  those  beautiful  lips  are  suing. 
And,  some  gentle  heart's  bars  luidoing. 
Thou  dost  enter,  love-crowned,  and  there 

Sittest  all  glorified  !— Rule  kindly. 
Tenderly  over  thy  kingdom  fair. 
For  we  that  love,  ah  I  we  love  so  blindly, 

Philip,  my  King. 

I  gaze  from  thy  sweet  mouth  up  to  thy  brotr, 

Philip,  n\y  King: 
Ay.  there  lies  the  spirit,  all  sleeping  now, 
Tiuit  may  rise  like  a  giant,  and  make  men  bow 
As  to  one  God — throned  amidst  his  peers. 

My  Saul,  than  thy  brethren  higher  and  fairer, 
Let  me  behold  thee  in  coming  years  ! 
Yet  thy  liead  needeth  a  circlet  rarer, 
Philip,  my  King  ! 

A  wreath,  not  of  gold,  but  palm.     One  day, 

PhiliiJ,  my  King, 
Thou  too  must  tread,  as  we  tread,  a  way 
Thorny,  and  bitter,  and  cold,  and  gray  : 
Rebels  within  thee,  and  foes  without 

Will  snatch  at  thy  crown.     But  go  on,  glori- 
ous. 


GEORUE  LILLIE  CRAIK.  363 

Martyr,  yet  monarch  !  till  angels  shout. 

As  thou  sittcst  at  the  feet  of  God  victorious. 
"  Philip,  the  King  !" 

CRAIK,  George  Lillie,  a  British  author, 
bom  in  Fifoshire,  Scotland,  in  1799,  died  in 
1800.  Ho  was  educated  at  St.  Andre \v"s  Uni- 
versity. About  1821  he  went  to  London  to 
engage  in  Hterary  Avork.  In  1S31  he  pub- 
lished Parsuit  of  Knoxoledge  under  Difficul- 
ties, and  in  1839  became  editor  of  the  Picto- 
rial History  of  England,  and  wrote  some  of 
its  best  chapters.  He  was  also  one  of  the 
leading  contributors  to  the  Penny  Cyclopae- 
dia, in  1849  he  became  Professor  of  His- 
tory and  English  Literature  at  Queen's  Col- 
lege, Belfast.  Among  his  works  are  A  His- 
tory of  Literature  and  Learning  in  England 
from  the  Norman  Conquest  up  to  the  Present 
Time,  and  History  of  BritisJi  Commerce  from 
the  Earliest  Times  (1844);  SjJenser  and  his 
Poetry  (iSio);  Bacon,  his  Writings  and  his 
Philosophy  (lS4Gj ;  Pomance  of  the  Peerage 
(1848-50);  Outlines  of  the  History  of  the  Eng- 
lish Language  (ISoij);  The  English  of  Shake- 
speare (1857);  Evils  of  Popular  Tumults,  and 
Paris  and  its  Historical  Scenes.  In  1861,  ?vlr. 
Craik  published  iuComjJcndious  History  of 
English  Literature  and  the  English  Language, 
comprehending  and  incorporating  all  of  his 
former  work,  the  History  of  Literature  and 
Learning,  \yhich  he  thought  it  desirable  to 
preserve. 

EDUCATION   OF  THE   EARLY  ENGLISH  DRAMATISTS. 

It  is  worthy  of  remark,  that  all  these  founders 
and  first  builders-up  of  the  regular  drama  in  Eng- 
land were,  nearly  if  not  absolutely  without  an 
exception,   classical   scholars  and   men   who  had 

received   a   university   education To   the 

training  received  by  these  writers  liie  drama  that 


864  GEORGE  LILLTE  CRAIK. 

arose  among  us  after  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth 
centmy  may  be  considered  to  owe  not  only  its 
form,  but  in  part  also  its  spirit,  wliicli  had  a 
learned  and  classical  tinge  from  the  llrst,  that 
never  entirely  wore  out.-  The  diction  of  the  works 
of  all  these  dramatists  betrays  their  scholarship  ; 
and  they  have  left  upon  the  language  of  one  higher 
drama,  and  intleed  of  our  blank  verse  in  general, 
of  ^\  hich  they  were  the  main  crcatoi-s,  an  impress 
of  Latlnity,  which,  it  can  scarcely  be  doubled, 
our  vigorous  but  still  homely  and  unsonorous 
Gothic  speech  needed  to  lit  it  for  the  recpiirements 
of  that  species  of  composition.  Fortunately,  how- 
ever, the  greatest  and  most  intiuenlial  of  them 
were  not  mere  men  of  books  and  readers  of  Greek 
and  Latin.  Gre'jnc  and  Peele  and  Marlowe  all 
spent  the  noon  of  their  days  (none  of  them  saw 
any  afternoon)  in  the  busiest  haunts  of  social  life, 
sounding  in  their  reckless  course  all  tlie  depths  of 
human  experience,  and  drinking  the  cup  of  pas- 
sion, and  also  of  suffering  to  the  dregs.  And  of 
their  great  successors,  those  who  canned  the  drama 
to  its  height  among  us  in  the  next  age,  wiiile  some 
were  also  accomplished  scholars,  all  were  men  of 
the  world— men  who  knew  their  brother-men  by 
an  actual  and  intmiate  intercourse  with  them  in 
their  most  natural  and  ojien-hearted  mood.-,  and 
over  a  remarkably  extendeil  range  of  conditions. 
We  know,  from  even  the  scanty  Iragments  of  their 
history  that  have  come  down  to  us,  that  Shake- 
speare and  Jonson  and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher 
all  lived  much  in  the  open  air  of  society,  and 
mingled  with  all  ranks  from  the  higliest  to  the 
lowest  ;  some  of  them,  indeed,  having  known 
what  it  was  actually  to  belong  to  classes  very  far 
removed  from  each  other  at  different  periods  of 
their  lives.  But  we  should  have  gathered,  tliough 
no  other  record  or  tradition  had  told  us,  that  they 
must  haA-e  been  men  of  this  genuine  and  manifold 
experience  f  roni  the  drama  alone  which  they  have 
bequeathed  to  us— various,  rich,  and  glowing  a.s 
that  is.  even  as  life  itself.— Hisfury  of  the  English 
Literature  and  Language. 


GEOUGIANA  MARION  CRAIK.  ^505 

ENGLISH  PnOSE    OF  THE  SIXTEENTH  CENTURY. 

Generally  it  may  be  observed,  with  regard  to 
the  Euglish  prose  of  the  earlier  part  of  the  six- 
teenth century,  tha4:  it  is  both  more  simple  in  its 
construction,  and  of  a  more  purely  native  charac- 
ter in  otlier  respects,  than  the  style  which  came 
into  fashion  in  the  latter  years  of  the  Elizabethan 
period.  When  first  made  use  of  in  prose  composi- 
tion, the  mother-tongue  was  written  as  it  was 
spoken;  even  such  artitices  and  embellishments 
as  are  always  prompted  by  the  nature  of  verse 
were  here  scarcely  aspired  after  or  thouglit  of; 
that  Mhich  was  addressed  to  and  specially  in- 
tended for  the  instruction  of  the  people  was  set 
down  as  far  as  possible  in  the  familiar  forms  and 
fashions  of  the  popular  speech,  in  genuine  native 
words,  and  direct  unincuud)ercd  sentences;  no 
painful  imitation  of  any  learned  or  foreign  model 
was  attempted,  nor  any  species  of  elaboration 
whatever,  except  what  was  necessary  for  mei*e 
perspicuity,  in  a  kind  of  writing  which  was 
scarcely  regarded  as  partaking  of  the  character  of 
literary  composition  at  all.  The  delicacy  of  a 
scholarly  taste  no  doubt  influenced  even  the  Eng- 
lish style  of  such  writers  as  More  and  his  eminent 
contemporaries  or  immediate  followers ;  but 
whatever  eloquence  or  dignity  their  compositions 
•thus  acquired  was  not  the  effect  of  any  professed 
or  conscious  endeavor  to  write  in  English  as  they 
would  have  written  in  what  were  called  the 
learned  tongues. — History  of  the  English  Litera- 
ture and  Language. 

CRAIK,  Georgiana  Marion,  an  English 
novelist,  daughter  of  George  Lillie  Craik, 
born  in  London,  April,  1S31.  She  began  to 
write  stories  when  very  young.  Her  first 
novel,  Kiverston,  was  published  in  1857. 
Since  that  time  she  has  published,  Lost  and 
Won  (1859) ;  My  First  Journal  (1860);  Winni- 
fred's  Wooing  (1862);  Play-Room  Stories 
(1863);  Faith  Umrin's  Ordeal  (1865^;  Leslie 
Tyrrell  (1867);    Mildred,    and    Cousin    Trix 


306         (JEORGIANA  MARION  CRAIK. 

(186S);  Esther  HilVs  Secret  (1870);  Hero  Tre- 
velyan,  and  Tlie  Cousin  from  India  (1871)  \ 
Without  Kith  or  Kin  (1872);  Only  a  Butter- 
fly, and  Miss  Moore  (1873) ;  Sylvia's  Choice 
(1874);  Tlicresa  {187 o)\  Anne  Warwick,  Janet 
Mason's  Troubles,  and  Tzco  Tales  of  Married 
Life  {1S77)\  Dorcas,  and  Tico  Women  (1879); 
Hilary's  Love  Story  (1880);  Mark  Dennison's 
Charge,  and  Sydney  (1881);  and  Fortune's 
Marriage  (1882). 

AX   ABSENT  FATIIKH. 

Sylvia  used  to  talk  a  good  deal  about  him  at 
fii*Kt  ;  but  8he  was  only  six  years  old  wht-n  tlie 
last  news  from  liim  readied  them,  and  at  six 
years  old  one  easil}'  forgets.  In  after  dajs  slie 
never  could  recall  clearly  how  the  first  knowledge 
or  impression  came  to  her  that  her  father  was 
dead.  She  recollected  his  going  away  distinctly, 
but  after  that  there  was  a  break  in  her  memory — 
a  blank  that  she  could  not  fill  up.  She  must  have 
lieard  about  his  letters  ;  she  must  have  had  some 
parts  of  them  read  to  her  ;  she  must  have  asked 
questions  about  him  ;  but  she  had  forgotten  all 
that.  Her  memory  could  lay  hold  on  nothing 
from  the  time  he  went  away  until  a  time  came 
when  his  death  seemed  to  be  regarded  as  an  ac- 
cepted fact.  That  was  when  she  was  a  girl  of 
eleven  or  twelve.  At  that  time  every  body  spoke 
of  him,  when  they  spoke  of  him  at  all,  as  of  some 
one  dead,  and  Sylvia  grew  up  almost  or  wholly 
without  any  knowledge  that  there  was  a  possibili- 
ty of  Ids  being  in  the  world  still.  It  was  not  so 
much  that  any  one  purposely  kept  her  in  ignorance 
that  he  might  be  alive,  as  that,  by  general  tacit 
consent,  it  came  gradually,  by  every  one  in  the 
liouse,  to  be  regarded  as  so  certain  a  thing  that, 
in  Sylvia's  presence,  the  question  of  the  possibili- 
tv'  of  his  re-appearance  was  never  raised.  He  had 
gone  away,  and  never  been  heard  of  any  more ; 
the  inevitable  inference  was  that  he  was  dead. 
This  or  that  happened  "while  your  poor  father 
was  alive;"  or  so  and  so  took  piace,  "after  your 
father's  death,"  Lady  Falkland  would  not  unfi-e- 


CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  ('RANCH.      ;567 

quently  say  to  lier  j^randchild,  assuming  llie  fact 
of  Richard  Duncombe's  death  as  something  that 
had  wliolly  passed  beyond  dispute.  And  then,  by 
the  time  that  .Sylvia  was  a  girl  of  fourteen  or  fif- 
teen every  one  liad  pretty  well  ceased  to  talk 
about  her  father  at  all.  For  her  own  part,  she 
used  still  to  think  of  him  ;  for  lie  had  loved  her  as 
her  mother  never  loved  her  :  and  after  tlie  selfish 
years  of  childhood  were  past  she  came  to  look 
back  half  remorsefully  upon  her  infancy,  and  to 
recall  that  old  tenderness  and  goodness  of  his 
fondly  and  loyally  ;  but  though  she  thought  of 
liim  she  rarely  spoke  about  him,  for  she  had  found 
out  for  herself  a  good  while  before  she  reached  the 
age  of  fifteen,  that  her  father  was  not  a  subject 
about  which  any  one  in  the  house  cared  to  con- 
verse. 

So  she  only  thought  of  him,  and  looked  at  his 
picture,  and  talked  to  it  sometimes  when  she  was 
vexed,  which  hapi)ened  on  the  whole,  perhaps, 
not  unfrequently  ;  for  ]\Irs.  Duncombe  and  her 
daughter  were  women  of  two  very  ditTerent  types, 
and  in  those  days  it  was  not  Sylvia  who  most 
often  got  her  own  way,  or  who  was  permitted  to 
do  the  things  she  wished  to  do,  or  who  succeeded 
in  arranging  the  little  incidents  of  her  life  accord- 
ing to  her  own  wish.  Her  mother,  and  not  her- 
self, arranged  those  little  matters  for  her,  and  her 
mother's  arrangement  sometimes  chanced  to  be 
wholly  different  from  what  her  owzi  would  have 
been.  .  .  .  Tlie  girl  grew  up  with  more  of  her 
father's  temperament  in  her  than  her  mother's. 
If  he  had  lived,  they  would  have  been  compan- 
ions ;  her  brightness  would  have  kept  him  young  ; 
her  ardent  nature  wovild  have  kept  energy  and 
hope  in  him.  But  she  gi-ew  up  without  that  com- 
panionship that  would  have  made  both  of  them 
so  happy,  and  her  life — and  perhaps  his  too  (only 
she  did  not  know  that) — missed  something  out  of 
it — some  of  the  poetry  that  should  have  gilded 
and  beautified  it. — Syh'ia''s  Choice. 

CRANCH,  Christopher  Pearse,  an  Amer- 
ican artist  and  poet,  born  at  Alexandria,  Va. , 


:;fis     CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANin. 

in  1813.  He  graduated  at  Columbian  College, 
Washington,  in  1831 ;  studied  afterwards  at 
tlie  Harvard  Divinity  School,  and  was  li- 
censed to  preach.  In  1842  he  became  a  land- 
scape-painter at  New  York;  in  1853  he  went 
to  Europe  for  the  second  time,  and  I'esided 
for  ten  years  in  France  and  Italy.  In  1854 
he  put  forth  a  volume  of  poems,  and  in  1856-57 
The  Last  of  the  Huggermuggers,  and  Kohbolt- 
zo,  two  tales  for  children,  illustrated  by  him- 
self. He  has  also  published  a  translation  of 
tlie  u^neid  into  blank  verse,  and  has  con- 
tributed not  un frequently  to  periodical  lit- 
eiature. 

MARGARET  FULLER  OSSOLL 

Where  now,  where, 
O  spirit  pure,  where  walk  those  shining  feet  ? 
"Whither  in  groves  be)'ond  the  treaclierous  seas, 
Beyond  our  sense  of  time,  dimly  fair. 
Brighter  than  gardens  of  Hesperides — 
Whither  dost  tiiou  move  on,  complete 
And  beauteous,  ringed  around 
In  mystery  profound 
By  gracious  companies  wlio  share 
That  str.nnge  supernal  air? 
Or  art  thou  sleeping  dreamless,  knowing  naught 

Of  good  or  ill,  of  life  or  death  ? 
Or  art  thou  but  a  portioii  of  Heaven's  breath, 

A  portion  of  all  life  enwrought 
In  the  eternal  essence  ? — All  in  vain 
Tangled  in  misty  webs  of  time, 
Out  on  the  undiscovered  clime 
Our  clouded  eyes  we  strain 
We  cannot  pierce  the  veil. 
As  the  proud  eagles  fail 

Upon  their  upward  track 
And  flutter  gasping  back 
From  the  thin  empyrean,  so,  with  wing 
Baffled  and  humbled,  we  but  guess 

All  we  shall  gain  by  all  the  soul's  distress — 
All  we  shall  be,  by  our  poor  worthiness. 
And  so  we  write  and  sing: 


CHRISTOPHElt  PEARSE  CRANCH.      369 

Our  dreams  of  time  and  space,  and  call   them 
Heaven. 
We  only  know  thai  all  is  tor  the  best ; 
To  God  we  leave  the  I'est. 

So,  reverent  laeneath  the  mysterj'- 

Of  Life  and  Deatli  we  yield 
Back  to  the  great  Unknown  the  spirit  given 
A  few  brief  years  to  blossom  in  our  fie'd. 
Nor  shall  time's  all-devouring  sea 
Despoil  this  brightest  ccntm-y 
Of  all  thou  hast  been,  and  shalt  ever  be. 
The  ago  shall  guard  thy  fame. 
And  reverence  thy  name. 
There  is  no  cloud  on  them.     There  is  no  death  for 
tliee. 

TWO  SINGERS. 

One  touched  hia  facile  lyre  to  please  tlie  ear 

And  win  the  buzzing  plaudits  of  the  town, 
And  sang  a  song  that  caroled  loud  anrl  clear  ; 

And  gained  at  once  a  blazing,  brief  renown. 
Nor  he,  nor  all  the  crowd  behind  them,  saw 

The  ephemeral  list  of  pleasant  rhymers  dead  : 
Their  verse  once  deemed  a  title  without  flaw 

To  fame,  whose  phantom  radiance  long  had  fled. 

Another  sang  his  soul  out  to  the  stars. 

And  the  deep  hearts  of  men.      The  few  who 
passed 
Heard  a  low,  thoughtful  strain  behind  his  bars, 

As  of  some  captive  in  a  prison  cast. 
And  when  that  thrilling  voice  no  more  was  heard, 

Him  from  his  cell  in  funeral  pomp  they  bore  ; 
Then  all  that  he  had  sung  and  written  stirred 

The  world's  great  heart  witli  thoughts  unknown 
before. 

KNOWING. 

Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech, 
Feeling  deeper  than  all  thought, 

Souls  to  souls  can  never  teach, 
What  unto  themselves  was  taught. 


370  KICHAKI)  CKASHAW. 

We  are  spirits  clad  in  veils  : 

Man  by  man  was  never  seen  ; 
All  our  deep  communing  fails 

To  remove  the  shadowy  screen. 

Heart  to  heart  was  never  known. 
Mind  with  mind  did  never  meet; 

"\Ve  are  columns  left  alone 
Of  a  temple  once  complete. 

Like  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky, 
Far  apart,  though  seeming  near. 

In  oiu-  liglit  we  scattered  lie  ; 
All  i?i  tlnis  liut  starligiit  here. 

AVhat  is  social  company 

But  a  l)abl)ling  summer  stream  ? 

What  our  wi.-c  i)iu]osophy 
But  tiie  glancing  of  a  dream  ? 

Only  Mhen  the  sun  of  Love 

Melts  the  scattered  stars  of  thought ; 

Only  when  we  live  above 

What  the  dim-eyed  world  has  taught  ; 

Only  when  our  souls  are  fed 
By  the  Fount  which  gave  them  birth, 

And  by  inspiration  led 
Which  they  never  drew  from  earth, 

We  like  parted  drops  of  rain. 
Swelling  till  tiiey  meet  and  run, 

Shall  be  all  absorbed  again, 
Melting,  flowing  into  one. 

CRASHAW,  Richard,  an  English  poet, 
born  in  London  in  1613,  died  at  Loretto,  Italy, 
in  1650.  He  studied  at  Cambridge,  and  in 
1637  was  made  a  fellow  of  Peterhouse  College. 
The  publication  of  Herbert's  Temple,  in  1633, 
is  said  to  have  determined  the  bent  of  his 
mind  ton-ards  religious  poetry,  his  first  book 
being  Epigrammatum  Sacrorum  Liber.  In 
this  volume  occurs  the  often  imitated  fanciful 
conceit  upon  the  miracle  ol  the  Avater  being 


i;icn.\i;it  ikashaw.  ;iTi 

converted  into  wine:  "'  Lymphapudica  Deum 
vidit  et  erxibuit — The  modest  water  saw  its 
God  and  blushed."  During  the  civil  war, 
Crashaw  became  obnoxious  to  the  Parlia- 
mentary pariy,  and  ^vas  deprived  of  his  Fel- 
lowship. He  fled  to  Fran(.'e.  where  he  became 
a  Roman  Catholic,  and  through  the  influence 
of  Maria  Henrietta,  the  queen  of  Charles  I., 
was  in  164G  made  secretary  to  Cai'dinal 
Palotta  at  Rome.  Three  years  later  the  Car- 
dinal procured  his  appointnxent  as  canon  of 
the  church  at  Loretto;  but  within  a  fortnight 
he  was  attacked  by  a  fever  Avhich  jjroved 
fatal.  While  at  Cambridge  a  warm  attach- 
ment sprung  uj)  between  Crashaw  and  Cow- 
ley, who  wrote  one  of  his  finest  poems  "  On 
the  Death  of  Crashaw,"  which  will  be  found 
in  the  article  upon  Cowley.  The  poems  of 
Crashaw  in  Latin  and  English  Avere  published 
separately  and  at  various  periods  during  his 
lifetime.  The  first  collected  edition  of  them 
appeared  in  1858;  a  second  edition,  ap- 
peared in  1872,  prepai-ed  by  the  Rev.  A.  B. 
Grossart.  Crashaw  was  a  man  of  varied  ac- 
complishments ;  but  a  large  portion  of  his 
poems  are  religious,  with  a  strong  mystical 
tone  running  through  them. 

LINES  ON   A   PRAYER-EOOK   SENT   TO  A   LADY. 

Lo  !  here  a  little  volume,  but  large  book 

(Fear  it  not,  sweet, 

It  is  no  hypocrite), 
Much  larger  in  itself  than  in  its  look. 
It  is,  in  one  ricli  handful,  lieaven  and  all — 
Heaven's  royal  hosts  encamped  thus  small ; 
To  prove  that  true,  schools  used  to  tell. 
A  thousand  angels  in  one  point  can  dwell. 

It  is  Love's  great  artillery, 

Which  here  contracts  itself,  and  come?  to  lie 

Close  couched  in  your  white  bosom,  and   fiom 

thfnre, 


872  RICH  ART)  (RASHAW. 

As  from  n  snowy  fortress  of  tlefence. 
Against  the  ghostly  foe  to  take  your  part, 
And  fortify  the  hold  of  your  chaste  heart. 
It  is  the  armoury  of  light ; 
Let  constant  u.-^e  but  keep  it  bright, 

You  '11  find  it  yields 
To  holy  liands  and  humble  hearts, 

Move  swords  and  shields 
Than  sin  hath  snares  or  hell  hath  darts. 

Only  be  sure 

The  hands  be  pure 
That  hold  these  weapons,  and  the  eyes 

Those  of  turtles,  chaste  and  true, 
Wakeful  and  wise. 

Here  is  a  friend  shall  fight  for  you. 
Hold  but  this  book  before  your  heart, 
Let  Prayer  alone  to  play  his  part. 

But  oh  !  the  heart 

That  studies  this  high  art 

Must  be  a  sure  housekeeper, 

And  yet  no  sleeper. 

Dear  soul,  be  strong  ; 
Mercy  will  come  ere  long, 

And  bring  her  bosom  full  of  blessings- 
Flo  were  of  never-fading  graces. 

To  make  immortal  dressings. 

For  worthy  souls  whose  wise  embraces 

Store  up  themselves  for  Him  who  is  alone 

The  spouse  of  virgins,  and  the  Virgin's  son. 

TWO  SIMILES. 

I. 
I  've  seen,  indeed,  the  hopeful  bud 
Of  a  ruddy  rose,  that  stood. 
Blushing  to  behold  the  ray 
Of  the  new-saluted  day  ; 
His  tender  top  not  fully  sy.read  ; 
The  sweet  dash  of  a  s!iov.e:  new  shed, 
Invited  him  no  more  to  hide 
"Within  himself  the  piu-ple  pride 
Of  his  forward  flower,  when  lo, 
While  he  ssveetly  \gan  to  siiew 


RICHARD  CRASUAW.  3 

His  swelling  glories,  Auster  spied  him  ; 
Cruel  Auster  hither  hied  him. 
And  with  the  rush  of  one  rude  blast 
Shamed  not  spitefully  to  waste 
All  his  leaves  so  fresh  and  sweet. 
And  lay  them  trembling  at  his  feet. 

ir. 
I  "ve  seen  the  morning's  lovely  ray 
Hover  o'er  the  new-born  day. 
With  rosy  -wings,  so  richly  bright, 
As  if  he  scorned  to  think  of  night, 
Wlien  a  ruddy  storm  wliose  scowl 
Made  heaven's  radiant  face  look  foul 
Called  for  an  imtimely  niglit 
To  blot  the  newly  blossomed  light. 

TWO  WENT  UP  TO  THE  TEMPLE  TO  PKAY. 

Two  went  to  pray  ?    Oh,  rather  say. 
One  weiit  to  brag,  the  other  to  pray. 

One  stands  up  close,  and  treads  on  high. 
Where  the  other  dares  not  lend  his  eye. 

One  nearer  to  God's  altar  trod, 
The  other  to  the  altar's  God. 

LIVING  ACCORDING  TO   NATURE. 

That  wliich  makes  us  have  no  need 
Of  physic,  that  's  physic  indeed.— 

Hark,  hither,  reader  !  wouldst  thou  see 
Nature  her  own  physician  beV 
Wouldst  thou  see  a  man  all  his  own  wealth, 
His  own  physic,  his  own  health  ? 
A  man  whose  sober  soul  can  tell 
How  to  wear  her  garments  well — 
Her  garments  that  upon  her  sit, 
As  garments  should  do.  close  and  fit ; 
A  well-clothed  soul,  that  "s  not  oppressed, 
Or  choked  with  what  she  should  be  dressed  ; 
A  soul  sheathed  in  a  crystal  shrine 
Through  which  all  her  bright  features  shine ; 
As  when  a  piece  of  wa,nton  lawn, 
A  thin  aerial  veil,  is  drawn 
O'er  Beauty's  face,  seeming  to  hide, 


874  RICHARD  CRASHAW. 

More  sweetly  shows  the  hlushing  bride  ; 

A  soul  whose  intellectual  beams 

No  mists  do  mask,  no  lazy  streams? — 

A  happy  soul,  that  all  the  way 

To  heaven  hath  a  summer's  day? — 

Wouldst  see  a  man  whose  well-warmed  blood 
Bathes  him  in  a  genuine  flood  ? 
A  man  whose  tuned  numbers  be 
A  seat  of  rarest  liarmoiiy  ? 
Wouldst  see  blithe  looks,  fresh  cheeks  beguile 
Age?    Wouldst  see  December  smile  ? 
Wouldst  see  a  nest  of  roses  grow 
In  a  bed  of  reverend  snow  ? 
AVarm  thoughts,  free  spirits,  flattering 
Winter's  self  into  a  Spring? 

In  sum,  wouldst  see  a  man  that  can 
Live  to  be  old,  and  still  a  man  ? 
Whose  latest  and  most  leaden  hours 
Fall  with  soft  wings,  stuck  with  soft  flowers  ; 
And.  when  life's  sweet  fable  ends, 
Soul  and  body  part  like  friends : — 
No  quaiTels.  murmurs,  no  delay  ; 
A  kiss,  a  sigh,  and  so  away? 
This  rare  one,  reader,  wouldst  thou  see? 
Hark,  hither  I  and — thyself  be  he  I 

Crashaw  made  many  translations  from 
Latin  and  English.  The  longest  of  these  is 
Music's  Duel,  from  the  Latin  of  Strada. 
Music  and  the  Nightingale  have  entered  into 
a  trial  of  skill  and  poAver,  which  comes  to 
this  end : 

DKATII   OF   THE   NIGHTINGALE. 

Thus  do  they  vary. 
Each  string  his  note,  as  if  they  meant  to  carry 
Their  master's  l)lest  soul — snatched  out  at  his  ears 
By  a  strong  ecstacy — through  all  tlie  spheres 
Of  Music's  heaven  ;  and  scut  it  there  on  higl), 
In  the  empyrcimi  of  imve  harmoii}'. 
At  length,  after  so  long,  so  loud  a  strife 
Of  all  the  strings,  still  breathing  the  best  life 
Of  blest  variety,  attending  on 
^'s  fingers'  fairest  revolution. 


RICHARD  CRASHAW.  375 

In  many  a  sweet  rise,  many  us  sweet  a  fall — 
A  full-mouthed  diapason  swallows  all. 

This  done,  he  lists  what  she  would  say  to  tliis  ; 
And  she,  although  her  breath's  late  exercise 
Had  dealt  too,roughly  with  her  tender  throat, 
Yet  summons  all  her  sweet  powers  for  a  note. 
Alas  !  in  vain  !  for  while— sweet  soul— she  tries 
To  measure  all  those  wild  diversities 
Of  chatt'ring  strings  by  the  small  size  of  one 
Poor  simple  voice,  raised  in  a  natural  tone. 
She  fails,  and  failing  grieves,  and  grieving  dies  : 
She  dies,  and  leaves  her  life  the  victor's  prize. 
Falling  upon  his  lute.     01),  lit  to  have- 
That  lived  so  sweetly— dead,  so  sweet  a  grave  ! 

The  following  translated  from  the  Soi^petto 
fV  Herode,  an  Italian  poem  by  Masino.  had 
apparently  been  seen  by  ]\Iilton,  suggesting 
to  him  certain  passages  in  Pdradisc  Lost  : 

THE   ABODK  OF  SATAN. 

Below  the  bottom  of  the  great  abyss. 

There,  where  one  centre  reconciles  all  things. 

The  world's  ]n-ofound  heart  pants  :  there  j)laced  is 

Mischiefs  old  master  ;  close  about  him  clings 

A  curled  knot  of  embracing  snakes,  that  kins 

His  correspondent  cheeks  :  these  loathsome  strings 

Hold  the  perverse  prince  in  eternal  ties 

Fast  bound,  since  first  he  forfeited  the  skies.  ,  . 

Fain  would  he  have  forgot  what  fatal  strings 
Eternally  bind  each  i-ebellious  limb  ; 
He  shook  himself,  and  spread  his  spacious  wings. 
Which  like  two  bosomed  sails,  embrace  the  dim 
Air  with  a  dismal  shade,  but  all  in  vain  ; 
Of  sturdy  adamant  is  his  strong  chain. 
While  thus  Heaven's  highest  counsels,  by  the  low 
Footsteps  of  tlieir  effects,  he  traced  too  Avell, 
He  tossed  his  troubled  eyes — embers  that  glow 
Now  witli  new  rage,  and  wax  too  hot  for  hell ; 
With  his  foul  claws  he  fenced  his  furrowed  brow, 
And  gave  a  ghastly  shriek,  whose  horrid  yell 
Ran  trenibling  through  the  hollow  vault  of  night. 


37G        FRANCIS  MARION  CRAWFORD. 

CRAWFORD,  Francis  Marion,  an  Ameri- 
can novelist,  born  in  1845.  Ho  is  the  son  of 
Thomas  Crawford  the  sculptor,  and  was  born 
in  Italy.  His  novels  arc  Mr.  Isaacs  (1SS2) ; 
Dr.  Claudius  (1883);  A  Roman  Suigir,  and 
To  Leeu-ard  ilSS4);  An  American  Politician, 
and  Zoroaster  (1885);  A  Tale  of  a  Lonely 
Parish  (1886). 

IN   THE  PANTHEON    AT  NIGHT. 

On  tlie  appointed  night  Nino,  wrapped  in  that 
old  cloak  of  mine  (wliiili  is  very  warm,  tbougli  it 
is  threadbare),  accompanied  the  party  to  the  tem- 
})le,  or  church,  or  wluiteveryou  like  to  call  it.  The 
party  were  simply  the  Count  and  his  daughter,  an 
Austrian  gentleman  of  their  acquaintance,  and 
the  dear  Barone.ss — tliat  sympatlietic  woman  who 
broke  so  many  hearts  and  cared  not  at  all  for  the 
chatter  of  the  people.  Every  one  has  seen  her. 
with  her  slim,  graceful  ways,  and  her  face  tiiat 
was  like  a  midatto  peach  for  darkness  and  fine- 
ness, and  lier  dark  eyes  and  tiger-lily  look 

These  four  people  Nino  conducted  to  the  little  en- 
trance at  the  back  of  the  Pantheon,  and  the 
.sacristan  struck  a  liglit  to  show  them  the  way  to 
the  door  of  the  church.  Then  he  put  out  Ids 
taper,  and  let  them  do  as  they  pleased. 

Conceive  if  you  can  the  darkness  of  Egypt,  the 
darkness  that  can  be  felt,  impaled  and  stabbed 
through  its  whole  thickness  by  one  mighty  moon- 
l>eam,  clear  and  clean  and  cold,  from  the  top  to 
the  bottom,  All  around,  in  the  circle  of  the  outer 
black,  lie  the  great  dead  in  their  tombs,  whisper- 
ing to  eacli  other  of  deeds  that  shook  the  world  ; 
whi^pe^ing  in  a  language  all  tlieir  own  as  yet— ihe 
language  of  the  life  to  come— the  language  of  a 
stillness  so  dread  and  deep  that  the  very  silence 
clashes  against  it,  and  makes  dull  muffled  beatings 
in  ears  that  strain  to  catch  the  dead  men's  talk  : 
the  shadow  of  immortality  falling  through  the 
shadow  of  death,  and  bursting  back  upon  its 
heavenward  course  from  the  depth  of  the  abyss  ; 
climbing  again  upon  its  silver  self  to  the  sky  a>>ove, 
leaving  boliind  tlie  horror  of  the  deep. 


FRANCIS  MARION  CRAWFORD.        :JT7 

So  in  that  lone^v  place  at  midnight  falls  the  moon 
upon  the  floor,  and  through  the  mystic  shaft  of 
rays  ascend  and  descend  the  souls  of  the  dead. 
Hedwig  stood  out  alone  upon  the  white  circle  on 
the  pavement  iieneath  the  dome,  and  looked  up  as 
tliough  she  could  see  the  angels  coming  and  going. 
And,  as  she  looked,  the  heavy  lace  veil  that 
covered  her  head  fell  back  softly,  as  though  a 
spirit  wooed  her  a:id  would  fain  look  on  something 
fairer  than  he,  and  purer.  The  whiteness  clung  to 
her  face,  and  each  separate  wave  of  hair  was  like 
spun  silver.  And  she  looked  steadfastly  up.  For 
a  moment  she  stood,  and  the  huslied  air  trembled 
about  her.  Then  the  silence  caught  the  tremor, 
ami  quivered,  and  a  thrill  of  sound  hovered  and 
spread  its  wings,  and  sailed  forth  from  the  night. 
"  Spirto  fxentil  dei  sogrni  iiiiei  " 

Ah,  Signorina  Edvigia,  you  know  that  voice 
now,  but  you  did  not  know  it  then.  How  your 
lieart  stopi)ed,  and  beat,  and  stopped  again,  when 
you  first  heard  that  man  sing  out  his  whole  heart- 
ful— ycm  in  the  light,  and  he  in  the  dark  !  And 
liis  soul  shot  out  to  you  upon  the  sounds,  and  died 
fitfully,  as  the  magic  notes  daslied  their  sof*;  wings 
against  the  vaulted  roof  above  you,  and  took  new 
life  again  and  throbbed  heavenward  in  broad, 
passionate  waves,  till  your  breath  came  thick  and 
your  blood  ran  fiercely— ay.  even  your  cold 
northern  blood— in  very  triumph  that  a  voice 
could  so  move  you.  A  voice  in  the  dark.  For  a 
full  minute  after  it  ceased  you  stood  there,  and 
the  otliers.  wherever  they  might  be  in  the  siiadow, 
scarcely  breathed.  That  was  how  Hedwig  first 
heard  Nino  sing.— -rl  Rotnan  Singer. 

HORACE  BELLINGHAM. 

Ay.  but  lie  was  a  sight  to  do  good  to  the  souls 
of  the  hungry  and  thirsty,  and  of  the  poor  and  in 
misery  I  .   .   .   . 

There  are  some  people  wlio  turn  gray,  but  who 
do  not  grow  hoary,  whose  faces  are  furrowed  but 
not  wrinkled,  whose  hearts  are  sore  wounded  in 
many  places,  but  are  not  dead.  There  is  a  youth 
•that "bids  defiance  to  age,  and  there  is  a  kindness 


37b        FRANCIS  MARION  CRAWFORD. 

■whicli  laughs  at  the  world's  rough  usage.  Tl)ese  are 
tliev  who  have  returned  good  for  evil,  not  liaving 
learned  it  as  a  lesson  of  righteousness,  but  be- 
cause they  have  no  evil  in  them  to  return  upon 
others.  Whom  the  gods  love  die  young  because 
they  never  grow  old.  The  poet,  who  at  tlie 
verge  of  death  said  this,  said  it  of  and  to  this  very 
man. — Dr.  Claudius. 

IN   THE  HIMALAYAS. 

The  lower  Himalayas  ai-e  at  first  extremely  u'-.- 
appointing.  Tlio  scenery  is  enormous  but  not 
grand,  and  at  first  hardly  seems  large.  The  lower 
parts  are  at  first  sight  a  series  of  gently  undulat- 
ing hills  and  wooded  dells  ;  in  some  places  it 
looks  as  if  one  miglit  almost  hunt  the  country.  It 
is  long  before  you  realize  that  it  is  all  on  a  gigant- 
ic scale  :  tliat  the  quick-set  hedges  arc  belts  of 
rhododendrons  of  full  growth,  the  water- jumps 
rivers,  and  the  stone  walls  mountain-ridges  ; 
that  to  hunt  a  country  like  that  you  would  have  to 
ride  a  horse  at  least  two  hundred  feet  high.  You 
cannot  see  at  first,  or  even  for  some  time,  that  the 
/;entle-looking  hill  is  a  mountain  of  five  or  six 
thousand  feet  r.'iove  the  level  of  the  Rliigi  Kulm 
in  Switzerlar.  1.  Persons  who  are  familiar  Mith 
the  aspect  oftlie  Rocky  Mountains  are  aware  of 
the  singular  lack  of  dignity  in  those  enormous  ele- 
vations. Thej'  are  merely  big,  without  any  supe- 
rior beauty,  until  you  come  to  the  favored  spots 
of  nature's  art,  where  some  great  contrast  throws 
into  appalling  relief  the  gulf  between  the  high 
and  the  low.  It  is  so  in  the  Himalayas.  You  may 
travel  for  hours  and  days  amidst  vast  forests  and 
hills  without  the  slightest  sensation  of  pleasure  or 
sense  of  admiration  for  the  scene,  till  suddenly 
your  path  leads  you  out  on  to  the  dizzy  brink  of 
an  awful  precipice — a  sheer  fall,  so  exaggerated  in 
horror  that  your  most  stirring  memories  of  Mont 
Blanc,  the  Jungfrau,  and  the  hideous  arete  of 
"  the  Pitz  Bernina.  sink  into  vague  insignificance! 
The  gulf  that  divides  you  from  the  distant 
mountain  seems  like  a  huge  bite  taken  bodily  out 
of  the  world  bv  some  voracious   god  :    far  av.av 


Siu  EDWARD  S.  CREASY.  379 

rise  snow-peaks  such  as  were  not  dreauit  of  in 
Yoiir  Swiss  tour  ;  tlie  bottomless  valley  at  your 
feet  is  misty  and  gloomy  with  blackness,  streaked 
with  mist,  while  the  peaks  above  shoot  gladly  to 
tiie  sun  and  catch  his  broadside  rays  like  majestic 
wliite  standards.  Between  you,  as  you  stand 
loaning  cautiously  against  the  liill  behind  you, 
and  the  wondt'i-ful  background  far  away  in  front, 
floats  a  strange  vision,  scarcely  moving,  but  yet 
not  still.  A  great  golden  shield  sails  steatlily  in 
vast  circles,  sending  back  the  sunlight  in  every 
tint  of  burni.shed  glow.  The  golden  eagle  of  the, 
Himalayas  liangs  in  mid-air,  a  sheet  of  jHilished 
metal  to  the  eye,  pausing  sometimes  in  the  full 
blaze  of  reflection,  as  ages  ago  the  sun  and  the 
moon  stood  still  in  the  valley  of  the  Ajalon  ; 
too  magnificent  for  description,  as  lie  is  too  daz- 
zling to  look  at.  The  whole  scene,  if  no  greater 
name  can  be  given  to  it.  is  on  a  scale  so  Titan- 
ic in  its  massive  length  and  breadth  and  depth, 
that  you  stand  utterly  trembling  and  weak  and 
foolish  as  you  look  for  the  hrst  time.  You  have 
never  .seen  such  mas.ses  of  the  world  before.— .1/y. 

(UNEASY,  Sir  I^dward  Shepherd,  an  Eng- 
lish jurist  and  historian,  born  in  KSl:^,  died 
in  1878.  Ho  was  educated  at  Eton  and  at 
King's  College,  Cambridge,  and  was  called 
to  tlie  bar  in  1837.  In  1840  lie  became  Pro- 
lessor  of  History  in  the  University  of  London, 
and  in  1860  ^vas  appointed  Chief  Justice  of 
Ceylon.  Besides  many  smaller  works,  one  of 
which  Avas  an  early  volume  of  Poems,  he 
wrote  The  Fifteen  Decisive  Baffles  of  fhe 
World,  from  Marafhon  fo  Waterloo  (18.Tlh 
History  of  the  Ottoman  Turks  (1856);  Rise 
and  Progress  of  the  English  Const/iufio)i. 
(185G);  Imperial  and  Colonial  Constitutions 
of  the  Britannic  Empire  (1872).  He  also 
began  a  History  of  England,  which  was  to  be 
in  five  volumes;  but  only  two  volumes  Avere 
publi.'5hed  tlS0;)-7ni. 


380  Sir  EDWARD  S.  CREASl. 

"WHAT  COKSTITUTES  A   DECISIVK  BATTLE. 

Hallam,  speaking  of  th.e  victoi'v  over  the  Sara- 
cens at  the  battle  of  Tours,  gained  by  Charles 
Martel,  in  732,  a.d.,  sa^s  :  "It  may  justly  be 
reckoned  among  those  few  battles  of  which  a  con- 
trary event  would  have  essentially  varied  the 
history  of  the  world  in  all  its  subsetjuent  scenes: 
Mith  Marathon,  Arbela,  the  Metaurus,  Chalons, 
and  Leipsic."'  It  was  the  perr.sal  of  this  note  of 
Hallam's  that  first  led  me  to  tlie  consideration  of 
my  present  subject.  I  certainly  <lilTer  with  that 
gi'eat  liistorian  as  to  the  comparative  importance 
of  some  of  the  battles  which  lie  thus  enumerates, 
and  also  of  some  which  he  omits.  It  is  probable, 
indeed,  that  no  two  historical  inquirers  would  en- 
tirely agree  in  their  lists  of  the  Decisive  Battles  of 
the  World.  But  our  concurring  in  our  catalogues 
is  of  little  moment,  provided  we  learn  to  look  on 
these  great  historical  events  in  the  spirit  wliich 
Hallam's  observations  indicate.  .  .  . 

I  need  hardly  remark  that  it  is  not  the  mimber 
of  killed  and  wounded  in  a  battle  that  determines 
its  general  historical  i  mportance.  It  is  not  because 
only  a  few  hundreds  fell  in  the  battle  by  which 
Joan  of  Arc  captured  the  Tourelles  and  raised  the 
siege  of  Orleans,  that  the  elTect  of  that  crisis  is  to 
be  judged  ;  nor  would  a  full  belief  in  the  largest 
number  which  Eastern  historians  state  to  have 
been  slaughtered  in  any  of  the  numerous  conflicts 
between  Asiatic  rulers,  make  me  regard  the  en- 
gagement in  which  they  fell  as  one  of  paramount 
importance  to  mankind.  But  besides  battles  of 
this  kind,  there  are  many  of  great  consequence, 
and  attended  by  circumstances  which  powerfully 
excite  our  feelings  and  rivet  our  attention,  and 
which  yet  appear  to  me  of  mere  secondary  rank, 
inasmuch  as  either  their  eflfects  were  limited  in 
area,  or  they  themselves  merely  confirmed  some 
great  tendency  or  bias  which  an  earlier  battle  liad 
originated.  For  example,  the  encounters  between 
the  Greeks  and  Persians  which  followed  Marathon 
Beem  to  me  not  to  have  been  phenomena  of'; 
primary  impulse.  Greek  superiority  had  been  al-' 
readv  asserted.  Asiatic  ambition  had  ah-eadv  beeii 


Sir  EDWARD  S.  CREASY.  381 

checked,  before  Salamis  and  Plateeahad  confirmed 
thesuperiorit}'  of  European  free  states^over  Orient- 
al despotism.  So  yEgospotamos,  whicli  finally 
crushed  the  mariliuie  power  of  Athens,  seems  to 
me  inferior  irf  interest  to  the  defeat  before  Syra- 
cuse, where  Atliens  received  her  first  fatal  check, 
and  after  which  she  only  straggled  to  retard  her 
downfall.  I  think  similarly  of  Zama,  witli  re- 
spect to  Carthage,  as  compared  to  the  Metaurus  ; 
and,  on  the  same  principle,  the  subsequent  great 
battles  of  the  Revolutionary  War  a]>pear  to  me 
inferior  in  their  importance  to  Valmy,  wliich  first 
determined  the  military  character  and  career  of 
the  French  Revolution.— Pre/ace  to  the  Fifteen 
Decisive  Battles  of  the  World. 

THE  BATTLE   OF  MARATHON,  -litO  B.C. 

Two  thousand  three  hundred  and  forty  yeare 
ago,  a  council  of  Athenian  officers  was  summoned 
on  the  slope  of  one  of  the  mountains  that  look 
over  the  plaia  of  Marathon,  on  the  eastern  coast 
of  Attica.  The  immediate  subject  of  their  meet- 
ing was  to  consider  wliether  they  should  give  bat- 
tle to  an  enemy,  outnumbering  tliem  at  least  ten 
to  one,  that  lay  encamped  on  the  shore  beneath 
them.  On  the  result  of  their  deliberations  de- 
pended not  nierely  the  fate  of  two  armies,  but  the 
whole  future  progress  of  human  civilization. 
There  Avere  eleven  members  of  that  council  of 
war  :  ten  were  generals  who  were  then  annually 
elected  at  Athens,  one  for  each  of  the  local  tribes 
into  Avhich  the  Athenians  were  divided.  Each 
general  led  the  men  of  his  own  tribe,  and  each 
was  invested  with  equal  military  authority.  But 
one  of  tlie  archo7is  was  also  associated  with  them 
in  the  general  cojumand  of  the  army.  Tliis  mag- 
istrate was  termed  the  Polemarch,  or  '•  V\'ar- 
ruler  : ""  lie  had  the  privilege  of  leaduig  tlie  right 
wing  of  the  army  in  liattle,  and  his  vote  in  a 
council  of  war  was  equal  to  tliat  of  any  of  the 
generals.  The  Polemarcli  for  that  year  was  Calli- 
machus.  The  vote  of  the  generals  was  equally  di- 
vided :  five  being  in  favor  of  giving  l)attle,  five 
against  it  ;  and  Callimaclius  thus  lield  tho  casting 


383  Sir  EDWARD  S.  CREASY. 

vote.  Among  the  most  earnest  of  those  in  favor 
of  battle  was  Miltiades.  He  addressed  himself  to 
the  Polemar'ch,  and  m'ged  him  to  vote  for  battle. 
Callimacluis  wjis  won  over  ;  and  it  was  decided  to 
fight.  The  ten  generals  waived  their  rights  of 
taking  cliief  command,  each  for  a  day  when  his 
turn  came,  and  agreed  to  act  under  the  orders  of 
Miltiades.  He,  liowever  waited  until  the  day 
came  when  the  command  would  have  devolved 
upon  him  in  regular  course.  .  .  . 

The  jjlain  of  Marathon,  which  is  about  twenty- 
two  miles  distant  from  Athens,  lies  along  the  bay 
of  the  same  name  on  the  northeastern  coast  of  At- 
tica. The  plain  is  nearly  in  the  form  of  a  cres- 
cent, and  about  six  miles  in  length.  It  is  about 
two  miles  broad  in  the  centre,  where  the  space  be- 
tween the  mountams  and  the  seals  greatest,  but 
it  narrows  toward  either  extremity,  the  mount- 
ains coming  close  down  to  the  water  at  the  horns 
of  the  bay.  There  is  a  valley  trending  inward 
from  the  n)iddle  of  the  plain,  and  a  ravine  comes 
down  to  it  on  the  southward.  Elsewhere  it  is 
closely  girt  round  on  the  laml  side  by  rugged 
limestone  mountains,  which  are  thickly  studded 
with  pines,  olive-trees,  and  cedars,  and  overgrown 
with  the  n\yi-tle.  arbutus,  and  the  other  low  odor- 
iferous shrubs  that  everywhere  perfume  the  Attic 
air.  The  level  of  the  ground  is  now  varied  by  the 
mound  raised  over  those  who  fell  in  the  battle; 
but  is  was  an  unbroken  plain  when  the  Peisiaus 
encamped  on  it.  There  are  marshes  at  each  end, 
which  niv  diw  iiithe  Springand  Summer,  and  then 
offer  no  obstruction  to  the  horseman  ;  but  are 
commonly  flooded  with  rain,  and  so  rendered  im- 
practicable for  cavalry,  in  the  Autumn— the  time 
of  year  at  wiiich  the  action  took  place.  The 
Greeks,  lying  encamped  on  the  mountains,  could 
watch  every  movement  of  the  Persians  on  the 
plain  below,  while  they  were  enabled  completely 
to  mask  their  own.  Miltiades  also  had,  from  his 
position,  the  power  of  giving  battle  when  he  ]ilcas- 
ed,  or  of  delaying  it  at  his  discretion,  unless  Datis, 
the  Persian  commander,  were  to  attempt  tliej>eril- 
oub  operation  of  storming  the  heights. 


Sir  EDWARD  S.  CREASY.  383 

On  the  afternoon  of  a  September  day  Miltiades 
gave  the  word  for  the  Athenian  army  to  prepare 
for  battle.  According  to  tiie  old  national  custom, 
the  warriors  of  each  tribe  were  arrayed  together; 
neighbor  thus  fighting  by  the  side  of  neighbor, 
friend  by  friend,  and  the  spirit  of  emulation  and 
the  consciousness  of  responsibility  exerted  to  the 
very  utmost.  The  Polemarch,  Callunachus,  had 
the  leading  of  the  right  wing;  tlie  Platieans 
formed  tlie  extreme  left :  and  Themistocles  and 
Aristides  commanded  the  centre.  The  line  con- 
sisted of  the  heavy-armed  spe;n-men  only  ;  for  the 
Greeks  (until  the  time  of  Iphicrates)  took  little  or 
no  account  of  light-armed  soldiers  in  a  pitched 
battle,  using  them  only  in  skirmishes,  or  for  the 
pursuit  of  a  defeated  enemy.  The  i)anoply  of  tlie 
regular  infantry  consisted  of  a  long  spear,  of  a 
shield,  helmet,  breastplate,  greaves,  and  short 
sword.  Thus  equipped,  they  usually  advanced 
slowly  and  steadily  into  action  in  a  uniform 
phalanx  of  about  eight  spears  deep.  But  the  mili- 
tary genius  of  Miltiades  led  him  to  deviate  on  this 
occasion  from  the  commonplace  tactics  of  his 
countrymen.  It  was  e.-sential  for  him  to  extend 
his  line  so  as  to  cover  all  the  i)ractical)le  ground, 
and  to  secure  himself  from  being  outflanked  and 
charged  in  the  rear  by  the  Persian  horse.  This 
extension  involved  the  weakening  of  his  line.  In- 
stead of  a  uniform  reduction  of  its  strength,  he 
determined  on  detaching  principally  froru  his 
centre,  which,  from  the  nature  of  the  ground, 
would  have  the  best  opportunities  for  rallying  if 
broken  ;  and  on  strengthening  his  wings,  so  as  to 
ensure  advantage  at  these  points  :  and  he  trusted 
to  his  own  skill  and  to  his  soldiers'  discipline  for 
the  improvement  of  that  advantage  into  decisive 
victory. 

In  this  order,  and  availing  himself  probably  of 
the  inequalities  of  the  ground,  so  as  to  conceal  his 
preparations  from  the  enemj'^  till  the  last  possible 
moment.  Miltiades  drew  up  the  eleven  thousand 
infantry  whose  spears  were  to  decide  this  ciisis  in 
the  struggle  between  the  European  and  Asiatic 
worldo.      The  sacriflcrs  bv  which  tiio   favor  of 


884  Sir  EDWARD  S.  CREASY. 

heaven  v.as  sought,  and  its  will  consulted,  were 
announced  to  show  propitious  omens.  The  trum- 
pet sounded  for  action,  and.  chanting  the  hymn  of 
battle,  the  little  army  bore  down  upon  the  liost  of 
the  foe.  Then,  too,  along  the  mountain  slopes  of 
Marathon  must  have  resounded  the  mutual  exhort- 
ation which  iEschylus.  who  fought  in  both  battles, 
tells  us  was  afterwards  heard  over  the  waves  of 
Salamis  :  ''On,  sons  of  the  Greeks!  Strike  for 
the  freedom  of  your  country  !  strike  for  the  free- 
dom of  your  cliildren  and  of  your  wives — for  the 
shrines  of  your  fathers'  gods,  and  for  the  sepulchres 
of  your  sires  !  All — all— are  now  staked  uj)on  the 
strife  ! " 

Instead  of  advancing  at  the  usual  slow  pace  of 
tiie  phalanx,  Mdtiades  brought  his  men  on  at  a 
run.  Tliey  were  all  trained  in  the  exercises  of  the 
palaestra,  so  that  there  was  no  fear  oi  their  ending 
the  charge  in  breathless  exhaustion  ;  and  it  was  of 
the  deepest  importance  for  him  to  traverse  as 
rapidly  as  possible  tlie  mile  or  so  of  level  ground 
that  lay  between  the  mountain-foot  and  the  Per- 
sian outposts,  and  so  to  get  his  troops  into  close 
action  before  the  yVsiatic  cavalry  could  mount, 
form,  and  manoeuvre  against  him.  or  their  archers 
keep  him  long  under  fire,  and  before  the  enemy's 
generals  could  fairly  deploy  their  masses. 

'■"Wlien  the  Persians,"  says  Herodotus,  '"saw 
the  Athenians  running  down  upon  them,  without 
horse  or  bowmen,  and  scant}-  in  numbers,  they 
thought  them  a  set  of  madmen  rushing  upon  cer- 
tain destruction."  They  began,  however,  to  pre- 
pare to,  receive  them,  and  the  Eastern  chiefs 
arrayed,  as  quickly  as  time  and  place  allowed,  the 
various  races  who  served  in  their  motley  ranks. 
Mountaineers  from  Hyrcania  and  Afghanistan, 
wild  horsemen  from  the  steppes  of  Khorassan, 
the  black  archers  of  Ethiopia,  swordsmen  from 
the  banks  of  the  Indus,  the  Oxus,  the  Euphrates, 
and  the  ITile.  made  ready  against  the  enemies  of 
the  Great  King.  But  no  national  cause  inspired 
them  excejit  the  division  of  native  Persians  ;  and 
in  the  large  host  there  was  no  uniformity  of  lan- 
guage,  creed,   race,   or   military    system.      S'*'!, 


( 


Sir  EDWARD  S.  CREASY.  385 

among  them  there  were  many  gallant  men.  under 
a  veteran  general.  They  were  familiar  with  vic- 
tory ;  and,  in  contemptuous  confidence,  their  in- 
fantry, which  alone  had  time  to  form,  awaited 
the  Athenian  charge.  On  came  the  Greeks,  with 
one  unwavering  line  of  leveled  spears,  against 
which  the  light  targets,  the  short  lances  and  scim- 
etars  of  the  Orientals  offered  a  weak  defence.  The 
front  rank  of  the  Asiatics  must  liave  gone  down 
to  a  man  at  the  first  shock.  Still  they  recoiled 
not,  but  strove  by  individual  gallantry  and  l)y  the 
weight  of  numbers  to  make  up  for  the  disadvan- 
tages of  weapons  and  tactics,  and  to  bear  back  the 
shallow  line  of  the  Europeans.  In  the  centre, 
v.diere  the  native  Persians  and  the  SacaJ  fought, 
they  succeeded  in  breaking  through  the  weaken- 
ed part  of  the  Athenian  phalanx  ;  and  the  tribes 
led  by  Aristides  and  Tliemistocles  were,  after  a 
brave  resistance,  driven  back  over  the  plain,  and 
chased  by  the  Persians  up  the  valley  toward  tlio 
inner  country.  There  the  nature  of  the  ground 
gave  the  opportunity  of  rallying  and  renewing  the 
struggle.  Meantime  the  Greek  wings,  where 
Miltiades  had  concentrated  his  chief  strength, 
had  routed  the  Asiatics  ojiposed  to  them,  and  the 
Athenian  and  Platiean  officers,  instead  of  pursu- 
ing the  fugitives,  kept  their  troops  well  in  hand, 
and,  wheeling  round,  th.ey  formed  the  two  wings 
together.  Miltiades  instantly  led  them  agamst 
the  Persian  centre,  -which  had  hitherto  been  tri- 
umphant, but  which  now  fell  back,  and  pre- 
pared to  encounter  these  new  and  unexpected  as- 
sailants. Aristides  and  Themistocles  renewed  the 
fight  with  their  reorganized  troops,  and  the  full 
force  of  the  Greeks  was  brought  into  close  action 
with  the  Persian  :md  Sacian  divisions  of  the  ene- 
my. Datis's  veterans  strove  hard  to  keep  their 
ground,  and  evening  was  approaching  before  the 
stern  encounter  was  decided. 

But  the  Persians,  with  their  light  wicker  shields, 
destitute  of  body-armor,  and  never  taught  by 
training  to  keep  the  even  front  and  act  with  the 
regular  movement  of  the  Greek  infantry,  fought 
at  heavv   .lisadvaiitaye.    with   Uieir  shorter  and 


386  Sir  EDWARD  S.  CREASY. 

feebler  weapons,  against  the  compact  array  of 
well-armed  Athenian  and  Platoean  spearmen,  all 
perfectly  drilled  to  iierform  each  necessary  evolu- 
tion in  concert,  and  to  preserve  a  uniform  and 
unwavering  line  in  battle.  In  personal  courage 
and  in  bodily  activity  the  Persians  were  not  in- 
ferior to  their  adversaries.  Their  spirits  were  not 
yet  cowed  by  the  recollection  of  former  defeats  ; 
and  they  lavished  their  lives  freely,  rather  than 
forfeit  the  fame  which  they  had  won  by  so  many 
victories.  While  their  rear  ranks  poured  an  in- 
cessant shower  of  arrows  over  the  heads  of  their 
comrades,  the  foremost  Persians  kept  rushing  for- 
ward, sometimes  singly,  somelimes  in  desperate 
groups  of  ten  or  twelve,  upon  the  projecting 
spears  of  the  Greeks,  striving  to  force  a  lane  into 
the  spears  of  the  phalanx,  and  to  bring  their 
scimetars  and  daggers  into  play.  But  the  Greeks 
felt  tlieir  superiority,  and  though  the  fatigue  of 
the  long-continued  action  told  heavily  on  their  in- 
ferior numbers,  the  sight  of  the  carnage  that  they 
dealt  upon  their  assailants  nerved  them  to  fight 
Btill  more  fiercely  on. 

At  last  the  previously  unvanquished  lords  of 
Asia  turned  their  backs  and  fled  ;  and  the  Gi'eeks 
followed,  striking  them  down  to  the  water's  edge, 
where  the  invaders  were  now  hastily  launching 
their  galleys,  and  seeking  to  embark  and  fly. 
Flushed  with  success,  the  Athenians  attacked  and 
strove  to  fire  the  fleet.  tJut  here  the  Asiatics  re- 
sisted desperately,  and  the  principal  loss  sustained 
by  the  Greeks  was  in  tlie  assault  on  the  ships. 
Here  fell  the  brave  Polemarch,  Calliniachus,  tiie 
general  Stesilaus.  and  other  Athenians  of  note. 
Seven  galleys  were  fired,  but  the  Persians  suc- 
eeded  in  saving  the  rest.  They  pushed  olf  from 
...e  fatal  shore  ;  but  even  here  the  skill  of  Datis 
did  not  desert  him.  and  ho  sailed  round  to  tlie 
western  coast  of  Attica,  in  hopes  to  find  Athens 
unprotected,  and  to  gain  possession  of  it  from 
some  of  the  partisans  of  Hippias.  Miltiades,  how- 
ever, saw  and  counteracted  his  manoeuvre.  Leav- 
ing Aristides  and  the  trooi)s  of  his  tribe  to  guard 
the  spoil  and  the  slain,  the  Atlicnian  commander 


Sir  EDWAED  S.  CREASY.  •  387 

led  his  conquering  army  by  a  rapid  night-march 
back  across  the  country  to  Athens.  And  when 
the  Persian  fleet  had  doubled  the  Cape  of  Sunium, 
and  sailed  up  to  the  Athenian  harbor  in  the  niorn- 
ing,  Datis  sa^\;  arrayed  on  the  heights  above  the 
citj'  the  troops  before  wliom  his  men  had  fled  on 
the  preceding  evening.  All  hope  of  farther  con- 
quest in  Europe  for  the  time  was  abandoned,  and 
the  baffled  armada  returned  to  the  Asiatic  coasts. 

The  number  of  the  Persian  dead  was  0,400  ;  of 
the  Athenians,  192.  The  number  of  the  Phitocans 
who  fell  is  not  mentioned  ;  but  as  they  fought  in 
the  part  of  the  army  Avhich  M-as  not  broken,  it 
cannot  liave  been  very  large.  The  apparent  dis- 
proportion between  the  losses  of  the  two  armies  is 
not  surprising  when  we  remember  the  armor  of 
the  Greek  spearmen,  and  the  impossibility  of 
heavy  slaughter  being  inflicted  by  sword  or  lance 
on  troops  so  armed,  as  long  as  they  kept  lirm  in 
then-  ranks. 

The  Athenians  slain  were  buried  on  the  field  of 
battle.  This  was  contrary  to  the  usual  custom, 
according  to  which  the  bones  of  all  who  fell  fight- 
ing for  their  country  in  each  year  were  deposited 
in  a  public  sepulchre  in  the  suburb  of  Athens 
called  the  Cerameicus.  But  it  was  felt  that  a  dis- 
tinction ought  to  be  made  in  the  funeral  honors 
paid  to  the  men  of  Marathon,  even  as  their  merit 
had  been  distinguished  over  that  of  all  other 
Athenians.  A  lofty  mound  was  raised  on  the 
plam  of  Marathon,  beneath  which  the  remains  of 
the  men  of  Athens  who  fell  in  the  battle  were  de- 
posited. Ten  columns  Avere  erected  on  the  spot — 
one  for  each  of  the  Athenian  tribes  ;  .  and  on  the 
monumental  column  of  each  tribe  were  graven  the 
names  of  those  of  its  members  whose  glory  it  was 
to  liave  fallen  in  the  great  battle  of  liberation. 
The  antiquarian  Pausanias  read  those  names  there 
six  hundred  years  after  the  time  when  they  were 
first  graven.  The  columns  have  long  perished, 
but  the  mound  still  marks  the  spot  where  the 
noblest  heroes  of  antiquity,  '"tlip  Fighters  at 
Mai-athon,"  repose. — Tlic  Fifteen  Decisive  Battles. 


388  •  Sir  EDWARD  S.  CREASY. 

CONSEQUENCES    OF     THE     AMERICAN     VICTORY    AT 
SARATOGA,  1777. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  transports 
of  joy  wliich  tlie  news  of  this  victory  excited 
among  Americans.  No  one  any  longer  felt  any 
doubt  about  their  achieving  their  independence. 
All  hoped,  and  with  good  reason,  that  a  success  of 
this  importance  would  at  length  determine  France, 
and  the  other  European  Powers  that  waited  for 
her  example,  to  declare  tliemselves  in  favor  of 
America.  "  There  could  no  longer  be  any  ques- 
tion respecting  the  future,  since  there  was  no 
longer  the  risk  of  espousing  the  cause  of  a  people 
too  feeble  to  defend  themselves."  Tlie  tnith  of 
this  was  soon  displayed  in  tlie  conduct  of  France. 
When  the  news  arrived  at  Paris  of  the  capture  of 
Ticonderoga  by  Burgoyne,  and  of  liis  victorious 
march  towards  Albany — events  Avhicli  seemed  de- 
cisive in  favor  of  the  English— instructions  had 
been  immediately  dispatched  to  Nantes  and  the 
other  ports  of  the  kingdom,  tliat  no  American 
privateers  should  be  suffered  to  enter  them,  ex- 
cept from  indispensable  necessity  :  as  to  repan* 
their  vessels,  to  obtain  provisions,  or  to  escape 
the  perils  of  the  sea.  Tlie  American  Commission- 
ers at  Paris,  in  their  disgust  and  despair,  had 
almost  broken  off  all  negotiations  with  the  Frencli 
Government,  and  they  even  attempted  to  open 
communications  witli  the  Britisli  Ministry.  But 
the  British  Government,  elated  with  the  first  suc- 
cesses of  Burgoyne,  refused  to  listen  to'  anj-  over- 
tures for  accommodation. 

But  when  the  news  of  Saratoga  reached  Paris, 
the  whole  scene  was  changed.  Franklin  and  liis 
brother  Commissioners  found  all  their  difficulties 
with  tlie  French  Government  vanish.  The  time 
seemed  to  have  arrived  for  the  House  of  Bourbon 
to  take  a  full  levenge  for  all  its  humiliations  and 
losses  in  previous  wars.  In  December  a  treaty 
was  arranged,  and  formally  signed  in  the  Febru- 
arj"  following,  by  which  France  acknowledged  tlie 
Independent  United  States  of  America.  This 
was,  of  course,    tantamount  to  a  declaration  of 


JOHN  WILSON  CROKEK.  ;-589 

war  with  Enj^land.  Spain  soon  followed  France  : 
and  before  long  Holland  took  the  same  course. 
Largely  aided  by  French  lieets  and  troops,  the 
Americans  vigorously  maintained  the  war  against 
the  armies  which  England,  in  spite  of  her  Euro- 
pean foes,  continued  to  send  across  the  Atlantic. 
But  the  struggle  was  too  unequal  to  be  maintained 
by  Great  Britain  for  many  years  ;  and  Avhen  the 
treaties  of  1788  restored  peace  to  tlie  world,  the 
independence  of  the  United  States  was  reluctantly 
recognized  by  their  ancient  parent,  and  recent 
enemy— England. — The  Fifteen  Decisive  Battles. 

CROKER,  John  Wilson,  a  British  author, 
horn  in  Ireland,  in  1780,  died  at  St.  Alhan's 
Bank,  England,  in  1857,  He  was  educated 
at  Dublin  College,  where  he  graduated  in 
1800,  and  was  called  to  the  Irish  bar  in  1802. 
In  1807  he  entered  Parliament  as  a  member 
lor  Downpatrick.  Two  years  afterwards  he 
made  an  ingenious  defence  of  the  Duke  of 
York,  son  of  George  III. ,  who  was  charged 
with  gross  abuses  iti  his  position  as  com- 
mander-in-chief of  the  ai-my;  and  for  this 
service  to  the  Government  he  was  rewarded 
by  being  made  Secretary  to  the  Admiralty, 
a  position  Avhich  he  held  until  1830,  when  he 
retired  upon  a  pension  of  £1500.  He  repre- 
sented various  Irish  constituences  in  Parlia- 
ment, the  last  being  that  of  the  University  of 
Dublin.  He  declared  that  he  would  never 
sit  in  a  Reformed  Parliament ;  and  when  the 
Reform  Bill  of  1830  was  passed,  he  threw  up 
his  seat.  Previous  to  entering  Parliament,  he 
published  a  number  of  clever  satires  in  prose 
and  verse.  In  1807  he  put  forth  a  pamphlet  on 
The  State  of  Ireland,  in  which  he  advocated 
Catholic  emancipation.  In  this  pamphlet  he 
pronounced  a  warm  eulogy  upon  Swift : 

EULOGY  UPON  SWIFT. 

On  this  gloom  one  lutninary  rose,  and  Ireland 


390  JOHN   \V1[.S()N  CROKER. 

worsliii^ped  it  with  Persian  iclolatrj'  ;  her  true  pa- 
triot— her  first — almost  her  last.  Sagacious  and 
intrepid,  he  saw — he  dared  ;  above  suspicion,  he 
was  trusted  :  above  envy,  ho  was  beloved  ;  above 
rivahy,  he  was  obeyed.  His  ^\  isdoni  was  practi- 
cal and  jiroplietic — remedial  for  the  present, 
warniuK  for  the  future,  lie  first  taught  Ireland 
that  she  might  become  a  nation,  and  England 
that  she  must  cease  to  be  a  despot.  But  he  was  a 
Churchman  ;  his  gown  impedeil  liis  course,  and 
entangled  his  elTorts.  Guiding  a  senate,  or  liead- 
ing  an  army,  he  had  been  more  than  Cromwell, 
and  Ireland  not  less  than  England.  As  it  was,  he 
saved  lier  by  his  courage,  improved  her  by  his  au- 
thority, adorned  lier  bj'  his  talents,  and  exalted 
lier  by  his  fame.  His  mission  wa-s  but  of  ten  years, 
and  for  ten  years  only  did  his  personal  power  mit- 
igate the  government  ;  but  though  no  longer 
feared  by  the  great,  he  was  not  forgotten  by  the 
wise  ;  his  influence,  like  his  writings,  lias  sur- 
vived a  century  ;  and  tlie  foundations  of  whatever 
prosperity  Ave  have  since  erected  are  laid  in  the 
disinterested  and  magnanimous  patriotisiii  of 
Swift. 

Croker  wrote  a  series  of  Stories  from  the 
History  of  England  which  Avere  very  popu- 
lar, and  which  suggested  to  Scott  the  Tales 
of  a  Grandfather,  deahng  in  a  similar  man- 
ner with  the  history  of  Scotland.  Tlie  Quar- 
terly Hevieir  wns  started  in  1809,  by  Gifford, 
Scott,  Crokcr,  Southey,  and  others.  Croker 
Avas  for  many  years  one  of  its  principal  con- 
tiibutors,  Avriting  mainly  upon  political  and 
historical  subjects :  but  not  unf  requently  upon 
purely  literary  topics.  One  of  his  most  noted 
critiques  is  that  upon  Keats's  Endymion 
(sometimes,  however,  attributed  to  Gifford, 
the  Editor  of  the  Review),  published  in  April, 
1818,  whicli  is  foolishly  averred  to  have  caus- 
ed the  death  of  Keats,  nearly  three  years 
later.  The  poet  and  his  work  are  thus  con- 
temptuoush"  treated : 


JOHN  AVIJ.SON  CHDKKIt.  oil! 

KEATS"S  ENDYMION. 

With  the  fullest  stretch  of  our  pei-severance,  we 
are  forced  to  confess  that  we  have  not  been  able 
to  struggle  beyond  the  first  of  the  four  books  of 
which  this  Pottic  Romance  consists.  AVe  should 
extremely  lament  this  Avant  of  energy— or  what- 
ever it  may  be — on  our  part,  were  it  not  for  one 
consolation — namely,  that  we  are  no  better  ac- 
quainted %\  itli  the  meaning  of  the  book  through 
which  we  have  so  painfully  toiled  than  we  are 
with  that  of  the  three  which  we  have  not  looked 
into.  It  is  not  that  Mr.  Keats  (if  that  is  his  real 
name — for  we  almost  douV)t  whether  any  man  in 
his  senses  would  put  his  real  name  to  such  a  rhap- 
sody)—it  is  not,  we  say,  that  the  author  has  not 
powers  of  language,  rays  of  fancy,  and  gleams  of 
genius  :  he  has  all  of  these,  but  he  is  unhappily  a 
disciple  of  what  has  been  somewhere  called  Cock- 
ney ]K")etry,  which  may  be  defined  to  consist  of 
the  most  incongruous  ideas  in  the  most  uncouth 
language.  .  .  .  This  author  is  a  copyist  of  Mr. 
Hunt  ;  but  he  is  more  unintelligible,  almost  as 
rugged,  twice  as  diffuse,  and  ten  times  more  tire- 
some and  absurd  than  his  prototype. 

Croker  wrote  several  small  works  in  prose 
and  verse;  edited  Tixe  Suffolk  Papers,  Her- 
vey's  Me^noirs  of  the  Court  of  George  III., 
and  WaJpoJe's  Letters  to  Lord  Hertford.  His 
most  noted  Avork  is  an  annotated  edition  of 
Boswell's  jLi/e  (>/  Johnson  (1S31);  Avhich  was 
savagely  reviewed  by  Macaiilay.  Eighteen 
years  later  Macaulay  put  forth  the  first  in- 
stallment of  his  History  of  England.  Croker 
seized  the  opportunity  of  returning,  through 
the  Quarterly  Revieio,  the  blows  which  Mac- 
aulay had  given  him  in  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
view.    He  writes: 

MACAULAY  AS  A  HISTORIAN. 
It  may  seem  too  epigrammatic — but  it  is.  in  our 
judgment,  strictly  true— to  say  that  his  History 
seems  to  be  a  kind  of  combination  and  exaggera- 


:59'2  JOHN  WILSON  L'ROKER. 

tion  oi  the  peculiarities  of  all  his  former  efforts. 
It  is  as  full  of  political  prejudice  and  partisan 
advocacy  as  any  of  his  parliamentary  speeches. 
It  makes  the  facts  of  English  History  as  fabulous 
as  his  Lays  do  that  of  Roman  tradition  ;  and  it  is 
written  with  as  captious,  as  dogmatical,  and  as 
cynical  a  spirit  as  tlie  bitterest  of  his  I'cviews.  .  . 
His  liistorical  narration  is  poisoned  with  a  rancor 
more  violent  tlian  even  the  passions  of  the  time. 
Tli'.n-e  is  hardly  a  page  that  does  not  contain 
something  objectionable  either  in  substance  or  in 
color  ;  and  the  whole  of  the  brilliant,  and  at  first 
captivating  narrative,  is  perceived,  on  examina- 
tion, to  be  impregnated  to  a  marvelous  degree 
witii  bad  taste,  bad  feeling,  and — we  are  under 
the  painful  necessity  of  adding — bad  faith.  His 
jjages.  whatever  ma}'  be  their  other  characterist- 
ics, are  as  copious  a  repertorium  of  vituperative 
eloquence  as,  we  believe,  our  language  can  pro- 
duce ;  and  especially  against  everything  in  which 
he  chooses  (whether  right  or  wrong),  to  recognize 
the  shibboleth  of  Toryism.  .  .  . 

But,  v%e  are  sorry  to  say,  we  have  a  heavier 
complaint  agtdnst  Mr.  Macaulay.  "We  accuse  him 
of  a  habitual  and  really  injurious  perversion  of 
his  authorities.  This  unfortunate  indulgence — in 
whatever  juvenile  levity  it  may  have  originated — 
and  through  whatever  steps  it  may  have  grown 
into  an  unconscious  habit— seems  to  pervade  his 
whole  work,  from  Alpha  to  Omega,  from  Proco- 
pius  to  Mackintosh.  One  strong  mark  of  his  histo- 
rical impartiality  is  to  call  anything  bigoted,  in- 
tolerant, shameless,  cruel,  by  the  comprehensive 
title  of  Tory.  .  .  .  We  ai'e  ready  to  admit,  a 
hundred  times  over,  Mr.  Macaulay's  literary  pow- 
ers— brilliant  even  under  the  affectation  with 
which  he  too  frequentlj'  disguises  them.  He  is  a 
gi-eat  painter,  but  a  suspicious  narrator ;  a  grand 
proficient  in  the  picturesque,  but  a  very  poor  pro- 
fessor of  the  historic.  These  volumes  have  been 
— and  his  future  volumes  as  they  appear  will  be — 
devoured  Avith  the  same  eagerness  that  Oliver 
Ticist  or  Vanity  Fair  excite  ;  with  the  same  qual- 
ity of  zest,  though  perhaps  with  a  higher  degi'ee 


I 


THOMAS  CROFTON  CROKER.  :193 

of  it.  But  his  pagos  will  seldom,  we  think,  re- 
ceive a  second  perusal ;  and  the  work,  we  appre- 
hend, will  hardly  find  a  permanent  place  on  the 
historical  shelf  ;  nor  ever,  assuredly — if  continued 
in  the  spirit  of  the  first  two  volumes — be  quoted 
as  authority  ofi  any  question  or  point  of  the  his- 
tory of  England. 

CROKER,  Thomas  Croftox,  an  Irish  le- 
gendist  cand  humorist,  born  in  1798,  died  in 
1854.  He  was  apprenticed  to  a  trader  in 
Cork,  but  at  the  age  of  twenty-one  he  was, 
through  the  interest  of  John  Wilson  Croker, 
appointed  to  a  clerkship  in  the  Admiralty,  at 
London.  He  put  forth  from  time  to  time 
various  works  upon  the  legends,  lore,  and 
antiquities  of  Ireland.  The  principal  of  these 
are:  Researchefi  in  the  South  of  Ireland 
(1825) ;  Fairy  Legends  and  Traditions  of 
Ireland  (1825-1827) ;  Legends  of  the  Lakes  of 
Killarney  (1828);  Popular  Songs  of  Ireland 
(1839);  Historical  Songs  of  Ireland  (ISil).  He 
was  a  member  of  the  Camden,  Percy,  Hak- 
luj't,  and  other  archaeological  Societies,  for 
which  he  edited  various  old  manuscripts. 
His  only  strictly  original  works  were  the 
humorous  novels  Barney  Mahony  and  My 
Village  versus  Our  Village  (1832). 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  IRISH  SERPENTS. 
"Sure,''  said  Barney,  "  everybody  has  heard  tell 
of  the  blessed  St.  Patrick,  and  how  he  druve  the 
sarpints  and  all  manner  of  venomous  things  out  of 
Ireland;  how  he  'bothered  all  the  varmint'  en- 
tirely. But  for  all  that,  there  was  one  oukl  sar- 
pint  left  Avho  was  too  cunning  to  be  talked  out  of 
the  country,  or  made  to  drown  himself.  St.  Pa- 
trick didn't  Avell  know  how  to  manage  this  fellow, 
who  was  doing  great  havoc  ;  till  at  long  last  he 
bethought  himself  and  got  a  strong  iron  chest 
made  with  nine  boults  upon  it.  So  one  fine  morn- 
ing he  takes  a  walk  to  where  the  sarpint  used  to 
keep  ;  and  the  sarpint,  who  didn't  like  the  saint 


:^d4  THOMAS  CROlTUN  CliOKER. 

in  the  least,  and  small  blame  to  liim  for  that, 
began  to  hiss  and  shew  his  teeth  at  him  like  any- 
thing. 'Oh,'  says  St.  Patrick,  says  he,  '  where's 
the  use  of  making  such  a  piece  of  work  about  a 
gentleman  life  myself  coming  to  see  you?  'Tis  a 
nice  house  I  liave  got  made  for  you  agin  the 
winter  :  for  I  'm  going  to  civilize  tlie  whole  coun- 
try, man  and  Ix-ast,'  says  he,  'and  you  can  come 
and  look  at  it  wlienever  you  please,  and  'tis  myself 
will  lie  glad  to  see  you.'  The  sarpint,  hearing 
such  smooth  words,  tliought  that  though  St.  Pa- 
trick had  druve  all  the  rest  of  the  sarpints  into  the 
sea,  he  meant  no  harm  to  himself  ;  so  tlie  sarpint 
walks  fair  and  easy  up  to  see  him  and  the  house 
lie  was  speaking  al>out.  But  when  the  saqnnt 
saw  the  nine  lioults  upon  the  chest  he  thought  he 
was  sould  [betrayed],  and  wivsfor  making  olf  with 
himself  as  fast  as  ever  he  could.  '  "Tis  a  nice  warm 
house,  you  see,'  says  St.  Patrick,  'and  'tis  a  good 
friend  I  am  to  you.'  'I  thank  you  kindly,  St. 
Patrick,  for  your  civility,'  says  the  sarpint ;  '  but 
I  think  it 's  too  snuiU  it  is  for  me'— meaning  it  for 
nn  excuse,  and  away  he  was  going.  '  Too  small ! ' 
says  St.  Patrick:  'stop,  if  you  please.'  says  he; 
'  you  're  out  in  that,  my  bo}-,  anyhow — I  am  sure 
'twill  fit  you  completely  ;  and  I'll  tell  you  what,' 
Bays  he,  '  I  "11  bet  you  a  gallon  of  porter,'  says  he, 
*  that  if  you  '11  only  try  and  get  in  they  '11  be  plenty 
of  nxjm  for  you.'  The  sarpint  was  as  thirstj'  as 
could  be  with  his  walk  ;  and  'twas  great  joy  to 
him  the  thoughts  of  doing  St.  Patrick  out  of  the 
gallon  of  porter  ;  so,  swelling  himself  up  as  big  as 
he  could,  in  he  got  to  the  chest,  all  but  a  little  bit 
of  his  tail.  '  Tliere,  now.'  .says  he  :  'I  've  won  the 
gallon,  for  you  see  the  house  is  too  small  for  me, 
for  I  can't  get  in  my  tail.'  When  what  does  St. 
Patrick  do,  but  he  comes  behind  the  great  heavy 
lid  of  the  chest,  and,  putting  his  two  hands  to  it, 
down  he  slaps  it  with  a  bang  like  thunder.  When 
the  rogue  of  a  sarpint  saw  tlie  lid  coming  down, 
in  went  his  tail  like  a  shot,  for  fear  of  being 
whipped  oft  him,  and  St.  Patrick  began  at  once  to 
boult  the  nine  iron  boults.  '  Oh,  murder  !  won't 
you  let  me  out,  St.   Patrick?'  says  the  sarpint; 


GEORGE  CROLY.  395 

'IVe  lost  the  bet  fairly,  nnd  I'll  pay  you  the 
gallon  like  a  man.'  *  Let  you  out,  my  darling?' 
says  St.  Patrick  :  '  to  be  sure  I  will,  by  all  manner 
of  means  :  but  you  see  I  haven't  time  now,  so  you 
must  wait  tilL  to-morrow.'  And  so  he  took  the 
iron  chest,  with  the  sarpint  in  it,  and  pitches  it 
into  the  lake  here,  where  it  is  to  tliis  hour  for  cer- 
tain ;  and  'tis  the  sarpint  struggling  down  at  the 
bottom  that  makes  the  waves  upon  it.  Many  is 
the  living  man  (continued  Picket)  besides  myself 
has  heard  the  sarpint.  crying  out  from  within  the 
chest  under  the  water  :  '  Is  it  to-morrow  yet? — is 
it  to-morrow  j'et?'  which,  to  be  Kure,  it  never  can 
be.  And  that 's  the  way  St,  Patrick  settled  the 
last  of  ihe  sarpints,  sir," 

CROLY,  George,  a  British  clergyman  and 
author,  born  in  'Dublin  in  17S0,  diod  in  Lon- 
don in  18G0.  He  was  educated  at  Trinity 
College,  Dublin;  went  to  London,  where  he 
became  noted  as  an  eloquent  preacher,  and 
about  1833  was  presented  by  Brougham,  then 
Lord  Chancellor,  to  the  valuable  rectorship 
of  St.  Stephens,  Walbrook,  London.  Croly's 
literary  activity  was  very  great  for  many 
years,  up  nearly  to  the  close  of  his  active  life. 
Besides  Sermons  and  other  writings  of  a  strict- 
ly professional  character,  he  wrote  lumierous 
brilliant  Poems;  pride  shall  have  a  Fall,  a 
comedy  which  was  successfully  produced  in 
1824;  Catiline,  a  tragedy  (1S2.5) ;  Personal 
History  of  George  IV.  (1830) ;  Political  Life 
of  Burke  (1840);  Historical  Sketches  (1842). 
He  also  edited  the  works  of  Pope,  and  of 
Jeremy  Taylor.  He  wrote  three  novels:  Sa- 
lathiel  {iS27);  1  ales  of  the  Great  St.  Bernard, 
and  Marston,  or  the  Soldier  and  Statesman 
(1846).  The  last  of  these  is  a  story  of  very 
considerable  power;  but  Salathiel— the  hero 
and  narrator  of  which  is  no  other  than  the 
"Wandering  Jew" — is  a  master-piece  of  its 


3&a  GEORGE  CKOLY. 

class.     No  other  novelist  who  has  made  this 
legend  his  theme,  has  at  ali  equaled  Croly. 

••  TARKV  THOU.   TILL  I   COME." 

"Tarry  thou,  till  I  come!" — The  words  shot 
througli  me  ;  I  felt  them  like  an  arrow  in  my 
heart :  my  brain  whirled,  my  eyes  grew  dim  ;  the 
troops,  tlie  priests,  tiio  ])opulace,  the  world,  pass- 
ed away  from  before  my  senses  like  a  dreani. 
But  my  mind  had  a  horrible  clearness.  As  if  tiie 
veil  that  separates  the  visible  and  invisible  worlds 
had  been  rent  m  sunder.  I  saw  shai)es  and  signs 
for  which  mortal  language  has  no  name.  The 
wliole  expanse  of  the  future  sjiread  under  my 
mental  gaze  in  dreadful  vision.  A  preternatural 
light,  a  new  power  of  mind,  seemed  to  have  been 
poured  into  my  being.  I  saw  at  once  the  full 
f^nlt  of  )uy  crime — the  fierce  folly — the  mad  in- 
gratitude— the  desperate  profanation.  I  lived 
over  again  in  frightful  distinctness  every  act  and 
instant  of  tlie  nigiit  of  my  unspeakable  sacrilege. 
I  saw,  as  if  written  with  a  sunbeam,  the  countless 
injuries,  that  in  the  rage  of  bigotry  I  had  accumu- 
lated upon  the  victim  ;  the  bitter  mockeries  that 
I  had  devised  :  the  cruel  tauntings  that  my  lips 
had  tatight  the  rabble  ;  the  pitiless  malignity  that 
had  forl)idden  them  to  discover  a  trace  of  virtue 
when;  all  virtue  was.  The  blows  of  the  scourge 
still  sounded  in  my  ears.  Evurj*  drop  of  innocent 
blood  rose  iip  in  judgment  before  me. 

Accursed  be  the  inght  in  which  I  fell  before  the 
tempter  I  Blotted  out  from  Time  and  Eternity  be 
the  hour  in  which  I  took  part  with  the  tortui'ers  ! 
Every  fibre  of  my  frame  quivers,  every  drop  of 
my  blood  curdles,  as  I  hear  the  echo  of  the  anath- 
ema that  on  the  night  of  woe  sprang  first  from 
my  furious  lips,  the  self-pronounced  ruin,  the 
words  of  desolation  :  "  His  blood  be  upon  ns,  atid 
xipon  our  children  !  " 

I  had  headed  the  multitude.  Where  othei-s 
shrank,  I  urged  ;  where  others  pitied,  I  reviled  and 
inflamed.  I  scoffed  at  the  feeble  malice  of  tiie 
priesthood  ;  I  scoffed  at  the  rardy  cruelty  of  the 
lioman  :    I  swept  away  by  menace  and  by  scorn 


GEORGE  CROLY.  897 

the  human  reluctance  of  the  few  who  dreaded  to 
dip  their  hands  in  blood.  Thinking  to  do  God 
service,  and  substitntinjjj  my  passions  for  my  God, 
I  threw  firebrands  on  the  hearts  of  a  rash,  jealous, 
and  bigoted  jteople.     I  triumphed  ! 

In  a  deed  which  ought  to  have  covered  earth 
with  lamentation,  which  was  to  make  angels 
weep,  which  might  have  shaken  the  universe  into 
dust,  I  triumphed  !  The  decree  ^<■as  passed  ;  but 
my  frenzy  was  not  so  to  be  satiated.  I  loathed  the 
light  while  the  victim  lived.  Under  the  penalty 
of  treason  to  Caesar,  I  demanded  instant  execution 
of  the  sentence. — *•  Not  a  day  of  life  must  be  giv- 
en," I  exclained  :  "  not  an  liour  : — death,  on  the 
instant ;  death  !  ''  My  clamor  was  echoed  by  the 
roar  of  millions.  But  iu  the  moment  of  my  exul- 
tation, I  was  stricken.  In  the  ac»-lamation  of  the 
multitude  came  forth  the  command.  He  wiio  had 
refused  an  hour  of  hfe  to  the  victim,  was  iu  terri- 
ble retribution  condemned  to  know  the  misery  of 
life  interminable.  I  heard  through  all  the  voices 
of  Jerusalem — I  should  have  heard  through  all  the 
thunders  of  heaven — the  calm  low  voice,  "  Tany 
thou,  till  I  couie  I "' 

I  felt  ray  fate  at  once.  I  sprang  away  through  the 
shouting  liosts  as  if  the  avenging  angel  waved  his 
sword  above  my  head.  AVild  songs,  furious  exe- 
crations, the  rude  uproar  of  myriads  stirred  to  the 
heights  of  popular  passion,  filled  the  air.  Still 
through  all  I  heard  the  pursuing  sentence.  "  Tar- 
ry thou,  till  I  come,"  and  felt  it  to  be  the  sentence 
of  incurable  agony !  I  was  never  to  know  the 
shelter  of  the  grave  ! 

Immortality  on  eartli  1 — The  perpetual  compul- 
sion of  existence  in  a  world  made  for  change  ;  to 
feel  the  weariness  of  thousands  of  years  bowing 
down  my  wretched  head  :  alienated  from  all  the 
hopes,  enjoyments,  and  pursuits  of  man,  to  bear 
the  heaviness  of  that  existence,  which  palls  even 
M-ith  all  the  stimulants  of  the  most  vivid  career 
of  man  ;  life  passionless,  exhausted,  melancholy, 
old  :  I  would  rather  have  been  blown  about  on 
the  storms  of  the  universe.  I  was  to  be  a  wild 
beast  compelled  to  pace  the  same  eternal  cage  !   a 


398  GEORGE  CROLY. 

criminal    bound    to    the  floor  of    his    dungeon 
forever  I 

Immortality  on  e<arth  !— I  was  now  in  the  vigor 
of  life  ;  but  must  it  be  always  so?  Must  not  pain, 
feebleness,  the  loss  of  mind,  the  sad  decay  of  all 
the  resources  of  the  human  being,  be  tlie  natural 
result  of  time?  flight  I  not  be  cast  into  the  per- 
petual sick-bed,  hopeless  decrepitude,  pain  with- 
out cure  or  relartation.  the  extremities  of  famine, 
of  disease,  of  madness  V— Yet  thiii  was  to  be  borae 
for  ages  of  ages  ! 

Immortality  on  earth  !— Separation  from  all 
that  cheers  and  ennobles  life  !  I  was  to  survive 
my  country  ;  to  see  the  soil  dear  to  my  licart  vio- 
lated by  tlie  feet  ()f  barbarians  yet  unborn ;  her 
sacred  monuments,  her  tropliies,  her  tombs,  ascoflf 
and  a  spoil.  ^Vithout  a  resting-spot  to  tlie  sole  of 
my  feet,  I  was  to  witness  the  slave,  the  man  of 
blood,  the  savage  of  the  desert,  the  furious  infidel, 
riotin;'in  my  iuheriUince,  digging  up  the  bones 
of  my  fathers,  trampling  on  tlie  holy  ruins  of 
Jerusalem  !  I  was  to  feel  the  still  keener  misery 
of  surviving  all  tiiat  I  love<l.  Wife,  cliild.  friend- 
even  to  the  last  l)eing  witli  wiiom  my  heart  could 
imagine  a  human  bond,  all  that  bore  a  drop  of  my 
blood  hi  tlieir  veins— were  to  perisli  in  my  sight ; 
and  1  was  to  stand  on  tlie  verge  of  the  perpetual 
grave,  without  the  po.ver  to  seek  its  refuge.  If 
new  atfectiuiis  could  ever  wind  tlieir  way  into  my 
closed-up  and  frozen  bosom,  it  must  be  only  to  fill 
it  with  new  sorrows  :  for  those  I  loved  must  still 
be  torn  from  me.  In  the  world  I  must  remain, 
and  remain  alone  I 

Immortality  on  eartli  I— The  grave  that  closes 
on  the  sinner  closes  on  his  sin.  His  weight  of  of- 
fense is  fixed  ;  no  new  guilt  can  gather  on  him 
there.  But  I  was  to  know  no  limit  to  the  weight 
that  was  already  crushing  me.  The  guilt  of  life 
upon  life,  the  surges  of  an  unfathomable  ocean  of 
crime,  were  to  roll  in  eternal  progress  over  my 
head.  If  the  judgment  of  tlie  Great  Day  was  ter- 
rible to  him  who  had  passed  but  through  the  com- 
mon measure  of  existence,  what  must  be  its  ter- 
rors to  the  wretch  who  was  to  appear  loaded  with 


tiEOUGE  CROLY.  899 

the  accumulated  guilt  of  a  thousand  lives  I — Sala- 
thicl,  Cliap.  I. 

THE  COMBAT  IN  THE  ARENA. 
The  Emperor's  arrival  commenced  the  grand 
display.  He  took  his  place  under  the  curtains  of 
the  royal  pavilion.  Tlie  dead  were  removed,  j^er- 
fumes  were  scattered  through  the  air ;  rose-water 
was  sprinkled  from  silver  tuhes  upon  the  exhaust- 
ed multitude  ;  music  resounded  ;  incense  burned  ; 
and,  in  the  midst  of  these  preparations  of  luxury, 
the  terrors  of  the  lion-combat  began. 

A  portal  of  the  arena  opened,  and  the  combat- 
ant, with  a  mantle  thrown  over  his  face  and  fig- 
ure, was  led  in,  surrounded  by  soldiery.  The  lion 
roared,  and  ramped  against  tlie  bars  of  its  don  at 
the  sight.  The  guard  put  a  sword  anil  buckler 
into  the  hands  of  the  Cln-istian,  and  he  was  left 
alone.  He  drew  the  mantle  from  his  face,  and 
bent  a  slow  and  firm  look  round  the  amphitheatre. 
His  line  countenance  and  lofty  bearing  raised  an 
universal  scund  of  admiration.  He  might  have 
stood  for  an  Apollo  encountering  the  Python. 
His  eye  at  last  turned  on  mine.  Could  I  Ixdieve 
my  senses  ?    Constantius  was  before  me  1 

All  my  rancor  vanished.  An  hour  past;  1  could 
have  struck  the  betrayer  to  the  heart.  I  could 
have  called  on  the  severest  vengeance  of  man  and 
heaven  to  smite  the  destroyer  of  my  child.  But 
to  see  him  hopelessly  doomed  :  the  man  whom  I 
had  honored  for  his  noble  qualities— whom  I  had 
even  loved — whose  crime  was  at  worst  but  the 
crime  of  giving  way  to  the  strongest  temptation 
that  can  bewilder  the  heart  of  man  ;  to  see  this 
noble  creature  flnng  to  the  savage  beast,  dying  in 
tortures,  torn  piecemeal  before  ni}'  eyes — and  this 
misery  wrought  by  uie  ! — I  would  have  obtested 
earth  and  heaven  to  save  him.  But  my  tongue 
cleaved  to  tlie  roof  of  my  mouth  ;  my  limbs  re- 
fused to  stir.  I  would  have  thrown  myself  at  the 
feet  of  Nero  :  but  I  sat  like  a  man  of  stone,  pale, 
paralyzed  ;  the  beating  of  my  pulses  stopped — my 
eyes  alone  alive. 

The  gate  of  the  den  was  tlirown  back,  and  the 


400  GEORGE  CROLY. 

lion  ruslied  in  with  a  ro.ar,  anfl  a  bound  that  bore 
him  lialf  across  the  arena.  I  saw  the  sword  glit- 
ter in  the  air ;  when  it  waved  again,  it  was 
covered  witli  blood.  A  howl  told  that  the  blow 
had  been  driven  home.  The  lion,  one  of  the  larg- 
est from  Numidia,  and  made  furious  by  thirst  and 
hunger— an  animal  of  prodigious  jKuver — couched 
for  an  instant  as  if  to  make  sure  of  his  prey,  crept 
a  few  paces  onward,  and  sprang  at  the  victim's 
tiiroat.  He  was  met  by  a  second  wound  ;  but  his 
impulse  was  iiresistible,  and  Constantius  was 
thing  u]>on  tlie  ground.  Aery  of  natural  horror 
rang  round  tlie  ani])hitheatre.  Tlie  struggle  was 
now  for  instant  life  or  death.  They  rolled  over 
each  other  ;  the  lion  reared  on  its  hind  feet,  and 
witli gnashing teetii,  and,  distejuled  talons,  plunged 
on  tlie  man  ;  again  they  rose  together.  Anxiety 
was  now  at  its  wildest  height.  The  sword  swung 
round  the  chauipion's  heail  in  bloody  circles.  They 
fell  again,  covered  with  gore  and  dust.  The  hand 
of  Constantius  hail  gras]>ed  the  lion's  mane,  and  the 
furious  bounds  of  the  monster  could  not  loose  the 
hold  ;  but  his  strength  was  evidently  giving  way. 
He  still  struck  terrible  blows,  but  each  was  weaker 
than  the  one  before  ;  till,  collecting  his  whole 
force  for  a  last  effort,  he  darted  one  mighty  blow 
into  the  lion's  throat,  and  sank.  The  savage 
yelled,  and  spouting  out  blood,  fled  howling  round 
the  arena.  But  the  hand  still  grasped  the  mane — 
and  liis  conqueror  was  dragged  whirling  through 
the  dust  at  his  heels.  A  universal  outcry  now 
arose  to  save  him,  if  he  were  not  already  dead. 
But  the  lion,  though  bleeding  from  every  vein, 
was  still  too  teiTible,  and  all  shrank  from  the 
hazard.  At  length  the  grasp  gave  way,  and  the 
body  lay  motionless  upon  the  ground. 

What  happened  for  some  moments  after,  I  know- 
not.  There  was  a  struggle  at  the  portal ;  a  female 
forced  her  way  through  the  guards,  rushed  in 
alone,  and  flung  her.self  upon  the  victim.  The 
sight  of  a  new  prey  roused  the  lion;  he  tore  the 
gi'ound  with  his  talons  ;  he  lashed  his  streaming 
sides  with  his  tail ;  he  lifted  up  his  mane,  and 
bared  his  fangs.     But  his  approach  was  no  longer 


' 


GEORGE  CROLY.  401 

with  a  bound  ;  he  dreaded  tlie  sword,  and  came 
snulling  the  blood  on  the  sand,  and  stealing  round 
the  body  in  circles  still  diminishing. 

The  confusion  in  tlie  vast  assemblage  was  now 
extreme.  Voices  innumerable  called  for  aid. 
Women  screamed  and  fainted  ;  men  burst  out 
into  indignant  clamors  at  this  prolonged  cruelty. 
Even  the  hard  liearts  of  the  populace,  accustomed 
as  they  were  to  the  sacrifice  of  life,  were  roused 
to  honest  curses.  The  guards  grasped  their  arms, 
and  waited  but  for  a  sign  from  the  Emperor. 
But  Nero  gave  no  sign. 

I  looked  upon  the  woman's  face.  It  was  that 
of  Salome  I  I  sprang  upon  my  feet  ;  I  called  on 
her  name  ;  I  implored  her  by  every  feeling  of  na- 
ture to  lly  from  that  place  of  death  ;  to  come  to 
my  arms  :  to  think  of  tlie  agonies  of  all  that  loved 
her.  She  had  raised  the  head  of  Constantius  on 
her  knee,  and  was  wiping  the  pale  visage  wiili  her 
hair.  At  the  sound  of  my  voice  slie  looked  up, 
and  calmly  casting  back  the  locks  from  her  fore- 
head, lixed  her  gaze  upon  me.  She  still  knelt ; 
one  hand  supported  the  head,  with  the  other  she 
pointed  to  it,  as  her  only  answer.  I  again  adjured 
her.  There  was  the  silence  of  death  among  the 
thousands  around  me.  A  fire  flashed  into  her 
eye  ;  her  cheek  burned.  She  waived  her  hand 
with  an  air  of  superb  sorrow, 

"  I  am  come  to  die,"  she  uttered  in  a  lofty  tone. 
"This  bleeding  bo<ly  was  my  husband.  I  have  no 
father.  The  world  contains  to  me  but  this  clay  in 
my  arms.  Yet,"  and  she  kissed  the  ashy  lips  be- 
ioie  her,  "  yet,  my  Constantius,  it  was  to  save  that 
father,  that  your  generous  heart  defied  the  peril 
of  this  hour.  It  was  to  redeem  him  from  tlie 
hand  of  evil,  that  you  abandoned  our  c^uiet  home  ! 
Yes,  cruel  father,  here  lies  the  noble  being  that 
threw  open  your  dungeon  ;  that  led  you  safe 
through  conflagration  ;  that  to  the  last  moment  of 
his  liberty  only  thought  how  he  might  preserve 
and  protect  you."  Tears  at  length  fell  in  floods 
from  her  eyes.  "But,"  said  she,  in  a  tone  of 
wild  power,  "he  was  betrayed;  and  may  the 
power  whose  thunders  avenge  the  cause  of   his 


402  GEORGE  CROLY. 

people  pour  clown  just  retribution  upon  the  head 
that  (hired " 

I  heard  my  own  condemnation  about  to  be  pro- 
nounced by  the  lips  of  my  child.  Wound  up  to 
tlie  last  degree  of  sullering.  I  tore  my  hair,  leapt 
on  the  bars  l)efore  me.  and  plunged  into  the  arena 
by  her  side.  The  heiglit  stunned  me ;  I  tottered 
forward  a  few  i)aces  and  fell.  The  lion  gave  a 
roar,  and  sprang  upon  me.  I  lay  helpless  under 
him  ;  I  felt  his  fiery  breath ;  I  saw  liis  lurid  eye 
glaring  ;  I  heai-d  the  gnasliing  of  his  wliite  fangs 
above  mc. — An  exulting  siiout  arose.  I  saw  him 
reel  as  if  struck  ;  gore  filled  his  jaws.  Another 
mighty  blow  was  driven  to  his  heart.  He  sprang 
high  in  the  air  with  a  howl :  lie  dropped  ;  he  was 
dead.  The  ampiiitlieatre  thundered  with  acclama- 
tion. 

With  Salome  chnging  to  mj-  bosom.  Constanti- 
us  raised  me  from  tlie  ground.  Tiie  roar  of  the 
lion  had  roused  him  from  his  swoon,  and  two 
blows  saved  me.  The  falchion  was  broken  in  the 
heart  of  the  monster. 

Tlie  whole  nmltitude  stood  up,  supplicating  for 
t)ur  lives  in  the  name  of  lilial  piety  and  heroism. 
Nero,  devil  as  he  was,  dared  not  resist  the  strength 
of  the  popular  feeling,  lie  waved  a  signal  to  the 
guards;  the  portal  was  opened  :  and  my  cliildren. 
sustaining  my  feeble  steps,  and  sliowered  with 
garlands  and  ornaments  from  innumerable  hands, 
slowly  led  me  from  the  arena. — •iSalathiel, 
Chap"  XX. 

THE  BAXISHMEXT  OF  CATILIXE. 
[The  Senators  assembled  in  the  Temple  of  Jupiter  Stator 
at  Rome.] 

Cicero. — Fathers  of  Rome  !    If  man  can  be  con- 
vinced 
By  proof,  as  clear  as  daylight,  there  it  stands. — 
These  men  have  been  arrested  at  the  gates, 
Bearing  desjiatches  to  raise  war  in  Gaul. 
Look  on  these  letters  !     Here  's  a  deep-laid  plot 
To  wi'eck  tlie  provinces  :  a  solemn  league. 
Made  with  all  form  and  circumstance.     The  time 
Is  desperate  ;  all  the  slaves  are  up  ;  Rome  shakes  I 


CEORGE  CROLY.  403 

The  Heavens  alone  can  tell  how  near  oar  graves 
We  stand  even  here  I— Tlie  name  of  Catiline 
Is  foremost  in  the  league.     He  was  their  king. — 
Tried  and  convicted  traitor,  go  from  Rome  l 

Catiline.— Cpine,  consecrated  lictors  I  Senators, 
Fling  down  your  sceptres  ;  take  the  rod  and  axe, 
A.nd  make  the  murder,  as  you  make  the  law  ! 

Cic. — Give  up  the  record  of  his  hanisjnnent. 

Ca^— Bauishe<l  from  Rome  !    What 's  banished, 
but  f-et  free 
From  daily  contact  of  the  things  1  loathe  ^ 
''  Tri'^d  and  convicted  traitor  !  "     Who  says  this? 
Who  "11  \)To\c  it,  at  liis  peril,  on  my  head? 
Banished  !— I   thank   you  for"t.      It    breaks    my 

chain  ! 
i  held  some  slack  allegiance  till  this  hour  ; 
But  now  my  sword  's  my  own.  Smile  on,  my  lords : 
I  scorn  to  count  what  feelings,  withered  hopes, 
Strong  provocations,  bitter,  burning  wrongs, 
I  have  within  my  heart's  hot  cells  shut  up. 
To  leave  you  in  your  lazy  dignities. 
But  here  I  stand  and  scoff  you  ;  here  I  fling 
Hatred  and  full  deMance  in  your  face. 
Your  consul 's  merciful.     For  this  all  thanks  ! 
He  dares  not  touch  a  hair  of  Catiline. 

Consul.— Lictors,  drive  the    traitor    from   the 
temple  ! 

Cat.— "Traitor  y     1  go,   but  I  return.     This 
trial  .'— 
Here  I  devote  your  Senate  I    I  "ve  had  wrongs 
To  stir  a  fever  in  the  blood  of  age, 
Or  make  an  infant's  sinew  strong  as  steel. 
This  day 's  the  birth  of  sorrows  !      This  hour's 

work 
Will  breed  proscription.      Look  to  your  hearths. 

my  lords  ! 
For  there  henceforth  shall  sit,  for  household  gods, 
Shapes  hot  from  Tartarus  !— all  shames  and  crimes: 
Wan  Treachery,  with  his  thirsty  dagger  drawn  ; 
Suspicion,  poisoning  the  brother's  cup  : 
Naked  Rebellion,  with  the  torch  and  axe. 
Making  his  wild  sport  of  your  blazing  thrones  ; 
Till  Anarchy  comes  down  on  you  like  Night, 
Arid  Massacre  seals  Rome's  eternal  grave  ! 


404  GEORGE  CROLY. 

Senators. — Go,  enemy  and  pnrricide,  fromRome^ 

Cat. — It   shall  be    so  ! — When    Catiline    comes 
again, 
Your  grandeur  shall  be  base,  and  clowns  shall  aic 
In  scorn  upon  those  chairs.     Your  palaces 
81iall  see  the  soldiers  revels,  and  your  wealth 
Shall  go  to  deck  his  harlot  and  liis  horse. 
Then  Cicero  and  his  tools  shall  pay  me  blood — 
Vengeance  for  every  drop  of  my  boy's  veins  I 
And  such  of  you  as  cannot  find  the  grace 
To  die  with  swords  in  your  right  hands,  shall  f^'el 
The    life — life    worse    than    death— of    trampled 
slaves  I 

Senntom. — Go,     enemy     and     parricide,    from 
Rinue  I 

Cic— Expel  him,   lictors !      Clear  the  Senate- 
house  I 

Cat.—l  go — but  not  to  leap  the  gulf  alone  : 
I  go  :  but  when  I  come  'twill  be  the  burst 
Of  ocean  in  the  eartlKjuake — rolling  back 
In  swift  and  mountainous  ruin.     Fare  you  well  I— 
Yuu  build  my  funeral  pile;  but  your  best  blood 
Shall   quench   its  flame  ! — Back,   slaves  !      I  will 
retiii'ii. 

—Catiline,  Act  III. 

TO  SPAIN. 

Thou  land  of  love  and  loveliness  !    What  dreams 

Of  pomp,  and  beauty,  and  old  chivalry 
Haunt  the  green  borders  of  thy  mighty  streams, 

Imperial  Spain  !     Years  and  lung  ages  fly, 
Leaving  the  palace  and  the  mountain  tower 

Buried  l)eneath  their  purple  bed  of  rose  ; 

But  still  thy  morn  in  dewy  briglitness  glows  ; 
Still  falls  thy  eve  tlie  same  enchanted  hour. 

The  same  pure  splendor  lightens  from  thy  moon. 
Rolling  along  that  boundless  upper  flood, 

Whose  waves  ai-e  clouds,  her  solemn-moving 
throne 
And  prouder  still,  the  heart  is  unsubdued 
That  made  thee  from  the  cuirassed  Roman  wring 

With  naked  hands  his  jewelled  coronal ; 
And  tore  the  sceptre  from  the  Moslem  King, 

Sending  him  from  Granada's  ivoiy  hall, 


GEORGE  CROLY.  405 

To  make  witli  fox  and  wolf  his  rocky  lair. 
And  perish  in  the  Alpaxarras  bare. 

Spain  I  thou  hast  had  thy  day  of  toils  and  woes, 
And.  for  the  sword,  thy  i)and  lias  felt  the  chain  ; 

But  whenthe  giant  from  his  slumber  rose. 
The  Frank  was  swept,  like  mist,  from  mount  and 
plain — 

Now  to  n\y  tale,  a  tale  of  long  past  years. 
Of  pains,  and  joys,  strong  faith,  and  love's   be- 
witching tears. 

— Sebastian:  a  SjMiiish  Talc. 

THERMOPYL.^. 

Shout  for  the  mighty  men 

Who  died  along  this  shore, 
Who  died  within  this  mountain  glen  : 
For  never  nobler  chieftain's  head 
Was  laid  on  Valors  crimson  beil. 

Nor  ever  prouder  gore 
Sprang  forth,  then  theirs  who  won  the  day 
Upon  thy  strand,  Thermopj'lse  ! 

Shout  for  the  mighty  men. 

Who  on  the  Persian  tents. 
Like  lions  from  their  midnight  den, 
Bounding  on  the  slumbering  deer 
Rushed — a  storm  of  sword  and  spear  ; — 

Like  the  roused  elements, 
Let  loose  from  an  immortal  hand, 
To  chasten  or  to  crush  a  land  ! 

But  there  are  none  to  licar  ; 

Greece  is  a  hopeless  slave. 
Leonidas  !  no  hand  is  near 
To  lift  thy  tiery  falchion  now  ; 
No  warrior  makes  the  warrior's  vow 

L^pon  thy  sea-washed  grave. 
The  voice  that  should  be  raised  by  men, 
Must  now  be  given  by  wave  and  glen. 

And  it  is  given  ! — The  siirge, 

The  tree,  the  rock,  tlie  sand. 
On  Freedom's  kneeling  spirits  urge, 
In  sounds  that  speak  but  to  the  free, 
The  memory  of  thine  and  thee  I 


406  GEORGE  CROLY. 

The  vision  of  thy  band 
Still  gleams  witliin  the  glorious  dell, 
Where  their  gore  hallowed  as  it  felL 

And  is  thy  grandeur  done? 

Mother  of  men  like  these  ! 
Has  not  thy  outcry  gone 
Where  Justice  has  an  ear  to  hear? — 
Be  holy  I     God  shall  guiile  thy  spear 

Till  in  thy  crimsoned  seas 
Are  plunged  the  chain  ami  scimitar  : 
Greece  shall  be  a  new-born  star  ! 

TUE  GENII'S  OF  DEATH. 
Lt'/'oa  (1(1  Antique  Gem.] 
What  is  death  ?    'Tis  to  Ix'  free  ! 

No  more  to  love,  or  iiope,  or  fear ; 
To  join  the  great  Equality  : 
All  alike  are  humbled  there  ! 
The  miglity  grave 
Wraps  lord  and  slave  ; 
Nor  Pride  nor  Poverty  dares  come 
AVithin  that  refuge-house— the  tomb  ! 

Spirit  with  the  drooping  wing, 

And  the  ever-weeping  eye. 
Thou  of  all  earth's  kings  art  King  ! 
Empires  at  thy  footstool  lie  ! 
Beneath  thee  stre\ve<l 
Their  multitude 
Sink  like  waves  upon  the  shore  ; 
Storms  shall  never  rouse  them  more  ! 

What 's  the  grandeur  of  the  earth 

To  the  grandeur  round  thy  throne? 
Riches,  glory,  beauty,  birth, 
To  thy  kingdom  all  liave  gone. 
Before  thee  stand 
The  wondrous  band  : 
Bards,  heroes,  sages,  side  by  side. 
Who  darkened  nations  when  they  died. 

JACOB'S  DREAM. 
[.1  Painting  by  Washington  Allston.] 
The  sun  was  sinking  on  the  mountain  zone 
That  guards  thy  vales  of  beauty,  Palestine  ! 


HOWARD  CROSBY.  407 

And  lovely  from  the  desert  rose  the  moon, 
Yet  lingering  on  the  horizon's  purple  line, 
Like  a  pure  sj^irit  o"er  its  earthly-  shrine. 

Up  Padan-aram's  lieight  abrupt  and  bare 
A  pilgrim-toiled,  and  oft  on  day's  decline 

Looked  pale,  then  paused  for  eve's  delicious  air  : — 

The  summit  gained,  he  knelt  and   breathed  his 
evening  prayer. 

He  spread  liis  cloak  and  slumbered.    Darkness  fell 

Upon  the  twiliglit  hills  :  a  sudden  sound 
Of  silver  trumpets  o'er  him  oeemed  to  swell ; 

Clouds  heavy  with  the  tempests  gathered  round  ; 

Yet  was  the  whirlwind  in  its  caverns  bound  ; 
Still  deeper  rolle<l  tlie  darkness  from  on  high, 

Gigantic  volume  upon  volume  wound  : 
Above,  a  pillar  shooting  to  the  sky  ; 
Below,  a  mighty  sea,  that  spread  incessantly. 

Voices  are  heard— a  choir  of  golden  strings. 

Low  winds  wliose  lireath  is  loaded  with  the  rose; 
Then  chariot  wheels — the  nearer  rush  of  wings  ; 

Pale  lightning  round  the  <lark  pavilion  glows  ; 

It  thunders  :— the  resplendent  gates  unclose. 
Far  as  the  eye  can  glance,  on  height  o'er  height, 

Rise    fiery    waving    wings,    and    star-crowned 
brows, 
Millions  on  millions,  brighter  and  more  bright. 
Till  all  is  lost  in  one  supreme,  unuiingled  light. 

But.  two  beside  the  sleeping  Pilgrim  stand. 

Like  Cherub  Kings,  with  lifted,  mighty  plume, 
Fixed,    sun-bright    eyes,     and    looks    of     high 
command. 

They  tell  the  Patriarch  of  his  glorious  doom; 

Father  of  countless  myriads  that  shall  come, 
Sweeping  the  land  like  billows  of  the  sea  ; 

Bright  as  the  stars  of  heaven  from  twilight's 
gloom, 
Till  He  is  given,  whom  angels  long  to  see  ; 
And  Israel's  splendid  line  is  crowned  with  Deity. 

CROSBY,  Howard,  an  American  clergyman 
and  author,  born  in  1526.  A  graduate  of  the 
University  of  New  Y^ork,  he  becauie  Professor 


408  HOWARD  CROSBY. 

of  Greek  in  that  institution  in  1S51,  and  in 
1859  was  appointed  to  tiie  same  chair  in 
Rutgers  College.  Four  j'ears  later  he  became 
pastor  of  a  Presbyterian  church  in  New  York, 
and  in  1870  was  chosen  Chancellor  of  the 
University  of  that  city.  Besides  many  ser- 
mons and  addresses,  and  numerous  papers 
contributed  ti>  theological  periodicals,  he  has 
published.  Lands  of  the  Moslem  (I8r>0):  Xote^ 
on  theNeio  Testament  (1861) ;  Social  Hints  for 
Yonng  Christ iayis(lSGQ) ;  Bible  Manual  (18G9) ; 
Jestis,  his  Life  and  Works  as  narrated  by  the 
Four  Evangelists  (1S7U);  The  Healthy  Chris- 
tian (1872j ;  Thoughts  on  the  Decalogue  (1873); 
Tlte  Christian  Preacher  (1880) ;  True  Human- 
ity of  Christ  (1881). 

THE  PKEACHER  OF  THE   DESERT. 

At  length  the  time  lias  arrived  for  tho  Nazarite 
to  begin  his  public  work.  His  old  jjarents  were, 
it  is  likely,  dead;  and  ^vithollt  ininicihate  relative.s 
or  social  ties  to  bind  him,  he  i.s  led  in-  the  Spirit  of 
God  to  summon  th.e  people  to  the  limestone  wastes 
tiiat  incline,  full  of  fissures,  crags,  and  ravines, 
from  tlie  cultivated  higidands  of  Judea  to  the 
Dead  Sea,  and  there  to  proclaim  to  tliem  the 
speedy  coming  of  the  Messiah.  It  was  tliis  preach- 
ing of  John  which  excited  the  wbole  nation.  The 
people,  weary  of  the  Roman  yoke,  were  read}-  to 
listen  to  the  story  of  a  deliverer ;  and  a  strange 
mingling  of  religious  and  patriotic  int<'rests  led 
them  out  in  multitudes  1o  the  wilderness  to  hear 
the  eio(juent  Xazarite.  Jolin's  very  appearance 
would  suggest  Elijah  to  the  c-rowds  of  Israel.  As 
we  have  an  ideal  ligure  of  Napoleon  or  of  Wash- 
ington, so  there  was  a  conventional  figure  of 
Elijah  among  the  Jews.  The  garment  of  coai-se 
hair  and  the  girdle  of  leather  were  tiie  distinctive 
features  of  this  ideal.  The  rugged  appearance  of 
the  unshorn  pi-ophet  was  appropriate  to  the  bleak 
rocks  of  conies  and  wild  goats,  among  which  he 
lifted  up  his  voice  of  promise  and  warning,  and 
his   nuxle  of  life  was  conformed  to  the  general 


HOWARD  CROSBY.  409 

wilderness  model.  The  locust?,  which  are  now  a 
favorite  food  of  the  poorer  classes  in  the  East,  and 
the  wild  hone}'  found  amid  the  crags  of  the  desert, 
formed   the  staple  of  his  daily  sustenance. 

His  manner  of  life  and  his  personal  appearance 
combined  to  impress  the  minds  of  the  people,  and 
to  deepen  the  effect  of  his  preaching.  This  preach- 
ing had  two  sides  :  the  one  to  announce  the  near 
coming  of  the  long-expected  Messiah,  the  other  to 
demand  of  the  people  a  now  personal  life  of  godli- 
ness as  the  only  due  preparation  for  his  coming, 
by  which  they  could  alone  appreciate  liis  character, 
and  receive  the  benelits  of  liis  appearance.  It  was 
no  ceremonial  cleanness  tiiat  John  inculcated,  nor 
was  it  any  mere  betterment  of  the  outward  life. 
His  preaching  sought  the  inmost  citadel  of  the 
heart,  and  demanded  a  change  there  radical  and 
eternal.  A  change  of  the  soul's  jnirpose  was  in- 
sisted on  as  necesrary  in  order  to  see  tiie  glory  of 
the  kingdom  of  Ciod.  Tiiis  was  the  burden  of 
those  energetic  harangues  which  shook  all  Judea, 
and  wliich  are  condensed  into  the  formula,  "  Re- 
pent, for  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is  at  hand."  In 
this  preaciiing,  John  wivs  conscious  of  his  authori- 
tative position.  He  pointed  to  Isaiali's  prophecy, 
and  declared  himself  to  be  the  voice  in  the  wilder- 
ness that  was  tliere  predicted.  Conviction  fastened 
upon  the  Jewish  mind  ;  and  as  the  multitudes 
publicly  confessed  their  si:is  under  the  arousing 
words  of  Jolm,  he  led  them  down  to  the  Jordan 
valley,  and  there,  in  an  eddy  of  tiiat  swift  stream, 
he  applied  to  them  an  outward  emblem  of  purifi- 
cation, with  which  the  nation  vras  perfectly  famil- 
iar in  the  many  wasliings  from  ceremonial  defile- 
ment which  marked  the  Jewish  ritual.  It  was  an 
outward  sign  of  the  purity  they  professed  to  lay 
hold  of  in  turning  to  God,  and  would,  in  the 
Orieiatal  mind,  serve  to  deepen  the  impression  of 
the  truth  illustrated,  as  well  as  strengthen  the  life 
by  an  act  of  open  committal.  John  was  careful 
to  insist,  before  his  disciples  and  the  multitude, 
upon  the  merely  symbolic  character  of  his  bap- 
tism. "I  indeed,"  he  said,  "baptize  you  with 
water  with  regard  to  your  reneweil   life  ;    but  he 


410  WILLIAM  CROSWELL. 

that  cometh  after  me  is  mightier  than  I,  whose 
shoes  I  am  not  worthy  to  bear,  and  the  latchet  of 
whose  shoes  I  am  not  worth}'  to  stoop  down  and 
unloose  ;  he  shall  baptize  you  with  the  Holy  Ghost 
and  with  fire.''  .  .  .  Such  a  preaching  and  bap- 
tism from  so  remarkable  a  man  agitated  the  whole 
land.  The  work  of  John  was  accomplished.  He 
turned  many  of  the  children  of  Israel  to  the  Lord 
their  God,  and  with  the  spirit  and  power  of  Elijah 
he  turned  the  lieai  ts  of  the  people  from  selfisluiess 
to  domestic  and  social  virtues,  and  thus  made 
ready  tlie  way  for  the  Messiah.— Jt'i-u.s ;  liis  Life 
and  Work. 

CROSWELL,  "William,  au  American  cler- 
gyman, bornuL  Hudson,  N.  Y.,  in  1804.  died 
in  Boston  in  1851.  He  gradnated  at  Yale  in 
1S22,  and  was  successively  rector  of  Christ 
Cluirch,  Boston,  St.  Peter's,  Auburn,  N.  Y., 
and  of  the  Church  of  the  Advent,  Boston. 
He  was  for  a  time  associated  with  Bishop 
George  W.  Doane  in  conducting  The  Episco- 
pal WatcJiman,  a  periodical  in  Avhich  most  of 
the  poems  of  Mr.  Croswell  were  first  publish- 
ed. These  have  been  collected  and  i)ublished 
inider  th<;  title,  Poems,  Sacred  and  Secular. 

DE   PROFUNDIS. 

My  sold  wtus  dark 
But  for  the  golden  light  and  rainbow  hue. 
That  sweeping  heaven  with  tlieir  triumphal  arc 

Break  on  the  view. 

Enough  to  feel 
That  God  indeed  is  good.     Enougii  to  know 
"VN'ithout  the  gloomy  cloud  he  could  reveal 

No  beauteous  bow. 

CLOUDS. 
I  cannot  looir  above  and  see 

Yon  l\igli-piled  pillowj-  mass 
Of  evening  clouds,  so  swimmingly 

In  golil  and  purple  pass. 


CATHERINE  CROWE.  411 

And  think  not,  Lord,  liow  Thou  wast  seen 

Oil  Israel's  desert  way 
Before  them,  in  thy  shadowj-  screen, 

PaviUoned  all  the  day  ! 

Or,  of  ihose  robes  of  gorgeous  hue. 

Which  the  Redeemer  wore, 
"When  ravished  from  his  followers'  view, 

Aloft  his  flight  he  bore, 
When  lifted,  as  on  miglity  wing, 

He  curtained  his  ascent. 
And  wrapt  in  clouds,  went  triumphing 

Abo\'e  the  firmament. 

Is  it  a  trail  of  that  same  pall 

Of  many  colored  dyes. 
That  high  above,  o'er-mantling  all. 

Hangs  midway  down  the  skies — 
Or  borders  of  those  sweeping  folds 

Which  shall  be  all  unfurled 
About  the  Saviour,  when  he  holds 

His  judgment  on  the  world  ? 

For  in  like  manner  as  he  went — 

My  soul,  iiast  thou  forgot  ? — 
Shall  be  iiis  terrible  descent, 

When  man  expecteth  not  ! 
Strength.  Son  of  man,  against  that  hour, 

Be  to  our  spirits  given. 
When  thou  siialt  come  again  with  power, 

Upon  the  clouds  of  heaven  ! 

CROWE,  Catherine  (Stevens),  an  English 
outhor.  born  about  ISUO.  died  in  1876.  Her 
first  publication  was  Aristodemiis,  a  tragedy, 
published  in  1838.  Manorial  Rights,  a  novel, 
■was  her  next  work,  which  was  followed  by 
The  Adventures  of  Susan  Hopley.  Lilly  Daw- 
son, a  story  showing  the  power  of  the  affec- 
tions to  develop  the  intellect,  appeared  in 
1847,  and  the  next  j'ear.  The  Night  Side  of 
Nature:  _or  Ghosts  and  Ghost-Seers,  and  a 
translation  of  Kerner's  Seeress  of  Prevorst. 
Mrs.  Crowe's  later  works  are  Pippie's  Warn- 


412  CATHERINE  CROWE. 

ing  (1850) ;  Light  and  Darkness  :  or  the  Mys- 
teries of  Life  (1850);  Ad  ventures  of  a  Beauty, 
and  Linny  Lockivood  (1857). 

AN   OPPORTUNE  ESCAPE. 

We  will  not  attempt  to  depict  poor  Lilly's  terror 
and  amazement,    whilst  crouching?  beneath    tlie 
hedge  within  three  yards  of  the  speakers,  afraid  to 
breathe  lest  they  ehould  discover  her,  she  listened 
to  this  conver..;iLlc.n.     She  was  actually  paralyzed 
with  fear  ;    r.vA  fur  some  time  after  they  had 
passed  on,  she  reiuahied  as  motionless  as  if  she 
had  been  turned  into  stone.     It  was  not  till  the 
echo  of  their  voices  liad  long  died  away,  that  she 
ventured  to  creep  out  of  her  hiding-place,  and 
take  a  side-peep  at  the  gate,   where  she  almost 
feared  she  should  still  see  them  standing.     But 
the  faint  beams  of  the  waning  moon  showing  her 
that  there  was  no  one  there,  she  ventured,  with  as 
little  noise  as  possible,  to  rise  to  her  feet :    and, 
after  cautiously  listening,  for  the  purpose  of  mak- 
ing sure  that  her  enemies  were  not  returning,  she 
climbed  over  the  wicket  again  into  the  road.     All 
she  thought  of  was  immediate  escape  :  and,  with- 
out cc^nsidering  where  she  was  to  go,  or  reflecting 
on  the  proba'ole  consequences  of  setting  out  alone, 
in  the  middle  of  the  night,  on  a  journey  which 
might  conduct  her  to  greater  perils  than  those  she 
was  flying  from,  she  took  to  her  heels  and  ran 
along  the  road  in   an  opposite  direction   to  the 
town,  till  she  was  fairly  out  of  breath,  and  obliged 
to  relax  her  speed  for  the  want  of  it. 

The  night  was  very  fine,  and  it  was  not  long  be- 
fore the  forlorn  traveler  was  cheered  by  the  dawn 
of  the  morning,  and  then  she  could  venture  to  sit 
down  by  the  wayside  to  take  a  little  rest.  But 
the  voices  of  some  men  approaching  started  her 
to  her  feet ;  for  she  could  not  divest  herself  of  the 
apprehension  of  i,eing  pursued,  and  she  fled  for- 
wards again  with  somewhat  of  her  former  si>eed, 
till  she  reached  a  vilhige  ;  and  as  she  was  very 
hungry  and  had  plenty  of  money  in  her  pocket, 
she  Avould  have  very  gladly  purchased  some  food  ; 
but  the  shops  were  not  yet  opened  :  and,  afraid  to 


CATHERINE  CKOWE.  413 

linger,  she  walked  through.  And  now  the  early- 
travelers  and  the  laborei-s  in  the  fields  began  to  be 
afoot,  and  ever  and  anon  she  was  saluted  by  the 
observation  that  it  was  a  fine  morning,  or  with  a 
rustic  compliment  upon  her  early  rising  ;  and 
thus  she  proceeded  without  any  particular  advent- 
ure, till,  exhausted  by  hunger  and  fatigue,  she 
seated  herself  on  a  low  stone  post,  which  stood  at 
the  gate  of  a  neat  little  villa,  enclosed  in  a  garden. 
She  had  sat  there  about  half  an  hour,  with  some- 
what of  the  feelings  of  a  hunted  hare,  alarmed  at 
every  foot  she  heard  approaching  from  the  west, 
and  so  confused  and  perplexed  with  the  strange- 
ness of  her  situation,  that  she  was  entirely  inca- 
pable of  determining  on  any  step  that  might  di- 
minish her  ditticulties,  when  she  heard,  first,  the 
door  of  the  house^  and  next,  the  gate  unlocked  be- 
hind her ;  and  presently  a  man  came  out,  bearing 
in  his  hands  a  small  trunk  and  a  large  blue  band- 
box, which  he  set  down  on  the  pathway,  and  then 
retreated  into  the  house  leaving  the  gate  ajar. 
On  the  trunk  were  the  letters  A.  T.  in  brass  nails, 
and  on  the  bandbox  was  inscribed  *'Mrs.  Tread- 
gold,  passenger."'  Presently  the  man  came  out 
again  and  looked  down  the  road,  as  if  expecting 
somethmg.  Then  he  looked  at  Lilly,  and  seemed 
about  to  address  her  ;  when  a  voice  within,  call- 
ing "James,"'  caused  him  suddenly  to  re-enter  the 
gate.  A  third  time  he  made  his  appearance  :  and 
now,  after  listening  for  a  moment,  Lilly  heard 
him  say,  "  I  think  she 's  coming  now  I  "  and  then, 
turning  towards  her,  where  she  was  still  sitting 
on  the  post,  he  added,  "You're  waiting  for  her 
too,  I  suppose." 

"Sir,"  said  Lilly,  not  understanding  what  he 
meant. 

"James,"  cried  a  voice  from  within,  "isn't 
that  the  coach  ? "' 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  she 's  coming  up  now,"  answered 
James,  re-entering  the  gate ;  out  of  which  be 
presently  issued  again,  accompanied  by  a  lady; 
upon  whose  appearance  Lilly  rose  from  her  seat, 
and  at  the  same  moment  the  coach  swept  round  a 
curve  in  the  road,  and  dashed  up  to  tlie  gate.      In 


414  Catherine  "CROWE. 

a  moment,  tlic  coachman  was  off  his  hox,  arrang- 
ing tho  higpage  in  the  boot,  wl»il-t  James  opened 
the  coach-door,  and  lianded  in  tin?  lady. 

"Now,  my  dear,*'  said  the  coachman,  taking 
hold  of  Lilly's  arm,  and  drawing  hor  to  the  coach. 
"Come,  come,  don't  ho  frif^htened — put  your  foot 
there — the  other  there — tliafs  right  !  "  and,  before 
slie  knew  where  she  was,  Lilly  found  herself  at 
the  top  of  tlie  London  coach,  spanking  away  at 
the  I'ate  of  ten  miles  an  hour. — Lilly  Dawson. 

PnOPHETIC  DREAMS, 

A  farmer  in  Worcestershire  dreamt  that  his  lit- 
tle boy  of  twelv«'  years  old  had  fallen  from  the 
wagon  and  was  killed.  The  dream  recurred  three 
times  in  one  night  ;  l)ut,  unwilling  to  yield  to  su- 
perstitious fears,  he  allowed  the  child  to  ac- 
company the  wag<merto  Kidderminster  fair.  The 
driver  was  very  fond  of  the  boy,  and  he  felt  as- 
sured would  take  care  of  Inm  ;  but  having  oc- 
casion to  go  a  little  out  of  the  road  to  leave  a 
parcel,  the  man  bade  the  child  walk  on  with  the 
wagon,  and  he  would  meet  him  at  a  certain  spot. 
On  arriving  there,  the  horses  were  coming  quietly 
forward,  Init  the  boy  was  not  with  them  ;  and  on 
retracing  the  road,  ho  was  found  dead,  having, 
apparentlj',  fallen  from  the  shafts  and  been  crush- 
ed by  the  wheels. 

A  gentleman,  who  resided  ne.nr  one  of  the  Scott- 
ish lakes,  dreamt  that  iie  saw  a  number  of  person:\ 
surrounding  a.body.  which  had  just  been,  drawn 
out  of  the  water.  On  approaching  the  spot,  he 
perceives  that  it  is  himself,  and  the  assistants  are 
his  own  friends  and  retainers.  Alarmed  at  the 
life-iike  realitv  of  the  vision,  he  resolved  to  elude 
the  threatened  destiny  by  never  venturing  on  the 
lake  again.  On  one  occasion,  however,  it  became 
quite  indispensable  that  he  should  do  so  ;  and  as 
the  day  was  quite  calm,  he  yielded  to  the  neces- 
sity, on  condition  that  he  should  be  put  ashore  at 
onco  on  the  opposite  side,  whilst  the  rest  of  the 
party  proceeded  to  tiieir  destination  where  he 
would  meet  them.  Tliis  was  accordingly  done : 
the  boat  skimmed  gaily  over  the  smi-wth  waters, 


ANNIE  HALL  CUDLIP.  415 

and  arrived  safely  at  the  rendezvous,  the  gentle- 
men hinghing  at  the  superstition  of  their  compan- 
ion, whilst  he  stood  smiling  on  the  bank  to  receive 
tliem.  But  alas  !  the  fates  were  inexorable  ;  the 
httie  promoniory  that  supported  him  had  been  un- 
dermined by  the  water  ;  it  gave  way  beneath  his 
feet,  and  life  was  extinct  before  he  could  be  res- 
cued from  the  waxes,— The  NigJit  Side  of  Nature. 

CUDLIP,  Annie  Hall  (Thomas") .  an  Eng- 
lish novelist,  born  at  Aldborough  in  1838.  In 
1867  she  was  married  to  the  Rev.  Pender 
Cudlip.  Her  first  novel,  The  Cross  of  Honor, 
•was  published  in  1863.  She  has  since  pub- 
lished Sir  Victoi^'s  Choice,  Douiis  Donne,  A 
Dangerous  Secret,  The  House  in  PiccadiUy, 
and  Philip  Morton  (1864);  Barry  O' Byrne, 
Theo.  Leigh,  and  On  Guard  (1865);  Played 
Out,  and  Walter  Goring  (1866);  Called  to  Ac- 
count (1867);  .1  X»ble  Aim,  High  Stakes,  and 
The  Dotccr  House,  (1868);  Only  Herself  and 
False  Colors  (1869);  TJie  Dream  and  the 
Waking  (1870);  A  Passion  in  Tatters  (1872); 
Tlie  Tiro  Widows,  and  •'  He  cometh  not,  she 
said''  (1873);  Xo  Alternative  (1874);  A  Nar- 
row Escajje  and  The  Maskelynes  (1875);  Blot- 
ted Out  (1876);  -l  Laggard  in  Love  (1877): 
Mrs.  Cardigan,  A  London  Season,  and  Stray 
Sheep  (1879);  Fashion's  Gay  Mart,  County 
People,  and  Society's  Verdict  (1880);  Eyre  of 
Blendon  and  Our  Set  (1881);  Allerton  Toivers 
(1882) ;  i/aucZ  Mohan,  and  Playing  for  High 
Stakes. 

CLEVER  MISS  CONWAY. 
A  cleverer  woman  than  Miss  Smith  was  re- 
quired to  defeat  Fanny  Conway,  a  sharper  one 
than  Mrs.  Pridham  to  detect  her  discomfiture. 
She  was  kneeling  down  before  a  large  black  box 
full  of  clothes  when  the  boarding-house  mistress 
came  into  her  room  after  knocking  and  being  told 
to  enter.     Her  dress  was  off,  but  the  fine  linen, 


41C  ANNIE  HALL  CUDLIP. 

and  insertion,  and  lace  edging,  and  delicate  em- 
broider}- of  the  bodice  ratlier  staggered  Mrs.  Prid- 
liam  in  the  resolutions  she  had  formed  of  talking 
to  Miss  Conwaj'  as  if  tlie  latter  Avere  a  reprehensi- 
ble pauper.  A  joung  lady  whose  "  fine  linning," 
as  she  termed  it,  was  so  exquisitely  fine  and  cor- 
rect could  not  be  desperately,  dangerously  poor 
yet. 

"  You  Ml  excuse  my  intruding  upon  you  again, 
i\Ii;ss  Conway,  but  I  have  something  unpleasant  to 
pny." 

Fanny  rose,  and  seated  herself  on  the  side  of 
hor  bed. 

"  What  is  the  matter?'"  she  asked  :  ''has  the 
Count  bolted  with  the  spoons,  or  the  Baron  with 
Miss  Smith?" 

"Neither,  Miss  Conway.  I  trust  at  least  that 
they  are  not  adventurers  :  but,  to  my  horror,  this 
has  been  found  on  my  virtuous  hearth,  and  it  can 
only  belong  to  you."  And  as  she  wound  up  her 
peroration  she  handed  the  tell-tale  ticket  to  Fanny, 
who  took  it  with  the  faintest  surprise  and  with- 
out the  faintest  confusion. 

'•A  little  pawn  ticket,  funny  little  thing; 
well?  what  else?" 

"  Miss  Smith  picked  it  up,  and  at  once  conclud- 
ed, as  every  one  else  in  this  house  would,  that  you 
have  pawned  your  bracelet.  Oh  !  Miss  CouAvay, 
this  is  sliocking,  and  you  have  always  led  me  to 
believe  that  you  are  well  oflf.'" 

Fanny  Conway  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  and 
then  threw  her  head  back  and  laughed  merrily 
and  long  ;  presently  she  checked  her  mirth  and 
said : 

"  Dear  old  amiable  lady  !  so  it  was  the  thought 
that  she  had  found  me  out  in  pawning  and  penu- 
ry that  made  her  want  to  compare  the  emeralds? 
Well,  I'll  trust  her  with  the  bracelet  unguarded  by 
my  presence,  though  she  lias  tried  to  commit  one 
larceny  to-night,  and  filch  luy  good  name. 
"  Here,"  she  continued,  going  to  a  drawer  and 
taking  out  a  bracelet,  a  broad  gold  band  studded 
with  emeralds,  "  take  this  down.  Mrs.  Pridham, 
and  show  them  that  I  wasn't  the  'Miss  Jones' 


RALPH  CIUDWORTII.  417 

(that  was  the  name  on  the  ticket,  wasn't  it ':)  who 
pledged  a  jewel  that  happens  to  read  something 
like  the  one  she  's  seen  me  wear.  Let  me  look  at 
the  ticket  again,  wiU  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Pridham,  completely  abashed  by  the  pro- 
duction of  the  Vjr.-\celc-t,  could  only  apologize  ve- 
hemently for  her  suspicions.  "  But  you  have  the 
ticket,  I  <;hin]-:, '  she  said. 

"  No  I  hav<^  n't,"  Fanny  answered  ;  "  I  gave  it 
back  *.o  you.'' 

Mrs.  Pridham  looked  about  a  little,  but  notfnul- 
\ng  it,  she  said  it  was  of  no  consequence,  it  would 
be  found  when  Miss  Conway's  room  was  "  done  " 
in  the  morning,  and  Fanny  said,  ''  Oh  !  yes,  or  if 
it  wasn't  it  would  be  no  matter,  for  it  was  evi- 
dently an  old  ticket."  She  took  good  care  that  it 
should  not  be  found  in  the  morning,  for  as  soon 
as  Mrs.  Pridham  had  descended  to  triumphantly 
refute  the  aspersions  on  her  pet  boarder's  charac- 
ter, Fanny  locked  the  little  ticket  carefully  away 
in  a  drawer. 

"  Stupid  old  woman  ! "  she  cried  performing  a 
pots  of  joy  about  the  room.  "I  saw  her  pick  it 
up.  I  knew  it  would  be  no  use  to  ask  her  for  it ; 
but  I  didn't  think  I  'd  have  got  it  into  my  hands 
again.  I'd  have  lost  the  bracelet  rather  than 
have  been  found  out.  Ah  !  the  malicious  old  cat, 
she  little  thought  I  had  a  pair  of  them."— Denis 
Donne. 

CUDWORTH,  Ralph,  an  English  divine, 
born  in  1617,  died  in  1GS8.  He  was  educated 
at  Emmanuel  College,  Cambridge,  in  which 
he  came  to  be  Fellow  and  Tutor.  In  1G45  he 
was  appointed  Regius  Professor  of  Hebrew,  a 
position  which  he  held  for  thii-ty  years ;  and 
in  1654  he  was  elected  Master  of  Christ's  Col- 
lege. He  also  received  from  time  to  time 
several  valuable  preferments  in  the  Church. 
In  consequence  of  his  knowledge  of  Hebrew- 
literature  and  antiquities,  he  was  consulted 
by  a  committee  of  Parliament  concerning  a 
new  translation  of  the  Bible.      Cudworth's 


418  RALPH  CUDWOKTfi. 

writings  are  voluminous.  His  principal 
work  is  The  True  Intellectual  System  of  the 
Universe,  in  which,  as  the  autlior  claims, 
"all  the  reason  and  philosophy  of  atheism  is 
refuted,  and  its  impossibility  demonstrated." 
This  work  which  first  appeared  in  1678, 
was  republished  in  1743,  1820,  and  1845. 
Several  editions  of  his  Complete  Works  have 
been  published  in  the  United  States. 

GOD.   THOUGH  INCOMPREHENSIBLE,  NOT  INCONCEIV- 
ABLE. 

It  dotli  not  at  all  follow,  because  God  is  inconi- 
prehensiblc  to  our  finite  and  narrow  understand- 
ings, tliat  he  is  utterly  inconceivable  by  them,  so 
that  they  cannot  frame  any  idea  of  him  at  all,  and 
he  may  therefore  be  concluded  to  be  a  nonentity. 
For  it  is  certain  that  we  cannot  comprehend  our- 
selves, and  that  we  have  not  such  au  adequate  and 
comprehensive  knowledge  of  the  essence  of  any 
substantial  thing  as  that  we  can  perfectly  master 
and  conquer  it.  .  .  .  For  even  body  itself,  which 
the  atheists  think  themselves  so  well  acquainted 
with,  because  they  can  feel  it  with  their  fingers, 
and  which  is  the  only  substance  that  they  ac- 
knowledge either  in  themselves  or  in  the  universe, 
hath  such  puzzling  difficulties  and  entanglements 
in  the  speculation  of  it,  that  they  can  never  be 
able  to  extricate  themselves  from.  We  might 
instance,  also,  in  some  accidental  things — as  time 
and  motion.  Truth  is  bigger  than  our  minds,  and 
we  are  not  the  same  with  it,  but  have  a  lower  par- 
ticipation only  of  the  intellectual  nature,  and  are 
rather  apprelienders  than  comprehenders  thereof. 
This  is  indeed  one  badge  of  our  creaturely  state, 
that  we  have  not  a  perfectly  comprehensive 
knowledge,  or  such  as  is  adequate  and  commen- 
surate to  the  essences  of  things  ;  from  whence  we 
ought  to  be  led  to  this  acknowledgment,  tliat 
there  is  anotlier  Perfect  Mind  or  Understanding 
Being  above  us  in  the  universe,  from  which  our 
imperfect  minds  were  derived,  and  upon  which 
they  do  depend. 

Wherefore,  if  we  can  have  no  idea  or  conception 


RALPH  CUDWOHTH.  419 

of  anything  whereof  we  have  not  a  full  and  per- 
fect comprehension,  then  can  we  not  haxe  an  idea 
or  conception  of  the  nature  of  any  substance. 
But  thougli  we  do  not  comprehend  all  truth,  as  if 
our  mind  were  above  it,  or  master  of  it,  and  can- 
not penetrate-  into  and  look  quite  through  the 
nature  of  everything,  yet  may  rational  souls  frame 
certain  ideas  and  conceptions  of  whatsoever  is  in 
the  orb  of  being  proportionate  to  their  own  nature, 
and  sufficient  for  their  purpose.     And  though  we 
cannot  fully  comprehend  the  Deity,  nor  exhaust 
the  mfiniteness  of  its  perfection,  yet  may  we  have 
an  idea  of  a  Being  absolutely  perfect ;  such  a  one 
as  is  nostra  modulo  conformis,  agreeable  and  pro- 
portionate to  our  measure  and  scantling ;    as  we 
may  approach  near  to  a  mountain,  and  touch  it 
with  our  hands,  though  we  cannot  encompass  it 
all  round,  and  enclasp  it  within  our  arms.    What- 
soever is  in  its  own  nature  absolutely  unconceiv- 
able, is  nothing  ;  but  not  whatsoever  is  not  fully 
comprehensible  by  our  imperfect  understandings. 
It  is  true,  indeed,  that  the  Deity  is  more  incom- 
prehensible to  us  than  anything  else  whatsoever, 
which  proceeds  from  the  fulness  of  its  being  and 
perfection,   and  from  the    transcendency  of  its 
brightness  ;  but  for  the  very  same  i-eason  may  it 
be  said  also  in  some  sense  that  it  is  more  knowable 
and    conceivable    than    anything.     As    the  sun, 
though  by  reason  of  its  excessive  splendor  it  daz- 
zle our  weak  sight,  yet  is  it,  notwithstanding,  far 
more  visible  also  than  any  of  the  nebidosce  stellce 
— the  small  misty  stars.     Where  there  is  more  of 
light  there  is  more  visibility  ;  so,  where  there  is 
more  of  entity,  reality,  and  perfection,  there  is 
more  of  conceptibility  and  cognoscibillty ;   such  a 
thing  filling  up  the  mind  more,  and  acting  more 
strongly  upon  it.     Nevertheless,  because  our  weak 
and  imperfect  minds  are  lost  in  the  vast  immensi- 
ty and  redundancy  of  the  Deity,  and  overcome 
with  its  transcendent  light  and  dazzling  bright- 
ness, therefore  hath  it  to  tis  an    appearance  of 
darkness    and    incomprehensibility  ;    as   the  un- 
bounded expansion  of  light,  in  the  clear  transpar- 
ent ether,  hath  to  us  the  apparition  of  an  azure 


430  RALPH  Ul'DWOKTH. 

obscurity  ;  which  yet  is  not  an  absolute  thing  in 
itself,  but  only  relative  to  our  sense,  and  a  mere 
fanc}'  in  us. 

The  incomprehensibility  of  the  Deity  is  so  far 
from  being  an  argument  against  the  reality  of  its 
existence,  as  that  it  is  most  certain,  on  the  con- 
trary, that  were  there  nothing  incomprehensible 
to  us.  who  are  but  cojiteniptible  pieces,  and  small 
atoms  of  the  universe  :  were  there  no  other  being 
in  the  world  but  what  our  finite  understandings 
could  span  or  fathom,  and  encompa.ss  round 
about,  look  through  and  through,  have  a  com- 
manding view  of,  and  perfectly  conquer  and  sub- 
due under  them,  then  could  there  be  nothing  ab- 
solutely and  infinitely  perfect— that  is,  no  God.  .  . 

And  nature  itself  plainly  intimates  to  us  that 
there  is  some  such  absolutely  perfect  Being, 
which,  though  not  inconceivable,  yet  is  incompre- 
hensible to  our  finite  understandings,  by  certain 
passions,  which  it  hath  implanted  in  us,  that 
otherwise  v.ould  want  an  object  to  display  them- 
selves upon  ;  namely,  those  of  devout  veneration, 
adoration,  and  admiration,  together  with  a  kind 
of  ecstacy  and  pleasing  horror ;  which,  in  the 
silent  language  of  nature,  seem  to  speak  thus 
much  to  us,  that  there  is  some  object  in  the  world 
so  much  bigger  and  vaster  than  our  mind  and 
thoughts,  that  it  is  the  very  same  to  them  tliat 
the  ocean  is  to  narrow  vessels  ;  so  that,  when  they 
have  taken  into  themselves  as  much  as  they  can 
thereof  by  contemplation,  and  filled  up  all  their 
capacity,  there  is  still  an  immensity  of  it  left  with- 
out, which  cannot  enter  in  for  want  of  room  to 
receive  it,  and  therefore  must  be  apprehended 
after  some  other  strange  and  more  mysterious 
manner — namely,  by  their  being  plunged  into  it, 
and  swallowed  up  or  lost  in  it.  To  conclude,  the 
Deity  is  indeed  incomprehensible  to  our  finite  and 
imperfect  understandings,  but  not  inconceivable  ; 
and  therefore  there  is  no  ground  at  all  for  this 
atheistic  i^retence  to  make  it  a  nonentity. 

CREATION. 

Because  it  is  undeniably    certain,   concerning 


*  RICHARD  CUMBERLAND.  431 

ourselves  and  all  imperfect  beings,  that  none  of 
these  can  create  any  new  substance,  men  are  apt 
to  measure  all  things  by  their  own  scantling,  and 
to  suppose  it  universally  impossible  for  any  power 
wliatever  thus  to  create.  But  since  it  is  certain 
that  imperfect  beings  can  themselves  produce 
some  things  out  of  nothing  pre-existing,  as  new 
cogitations,  new  local  motion,  and  new  modifica- 
tions of  things  corporeal,  it  is  surely  reasonable  to 
think  that  an  absolutely  perfect  Being  can  do 
something  more  ;  that  is,  create  new  substances, 
or  give  them  their  whole  being.  And  ic  may  well 
be  thought  as  easy  for  God,  or  an  Omnipotent 
Being,  to  make  a  whole  world,  matter  and  all,  as 
it  is  for  us  to  create  a  thought  or  to  move  a  finger, 
or  for  the  sun  to  send  out  rays,  or  a  candle,  light ; 
or,  lastl}^  for  an  opaque  body  to  produce  an  image 
of  iiself  in  a  glass  of  water,  or  to  project  a  shad- 
ow ;  all  these  imperfect  things  being  but  the  ener- 
gies, rays,  images,  or  shadows  of  tiie  Deity.  For 
a  substance  to  be  made  out  of  nothing  by  God,  or 
a  Being  infinitely  perfect,  is  not  for  it  to  be  made 
out  of  nothing  in  the  impossible  sense,  because  it 
comes  from  Him  who  is  all.  Nor  can  it  be  said  to 
be  impossible  for  anything  whatever  to  be  made 
by  that  which  hath  not  only  infinitely  greater  per- 
fection, but  also  infinite  active  power.  It  is  in- 
deed true  that  infinite  power  itself  cannot  do 
things  in  their  own  nature  impossible  ;  and,  there- 
fore, those  who  deny  creation  ought  to  jjrove  that 
it  is  absolutely  impossible  for  a  substance,  though 
not  for  an  accident  or  modification  to  be  brought 
from  non-existence  into  being.  But  nothing  is  in 
itself  impossible  which  does  not  imply  contradic- 
tion ;  and  though  it  be  a  contradiction  to  be  and 
not  to  be  at  the  same  time,  there  is  surely  no  con- 
tradiction in  conceiving  an  imperfect  being,  which 
before  was  not,  afterwards  to  be. 

CUMBERLAND,  Richard,  an  English  dra- 
matist and  essayist,  born  in  1732,  died  in 
1811.  Ho  ^vas  a  great-grandson  of  Richard 
Cumberland,  the  author  of  De  Legibus  Na- 
turce,  and  other  learned  works,  and  the  grand- 


4;»2  RICHARD  CUMBERLAND.  * 

son  of  Riclaard  Bentley.    He  was  educated  at 

Westminster,  and  at  Trinity  College.  About 
1750  he  became  private  secretary  to  the  Earl 
of  Halifax,  whom  he  accompanied  to  Ireland, 
and  who  afterwards  obtained  for  him  an  ap- 
pointment as  crown-agent  for  Nova  Scotia. 
In  1775  he  was  made  Secretary  of  the  Board 
of  Trade.  Five  years  afterwards  he  was  sent 
on  a  secret  mission  to  Spain,  to  negotiate  a 
treaty  of  peace  with  that  kingdom;  but  at 
the  end  of  a  year  he  was  recalled,  and  was  re- 
fused repayment  of  his  drafts.  This  so  im- 
poverished him  that  he  Avas  obliged  to  sell  his 
estate,  and  retire  to  private  life.  He  Avas  al- 
ready the  author  of  several  successful  com- 
edies. He  now  betook  himself  to  writing  as 
a  means  of  support,  and  produced  numerous 
dramas,  poems,  essays,  three  novels,  and  his 
own  Memoirs,  published  in  1806.  Cumber- 
land Avrote  forty  dramatic  pieces,  the  best  of 
which  are  T]ie  West  Indian  (1771) ;  The  Jew 
(1791);  and  The  mieel  of  Fortune  (1795). 
Among  his  other  plays  are  The  Brothers 
(1709);  The  Fashionable  Lover  (1772);  The 
Choleric  Man  (1775) ;  The  Battle  of  Hastings 
(1778);  The  Carnielite  (1784);  The  Natural 
Son  {1785);  The  Walloons  (1782);  Confession 
(179G) ;  and  False  Imjyressions  (1797).  Among 
his  other  works  are  The  Observer,  a  collection 
of  essays  published  in  1785;  Anecdotes  of 
Eminent  Painters  in  Spain  (1782) ;  Arundel, 
a  novel  (1789) ;  Calvary,  or  the  Death  of 
Christ,  an  epic  poem,  (1792) ;  another  novel, 
Henry  (1795j,  and  his  last  poem.  Retrospec- 
tion (1811). 

FROM  THE   WKST  INDIAN. 

Stockvjell. — [Reading  a  letter.]  "Sir — I  write 
to  you  under  the  hands  of  the  hair-dresser.  As 
soon  as  I  have  made  myself  decent,  and  sHpped  on 
some  fresli  clothes,  I  will  ]\n\\\  the  honor  of  pay- 


RICHARD  CUMBERLAND.  423 

mg  you  my  devoirs.  Yours,  Belcour."  He  writes 
at  his  ease  ;  for  lie 's  unconscious  to  whom  his  let- 
ter is  addressed  ;  but  what  a  palpitation  does  it 
throw  my  heart  into— a  father's  heart !  'Tis  an 
affecting  interview.  When  my  eyes  meet  a  son, 
whom  yet  they  never  saw,  where  shall  I  find  con- 
stancy to  support  itV  Should  he  resemble  his 
mother,  I  am  overthrown.  All  the  letters  I  have 
had  from  him  (for  I  industriously  drew  him  into 
a  correspondence  with  me)  bespeak  him  of  quick 
and  ready  understanding.  All  the  reports  I  ever 
received  give  me  a  favorable  impression  of  bin 
character  ;  wild,  perhaps,  as  the  manner  of  his 
country  is  ;  but,  I  trust,  not  frantic  nor  unprinci- 
pled. 

[Enter  Servard.] 
Scrv.—Hlv,  the  foreign  gentleman  is  come. 

[Enter  Belcour.] 
Stock.— 'i,h:  Belcour,  I  am  rejoiced  to  see  you  : 
you  are  welcome  to  England  I 

Bel.—  I  tliank  you  heartily,  good  Mr.  Stock- 
well.  You  and  I  have  long  conversed  at  a  dis- 
tance ;  now  we  are  met ;  and  the  pleasure  this 
meeting  gives  me  amply  compensates  f  oV  the  perils 
I  have  run  through  in  accomplishmg  it. 

■Stof'/L'.—Wliat  perils,  Mr.  Belcour?  I  could  not 
ha\e  thought  you  would  have  made  a  bad  passage 
at  this  time  o'  year. 

TJc/.— Nor  did  we  :  conrier-like,  we  came  post- 
ing to  your  shores  upon  tlie  i>ini6ns  of  the  swift> 
est  gales  that  ever  blew  ;  'tis  upon  English  ground 
all  my  difficulties  have  arisen  ;  'tis  the  passage 
from  the  river-side  I  complain  of. 

Stock. — Ay,  indeed !  What  obstructions  can 
you  have  met  between  this  and  the  river  side? 

ffgj^ — Innumerable  !  Your  town  is  as  full  of  de- 
files as  the  island  of  Corsica  ;  and,  I  believe,  they 
are  as  obstinately  defended  :  so  much  hurry, 
bustle  and  confusion  on  your  quays  :  so  many 
sugar-casks,  porter-butts,  andcommon-councilmen 
in  your  streets,  that  unless  a  man  marched  with 
artillery  in  his  front,  "tis  more  than  the  labor  of 
Hercules  can  effect  to  make  any  tolerable  way 
through  vour  luwn. 


434  RICHARD  CUMBERLAND. 

Stock. — I  am  sorrv  vou  have  been  bo  incommo- 
ded. 

Bel. — Why,  "faith,  'twas  all  my  own  fault.  Ac- 
customed to  a  land  of  slaves,  and  out  of  patience 
with  tlie  whole  tribe  of  custom-house  extortion- 
ers, boat-men,  tide-waiters,  and  water-bailiffs, 
that  beset  me  on  all  sides,  worse  than  a  swarm  of 
musquitoes,  I  proceeded  a  little  too  roughly  to 
brush  them  away  with  my  rattan.  The  sturdy 
rogues  took  this  in  dudgeon,  and  beginning  to  re- 
bel, the  mob  chose  different  sides,  and  a  furious 
scuffle  ensued  ;  in  the  course  of  wliich,  my  person 
and  apparei  suffered  so  much,  that  I  was  obliged 
to  step  into  tlie  first  tavern  to  refit,  before  I  could 
make  my  approaches  in  any  decent  trim. 

Stock. — All  without  is  as  I  wish  :  dear  Nature 
add  the  rest,  and  I  am  happy  (Aside).  Well,  Mr. 
Belcour,  'tis  a  rough  sample  you  have  had  of  my 
countrymen's  spirit ;  but,  1  trust,  you  '11  not 
think  the  worse  of  them  for  it. 

Bel — Not  at  all,  not  at  all  :  I  like  them  the  bet- 
ter. Were  lonlj'  a  visitor,  I  might,  perhaps,  wish 
them  a  little  more  tractable ;  but  as  a  fellow-sub- 
ject, and  a  sharer  in  their  freedom,  I  applaud  their 
spirit,  thougli  I  feel  the  effects  of  it  in  every  bone 
of  my  skin. 

Stock — That's  well;  I  like  that  well.  How 
gladly  I  could  fall  upon  his  neck,  and  own  niy- 
self  his  father  !  (Aside.) 

—Act  I. 

[Enter  Lady  Rusport,  Leaning  on  Major  O'Flah- 
erty's  arm]. 

O'Fla. — Rest  yourself  upon  mj-  arm ;  never 
spare  it !  'tis  strong  enougli  ;  it  has  stood  harder 
service  than  jou  can  put  it  to. 

Lxicy. — Mercy  upon  me,  what  is  the  matter?  I 
am  frightened  out  of  my  wits.  Has  your  ladyship 
had  an  accident? 

Lady  R. — O  Lucy,  the  most  untoward  one  in 
nature  :  I  know  not  how  I  shall  repair  it. 

O'i^a.— Never  go  about  to  repair  it,  my  lady  ; 
even  build  a  new  one.  't  was  but  a  crazy  piece  of 
business  at  best. 


RICHARD  CUMBERLAND.  425 

Lucy. — Bless  me  !  is  the  old  chr^riot  broke  down 
with  you  again  ? 

Lady  Ji.— Broke,  child  !  I  don't  know  what 
might  have  been  In-oke,  if,  by  great  good  fortune, 
this  obliging  gentleman  had  not  been  at  hand  to 
assist  me. 

Lucy. — Dear  madam,  let  me  run  and  fetch  you 
a  cup  of  the  cordial  drops. 

Lady  it.— Do.  Lucy.  [^Exit  Lucy].  Alas,  sir, 
ever  since  I  lost  my  husband,  my  poor  nerves  have 
been  shook  to  pieces :— There  hangs  his  beloved 
picture  :  that  precious  relic,  and  a  plentiful  joint- 
ure, is  all  that  remains  to  console  me  for  the  best 
of  men. 

O'JP/o.— Let  me  sec.  I"  faith,  a  comely  person- 
age !  By  his  fur  cloak,  I  suppose  he  was  in  the 
Russian  service  :  atul  by  the  gold  chain  round  his 
neck,  I  should  guess  he  had  been  honored  with  the 
order  of  St.  Catharine. 

Lady  R. — No,  no ;  he  meddled  with  no  St. 
Catharines — that 's  the  habit  he  wore  in  his  may- 
oralty ;  Sir  Stephen  was  Lord  Mayor  of  London 
— but  he  is  gone,  and  has  left  me  a  poor,  weak, 
solitary  widow  behind  him.  {She  affects  to  cry ; 
then  throws  out  her  hand  to  the  Major,  which  he 
kisse>i\. 

O'Fia.— By  all  means,  then,  take  a  strong,  able, 
hearty  man  to  repair  his  loss  : — If  such  a  plain 
fellow  as  one  Dennis  OTlaherty  can  please  you,  I 
think  I  may  venture  to  say,  without  any  dispar- 
agement to  the  gentleman  in  the  fur  gown  there — 

Lady  R. — What  are  you  going  to  say  ?  Don't 
shock  my  ears  with  any  comparisons,  I  desire. 

O'Fla. — Not  I,  by  my  soul  :  I  don't  believe 
there's  any  comparison  in  the  case.     [Enter  Lucy]. 

Lady  R.—Oh,  are  you  oome  V  Give  me  the  drops 
—I  "m  all  in  a  flutter. 

O'F/a.— Hark  ye,  sweetheart  ;  what  are  those 
same  drops?  Have  you  any  more  left  in  the 
bottle?  I  didn't  care  if  I  took  a  little  sip  of  them 
myself. 

Lucy. — Oh.  sir,  they  are  called  the  cordial  restor- 
ative elLxir,  or  the  nervous  golden  drops ;  they 
are  onlv  for  ladies'  cases. 


'426  RICHARD  CUJIBERLAND. 

O'Fla. — Yes,  yes.  my  dear,  there  are  gentlemen 
as  well  as  ladies,  that  stantl  in  need  of  those  same 
golden  drops  ;  they  'd  suit  my  case  to  a  tittle. 

[Overtakes  Lucy,  oiid  jyrci'ails  on  her  to  give  him 
a  glass.     Returns  to  Lady  i?.] 

Lody  R. — Well.  Major,  did  you  give  old  Dudley 
my  letter,  and  will  the  silly  man  do  as  I  bid  him, 
and  be  gone  ? 

O'Fla. — YoTi  are  ol)eyed — he  's  on  his  march. 

Lady  R. — That's  well  ;  you  have  managed  this 
matter  to  perfection.  1  didn't  thmk  he  would 
have  been  so  easily  jire vailed  upon. 

O'Fla.— At  the  first  word  ;  no  difficulty  in  life  ; 
'twas  rho  very  tiling  he  was  determined  to  do  be- 
fore I  came.  I  never  met  a  more  obliging  gentle- 
man. 

Lady  R. — Well,  'tis  no  matter  ;  so  I  am  but  rid 
of  him,  and  his  distresses.  Would  jou  believe 
it.  Major  OTlahcrty.  it  was  but  this  morning  he 
sent  a-begging  to  me  for  money  to  lit  him  out  up- 
on some  wild-goose  expedition  to  the  coast  of  Afri- 
ca, I  know  not  where  ? 

O'Fla. — Well,  you  sent  him  what  he  wanted  ? 

Lady  R. — I  sent  him  what  he  deserved — a  flat 
refusal. 

O'Fla. — You  refused  him  ? 

Lady  R. — Most  undoubtedly. 

O'Fla. — You  sent  him  nothing? 

Lady  R. — Not  a  shilling. 

O'Fla. — Good  morning  to  you — your  servant — 

Lady  R. — Hey-day!  what  ails  the  man?  Where 
are  you  going? 

O'Fla. — Out  of  your  house  before  the  roof  falls 
on  my  head — to  poor  Dudley,  to  share  tiie  little 
modicum  that  thirty  yeare'  hard  service  has  left 
me  ;  I  wish  it  was  more,  for  his  sake. 

Lady  R. — Very  well,  sir  ;  take  your  course  ;  I 
shan't  attempt  to  stop  you  ;  I  shall  survive  it ; 
it  will  not  break  my  heart,  if  I  never  see  you 
more. 

O'Fla. — Break  your  heart  !  No.  o'  my  con- 
science, will  it  not.  You  preach,  and  you  pray, 
and  you  turn  up  your  eyes,  and  all  the  while  you 


KlCilAKD  CUMBERLAND.  421 

are  as  liard-hearted  as  a  hyena— A  liyeiia,  truly  ! 
])y  my  soul,  there  isn't  in  tlie  whole  creation  &o 
savage  an  animal  as  a  human  creature  •without 
pity!    [Exit]. 

Lady  It.— A  liyoua.  truly  !     [  E.vitl 

—Act  IV. 

AN   ACT  OB'  CHARITY. 

Splendida,  in  one  of  licr  morning  airings  was 
solicited  for  charity  bj'  a  poor  woman  with  an  in- 
fant in  her  arms. — "  It  is  not  for  myself,  Madam," 
said  the  wretched  creature,  "it  is  for  my  hus- 
band, who  lies  under  that  hedge  tormented  witii 
a  fever,  and  dying  for  want  of  relief." — Splendida 
directed  her  ca'cs  towards  the  spot,  and  saw  a  sick- 
ly object  stretched  upon  the  ground,  clad  in  the 
tattered  regimental  of  a  foot  soldier.  Her  heart, 
was  touched,  and  she  drew  out  her  purse,  which 
was  full  of  guineas  :  the  blood  rushed  into  tiie 
beggir  s  meagre  visage  at  the  sight  :  Splendida 
turned  over  the  gold  ;  her  hand  delayed  for  a 
moment,  and  the  impulse  was  lost;  uidiappily  for 
the  ;>upi)liant,  Splendida  was  alone,  and  without 
a  witness:  she  put  her  hand  once  more  into  l\er 
pocket,  and.  taking  out  a  solitary  shilling,  drop- 
ped it  into  the  shrivelled  hand  that  was  stretched 
out  to  receive  it,  and  drove  on. 

Splendida  returned  home,  dressed  herself.  an<l 
went  to  a  certain  gi-eat  lady's  assembly  ;  a  sub- 
scription was  put  about  for  the  benefit  of  a  cele- 
brated actress ;  the  lady  condescended  to  receive 
subscriptions  in  person,  and  delivered  a  ticket  to 
each  contributor.  Splendida  drew  forth  the  same 
purse,  and,  wrapping  twenty  guineas  in  a  paper, 
put  them  into  the  hand  of  the  noble  beggar  :  the 
room  rang  with  applauses  of  her  charity. — "J  give 
it,"  saj-s  she,  "to  her  virtues  rather  than  to  her 
talents  :  I  bestow  it  on  the  wife  and  mother,  not 
upon  the  actress.'' 

Splendida  on  her  return  home  took  out  her  ac- 
count book,  and  set  down  twenty-one  pounds  one 
shilling  to  the  article  of  charity  ;  the  shilling 
indeed  Heaven  audited  on  tlie  score  of  alms,  the 
pounds  v.-ere  posted  to  the  account  of  vanity.— TTie 
Obserr^er. 


428  JOHN  GUMMING. 

GUMMING,  John,  a  British  clergyman  and 
author,  born  in  1810,  died  in  1881.  He  was  of 
Scottish  birth,  was  educated  at  King's  Col- 
lege, Aberdeen,  and  in  1833  became  minister 
in  the  Scotch  Church,  Covent  Garden,  Lon- 
don. He  opposed  the  separation  of  the  Free 
Churcli  in  1843,  and  was  a  vigorous  adversary 
of  Roman  Catholicism.  His  sei*mons,  many 
of  which  Avere  upon  the  Prophecies,  attracted 
a  large  congregation.  Among  his  munerous 
publications  are  Apocalyptic  Sketches,  Lec- 
tures on  Christ's  Miracles,  Lectures  on  the 
Parables,  Lectures  on  Daniel,  Christ  our 
Passover,  The  Comforter,  T  o/ce.s  of  the  Night, 
Voices  of  the  Day,  Voices  of  the  Dead,  The 
Great  Conswnmafion,  The  Great  Tribulation, 
Benedictions,  Lectures  for  the  Times,  Chris- 
tian Patriotism,  The  Great  Sacrifice,  The 
Seventh  Vial,  and  God  in  History. 

WHERE  DWEIJ.ETH  RIGHTEOUSNESS. 

In  that  l)lossed  state  wherein  (lAvolleth  righteous- 
ness there  shall  l)C  no  more  misunderstanding  and 
misinterpretation  of  each  other.  The  worst  wars 
that  have  convulsed  the  earth,  and  scourged  the 
nations,  have  arisen  from  misunderstanding. 
There  sliall  be  there  no  uncharitableness  to  desire 
to  misinterpret ;  there  will  be  no  shadow  of  ill- 
will  upon  a  single  brow  ;  there  shall  be  no  ripple 
of  ill-feeling  i-ushing  through  the  channels  of  a 
single  heart  ;  they  shall  all  be  righteous,  saith  the 
Lord.  There  shall  be  no  ignorance  in  that  day  to 
lead  to  misapprehensions.  We  now  see  through  a 
glass  darkly.  I  believe  if  two  people  that 
heartily  hato  each  other — and  such  phenomena  do 
occur — were  to  see  each  other  as  they  are,  they 
Avould  shake  hands  and  embrace  each  other,  and 
marvel  at  the  misunderstanding  that  has  led  to 
their  discords,  tiieir  divisions  and  disputes.  It  is 
by  seeing  bits  of  each  other  that  we  misinterpret 
each  other  ;  and  it  is  by  putting  hasty  construc- 
tions upon  each  other's  words,  and  deeds,  and 
features  and  manner,  that  we  come  often  to  nn- 


ROUALEYN  GORDON  GUMMING.       429 

charitable  and  unrighteous  inferences  resjiecting 
each  other.  In  that  blessed  state  tliere  shall  be  no 
crime  to  stain  the  calendars  of  the  world,  or  to 
vex  the  souls  of  the  people  of  God.  Each  heart 
shall  be  the  lioly  chancel  in  which  God  dwells; 
eacli  spirit  shall  be  the  seat  of  the  very  Shechinah, 
and  be  consecrated  as  the  Holy  of  Holies  itself.  .  . 
Every  word  shall  be  true,  every  feeling  shall  be 
just,  every  aftection  love,  every  act  shall  be  righte- 
ous, as  measured  by  the  standard  of  heaven ; 
every  thought  shall  be  pure,  as  weighed  in  the 
sanctuary  of  the  Eternal ;  righteousness  shall 
dwell  in  every  heart,  its  illumination  ;  in  every 
affection,  its  warmth  ;  in  every  imagination,  its 
inspiration  ;  in  every  word,  its  music  ;  in  every 
deed,  its  coloring,  its  fragrance,  and  its  glory  ;  the 
whole  soul,  body,  and  spirit  shall  be  inlaid  with 
the  exquisite  and  imperishable  mosaic  of  righte- 
ousness, and  love,  and  peace,  and  joy  ;  and  no 
tides  of  change  or  streams  of  trouble  shall  pa?s  one 
ripple  or  cast  one  shadow  over  that  lirilliant  and 
beautiful  economy  ni  which  dwelieth  rigliteous- 
ness. — Tlie  Gveat  Consummation. 

GUMMING,  RouALEYN  Gordon,  a  Scottish 
sportsman  and  author,  born  in  1820,  died  in 
186G.  After  some  years  of  mihtary  service 
ill  India  and  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  he  left 
the  army  in  1843,  and  during  the  next  five 
years  made  several  hunting  expeditions  into 
South  Africa,  of  which  he  has  left  a  record  in 
his  Hunters  Life  in  South  Africa,  published 
in  1850.  He  Avas  about  the  earliest  describer 
of  lion  and  elephant-hunting  in  Africa;  and 
many  believe  that  for  his  almost  innumerable 
adventures  he  is  more  indebted  to  tancy  than 
to  fact. 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE   LION. 

One  of  the  most  striking  things  connected  with 

the  lion  is  his  voice,  which  is  extremely  grand  and 

peculiarly  striking.     It  consists  at  times  of  a  low, 

deep  moaning,  repeated  five  or  six  times,  ending 


4;j0  MARIA  S.  CUMMINS. 

ill  faintly  amiible  sighs  ;  at  otlit'r  times  he  startles 
tlie  forest  with  loud,  deep-toned,  solemn  roars,  re- 
peated live  or  six  times  in  quick  succession,  each 
increasing  in  loudness  to  the  third  or  fourth, 
\vlien  hisvoice  diesaway  in  five  or  six  low,  muilled 
sounds,  very  much  resembling  distant  thunder. 
At  times,  and  not  unfrequently,  a  troop  may  be 
heard  roaring  in  concert,  one  assuming  the  lead, 
and  two.  tlirce  or  four  more  regularly  taking  up 
their  parts,  like  persons  singing  a  catch.  They 
roar  loudest  in  cokl,  frosty  nights  ;  but  on  no  oc- 
casions are  their  voices  to  be  Ivard  in  such  per- 
fection, or  so  intensely  powerful,  as  when  two  or 
three  strange  troops  of  lions  approach  a  fountain 
to  drink  at  the  same  time.  AVhen  this  occurs, 
every  member  of  each  troop  sounds  a  bold  roar  of 
defiance  at  the  opposite  parties:  and  when  one 
roars,  all  roar  together,  and  each  seems  to  vie 
with  his  comrades  in  the  intensity  and  power  of 
his  voice.  The  ])ower  and  grandeur  of  these  noc- 
turnal forest  concerts  is  inconceivably  striking 
and  pleasing  to  tlie  hunter's  ear.  .  .  .  As  a  gen- 
eral rule,  lions  roar  during  the  night  ;  their  sigh- 
ing moans  commencing  as  the  shades  of  evening 
envelop  the  foivst,  and  continuing  at  intervals 
throughout  the  night.  In  distant  and  secluded 
regions,  Jiowevir,  I  have  constantly  heard  tliem 
roaring  loudly  as  late  as  nine  and  ten  o'clock  on  a 
bright  suimy  morning.  In  hazy  and  rainy  weatli- 
er  they  are  to  be  heard  at  every  hour  of  the  day, 
but  their  roar  is  subdued. — .1  Hunter's  Life  in 
South  Africa. 

(JCMMIN8,  !MariaS.,  an  American  novel- 
ist, born  in  J  827.  died  in  1860.  Her  firet  work. 
The  Lamplighter,  published  inl8.")3.  was  very 
successful.  Among  her  other  novels  arc  Ma- 
bel Vaughan  (1857),  El  Fureidis,  an  Elastern 
story  UB60),  and  Haunted  Hearts  (1863). 

GERTY  REASSURED. 

Wlien  Gcrty  awoke,  t^he  found  herself  the  sub- 
ject of  conversation.     Of  course  she  soon  became 


MARIA  S.  CUMMINS.  431 

deeply  interested.     "  Wliere.'   said    'Mr.    Cooper, 
"  djd  you  say  you  jiicked  her  up '; " 

"  At  Nan  Grant's,"  said  True.  '"Don't  you  re- 
member Jier  ?  She 's  tlie  same  woman  wliosesou  you 
were  called  up  to  witness  against,  at  the  time  the 
church-A\indo\vs  were  broken,  tlio  night  afore  the 
4th  of  July.  You  can't  have  forgotten  her  at  the 
trial.  Cooper  ;  for  she  blew  you  up  with  a  ven- 
geance, and  didn't  spare  his  Honor  the  Judge 
either.  Well,  'twas  just  such  a  rage  slie  was  in 
with  this  ere  child,  tlie  lirst  time  1  saw  her  ;  and 
the  second  time  she  'd  just  turned  her  out  o' 
doors." 

'"Ah,  yes,  I  remember  the  she-bear.  I  shouldn't 
suppose  she  'd  be  any  loo  gentle  to  her  own  child, 
uuich  less  a  stranger's  ;  but  what  ai'e  you  going 
to  do  with  the  foundling.  Flint?" 

•'  Do  with  her? — Keep  her,  to  be  sure,  and  take 
care  on  her." 

Cooper  laughed  i-ather  sarcastically. 

••  Well,  now,  I  s'pose,  neiglibor.  you  think  it 'a 
rather  freakish  in  me  to  be  ado|)tin"  a  child  at  mv 
time  o'  life  ;  and  ji'raps  it  is  ;  but  I  "11  explain  to 
you  just  how  'twas.  She  'il  a-died  that  night  I  tell 
ye  on.  if  I  hadn't  brought  her  home  with  me  ; 
and  a  good  many  times  since,  what  "s  more,  if 
1.  with  the  help  o'  your  darter,  hadn't  took 
mighty  good  care  on  her.  Well,  she  took  on  so 
in  her  sleep,  the  tirst  night  ever  she  came,  and 
cried  out  to  me  all  as  if  she  never  had  a  friend  be- 
fore (and  I  doi:bt  me  she  never  had),  that  I  made 
up  my  mind  then  she  should  stay,  at  any  rate, 
and  I  *d  take  care  on  her,  and  share  ray  last  crust 
with  the  wee  thing,  come  what  might.  The 
Lord  's  been  very  marciful  to  me,  Mr.  Cooper, 
very  marciful.  He 's  raised  me  up  friends  in  my 
deep  distress.  I  knew,  when  I  was  a  little  shaver, 
what  a  lonesome  thing  it  was  to  be  fatherless  and 
motherless  ;  and  when  I  see  this  little  siifferin'  hu- 
man bein'.  I  felt  as  if,  all  friendless  as  she  seemed, 
she-was  more  partickerly  the  Lord's,  and  as  if  I 
could  not  sarve  him  more,  and  ought  not  to  sarve 
him  less,  than  to  share  with  her  the  blessins  he 
has  bestowed  on  me.     You  look  round,  neighbor. 


432  MARIA  S.  CUMMINS. 

as  if  Tou  thouglit  'twant  much  to  share  with  any 
one  ;  and  'taut  much  tliere  is  here,  to  he  sure  ; 
but  it 's  a  liome — yes,  a  home  ;  and  tliat's  a  great 
thing  to  her  that  never  had  one.  I"ve  got  my 
hands  yet,  and  a  stout  heart,  and  a  willin'  mind. 
With  God's  lielp,  I  "11  be  a  father  to  that  child  ; 
and  the  time  may  come  when  she  '11  be  God's  em- 
bodied blessin'  to  me." 

Mr.  Cooper  shook  his  liead  doubtfully,  and 
muttered  something  about  cliildren — even  one's 
own — not  being  apt  to  prove  blessings.  But  lie 
liad  not  power  to  shake  Truemau's  high  faith  in 
the  wisdom,  as  well  as  righteousness,  of  his  own 
proceedings.  He  had  risen  in  the  earnestness 
with  wliich  he  had  spoken,  and,  after  i)a(ing  the 
room  hastily  and  with  excitement,  he  returned  to 
his  seat,  and  said, 

"  Besides,  neighbor  Cooper,  if  I  liad  not  made 
up  my  mind  the  night  Gerry  came  here,  I 
wouldn't  liavp  sent  lier  away  after  the  next  day  ; 
for  the  Lord,  I  tliink  spoke  to  me  by  the  mouth  of 
one  of  his  holy  angeLs,  and  bade  me  persevere  in 
my  resolution.  You've  seen  Miss  Graham.  .  .  , 
Well  may  I  bless  her  angel  face,  poor  thing  I — if 
the  world  is  dark  to  her,  she  makes  it  light  to 
other  ffilks.  She  cannot  see  Heaven's  sunshine 
outside  :  but  she  's  better  ofi  than  most  people,  for 
she  's  got  it  in  her,  I  do  believe,  and  when  she 
smiles  it  lets  the  glory  out,  and  looks  like  God's 
rainbow  in  the  clouds.  ...  I  told  her  all  about 
little  Geriy  ;  and  I  tell  you  she  and  I  both  cried 
■fore  I'd  done.  She  put  some  money  into  my 
hand,  and  told  me  to  get  Miss  Sullivan  to  make 
some  clothes  for  Gerty  ;  more  than  that,  she 
promised  to  help  me  if  I  got  into  trouble  with  the 
care  C)f  her :  and  when  1  Avas  going  a\\  ay.  she 
said.  '  I  m  sure  you've  done  quite  riglit.  True; 
the  Lord  will  bless  and  reward  your  kindness  to 
that  poor  child.  '' 

True  was  so  excited  a,nd  animated  by  his  sub- 
ject, that  ho  did  not  notice  what  the  sexton  Jiad 
observed,  but  did  not  choose  to  interrupt.  Gerty 
had  risen  from  her  bed  and  was  standing  beside 
True,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  his  face,  breathless  with 


MARIA  S.  CUMMINS.  433 

the  interest  she  felt  in  his  words.  She  touched 
his  slioulder ;  he  looked  round,  saw  her,  and 
stretched  out  liis  arras.  She  spranp;  into  them, 
huried  her  face  in  his  bosom,  and.  bursting  into  a 
paroxysm  of  jojful  tears,  gasped  out  the  words, 
"Shall  I  stay  with  you  always  V 

"Yes,  just  as  long  as  I  live,"  said  True,  "you 
shall  be  my  child.'" — T7ie  Lamplighter. 

A  FUXERAL    TRAIN. 

All  nature  drooped,  for  the  sirocco  was  abroad, 
that  blasting  wind  which  brings  with  it  a  thick 
atmosphere,  covers  the  sky  with  vapor,  and  saps 
the  vitality  alike  of  the  animal  and  vegetable 
world.  .  .  .  The  stillness,  loo.  was  oppressive.  It 
would  have  been  refreshing  lo  catch  some  natural 
sound,  something  which  might  betoken  a  wel- 
come. But  all  nature  was  silent.  The  Syrian 
peasant  usually  sings  cheerily  at  his  work  ;  but 
not  only  was  the  plougliman's  voice  unheard,  the 
plough  itself  seemed  to  be  forsaken.  Even  when 
the  travelers  had  gained  the  precincts  of  the  vil- 
lage, and  its  cottages  were  glimmering  through 
the  haze,  one  might  almost  have  believed  that  a 
deep  sleep  had  fallen  upon  the  place,  the  stillness 
•was  so  unbroken. 

But  all  do  not  sleep,  for  hark  !  surely  there  is 
the  sound  of  the  bell.  Yes,  the  church-bell,  and 
it  is  not  the  Sabbath.  Is  it  the  density  of  the  at- 
mosphere which  makes  the  sound  so  muffled?  is 
it  faintness  of  heart  which  makes  it  seem  to  the 
listener  so  hollow,  funereal,  and  cold  ?  No,  it  is 
the  tolling  bell — and  the  convent  bell  tolls  too  :  and 
across  the  opposite  valley  comes  the  toll  of  some 
other  sympathetic  chime.  And  what  is  that  just 
glimmering  through  the  fog,  and  gliding  ghost- 
like around  the  tower  of  the  church  ?  How  noise- 
lessly it  moves  on,  like  some  opaque  mass,  borne 
along  by  the  mist !  how  like  a  long,  dark  wreath 
of  smoke  it  winds  up  the  curving  pathway,  and 
melts  into  the  distance  !  It  is  difficult  to  distin- 
guish any  object  in  the  dim  procession,  but  now 
and  then  the  fog  lifts  a  little,  and  the  floating 
bodv  takes  substance  and  form.     Whar  a  contrast 


4i^4  ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 

does  it  pi-esent  to  the  bridal  train,  which,  only  a 
few  months  ago,  made  the  village  gay  witli  its 
music,  its  shouts,  and  its  decorations  glistening  in 
the  sunshine  ! 

Now  one  may  see,  darkly  as  through  a  cloud, 
figures  that  move  slowly,  keeping  time  to  the  toll- 
ing bell  ;  here  the  hazy  opening  discloses  a  band 
of  sturdy  artisans,  strong-limbed  and  firm,  march- 
ing gravely  in  single  file.  A  gi-oup  of  children 
follow,  huddled  together,  clinging  to  each  other's 
hands,  and  looking  back  over  their  shouldei's; 
they  watch  the  a])proacIi  of  an  old  man,  who, 
witli  bare  head  and  snowy  locks,  precedes  a  com- 
pany of  rustic  youths,  moving  in  double  line,  and 
bending  as  if  in  their  midst  tliey  bore  a  burden. 
A  strongly-built  man  and  a  frail  girl  come  next  : 
he  totters,  but  she  moves  liko  one  who  treads  the 
clouds  beueatli  her  feet ;  he  leans  heavily  on  Jier 
arm.  but  she  bears  him  bravely  up  :  it  is  the  weak 
supporting  tlie  strong.  Sweeping  robes  and  white 
veils  mingle  witli  the  fog,  as  the  village  matrons 
in  their  turn  file  past;  the  mui-lin  folds  that  hang 
suspended  from  their  tall  tantours  falling  heavily, 
like  the  melanchoh*  sails  which  in  a  calm  at  sea 
cling  idly  to  the  masts.  Dark  and  sombre  is  the 
column  that  brings  up  the  rear  of  this  sad  proces- 
sion. It  consists  of  the  3Iaionite  friars,  whoso 
withered  faces,  black  robes,  and  monkish  cowls, 
no  less  than  their  dejected  air,  make  them  worthy 
representatives  of  the  mournful  scene  in  which 
they  bear  a  part. — El  Fureidis. 

CUNNINGHAM,  Allan,  a  Scottish  author, 
bom  in  Dumfriesshire,  in  178(5,  died  in  London 
in  1843.  He  was  apprenticed  to  a  stone 
mason;  but  earh^  showed  a  decided  literary 
capacity.  He  was  engaged  by  Crornek  to  aid 
him  in  collecting  the  Remains  of  Nifhsdale 
and  Galloxvay  Song.  The  work  was  published 
in  ISIO;  and  it  soon  appeared  that  a  consider- 
able part — and  by  far  the  best — was  composed 
by  Cunningham  himself.  At  the  age  of 
twenty-live  he  went  to  London,  and  for  four 


ALL.VN  CUNNINGHAM.  485 

years  supported  himself  by  manual  and 
literary  Avork.  In  1814  ho  became  connected 
with  Sir  Francis  Chantrey,  the  sculptor,  as 
contldential  clerk  and  general  manager  of  his 
artistic  establishment.  This  connection  re- 
mained unbroken  until  the  death  of  Chantrey 
in  1841;  and  Cunningham  lived  only  a  few 
months  longer. 

During  these  years  with  Chantrey,  Cun- 
ningham found  time  to  write  nuich,  in  vari- 
ous departments  of  literature.  His  principal 
works,  with  their  dates,  are:  Sir  Marma- 
duke  Maxicell,  a  dramatic  Poem  (1S25) ;  Lives 
of  Eminent  British  Pmnters,  Sculptors,  and 
Architects  (1829-1833);  Biocjraphical  and 
Critical  History  of  the  last  Fifty  Years  (1833) ; 
an  edition,  with  a  Memoir,  of  The  Works  of 
Robert  Burns ;  and  The  Life  of  Sir  David 
Wilkie,  completed  only  two  days  before  his 
own  death.  An  edition  of  The  Poems  and 
So7igs  of  Allan  Cunningham  was  in  1847  pre- 
pared by  his  son,  Peter  Cunningham.  These 
Poems  and  Songs,  are  mainly  but  not  wholly, 
in  the  Scottish  dialect. 

it's  II.\ilE,    AND  it's  IIAJIE. 

It's  hame,  and  it's  hame.  hame,  fain  wad  I  be 
An'  it 's  hame,  hame.  hame  to  my  ain  countrie  ! 
When  the  llower  is  i*  the  bud,  and  the  leaf  is  on 

the  tree. 
The  lark  shall  sing  me  hame  in  my  ain  countrie. 
Hame.  hame,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I  be, 
Oh,  hame,  hame,  hame.  to  my  iiin  countrie  ! 

The  green  leaf  o'  loyalty  's  beginning  for  to  fa', 
The  bonny  white  rose  it  is  withering  an'  a'; 
But  I  '11  water 't  wi'  the  blade  of  usurping  tyranuie, 
An*  green  it  will  grow  in  my  ain  countrie. 
Hame.  hame,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I  be. 
Oh,  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countrie ! 

Tliere's  naught  frae  ruin  my  country  can  save, 
But  the  keys  o'  kind  heaven  to  open  the  grave, 


43C  ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 

That  a*  the  noble  martyrs  wha  died  for  loyaltie, 
May  rise  again  and  figlit  for  their  ain  countrie. 
It  "s  hame,  and  it  "s  hanie,  hame  fain  wad  I  be, 
An'  it's  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  am  countrie  ! 

The  great  are  now  gane,  a'  wha  ventured  to  save, 
The  new   grass  is  springing  on  the  tap  o'  their 

grave. 
But  the  sun  through  tlie  mirk  blinks  blithe  in  my  ee, 
"  I  "11  sliine  on  you  yet  in  yer  ain  countrie." 
It's  Imme,  and  it 's  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I  be, 
An'  it's  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countrie. 

A   AVET  SHEET  AND   A   FLdWIXG  SEA. 

A  wet  sheet  nnd  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  thiit  follows  fast. 
And  fills  the  wliite  and  rustling  sail, 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast  ; 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While,  like  the  engle  free. 
Away  the  good  ship  flies  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 

*•  Oh  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind  ! " 

I  heart]  a  fair  one  cry  ; 
But  give  to  me  the  snorting  breeze 

And  white  waves  heaving  high  : 
And  white  waves  heaving  liigh,  my  boys, 

The  goml  ship  tight  and  free  : — 
The  world  of  waters,  is  our  home. 

And  merry  men  are  we. 
There  "s  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud  ; 
And  hark  the  music,  mariners  : 

The  wind  is  piping  loud  ! 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys. 

The  lightning  flashes  free— 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is. 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

THE  SPRING  OF  THE  YEAR. 

Gone  were  but  the  Winter  cold, 
And  gone  were  but  the  pnow, 

I  could  sleep  in  the  wild  woods 
Where  primroses  blow. 


ALLAN  CL'NN1>;(J11AM.  437 

Cold  "s  tlie  snow  at  my  head, 

And  cold  at  my  feet : 
And  the  finger  of  Death  's  at  my  een, 

Closing  them  to  sleep. 

Let  Jione  tell  my  father. 

Or  my  mother  so  dear  : — 
I  "11  meet  them  both  in  heaven, 

At  the  Spring  of  the  year. 

SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS  AT  HOME. 

There  was  something  singular  in  the  style  and 
economy  of  his  table  that  contributed  to  pleasant- 
ry and  good  humor— a  coarse,  inelegant  plenty, 
without  any  regard  to  order  or  aiTangement.  A 
table  prepared  for  seven  or  eight  often  compelled 
to  contain  fifteen  or  sixteen.  When  this  pressing 
difficulty  was  got  over,  a  deficiency  of  knives  and 
forks,  plates  and  glasses,  succeeded.  The  attend- 
ance was  in  the  same  style  ;  and  it  was  absolutely 
necessary  to  call  instantly  for  beer,  bread,  or  wine, 
that  you  might  be  supplied  before  the  first  course 
was  over.  He  was  once  prevailed  on  to  furnish 
the  table  with  decanters  and  glasses  for  dinner, 
to  save  time  and  prevent  the  tardy  inanceuvres  of 
two  or  three  occasional,  undisciplined  domestics. 
As  these  accelerating  utensils  were  demolished  in 
the  course  of  service,  Sir  Joshua  could  never  be 
persuaded  to  replace  them. 

But  these  trifling  embarrassments  only  served 
to  enhance  the  hilarity  and  singular  pleasure  of 
the  entertainment.  The  wine,  cookery,  and  dishes 
were  but  little  attended  to,  nor  was  the  fish  or 
venison  ever  talked  of  or  recommended.  Amid 
this  convivial,  animated  bustle  among  his  guests, 
our  host  sat  perfectly  composed,  always  attentive 
to  what  was  said,  never  minding  what  was  eat  or 
drunk,  but  loft  every  one  at  perfect  Hberty  to 
scramble  for  himself.  Temporal  and  spiritual 
peers,  physicians,  lawyers,  actors,  and  musicians, 
composed  the  motley  group,  and  played  their 
parts  without  dissonance  or  discord.  At  five 
o'clock  precisely,  dinner  was  served,  whether  all 
the  invited  guests  were  present  or  not.  Sir  Josh- 
ua was  never  so  fashionably  ill-bred  as  to  wait  an 


4iiH  ALLAN  ri  XNlNGIiAM. 

hour,  perhaps,  for  t%vo  or  three  persons  of  rank  or 
title,  and  put  the  rest  of  the  company  out  of  liu- 
inor  by  this  invidious  distinction. — Lives  of  Paint- 
ers and  Sculptors. 

Four  of  the  sons  of  Allan  Cunningham  ac- 
quired a  respectable  place  in  literature: 
Alexander,  born  in  1814,  entered  the  army, 
in  which  he  rose  to  the  rank  of  Major-general. 
He  was  educated  at  the  ]\Iilitary  College  at 
Addisconibe;  in  1834  became  aide-de-camp  to 
the  Governor-general  of  India,  and  was  sub- 
sequently employed  in  important  diplomatic 
service.  Besides  numerous  papers  in  periodi- 
cals, he  has  written,  an  Essay  on  the  Aryan 
Order  of  Architecture  (1840);  The  Bhilsa 
Topes,  or  Buddhist  Monuments  of  Central 
India  (IS'A) ;  and  Ladak,  Physical,  Statisti- 
cal, and  Historical  (1854).— Peter  (181G-1869), 
entered  the  civil  service,  from  which  he  re- 
tired in  1860.  While  a  mere  boy  he  wrote  a 
Life  of  Drummond  of  Haicthornden  (1833) ; 
and  subsequently  produced  many  other 
works,  among  which  are:  Songs  of  England 
and  Scotland  (1835) ;  Hand-booJc  of  Westmins- 
ter Abbey  (1842) ;  Life  of  Liigo  Jones  (1848) ; 
The  Hand-book  of  London  (1849);  Modern 
London  (1851) ;  The  Story  of  Nell  Giuynne 
(1852);  and  a  Memoir  of  J.  M.  W.  Turner 
(1852).  He  also  edited  the  works  of  Gold- 
sinith;  a  new  edition,  with  additions,  of 
Johnson's  Lives  of  the  Poets;  and  was  a  fre- 
quent contributor  to  literary  jicriodicals. — 
Joseph  Da VEY  (1812-1851)  was  a  Captain  of 
Engineers  in  the  Indian  army,  was  appointed 
to  draw  up  official  Reports  on  various  subjects, 
and  wrote  a  valuable  History  of  the  Sikhs 
(1849).— Francis  (1820-1875),  became  a  Lieu- 
tenant-colonel in  the  Indian  army.  He  edited 
the  dramatic  works  of  Marlowe,  Massinger, 
and  Ben  Jonson,  and  was  a  frequent  contrib- 
utor to  literary  periodicals. 


OTWAV  CURRV.  439 

CURRY,  Otway,  an  American  lawyer, 
journalist,  and  poet,  born  in  1804  at  Green- 
field, died  in  1855  at  Marysville,  Ohio.  He 
became  locally  known  by  poems  contributed 
to  Western  newspapers,  mainly  while  work- 
ing on  his  farm.  In  1S3G  he  began  the  study 
of  law,  and  commenced  successful  practice 
three  years  afterwards.  Ho  Avas  elected  to 
the  Legislature  of  Ohio  in  183G,  1837,  and 
1842.  He  first  became  connected  with  jour- 
nalism in  1838,  when,  in  connection  with  Mr. 
William  D.  Gallagher  he  started  The  Hespe- 
rian, the  earliest  literary  periodical  west  of 
the  Alleghanies.  From  1842  to  1844,  ho  edit- 
ed and  published  The  Xenia  Torchlight ;  and 
in  1853,  having  abandoned  the  practice  of  laAv, 
he  purchased  The  Sciota  Gazette,  at  Chili- 
cothe,  Ohio.  A  volume  of  his  Poems  was  pub- 
lished in  1854. 

THE  LOST  PLEIAD. 

Millions  of  ages  gone. 
Didst  thou  survive,  in  thy  enthroned  place, 
Amidst  the  assemblies  of  the  starry  race, 

Still  shining  on,  and  on. 

And  even  in  earthly  time 
Thy  parting  beams  their  olden  radiance  wore, 
And  greeted,  from  thy  dim  cerulean  shore, 

The  old  Chaldaean  clime. 

Sages  and  poets,  strong 
To  rise  and  walk  the  waveless  tirmament, 
Gladly  to  thee  their  richest  offerings  seni. 

Of  eloquence  and  song. 

But  thy  far-flowing  light, 
By  Time's  mysterious  shadow  overcast, 
Strangely  and  dimly  faded,  at  the  last, 

Into  a  nameless  night 

Along  the  expanse  serene, 
Of  clustering  arch  and  castellated  zone, 
With  orbed  sands  of  tremulous  gold  o'erstrown. 

No  more  couldst  thou  be  seen. 


440  OTWAY  C'UKRY. 

bay,  whitlier  wanderest  thou? 
Do  unseen  heavens  thy  distant  path  illume?— 
Or  press  the  shades  oi  everlasting  gloom 

Darkly  upon  thee  now  ? 

Around  thee,  far  away. 
The  hazy  ranks  of  multitudinous  spheres, 
Perchance,  are  gathering  to  prolong  the  years 

Of  thy  unwilling  stay. 

Sadly  our  thoughts  rehearse 
The  story  of  thy  ^^  ild  and  wondrous  flight 
Through  the  deep  deserts  of  the  ancient  night, 

And  far-ofT  universe. 

We  call— we  call  thee  back, 
And  suns  of  many  a  constellation  bright 
Sliall  weave  the  waves  of  their  alluiiug  light 
O'er  thy  returning  track. 

KINGDOM   COME. 

I  do  not  believe  the  sad  story 

Of  ages  of  sleep  in  the  tomb  ; 
I  shall  pass  far  away  to  the  glory 

And  grandeur  of  Kingdom  Come. 
The  paleness  of  death,  and  its  stillness, 

May  rest  on  my  brow  for  awhile  ; 
And  my  spirit  may  lose  in  its  chillness 

The  splendor  of  Hope's  happy  smile. 

But  the  gloom  of  the  grave  will  be  transient, 

And  light  as  the  slumbers  of  worth  ; 
And  then  I  shall  blend  with  the  ancient 

And  beautiful  forms  of  the  earth. 
Through  the  climes  of  the  sky  and  the  bowers 

Of  bliss  evermore  I  shall  roam, 
Wearing  crowns  of  the  stars  and  the  flowers 

That  glitter  in  Kingdom  Come. 

The  friends  who  have  parted  before  me 

From  life's  shadowy  passion  and  pain, 
When  the  shadow  of  death  passes  o'er  me 

Will  smile  on  me  fondly  again. 
Their  voices  were  lost  in  the  soundless 

Retreats  of  their  endless  home  : 
But  we  soon  shall  meet  in  the  boundless 

EiTulgence  of  Kingdom  C!ome. 


GEORGE  TICKNOR  CLTRTIS.  441 

CURTIS.  George  Ticknor,  an  American 
jurist  and  author,  born  at  Watertown,  Mass., 
November  28,  1812.  He  graduated  at  Har- 
vard in  1832,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in 
1836.  He  commenced  the  practice  of  his  pro- 
fession at-Northfield,  Mass.,  but  soon  re- 
moved to  Boston,  where  he  remained  until 
1862,  when  he  took  up  his  residence  at  New 
York.  "While  residing  in  Boston,  he  held  for 
a  time  the  office  of  United  States  Commis- 
sioner; acting  in  that  capacity',  in  1851,  ho 
ordered  the  return  to  his  master  of  Thomas 
Sims,  who  was  claimed  as  a  fugitive  slave. 
For  this  official  act  he  was  bitterly  censured 
by  the  opponents  of  slavery. 

Mr.  Curtis  has  published  many  strictly  pro- 
fessional works,  several  of  which  are  held  in 
high  esteem.  Besides  these  he  has  written  a 
Life  of  Daniel  Webster  (1855-1858);  Last 
Years  of  Daniel  Webster  (1878);  Memoirs  of 
his  Father  (1879) ;  and  The  Life  of  James 
Buchanan  (1883).  His  most  important  work 
is  The  Histori/  of  the  Origin,  Formation,  and 
Adoption  of  the  Constitution  of  the  United 
States  (185.5-1858). 

THE  CONSTITUTION  OF  THE  UNrTED  STATES. 

The  history  of  this  Constitution  is  not  like  the 
history  of  monarchy,  iu  which  some  things  are 
obsolete,  while  some  are  of  present  importance. 
The  Constitution  of  the  United  States  is  a  living 
code  for  the  perpetuation  of  a  system  of  free 
government,  which  the  people  of  each  succeeding 
generation  must  administer  for  themselves.  Every 
line  of  it  is  as  operative  and  binding  to-day  as  it 
was  when  the  govei'nment  was  first  set  in  motion 
by  its  provisions  ;  and  no  part  of  it  can  fall  into 
neglect  or  decay  while  that  government  continues 
to  exist. 

The  Constitution  of  the  United  States  was  the 
means  by  which  republican  liberty  was  saved  from 
the  consequences  of  impending  anai-chr  ;   it  se- 


443  (JKOKCiK  TlCKN(Jl;  fLHTIS. 

cureti  tliat  liberty  to  posterity,  and  it  left  it  to  de- 
pend on  their  fidelity  to  tho  Union.  It  is  morally 
certain  that  the  formation  of  some  General  Gov- 
ernment, stronger  and  more  efficient  than  any 
which  existed  since  the  independence  of  the  States 
had  Ijoen  declared,  had  become  necessarj'  to  the 
continued  existence  of  the  Confederacy.  It  is 
equally  certain  that,  without  the  preservation  of 
the  Union,  a  condition  of  things  must  at  once  have 
enbued  out  of  wliich  wars  iM^tweeii  the  various 
provinces  of  America  must  have  grown.  The 
alternative';,  therefore,  tiiat  j)resonted  themselves 
to  tho  generation  by  whom  the  Constitution  was 
establishefl,  were  either  to  devise  a  system  of 
Kopulilican  Government  that  would  answer  the 
great  purjxises  of  a  lasting  union,  or  to  resort  to 
Momething  in  the  nature  of  ^lonarchy.  With  the 
latter,  the  institutions  of  the  States  must  have 
been  sooner  or  later  cruslied  ; — for  they  must  either 
have  crumbled  away  in  the  new  combinations  and 
fearful  convulsions  that  would  have  preceded  the 
establishment  of  such  a  power,  or  they  must  have 
fallen  speedily  after  its  triumph  had  lieen  settled. 
AVith  the  former  alternative,  the  preservation  of 
the  States,  and  of  all  the  needful  institutions 
which  marked  their  separ.ate  existence,  though  a 
diflScult.  was  yet  a  ])ossible  result. 

To  tliis  preservation  of  the  separate  States  we 
owe  that  power  of  minute  local  administration 
which  is  so  prominent  and  important  a  feature  of 
our  American  liberty.  To  this  we  are  indeVjted  for 
those  principles  of  self-government  which  place 
their  own  interests  in  the  hands  of  the  people  of 
every  distinct  community,  and  which  enable 
them,  by  means  of  their  own  laws,  to  defend  their 
own  particular  institutions  against  encroachments 
from  without. 

Finally,  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States 
made  the  people  of  these  several  provinces  one 
Nation,  and  gave  them  a  standing  among  the  na- 
tions of  the  world.  Let  any  man  compare  the  con- 
dition of  this  country  at  the  peace  of  1783,  and 
during  the  four  years  which  followed  that  event, 
with  its  present  position,  and  he  will  see  that  h© 


GEORGE  TICKNOR  rURT[8.  443 

must  look  to  some  otlier  causG  than  its  merely 
natural  and  material  resources  to  account  for  the 

proud  elevation  which  it  has  now  reached 

Looking  back  to  the  period  which  is  removed 
from  liim  only  l)y  the  span  of  one  mortal  life,  and 
looking  around  and  before  him.  lie  will  see  that 
among  the  causes  of  our  une(iualeil  growth  stands 
prominent  and  decisive,  far  over  all  other  human 
agencies,  the  great  code  of  civil  government 
which  the  fatliers  of  our  republic  wrought  out 
from  the  very  perils  by  whicli  they  were  sur- 
rounded. 

It  is  for  the  purpose  of  tracing  the  history  of 
the  period  in  which  these  perils  were  encountered 
and  overcome,  that  I  have  written  this  work. 
But  in  doing  it,  I  have  sought  to  write  as  an 
American.  P^or  it  is,  I  trust,  impossible  to  study 
the  history  of  the  Constitution  which  has  made  us 
what  we  are,  by  making  us  one  nation,  without 
feeling  how  unwortliv  of  the  subject — how  un- 
worthy of  the  dignity  of  History — would  be  any  at- 
tempt to  claim  more  than  their  just  share  of  merit 
and  renown  for  names  or  jilaces  endeared  to  us 
by  local  feeling  or  traditionary  att:ichment.  His- 
torical writing  that  is  not  just,  that  is  not  impai-tial, 
that  is  not  fearless — looking  beyond  the  interests 
of  neighborhood,  the  claims  of  party,  or  the  solic- 
itations of  pride — is  worse  than  useless  to  man- 
kind.— Preface  to  History  of  the  Constitution. 

ATTITUDE     IN     WHICH    MR.     BUCHAN'AN    LEFT    THE 
GOVERNMENT. 

During  the  time  of  the  formation  of  the  Pro^^s- 
ional  Confederacy  of  tlie  Cotton  States  not  only 
was  Congress  in  session,  and  not  only  did  it  neg- 
lect to  do  anything  to  strengthen  the  hands  of  the 
Executive,  but  if  the  President  had,  without  the 
authority  of  law  issued  u  call  for  volunteers,  it 
would  not  have  been  responded  to.  It  is  true 
that  some  Northern  Legislatures  passed  resolu- 
tions tendering  men  and  money  to  the  United 
States.  But  how  could  such  offers  have  been  ac- 
cepted and  acted  upon  by  the  Executive  without 


444  GEORGE  TR'KNOR  CURTIS. 

the  autliority  of  law?  How  could  a  regiment,  or 
an  army  of  regiments,  have  been  marched  by  the 
President  into  Georgia  or  Mississippi,  to  prevent 
the  adoption  of  u  secession  ordinance  ?  .  .  .  "War 
upon  a  State  or  a  People,  must  have  a  legal  basis, 
if  those  who  wage  it  are  to  be  entitled  to  the  piivi- 
leges  and  immunities  of  soldiers.  On  the  other 
hand  to  enforce  tlie  laws  of  the  United  States 
against  the  obstructions  ]mt  in  the  way  of  their 
execution  by  individuals  or  unlawful  combina- 
tions, was  not  to  make  war.  But  for  this  purpose 
Mr.  Buchanan  could  not  obtain  from  Congress  the 
necessary  means.  ...  It  required  all  the  excite- 
ment which  followed  the  bombardment  of  Fort 
Sumter,  all  the  monstrous  uprising  of  the  North 
produced  by  tiiat  event,  to  secure  a  response  to 
President  Lincoln's  irregular  call  for  75.000  men, 
in  April,  1801. 

But  it  was  in  the  power  of  President  Buchanan 
to  liold  the  Border  States  back  from  the  secession 
movement  until  his  succe.'^sor  could  take  the  reins 
of  Government ;  and  this  dutv  he  successfully 
performed.  Notwithstanding  the  failure  of  Con- 
gress to  second  his  efforts  to  preserve  the  Union 
unbroken  by  anything  but  the  secession  of  South 
Carohna ;  notwithstanding  the  failure  of  the  Peace 
Convention  to  propose  anything  that  Congress 
would  accept,  Virginia,  North  Carolina,  Mary- 
land, Kentucky — and  even  Tennessee  and  Mis- 
souri— had  not  seceded  or  taken  any  steps  to  se- 
cede, on  the  4th  of  March.  1861.  The  same  con- 
servative sentiment  which  still  animated  the  best 
portion  of  the  people  of  those  States  kept  them 
from  the  vortex  of  secession.  They  did  not  yet 
regard  the  election  of  Mr.  Lincoln,  by  a  purely 
sectional  vote  of  the  non-slaveholding  States,  as  a 
BufEcient  cause  for  l^reaking  up  the  Union.  They 
still  looked  to  his  administration  for  measures  that 
■would  i)revent  a  civil  war  ;  still  looked  to  the 
Federal  Government  for  a  redress  of  all  the  griev- 
ances of  which  any  of  the  States  could  complain. 
So  that  when  Mr.  Buchanan  laid  down,  and  Mr. 
Lincoln  took  up,  the  powers  of  the  Executive,  the 
problem  which  remained  for  the  latter,  and  which 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS.  445 

Mr,  Buchanan  left  for  him  in  the  best  attitude 
that  it  couid  be  made  to  assume,  was  how  to  keep 
those  Border  Stales  from  joining  the  Southern 
Confederacy,  as  thej^  had  been  kept  from  it 
liitherto. 

This  was  largely — almost  exclusively — a  matter 
for  the  Execvitive,  unless  indeed,  he  should  think 
it  best  to  call  the  new  Congress— then  legally  ex- 
isting—together immediately,  and  insist  on  its 
doing  what  the  preceding  Congress  had  neglected. 
This  course  was  not  at  once  adopted,  and  conse- 
quently everything  depended  upon  the  dealing  of 
the  Executive  with  the  Confederate  Commission- 
ers, who  were  then  in  Wasinngton,  respecting  the 
evacuation  of  Fort  Sumter.  Mr,  Buchanan  had  in 
no  way  tranniielled  his  successor  by  negotiations 
with  those  Commissioners.  He  had,  in  fact,  de- 
clined all  intercourse  with  them  ;  and  it  was  en- 
tirely optional  with  Mr.  Lincoln  to  do  the  same 
thing  ;  as  it  was  entirely  open  to  him  to  determine 
M-hether  he  would  or  would  not  order  the  evacua- 
tion of  that  fort,  and  to  shape  his  measures  ac- 
cordingly. Thus  far,  an  attack  upon  Major  An- 
derson's position  had  been  prevented  by  the  efforts 
of  Virginia,  and  by  the  prudent  course  pursued  by 
Mr.  Buchanan.  It  was  to  be  expected  that  the 
Southern  Commissionei-s  would  be  most  persistent 
in  their  demands.  But  by  no  act,  or  word,  or 
omission  of  the  outgoing  President,  had  his  suc- 
cessor been  placed  under  any  obligations  to  yield 
to  those  demands,  or  even  to  consider  them.  .  ,  . 
Mr.  Lincoln,  therefore,  assumed  the  Government 
without  a  single  admission,  by  his  predecessor  of 
the  right  of  secession,  or  of  any  claim  founded 
upon  it ;  without  any  obligation,  other  than  the 
duty  of  preventing  civil  war,  to  hold  even  an  in- 
formal negotiation  with  the  Confederate  Commis- 
sioners; with  thirteen"*  miUions  of  people  in  the 
Border  States  still  in  the  Union,  and  not  likely  to 
leave  it  unless  blood  should  be  shed.— Life  of  Bu- 
chanan, Vol,  IL,  Chap.  XXV. 

CURTIS,  George  William,  an  American 
journalist  and  publicist,  born  at  Providence, 


446  GEORGE  AVILLIAM  CURTIS. 

R.  I.,  Febniary  24,  1824.  His  father,  a  man 
of  considerable  estate,  removed  to  New  York 
in  18.39.  and  placed  his  son  as  clerk  in  a 
mercantile  house.  In  1842,  he  went  -with  an 
elder  brother  to  the  Brook  Farm  Institution 
at  Euxbury,  Jlass..  where  they  remained  a 
year  and  a  half,  after  which  the  brothers  went 
upon  a  farm  at  Concord,  Ma.ss.,  where  they 
took  part  in  ordinary  agricultural  labor  for 
another  year  and  a  half,  and  then,  for  one 
season  cultivated  a  small  piece  of  land  for 
themselves. 

In  1H46,  Mr.  Curtis,  then  being  twenty-two 
years  old.  started  upon  a  forei;^'n  tour.  About 
three  years  were  passed  in  Italy  and  Ger- 
man}', when  lie  set  out  for  the  East,  going  up 
the  Nile  as  far  as  the  Cataracts;  then  visited 
Syria,  the  entire  absence  being  about  four 
years.  The  impressions  of  this  Eastern 
journey  were  given  in  two  works,  Nile  Notes 
of  a  llou'ddji  (1850),  and  The  Hoivadji  in 
Syria  (1852).  Shortly  after  his  return  from 
the  East,  he  joined  the  editorial  staff  of  the 
Neiv  York  Tribune ;  among  his  contribu- 
tions were  a  series  of  graceful  letters  from 
various  watering-places,  which  were  subse- 
quently i.ssued  in  a  volume  entitled  Lotas- 
Eating.  Upon  the  establishment  of  Put  nam's 
Monthly,  in  1852.  Mi".  Curtis  became  one  of 
its  editors  and  a  frequent  contributor.  After- 
wards the  proprietorship  of  the  Magazine  fell 
into  the  hands  of  a  Company,  in  which  Mr. 
Curtis  was  a  partner,  though  not  taking  part 
in  the  business  management.  This  Company 
became  insolvent  in  ISaJ":  and  Mr.  Curtis  lost 
his  whole  moderate  fortune.  Moreover,  a 
near  kinsman  had  put  a  considerable  sum  of 
monej' into  the  concern,  as  a  "special  part- 
ner," but  owing  to  some  technical  error,  he 
•was legally  liable  as  a  "general  partner"  for 
the  large  indebtedness  of  the  Company.     Mr. 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS.  447 

Curtis  held  himself  morally  responsible  for 
the  reimbursement  oi"  this;  and  set  himself  at 
work  to  earn  the  money  by  his  pen  and  as  a 
public  lecturer.  It  Avas  not  until  1S73 — fully 
sixteen  years — that  this  task  was  fully  accom- 
plished. Many  of  the  contributions  of  Mr. 
Curtis  to  Pj<^?iam«  Monthly  have  been  pub- 
lished in  volumes,  under  the  titles,  The  Poti- 
phar  Papers  and  Pnie  and  I. 

Soon  after  the  failure  of  Puttianis  Monthly 
Mr.  Curtis  formed  the  special  connection  with 
the  Publishing  House  of  Harper  and  Brothers, 
which  has  continued  to  the  present  time.  In 
1858  he  began  the  publication  in  Harper'^ 
Magazine  of  the  series  of  papers  entitled  ' '  The 
Editor's  Easy  Chair,"  wiiich  have  appeared 
monthly  ever  since.  Harper's  Weekly  wases"- 
tabhshod  in  1857;  and  he  was  a  regular  con- 
tributor from  an  early  period.  For  it  ho 
wrote  (1858-59)  Trumps,  his  only  regular 
novel.  Harper  s  Bazar  was  established  in 
1867,  and  to  it  Mr.  Curtis  furnished  weekly  a 
series  of  papers  entitled  "Manners  upoii  the 
Road,"  which  were  continued  until  1873, 
when,  having  accomplished  his  self-imposed 
task  of  paying  off  the  old  indebtedness,  here- 
tired  from  the  regular  lecturing  field. 

Harper's  Weekly  began  to  assume  a  politi- 
(•al  aspect  early  in  the  Civil  Wan  Of  this 
journal  Mr.  Curtis  became  Editor-in-Chief, 
about  1875.  Though  taking  an  active  part  in 
politics  he  has  never  held  any  strictly  public 
office,  other  than  that  of  Chairman  of  the 
Civil  Service  Commission  (1871-1873);  and 
since  1864  he  has  been  one  of  the  Regents  of 
the  University  of  the  State  of  New  York.  At 
the  Presidential  election  of  1884,  Mr.  Curtis 
was  one  of  the  Republicans  who  refused  to 
accept  the  nomination  of  Mr.  Blaine.  Their 
defection  from  the  regular  party  nomination 
was  sufficient  to  give  the  electoral  voct  of  the 


448  GEORGE  WILLI  AIM  CURTIS. 

State  of  New  York  to  Mr.  Cleveland,  and  thus 
to  secure  his  election  as  President. 

The  '"Easy  Chair,"  papert?— now  number- 
ing more  than  Ihroe  himdred — constitute 
probably  a  full  half  of  all  the  writings  of  Mr. 
Curtis.  Apart  from  these,  and  several  liter- 
ary addresses  and  other  pamphlets,  all  of  his 
works  hitherto  published  have  been  already 
indicated. 

THE  DRAGOMAN. 

The  Dragoman  is  of  four  species  :  The  Maltese, 
or  ihe  able  knave  ;  tlie  Greek,  or  the  cunning 
knave  :  the  Syriaii,  or  the  aetive  knave  ;  and 
the  Egyptian,  or  the  stupid  knave.  They 
wear,  generally,  the  Eastern  costume.  But  the 
Greeks  often  sport  bad  liats  and  coats,  and  call 
themselves  Christians.  They  are  the  most  ig- 
norant, vain,  incapable,  and  unsatisfactory  class 
of  men  that  the  wandering  Howadji  meets.  They 
travel  constantly  the  same  route,  yet  liave  no  eyes 
to  see  nor  cars  to  hear.  If  on  the  Nile,  they  smoke 
and  sleep  in  the  boat.  If  on  the  desert,  they 
smoke  and  sleep  on  the  camel.  If  in  Syria,  they 
smoke  and  sleep,  if  they  can,  on  the  horse.  It  is 
their  own  comfort,  their  own  convenience  and 
profit,  which  they  constantly  pursue.  The  How- 
adji is  a  bag  of  treasure  thrown  by  a  kind  fate  up- 
on their  shores;  and  they  are  tlie  wreckers  who 
squeeze,  tear,  and  pull  him — top,  bottom,  and 
sideways — to  bleed  him  of  his  burden. 

Tliey  should  be  able  to  give  you  every  informa- 
tion about  your  boat,  and  what  is  necessary,  and 
what  useless.  Much  talk  you  do  indeed  get,  and 
assurance  that  everything  will  be  accuratel}-  ar- 
ranged :  but  you  are  fairly  afloat  upon  the  Nile 
before  you  discover  how  lost  upon  the  dragoman 
have  been  all  his  previous  voyages.  "With  miser- 
able weakness  they  seek  to  smooth  the  moment, 
and  perpetually  baffle  your  plans  by  telling  j-ou, 
not  the  truth,  but  what  they  suppose  you  wish  the 
truth  to  be.  Nothing  is  ever  more  than  an  hour 
or  two  distant.     Thev  involve  vou  in  absurd  ar' 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS.  449 

rangements  because  ''  it  is  the  custom,"  and  he  is 
a  hardy  Howadji  who  struggles  against  tlie  vis 
intcrtice  of  ignorant  incapacity  and  miserable 
clieating  through  tlie  wliolo  tour. 

Active  intelligence  on  the  Howadji's  part  is 
very  disgust  nig  to  them.  If  he  scrutinizes  his  ex- 
penses, if  he  pretends  to  know  his  own  will  or 
way — much  more  to  have  it  executed — the  end  of 
things  clearly  appn)aches  to  the  dragomatic  mind. 
The  small  knaveries  of  cheating  in  the  price  of 
every  thing  purchased,  and  in  the  amount  oibnck- 
aheesh,  or  gratuity,  on  all  occasions,  are  not  to  be 
seriously  heeded,  b-ecause  they  are  universal.  The 
real  evils  are  the  taking  you  out  of  your  %vay  for 
their  own  comfort ;  the  favoring  of  a  poor  i-est- 
ing-place  or  hotel,  because  they  are  well  paid 
there  ;  and  the  universally  unreliable  informa- 
tion that  they  afford.  Were  they  good  servants, 
it  were  some  consolation  ;  but  a  servile  Eastern 
cannot  satisfy  the  Western  idea  of  good  service. 
Perhaps  it  was  a  bad  year  for  dragomen,  as  it  was 
for  potatoes.  But  sueh  was  the  result  of  univer- 
sal testimony.— iV?7c  Notes  of  a  Howadji. 

JERUSALEM. 

Within  the  walls.  Jerusalem  is  among  tiie  mobt 
picturesque  of  cities.  It  is  very  small.  You  can 
walk  quite  round  it  in  less  than  half  aa  hour. 
There  are  only  some  17,000  inhabitants,  of  whom 
nearly  half  are  Jews.  The  material  of  the  city  is 
a  cheerful  stone,  and  so  massively  are  the  lofty 
blind  house-walls  laid,  tliat  in  pacing  the  more 
solitary  streets,  you  seem  to  be  threading  the 
mazes  of  a  huge  fortress.  Often  the  houses  extend 
over  the  street,  which  winds  under  them  in  dark 
archways  :  and  where  there  are  no  over-hanging 
b  lildings.  there  are  often  supports  of  masonry 
thrown  across  from  house  to  house.  There  are  no 
windows  upon  the  street,  except  a  few  picturesque 
projecting  lattices. 

Jerusalem  is  an  utter  ruin.  The  houses  so  fair 
in  seeming,  are  often  all  crumbled  away  upon  the 
interior.  The  arches  are  shattered,  and  vines  and 
flowers  wave  and  bloom  down  all  the  vistas.   The 


450  GEORCJE  WILLIAM  CURTIS. 

streets  are  never  straight  for  fifty  rods  ;  but  climb 
and  wind  witli  broken  steps,  and  the  bold  build- 
ings thrust  out  buttressed  corners,  graced  Avith 
luxuriant  growtlis,  and  arched  with  niclies  for 
statue  and  fountain.  It  is  a  mass  of  "  beautiful 
bits,"  as  artists  say.  And  j-oii  will  see  no  fairer 
sight  in  the  world  than  liio  groups  of  brilliantly- 
draped  Orientals  emerging  into  the  sun,  from  the 
vine-fringed  darkness  of  the  arched  doorways.  .  . 

The  Mosque  of  Omar  occupii-s  the  site  of  Solo- 
mon's Temi)le — about  an  eighth  of  the  area  of  the 
whole  city.  It  is  the  niostlK'auTit'ulobjwt  in  Jerusa- 
lem, and  the  most  graceful  liuilding  in  the  East.  It 
isnot  masbivunor  magnificent:  but  the  dome — bulb- 
ous, like  all  Oriental  domes — is  so  aerial  and  elegant 
that  the  eye  lingers  to  see  it  float  away,  or  dissolve 
in  the  ardent  noon.  .  .  .  TJie  beautiful  building 
stands  within  a  spacious  inclosure  of  green  Jawn 
and  arcades.  Olive,  orange,  and  cypress-trees 
grow  around  the  court,  which,  in  good  sooth,  is  a 
••little  heaven  Ijelow"  for  the  Muslim,  wiio  lie 
dreaming  in  the  .soft  shade,  from  morning  to 
night.  It  is  a  foretaste  of  Paradise,  in  kind — ex- 
cepting the  riouries  :  for.  although  the  mosques 
are  not  forbidden  to  women,  Mohammed  said  it 
would  be  better  for  them  to  have  prayers  read  by 
eunuchs  in  their  own  apartments. 

In  the  picturesiiue  gloom  and  briglitness  of  the 
city,  the  mosque  is  a  dream  of  heaven  also  even 
to  the  Unljelievers.  There  are  many  entrances ; 
and,  as  you  saunter  under  tiie  dark  archways  of 
the  streets,  and  look  suddenly  up  a  long  dim 
arcade  upon  the  side,  you  perceive,  closing  the 
vista,  the  sunny  green  of  tlie  mosque  grounds, 
and  feel  the  warm  air  stealing  outward  from  its 
silence,  and  see  the  men  and  women  and  children 
praying  un<ler  the  trees.  Or,  at  sunset,  groups  of 
reverend  Muslim  pass  down  the  narrow  street,  re- 
turnirig  from  prayer,  lookijig  like  those  Jewish 
Doctors  who,  in  the  old  pictures,  haunt  the  temple 
on  this  very  site.  It  is  an  "  amiable  tabernacle  *' 
that  you  behold.  You  feel  how  kindly,  how  cog- 
nate to  the  affections  of  piety,  are  the  silence  and 
fi«cedom  of  this  temple — its  unaffected  sobriety  ; 


GEOROE  W  iLLlA.M  CURTIS.  451 

the  sunny  spaces  upon  marble  terraces,  and  the 
rich  gloom  of  orange  darkness  in  which  the  young 
children  play,  and  the  fountains  sing  :  so  that  no 
place  on  earth  is  so  lovely  to  those  children,  or  so 
much  desirtiil.  .  .  . 

The  beautiful  mosque  is  the  centre  of  pictur- 
esque and  poetic  interest  in  this  city,  and  we  were 
pleasantly  lodged  not  far  from  it.  At  night  the 
moonlight  slept  along  the  still,  steep  Via  Doloro- 
sa, which  we  saw  from  our  window,  and  the 
Mount  of  Olives  rose  dark  against  the  east.  At 
morning  the  song  of  birds,  mingling  with  the 
muezzin's  cry,  awakened  us  ;  and  Jerusalem  lay 
so  silent  in  the  Syrian  day  that  Marianna  in  the 
Moated  Grange  was  not  awakened  to  more  slum- 
berous stillnesri. 

We  step  into  the  streets,  half  wondering  if  there 
is  any  population  there.  Blear-eyed,  melancholy 
spectres  swarm  along  the  narrow  ways,  trailing 
lillliy  garments,  but  witli  intense  .scorn  of  the 
clean  Unbelievers.  Lepers  sit  by  the  sunny  walls, 
and  your  soul  cries,  "  Unclean  I  unclean  1 "'  wliile 
you  loosen  your  purse-strings.  Pilgrims  of  all 
kinds  and  faiths  pass,  wondering,  and  the  trade  of 
Jerusalem  is  in  religious  relics.  In  this  metropo- 
lis of  three  religions— Islam,  Christianity,  and 
Judaism— only  the  fii-st  and  last  have  eachasingle 
external  feature  that  is  beautiful  in  remembrance  : 
The  Mosque  of  Omar,  and  the  Wailing  at  the 
Stones  of  the  Tem.ple.  The  Christianity  i)eculiar 
to  Jerusalejn  is  unmitigatedly  repulsive.  —  TJie 
Howaclji  ill  Syria. 

NIAGARA. 

Disappomtment  in  Niagara  seems  to  be  affected 
or  I'hildish.  Your  fancies  may  be  very  different, 
but  the  regal  reality  sweeps  them  away  like  weeds 
and  dreams.  You  may  have  nourished  some  im- 
possible idea  of  one  ocean  pouring  itself  over  a 
precipice  into  another.  But  it  was  a  wild  whim 
of  inexperience,  and  is  in  a  moment  forgott-en.  If 
standing  upon  the  bridge  as  you  cross  to  Goat  Isl- 
and, you  can  watch  tho  wild  sweep  and  swirl  of 
the  wat^'rs  arotmd  the  wooded  point  above,  dash- 


452  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS. 

ing,  swelling,  and  raging,  but  awful  from  the  in- 
evitable and  resistless  rusli,  and  not  feel  that  your 
fancy  of  a  sea  is  paled  by  the  chaos  of  wild  water 
that  tumbles  towards  you.  then  you  are  a  child, 
and  tlie  forms  of  your  thoughts  are  not  precise 
enough  for  tlie  profoundest  satisfaction  in  great 

natural  spectacles 

And  yet  you  have  not  seen  the  Fall.  You  are 
coming  with  its  waters,  and  are  at  its  level.  But 
groups  of  persons,  sitting  upon  yonder  point, 
which  we  see  througli  the  trees,  are  looking  at  the 
Cataract.  We  do  not  pause  for  them,  we  run 
now,  down  the  path,  along  the  bridges,  into  the 
Tower,  and  lean  fur  over  where  tlie  spray  cools 
our  faces.  The  living  water  of  the  rapids  moves 
to  its  fall,  as  if  torpid  with  terror  ;  and  the  river 
that  we  saw,  in  one  vast  volume  now  pours  over 
the  parapet,  and  makes  Niagara.  It  is  not  all 
stricken  into  foam  as  it  falls,  but  the  densest  mass 
is  smooth,  and  almost  of  livid  green.  Yet  even  as 
it  plunges,  see  how  curls  of  spray  exude  from  the 
A-ery  substance  of  the  mass,  airy,  sparkling,  and 
wreathing  into  mist — emblems  of  the  water's  res- 
urrection into  summer  clouds.  Looking  over  into 
the  abyss,  we  behold  nothing  below  :  we  hear 
only  a  slow  constant  tlmnder  ;  and,  bewildered  in 
the  mist,  dream  that  the  Cataract  lias  cloven  the 
earth  to  its  centre ;  and  tliat,  pouring  its  waters 
into  the  fervent  inner  heat,  they  hiss  into  spray, 
and  overhang  the  fated  Fall,  the  sweat  of  its 
agony. — Lotus-Eating. 

'•OUR  BEST  SOCIETY." 

If  gilt  were  only  gold,  or  sugar-candy  common 
sense,  what  a  fine  thing  "  Our  Society  "  would  be  1 
If  to  lavish  money  upon  objets  de  vertn,  to  wear 
the  most  costly  dresses,  and  always  to  have  them 
cut  in  the  height  of  fashion  :  to  build  houses 
thirty  feet  broad  as  if  they  were  palaces ;  to 
furnish  them  with  all  the  luxurious  devices  of 
Parisian  genius  ;  to  give  superb  banquets  at  which 
your  guests  laugh,  and  which  make  you  miser- 
able ;  to  drive  a  fine  carriage,  and  ape  European 
liveries  and  crests,  and  coats-of-arms :    to  resent 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS.  433 

the  friendly  advances  of  your  baker's  wife,  and 
the  lady  of  your  butcher  Cyou  being  yourself  a 
cobbler's  daughter) ;  to  talk  much  of  "the  old 
families,"  and  of  your  aristocratic  foreign  friends  ; 
to  despise  lator  ;  to  prate  of  "good  society:"  to 
travesty  and  parody,  in  every  conceivable  way,  a 
society  whicli  we  know  only  in  books,  and  by  the 
superficial  observation  of  foreign  travel,  wiiich 
arises  out  of  a  social  orj^anization  entirely  un- 
known to  us,  and  which  is  opposed  to  our  funda- 
mental and  fssential  principles  : — if  ail  this  were 
line,  what  a  prodigiously  fine  "Society"  would 
ours  be  '.—The  Potiphar  Papers. 

THE  POTIPHARS  IN'  PARIS. 

The  other  evening  we  went  to  the  ball  at  the 
Tuileries,  and  oh  !  it  was  splendid.  Tiiere  were 
«nie  Duke,  and  three  Marquises,  and  a  great  many 
Counts  presented  to  me.  They  all  said,  "It's 
charming  this  evening;"  and  I  said,  "Very 
charming  indeed."    Wasn't  it  nice  ? 

■But  you  should  have  seen  Mrs.  Potiphar  when 
the  Emperor  Napoleon  III.  spoke  to  her.  You 
know  Avhat  a  great  man  he  is,  and  wliat  a  bene- 
factor to  his  country  ;  and  how  pure  and  noblt; 
and  upright  his  private  character  and  career  have 
been  ;  and  how,  as  Kurz  Pacha  says,  he  is  radiant 
with  royalty,  and  honors  everybody  to  whom  he 
speaks.  W'ell.  Mrs.  P.  was  presented,  and  sank 
almost  to  the  ground  in  her  reverence.  But  slie 
actually  trembled  with  delight  when  the  Emperor 
said,  "Madame,  I  remember  with  the  greatest 
pleasure  the  beautiful  city  of  New  York." 

I  am  sure  the  Empress  Eugenie  would  have 
been  jealous,  could  she  have  heard  the  tone  in 
which  it  was  said.  Wasn't  it  affable  in  such  a 
o-reat  monarch  towards  a  mere  republican?  I 
wonder  how  people  can  slander  him  so,  and  tell 
such  stories  about  him.  I  never  saw  a  nicer  man  : 
only  he  looks  so  sleepy.  I  suppose  the  cares  of 
State  oppress  him,  poor  man  !  But  one  thing  you 
may  be  sure  of  :  if  people  at  home  laugh  at  the 
Emperor  and  condemn  him,  just  find  out  if  they 
have  ever  been  invited  to  the  Tuileries.      If  not, 


454  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS. 

you  will  understand  the  reason  of  their  liatred. 
Mi's.  Potiphar  says  to  the  Americans  here  that  she 
can't  hear  the  Emperor  spolcen  against,  lor  they 
are  on  the  best  of  terms.  .  .  . 

I  tliink  Mr.  Potiphar  is  rather  disconsolate.  He 
^vllistles  and  looks  out  cf  the  window  down  into 
tlio  garden  of  the  Tuileries,  where  the  children 
play  under  the  trees ;  and  as  he  looks  he  stops 
whititling,  and  gazes,  sometimes  for  half  an  hour. 
And  whenever  he  goes  out  afterward,  he  is  sure  to 
buy  something  for  Fredd}-.  Wlien  the  shopkeeper 
asks  where  it  shall  be  sent,  Mr.  P.  says,  in  a  loud, 
slow  voice,  "Hotel  Mureece,  Katteryvang-sank- 
trorsyaim." — It  is  astonishing,  as  Kurz  Pacha 
said,  tliat  we  are  not  more  respected  abro:id. 
*•  Foreigners  will  never  know  what  you  really 
are,"'  s;nd  he  to  Mr.  P.,  "until  they  come  to  you. 
Your  going  to  them  liaa  failed." — The  Potiphar 
Papers. 

MY  C.VSTLES  IN   SPAIN. 

It  i.s  not  easy  for  me  to  say  how  I  know  so  much 
as  I  certainly  do  about  my  Castles  in  Spain.  Tho 
sun  always  shines  upon  tiiem.  They  stand  lofty 
and  fair  in  a  luminous  golden  atniosphere,  a  little 
hazy  and  dreamy,  perhaps,  like  the  Indian  Sum- 
mer, but  in  which  no  gales  blow,  and  tiiere  ai'e  no 
tempests.  All  the  sublime  mountains,  and  beauti- 
ful valleys,  and  soft  landscape  that  I  have  not  yet 
seen,  are  to  be  found  in  my  grounds.  They  com- 
mand a  noble  vit-w  of  the  Alps  ;  so  fine,  indeed, 
that  I  should  be  quite  content  with  the  prospect 
of  them  from  the  highest  tower  of  my  castle,  and 
not  care  to  go  to  Switzerland.  .  .  . 

The  Nile  Hows  through  my  grounds.  The  Des- 
ert lies  upon  their  edge,  and  Dani;i.scus  stands  in 
my  garden,  I  am  given  to  understand  also  that 
the  Parthenon  has  been  removed  to  my  Spanish 
possessions.  Th.e  Golden-Horn  is  my  tish-preserve, 
my  flocks  of  golden  fleece  are  pastured  on  the 
plain  of  Marathon,  and  the  honey  of  Hymettus  is 
distilled  from  the  flowei^s  that  grow  in  the  vale  of 
Enna — all  in  my  Spanish  domains. 

Fiom  the  windows  of  those  castles  look  the 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS.  455 

beautiful  •v\-omen  wliom  I  have  never  seen,  whose 
portraits  tlie  poets  have  ])ainted.  Tliey  wait  for 
me  there  :— and  chiefly  the  fair-haired  child,  lost 
to  my  eyes  so  long  ago.  now  bloomed  into  an  im- 
possible beauty.  The  lights  tliat  never  shone, 
glance  at  evening  in  tlie  vaulted  halls  upon  ban- 
quets that  were  never  spread.  The  bands  that  I 
have  never  collected  play  all  night  long,  and  en- 
chant into  silence  the  beautiful  company  that  was 
never  assembled.  In  the  long  summer  mornings 
the  children  that  I  never  had  jAny  in  the  gardens 
that  I  never  i)lanted.  I  hear  their  sweet  voices 
sounding  low  and  far  away,  calling.  "Father! 
father  I "'  I  see  the  lost  fair-Iiaired  girl,  now- 
grown  into  a  woman,  now  descending  the  stately 
stairs  of  my  Cattle  in  Spain,  stepping  out  upon 
the  lawn,  and  playing  with  those  children.  Tliey 
bound  away  together  down  the  garden  ;  but 
those  voices  linger,  this  time  airily  calling,  "Mo- 
ther !   mother!"  .... 

Plays  are  insufferable  to  me  here.  Prne  and  I 
never  go ;  Prue,  indeed,  is  not  quite  sure  it  is 
moral.  But  the  theatres  in  ni}'  Spauisli  castles 
are  of  a  prodigious  splendor  ;  and  when  I  think  of 
going  there,  Prue  sits  in  a  front  box  Mith  me — a 
kind  of  royal  box — the  good  woman  attired  m  such 
wise  as  I  have  never  seen  her  here  ;  while  I  wear 
my  white  waistcoat,  whicli  in  Spain  has  no  ap- 
pearance of  mending,  but  dazzles  with  an  im- 
mortal newness,  and  is  a  miraculous  fit. 

Yes,  and  in  these  Castles  in  Spain,  Prue  is  not 
the  placid  breeches-patching  helpmate,  with  whom 
^■ou  are  acquainted  but  her  lace  has  a  bloom 
which  we  botii  remember,  and  her  movements  a 
grace  which  jny  Spanish  swans  emulate  ;  and  her 
voice  a  music  sweeter  than  those  which  orchestras 
discourse.  She  is  always  there  what  she  seemed 
to  me  when  I  fell  in  love  vrith  her,  many  and  many 
years  ago.  The  neighbors  called  her  then  a  nice, 
capable  girl  ;  and  certainly  she  did  knit  and  darn 
with  a  zeal  and  success  to  wliicli  ni}-  feet  and  legs 
have  testified  for  nearly  half  a  century.  But  she 
could  spin  a  finer  web  tlian  ever  came  from  cot- 
ton, and  in  its  bublio  meshes  mv  heartAvas  entan- 


456  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CLTiTIS. 

gled,  and  there  has  reposed  softly  and  happily  ever 
since.  Tlie  iiei;^hl>ois declared  that  slie  could  make 
a  pudding  and  cake  better  than  any  p;ii'l  of  her 
age;  but  stale  bread  from  Prue's  hand  ^vas  am- 
brosia to  my  palate.  "  She  who  makes  everything 
well — even  to  making  her  neighbors  speak  well  of 
her — will  surely  make  a  good  wife,"  said  I  to  my- 
self, when  1  knew  her  ;  and  the  echo  of  half  a  cen- 
tury answers,  "A  good  wife." 

So,  when  I  meditate  my  Spanish  Castles,  I  see 
Prue  in  them,  as  my  heart  saw  her  standing  by 
her  father's  door.  "Age  cannot  wither  her." 
There  is  a  magic  in  the  Spanish  air  that  jiaralyzes 
Time.     He  glides  by,  unnoticed  and  unnoticing. 

I  greatly  admire  the  Alps,  which  I  see  so  dis- 
tinctly from  my  Spanish  windows  ;  I  delight  in 
the  taste  of  the  southern  fniit  that  ripens  upon 
my  terraces;  I  enjoy  the  ])ensive  shaiie  of  tiio 
Italian  ruins  in  my  gardens;  I  like  to  shoot  croco- 
diles, ami  talk  with  the  8[»hinx  upon  the  shoretJ 
of  the  Nile,  flowing  through  my  domain  :  I  am 
gla<l  to  drink  sherbet  m  Damascus,  and  fleece  my 
flocks  on  the  plains  of  Maratlion  : — but  I  would 
resign  all  these  forever  rather  than  part  with  tiiat 
Spanisli  portrait  of  Prue  for  a  day.  Nay,  have  I 
not  resigned  them  all  forever,  to  live  with  that 
portrait's  changing  original : — Prue  and  J. 

charlj:s  sumnek. 
This  is  the  great  victorv-,  tiie  great  lesson,  the 
great  legacy  of  his  life,  that  the  fidelity  of  a  pub- 
lic man  to  conscience — not  to  part}- — is  rewarded 
with  the  sincerest  popular  love  and  confidence. 
"What  an  inspiration  to  every  youth  longing  with 
generous  ambition  to  enter  the  great  arena  of  the 
State,  that  he  must  heed  first  and  always  tiie 
divine  voice  in  his  own  soul,  if  he  would  be  sure 
of  tlie  sweet  voices  of  good  fame  !  Living,  how 
Sumner  served  us  !  and  dying,  at  this  monient 
how  he  serves  us  still  I  In  a  time  when  politics 
seem  peculiarly  mean  and  selfish  and  corrupt, 
when  there  is  a  general  vague  apprehension  that 
the  very  moral  foundations  of  the  national  char- 
acter are  loosened,  when  good  men  are  painfully 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS.  4o7 

anxious  to  know  whether  the  lieart  of  the  people 
is  hardened.  Charles  Sumner  dies ;  and  the  univer- 
sality and  sincerity  of  sorrow,  such  as  the  deatii 
of  no  man  left  living  among  us  could  awaken, 
show  liow  titie,  how  sound,  how  generous,  is  still 
the  I)eart  of  the  American  people.  This  is  the 
dying  sei-vice  of  Charles  Sumner,  n.  revelation 
which  inspires  every  American  to  bind  his  shining 
example  as  a  frontlet  between  the  ej^es,  and  never 
again  t  despair  of  the  higher  and  more  glorious 
destiny  of  his  country. 

And  of  that  destiny  what  a  foreshadowing  was 
he  !  In  that  beautiful  home  at  the  suimy  and  leafy 
corner  of  the  National  CJity,  where  he  lived  among 
books  and  pictures,  and  noble  friendships,  and 
lofty  thoughts — the  home  to  which  he  returned  at 
the  close  of  each  day  in  the  Senate,  and  to  which 
the  wise  and  good  from  every  land  naturally 
came— how  the  stately,  and  gracious,  and  ail-ac- 
complished man  seemed  the  very  jiei-sonitication 
of  that  new  union  for  which  he  had  so  manfully 
striven,  and  whose  coming  his  dying  eyes  beheld 
— the  union ^f  ever  wider  liberty  and  juster  law, 
the  America  of  comprehensive  intelligence,  and  of 
moral  power  !  For  that  he  stands  ;  up  to  that, 
his  imperishable  memory,  like  the  words  of  his 
living  lips  forever  lifts  us — lifts  us  to  his  own  great 
faith  in  America  and  in  man.  Suddenly  from 
his  strong  hand— '•  My  father,  my  father,  the 
chariot  of  Israel,  and  the  hoi-semen  thereof  ! " — 
the  banner  falls.  Be  it  oiu-s  to  grasp  it,  and  caiTy 
it  still  forward,  still  higher  ! 

Our  work  is  not  his  work,  but  it  can  be  well 
done  only  in  his  spirit.  And  as  in  the  heroic  le- 
gend of  your  western  valley,  the  men  of  Hadley, 
faltering  in  the  fierce  shock  of  Indian  battle,  sud- 
denly saw  at  their  head  the  lofty  form  of  an  un- 
known captain,  with  white  hair  streaming  on  the 
wind,  by  his  triumphant  mien  strengthening  their 
hearts  and  leading  them  to  victory,  so,  men  and 
women  of  Massachusetts— of  America — if  in  that 
national  conflict  already  begun,  as  vast  and  vital 
as  the  struggle  of  his  life— the  contest  which  is  be- 
yond that  of  any  party,  or  policy,  or  measure — 


408  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS. 

the  contest  for  conscience,  intelligence,  and  mor- 
ality as  tlio  supreme  power  in  our  politics,  and 
the  sole  salvation  of  America— you  should  falter 
or  fail,  suddenly  your  hearts  shall  see  once  more 
the  towering  form,  shall  hear  again  the  inspiring 
voice,  shall  be  exalted  anew  with  the  moral  ener- 
gy and  faith  of  Ciiarles  Sumner  ;  and  the  victories 
of  his  immortal  example  shall  transcend  the  tri- 
umphs of  his  hie.— Eulogy,  in  the  State  House, 
Boston,  March  10,  187-i. 

WENDELL  PHILLIPS. 

This  memorial  night  is  not  a  tribute  to  official 
service,  to  literary  genius,  toscientitic  distinction; 
it  is  homage  to  personal  character.  It  is  the 
solemn  puljlic  declaration  that  a  life  of  tran- 
scendent jjurity  of  purpose,  blended  with  com- 
manding powei-s,  devoted  with  absolute  unselfish- 
ness, and  with  amazing  results,  to  the  welfare  of 
the  country  and  of  humanity,  is,  in  the  American 
republic,  an  example  so  inspiring,  a  patriotism  so 
lofty,  and  a  public  service  so  beneficent,  that,  in 
contemi)lating  them,  discordant  opfiiions.  differ- 
ing judgments,  and  the  sharp  sting  of  controver- 
sial speech,  vanish  like  frost  in  a  flood  of  sunshine. 
It  is  not  the  Samuel  Adams  who  was  impatient  of 
AVashington,  and  who  doubted  the  Constitution, 
but  the  Samuel  Adams  of  Faneuil  Hall,  of  the 
Committee  of  C'orrespondence,  of  Concord  and 
Lexington— Samuel  Adams  the  father  of  the  Rev- 
olution, whom  Massachusetts  and  America  re- 
member and  revere.  .  .  . 

But  his  judgment,  always  profoundly  sincere, 
vas  it  not  profoundly  sometimes  mistaken  ?  No 
nobler  friend  of  freedom  and  of  man  than  Wen- 
dell Piiillips  ever  breathed  upon  this  Continent, 
and  no  man's  service  to  freedom  surpasses  his. 
But  before  the  war  he  demanded  peaceful  dis- 
union :  yet  it  was  the  Union  in  arms  that  saved 
Liberty.  During  the  war  he  would  have  supersed- 
ed Lincoln  :  but  it  was  Lincoln  who  freed  the 
slaves.  He  pleaded  for  Ireland,  tortured  by  cen- 
turies of  misrule,  and  while  every  generous  heart 
followed  with  svmpathy  the  pathos  and  the  pow- 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  COURTIS.  45^ 

er  of  his  appeal,  the  just-minded  recxjiled  from  the 
sharp  arraignment  of  the  truest  friends  in  Eug- 
hind  that  Irehmd  ever  liad.  I  know  it  all ;  but  I 
know  also,  and  history  will  remember,  that  the 
slave  Union  wjiich  he  denounced  is  dissolved  ;  that 
it  was  the  heart  and  conscience  of  the  nation,  ex- 
alted by  his  moral  appeal  of  agitation,  as  w^ell  as 
by  the  enthusiasm  of  patriotic  war.  which  held  up 
the  hands  of  Lincoln,  and  upon  which  Lincoln  lean- 
ed in  emancipating  the  slaves  ;  and  that  only  by 
indignant  and  aggressive  appeals  like  his  has  the 
heart  of  England  ever  opened  to  Irish  wrong. 

No  man,  I  say,  can  take  a  pre-eminent  and  ef- 
fective part  in  contentions  that  shake  nations,  or 
in  the  discussion  of  great  national  policies,  of  for- 
eign relations,  of  doniestic  economy  and  finance, 
without  keen  reproach  and  fierce  misconception. 
"But  death,"  says  Bacon,  "  bringeth  good  fame." 
Then,  if  moral  integrity  remain  unsoiled,  the  pur- 
pose pure,  blameless  the  life,  and  patriotism  as 
shining  as  the  sun,  conllicting  views  and  differing 
counsels  disappear,  and  firmly  fixed  upon  charac- 
ter and  actual  achievement,  good  fame  rests 
secure. 

Eighty  years  ago,  in  this  city  of  Boston,  how 
unsparing  was  the  denunciation  of  John  Adams 
for  betraying  and  ruining  his  party,  for  his  dog- 
matism, his  vanity,  and  ambition,  for  his  exas- 
perating impracticability  ; — he,  tlie  Colossus  of 
the  Revolution  !— And  Thomas  Jefferson  :  I  may 
truly  say  what  the  historian  says  of  the  Saracen 
mothers  and  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  that  the  mo- 
thers of  Boston  hushed  their  children  with  fear  of 
the  political  devil  incarnate  of  Virginia.  But 
when  the  drapery  of  mourning  shrouded  the 
columns  and  overhung  the  arches  of  Faneuil 
Hall.  Daniel  Webster  did  not  remember  that 
sometimes  John  Adams  wa^  imprudent,  and 
Thomas  Jefferson  sometimes  unwise.  He  re- 
membered only  that  John  Adams  and  Thomas 
Jefferson  were  two  of  the  greatest  of  American 
patriots  ;  and  their  fellow-citizens  of  every  party 
bowed  their  heads  and  said  Amen  ! 

I  am  not  here  to  declare  tliat  the  judgment  of 


400  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS. 

Wendell  Phillips  was  ahvays  souiul.  nor  liis  esti- 
mate of  men  ahvays  just,  nor  liLs  policy  ahvays  ap- 
proved by  the  event.  He  would  liave  scorned 
such  praise.  I  am  not  here  to  eulogize  the  mor- 
tal, but  the  immortal.  He,  too,  was  a  great 
American  Patriot  ;  and  no  American  life — no,  not 
one— oilers  to  future  generations  of  his  country- 
men a  more  priceless  example  of  intlexible  fideli- 
ty to  conscience  and  to  public  duty  ;  and  no 
American  more  truly  than  he  purged  the  national 
name  of  its  sliaine.  and  made  the  American  flag 
the  flat;  of  hope  for  mankind. — Euluijy.  in  the  Tre- 
moiit  Touplc,  Boston,  Apr-il  18,  Iyt4. 

Mr.  C'urti.s  has  written  verse  only  at  in- 
tervals. His  lunge.^t  poem,  A  Rime  of  Jikode 
J.slaiitl.  wa.s  pronounced  at  a  meeting  of  the 
Sons  of  Ivhocle  Island,  held  in  New  York,  May 
29.  IsCi'A.  that  being  the  anniversary  of  the 
si'ttlement  at  Providence  of  Roger  Williams 
in  1(530.  and  also  of  the  ratification  by  Rhode 
Island  of  the  Constitution  of  the  United 
States,  in  1790.  The  following  are  the  closing 
stanzas  of  this  poem: 

THE  SUMMER  OF   1863. 
At  l.n.'it.  at  last,  each  glowing  star 

In  that  pure  field  of  heaveidy  blue, 
On  every  jieople  shining  far, 

Burns  to  its  utmost  pronnse  true. 

Hopes  in  our  fathers'  hearts  that  stirred, 
Justice,  the  seal  of  peace  long  scorned, 

O  i)erfect  peace  I  too  long  deferred. 
At  last,  at  hist,  your  ilay  has  dawned. 

Your  day  has  dawned  :  but  many  an  hour 
Of  storm  and  cloud,  of  doubts  and  tears. 

Across  the  eternal  sky  must  lower. 
Before  the  ghjrious  noon  appears. 

And  not  for  us  that  noontide  glow  : 
For  us  the  strife  and  toil  shall  be  ; 

But  welcome  toil,  for  now  we  know, 
Our  chiliireii  shall  that  glo/y  see. 


OEOIiCK  WILLIAM  (.'UllTlS.  461 

At  last,  at  last !     O  Stars  ami  Stripes ! 

Touched  in  your  birth  by  Freedom's  flam«. 
Your  i)urifyin<:  liplitninj?  wipes 

Out  from  our  history  its  shame. 

Stand  to  your  faitii.  America  ! 

Sad  Euroi)e,  listen  to  our  call  ! 
Up  to  your  miuihood.  Africa  ! 

Tliat  glorious  flag  floats  over  all  ! 

And  wiien  tlie  hour  seems  dark  with  doom, 

Our  sacreti  banner,  lifted  higher, 
Shall  tlasli  away  the  p;atliering  gloom 

With  unextinguibhable  lire. 

Ptu'e  as  its  wliitc  tlie  future  see  ! 

Bright  as  its  rctl  is  now  the  sky  ! 
Fixed  as  its  Stars  the  faith  shall  be. 

That  nerves  oiu"  hands  to  do  or  die. 
-.'1  Rime  of  Bhode  Jsland. 

EBB   AND  FLOW. 

I  walked  beside  the  evening  sea, 

And  dreamed  a  dream  that  could  not  be. 

The  waves  that  plunged  along  the  shore, 
Said  oidy— ••  Dreamer,  dream  no  more  !  " 

But  still  the  legions  charged  the  beach — 
Loud  rang  their  battle-cry,  like  speech  ; 

But  changed  was  the  imperial  strain  : 

It  murmured — •  Dreamer,  dream  again  !" 

I  homeward  turned  from  out  the  gloom — 
That  sound  I  heard  not  in  my  room  : 

But  suddenly  a  sound,  that  stiiTed 
Within  my  very  breast  I  heard  : — 

It  was  my  heart,  that  like  a  sea 
Within  my  breast  beat  ceaselessly  : 

But  like  the  waves  along  the  shore, 

It  said—"  Dream  on  !  "  and  "Dream  no  more  I" 

MAJOR  AND  MINOR. 

A  bird  sang  sweet  and  strong 
In  the  top  of  the  highest  tree  : 


402  EHNST  CURTIUS. 

He  sang—"  I  pour  out  my  soul  in  song 
For  the  Summer  that  soon  shall  be." 

But  deep  in  the  shady  wood 

Another  bird  sang—"  I  pour 
My  soul  on  the  solemn  solitude 

For  tlie  Springs  that  return  no  more." 

CURTIUS,  Ernst,  a  German  archaeologist 
and  historian,  born  at  Liibeck  in  1814.  He 
received  his  early  education  in  the  schools  of 
his  native  city,  studied  at  Bonn,  Gottingen, 
and  Berlin,  and  in  1837  went  to  Greece  to 
prosecute  his  archai'ological  studies.  At  the 
end  of  three  years  he  returned  to  Germany, 
and  after  graduating  at  Halle,  was  appointed 
tutor  to  the  Crown  Prince  of  Germany.  In 
1850  he  became  a  Professor  in  the  University 
of  Berlin,  and  in  185G  was  called  to  Gottingen 
to  take  the  chair  of  classit-al  philology  and 
archa;ology  there.  This  position  he  resigned 
in  18G5  for  a  professorship  at  Berlin.  He  Avas 
at  the  same  time  made  permanent  Secretary 
of  the  Academy  of  Sciences.  In  187-4  he  was 
sent  by  the  German  government  to  Greece  to 
obtain  permission  for  making  the  excava- 
tions begun  at  Olympia  in  the  following  year. 
The  principal  works  of  Curtius  are:  Pelopon- 
uesjw  (1851-2);  Die  lonier  vor  der  ioni^chen 
Wmuhrung  iX^^o) :  History  of  Greece  (1857- 
67);  Attic  Studies  a'6<o?<-A);  and  History  and 
Topography  of  Ania  Minor  (1872i. 

THE  PI.AT-liANS  BREAK  THROUGH  THE  INVEST- 
MENT. 

Hereuiwn  Arcludamus,  who,  like  an  ancient 
Spartan,  had  only  with  great  repugnance  con- 
sented to  build  a  wall  and  employ  siege-maehines, 
was  obliged  to  relinquish  finally  the  idea  of  over- 
coming the  little  band  of  Plataean  citizens  by 
force  ;  he  was  obliged  to  adopt  the  tedious  meth- 
od of  surrounding  the  entire  city  with  a  wall,  bo 
as  to  wear  it  out  by  famine.     The  precipitous  sit- 


ERNST  CURTIUS.  4G;^ 

uation  of  the  city  iiiarle  tliis  task  extremely  diffi- 
cult of  accomplishiuent.  But  no  labor  was  deem- 
ed excessive  ;  for  the  conllict  liad  become  more 
desperate  as  it  proceeded  ;  and  the  Thebans  exert- 
ed themselves  in  every  way  to  pn^vent  the  work 
from  coming  to  a  staud-still.  A  double  wall  was 
now  built  round  tlie  entire  city,  with  a  treuch 
facing  both  towards  the  latter  and  towards  the 
outer  side  of  the  walls,  which,  at  regular  intervals, 
were  fm-nished  with  turrets  :  the  passage  between 
the  walls,  sixteen  feet  in  breadth,  was  covered, 
and  formed,  as  it  were,  a  large  guard-iiouse  sur- 
rounding the  hostile  city.  Tow^ards  the  middle  of 
September  the  immense  work  av;is  finished  ;  it  was 
possible  to  dismiss  the  majority  of  the  troops; 
the  watch  on  the  wall  was  divided  between  Peio- 
ponnesian  and  Theban  soldiers,  each  body  having 
its  appointed  place  ;  and  a  band  of  300  was  kept 
in  reserve  for  unforseen  cases. 

For  one  wliole  year  the  Platicans  had  held  out 
in  their  prison,  cut  off  from  all  intercourse,  with- 
out hoi)e  of  relief,  surrounded  by  foes  athirst  for 
their  blood.  Provisions  began  to  fall  short.  Ac- 
cordingly, the  bravest  among  the  besieged  de- 
termined to  hazard  an  attempt  to  break  the  block- 
ade. After  they  had  furnished  themselves  with 
scaling-ladders  of  the  height  of  the  enemy's  walls, 
they  took  advantage  of  a  rough  and  stormy 
December  night,  when  the  sentinels  might  be  sup- 
posed to  have  retired  into  the  towers  wiiich  served 
them  as  sentry  boxes.  Two  hundred  and  twenty 
men  left  the  city  ;  they  were  lightly  armed,  and 
shod  only  on  the  left  foot,  so  as  to  have  a  firmer 
support  in  the  case  of  a  fight ;  the  right  foot  was 
bare,  in  order  to  facilitate  the  march  through  the 
mud.  Each  man  holding  himself  at  a  moderate 
distance  from  his  neighbor,  in  order  to  avoid  any 
clash  of  arms,  they  cross  the  trench,  climb  the 
wall,  man  after  man  reaching  up  h.is  shi.'-ld  to  his 
predecessor  ;  the  sentries  in  the  nearest  towers  on 
the  right  and  left  are  put  to  death  ;  everything 
proceeds  successfully  and  without  noise  :  the 
Plateeans  are  masters  of  a  piece  of  the  wall  sur- 
mounted by  two  towers,  which  they  occupy  ;  and 


4M  ERNST  C;URT1US. 

most  uf  iliem  have  mounted  the  wall.  Suddenly 
tlie  fall  of  a  tile  from  the  top  gives  the  alarm  to 
the  garrison.  Seven  Platceans  begin  to  retrace 
their  steps,  thinking  everythLog  is  lost.  But  while 
the  enemy  remains  wliolly  in  doubt  as  to  what  is 
takmi?  place,  and  no  man  dares  to  quit  his  post, 
one  after  another  of  the  bi-ave  band  descends  from 
the  outer  wall ;  and  at  last  even  those  who  had 
kept  watch  in  the  towers  quit  their  post,  and  suc- 
ceed in  reaching  the  outer  tn-nch.  This  they  find 
full  of  water,  and  overlaid  with  a  thin  coaling  of 
ice.  Hence  arises  a  delay  in  crossing,  and  Ix'fore 
all  have  passed  over,  they  see  troops  with  torclies 
approaching  ; — it  is  the  re.serve  of  300,  which 
comes  up  to  them  at  the  trench.  But  tlie  torches, 
by  dazzling  tlie  eyes  of  the  pur.'^uei-s,  hinder  tlieir 
movements,  and  are  of  assistance  in  thebtruggle 
to  tlie  Platceans.  A  single  archer  is  taken  prisoner. 
The  otliers  make  good  their  escape,  and  take  the 
road  to  Thebes,  presuming  that  the  pursuit  will  be 
made  on  the  road  to  Attica.  On  reaching 
Erythrae,  and  not  before,  they  turn  to  the  right 
into  the  mountains,  and  in  the  morning  arrive  at 
Athens,  at  the  same  hour  in  whici)  tlieir  comrades 
are  .sending  heralds  to  tiie  besieging  force,  to  ask 
for  the  bodies  of  their  brethren,  all  of  whom  the3' 
deemed  lost.  Never  have  bravery  and  determined 
skill  met  with  a  more  glorious  reward.  Even 
those  remaining  behind  were  gainers,  having  now 
a  chance  of  holding  out  longer  with  their  pro- 
visions.— History  of  Greece. 

THE  YOUTHFUL  PERICLES. 
Nature  had  richly  endowed  him  and  eminently 
adapted  him  for  endurance  in  mental  and  physi- 
cal exertions ;  he  was  as  vivacious,  active,  and 
full  of  ideas  as  Themistocles  ;  but  his  whole  char- 
acter was  from  the  time  of  his  youth  incompara- 
bly more  collected  and  better  regulated.  The 
feature  which  distinguished  his  mind  before  all 
others  was  an  unwear\-ing  desire  of  culture  ;  nor 
was  any  one  more  vitally  affected  than  tlie  youth- 
ful Pericles  by  the  longing  after  a  new  and  fuller 
knowledge  which  characterized  his  times.     Thu« 


I'.RNST  (Tirnt'S.  -105 

it  came  to  pass  that  he  in  no  instance  rested  satis- 
fied with  what  had  been  lianded  down  from 
former  times,  and  Hint  while  the  people  timidly 
and  suspiciously  refused  to  admit  the  Tonic  cul- 
ture, he  welconied  the  new  li<i;ht  with  joj'ous  ad- 
miration. 

Ho  studied  nuisin  under  PythoeJides,  a  Pytha- 
gorean from  Ceos.  and  thru  \mder  Damon  the 
flute-player,  a  man  of  a  nioht  inlluential  person- 
ality and  a  most  inventive  nund.  who  in  u  yet 
higher  degree  than  Pythoclides  availed  himself  of 
musical  instruction  to  pass  from  metres  and 
rhythms  to  the  characters  of  men  and  their  treat- 
ment, to  ethical  and  political  teaching — in  other 
words,  a  Sophist  of  the  best  class.  Thus,  at  a 
time  of  life  when  other  Athenian  youths  were 
wont  to  conclude  their  studies,  Pericles  was  really 
beginning  his  ;  he  eagerly  sought  to  hold  inter- 
course with  the  most  eminent  artists  ruid  philoso- 
phers, and  became  the  most  zealous  auditor  of 
Zeno  and  xVnaxagoras,  and  in  his  later  years  also 
of  Protagoras.  But  Pericles  learned  not  only  for 
the  sake  of  learning  ;  he  had  no  intention,  like 
Anaxagoras.  of  forgetting  the  world  and  mankind 
in  the  midst  of  his  studies  ;  the  task  of  his  life  was 
not  to  solve  rising  doubts  and  contradictions  in 
the  domam  of  pure  thought,  Pericles  always 
kept  the  commonwealth  in  view,  and  in  public 
acts  he  sought  the  reconciliation  of  the  opposing 
forces  with  which  he  had  become  acquainted.  For 
as  he  felt  himself  elevated  and  fortified  by  means 
of  tiie  culture  acquired  by  him,  so  lie  recognizeJ 
in  it  a  power  which  ought  to  be  employed  for  the 
good  of  the  state.  Even  as  a  philosopher  lie  re- 
mained a  statesman  ;  and  the  wiiole  ambition  of 
his  fiery  character  was  directed  towards  ruling  his 
fellow-citizens  and  guiding  the  state  by  tlie  re- 
sources of  mental  superiority  offered  by  his  phi- 
losophy. 

Pericles's  bearing  was  sufficient  to  show  that  his 
principles  of  action  rested  on  a  totally  different 
basis  from  that  of  the  ordinary  civilization  of  the 
times.  The  features  of  his  countenance  announced 
that    he    v»-as     l>abitual!y    occupied    with    lofty 


thouglil.s  :  ;ui  involnnlary  fivliiij;  (>(  awf  was  in- 
spired by  tlR'  holeuiu  eeriousness  j>i*rv:uliiig  his 
M-holo  manner,  and  by  tlie  immovable  firmness  and 
decisivene:-s  of  lii  >  personality.  Amonji;  his  friends 
the  philosophers  lie  had  learned  to  despise  a  multi- 
tude of  those?  petty  interests  Avhich  more  tiian 
anythinj;  else  jnove  the  ordinary  Avorld,  and  to 
cast  oil  a  series  of  prejudices  ;  and  had  thus 
gained  both  in  freedom  of  soul  and  in  power  over 
other  men.  "When,  on  the  occasion  of  an  eclipse, 
a!!  till'  sailors  Avcre  seized  v.ith  fear,  lie  held  his 
cloak  before  the  eyes  of  a  steersman,  asking  him 
why  ho  wa.s  more  fri^^htened  when  a  remoter  and 
larger  object  hid  the  light  of  the  sun  from  him. 
Internally  the  most  vivacious  of  men,  he  was  ex- 
ternally calm,  cold,  and  unchanging,  without  at 
the  same  time  giving  otTence  by  severity  or  I'ough- 
ncss  of  manner.  The  fullness  of  his  superiority 
manift^t(Ml  itself  in  speech.  For  in  the  school  of 
Zeno  he  had  accustomed  himself  to  look  at  the 
same  tilings  from  diJTerent  jioints  of  view,  and  to 
surprise  his  opponents  by  raising  unexpected  ob- 
ji'Ctions.  To  exercises  in  dialeclics,  he  owed  tho 
vo;"satility  of  his  reasoning  jiowers  and  his  power 
of  speech,  to  which  no  man  was  able  to  oppose  a 
we.ipon  of  equal  force.  His  eloquence  was  the 
ripe  fruit  of  a  thorough  philosophical  culture,  the 
direct  expression  of  a  mind  superior  to  the  multi- 
tude ;  hence  he  av:is  able,  better  than  any  other 
man.  to  terrify,  to  encourage,  to  persuade  ;  strik- 
ing f  iuiiles.  from  whose  binding  force  none  could 
escape,  were  at  his  service,  and  he  was  finally 
ren<lered  iiTesistible  by  the  calm  confidence  willi 
which  he  spoke. — Histonj  of  Greece. 

CUVIER,  Georges,  a  French  naturalist, 
born  at  Montbelliard  (then  belonging  to  Wiir- 
temberg)  in  1TG9,  died  in  Paris  in  1S32.  He 
was  christened  Leopold-Chretien-Frederic- 
Dagobert;  but  afterwards  assumed  the  name 
of  Georges,  which  had  been  borne  by  a  de- 
ceased elder  brother.  He  entered  the  gym- 
nasium at  the  age  of  ten ;  and  was  originally 
destined  for  the  Church,  but  at  a  very  early 


GEORGES  CUVlKlt.  467 

af^e  he  manifested  a  strong  predilection  for 
Natural  History.  In  ITSl  he  was  sent  by  the 
Duke  of  Wiirtemberg  to  the  academy  at 
Stuttgart;  in  17SS  he  became  pinvate  tutor  in 
the  family  of  Count  d'  Ilericy.  retaining  the 
position  for  six  years,  during  which  he  pros- 
ecuted Ids  researches  in  Natural  History 
with  great  zeal,  and  under  vei-y  favoi-able  cir- 
cumstances. In  1795  he  was  invited  to  Paris 
by  several  of  the  most  eminent  French  sa- 
vants, and  was  appointed  Professor  in  the 
Central  ScViOol  of  the  Pantheon.  From  the 
first  Cuvier  took  the  foremost  position  in 
science,  and  was  honored  by  all  the  success- 
ive rulers  of  Finance,  from  Napoleon  to  Louis 
Philippe.  In  1819  he  was  made  a  Baron  by 
Louis  XVIII.  In  1832  he  was  created  a  Peer 
of  France  by  Louis  Philippe,  and  his  appoint- 
ment as  President  oftho  entire  Council  of 
State  only  waited  the  royal  signatm-e,  when 
Cuvier  died  after  a  brief  illness.  Cuvier  was 
accompanied  to  Paris  by  his  younger  brother, 
Frederic  Cuvier,  who  accpiired  a  high  repu- 
tation as  a  naturalist  and  educational  direct- 
or. He  died  in  1S3S,  his  last  words  being, 
' '  Let  my  sou  place  upon  my  tomb  this  in- 
scription :  Frederic  Cuvier,  brother  of  Georges 
Cuvier." 

A  history  of  Georges  Cuviers  labors  in  the 
domain  of  Natural  History  would  be  the  ^is- 
torj'  of  that  science  for  the  first  third  of  the 
present  century.  He  formed  a  system  of 
classification  based  on  the  invariable  charac- 
ters of  anatomical  structure,  instead  of  mere 
external  resemblances.  With  him  compara- 
tive anatomy  and  zoology  went  hand  in 
hand,  and  from  their  united  facts  he  deduced 
the  laws  of  a  new  science— that  of  fossil  animal 
life.  With  hun  a  bone,  or  even  a  portion  of 
one,  was  sufficient  for  the  restoration  of  a  fos- 
sil animal  ^vhich  he  liad  never  seen,  si)Tiply 


4»;R  GEORGES  (  IVlKli. 

from  tlie  principle  of  the  unchangeable  re- 
lations of  organs.  His  great  work.  The  Ant- 
vial  Kingdom,  -was  published  in  1S17.  His  last 
important  work,  The  Natural  History  of 
Fishdi,  undertaken  with  the  collaboration  of 
Valenciennes,  was;  designed  to  form  some  for- 
ty volumes.  Eight  volumes  appeared  (1828- 
l'831)  before  the  death  of  Cuvior,  the  remain- 
der being  written  by  his  coadjutor.  In  1812 
appeared  his  work,  Jiescarches  upon  Fossil 
Bones  (4  vols.  4to;  2d  ed.  1817,  Od  cd.  1825), 
to  v.-hich  was  prefixed  an  Introductory  E?say 
upon  The  Jievolufions  of  Ike  Surface  of  the 
Globe,  in  which  are  embodied  the  great  prin- 
ciples of  his  entire  system. 

COIUiELATIONS  IN   ANIMAL  STRUCTURE. 

Every  oi-ganized  indiviilnal  fdims  an  entire 
pystein  of  its  own,  all  tlio  parts  of  which  mutually 
ccnespond,  and  concur  to  produce  a  certain  defi- 
nite purpose,  by  reciprocal  reaction,  or  by  com- 
bining towards  the  same  end.  Hence  none  of 
these  separate  jjarts  can  change  their  forms  with- 
out a  corresponding  clian.i;e  on  the  other  parts  of 
the  same  animal,  and  consequently  each  of  these 
parts,  taken  separately,  indicates  all  the  other 
parts  to  which  it  has  belonged.  Thus,  if  the  viscera 
of  an  animal  are  so  organized  as  only  to  l)e  fitted 
for  the  digestion  of  recent  flesh,  it  is  also  requisite 
that  the  jaws  should  be  so  constructed  as  to  fit 
them  for  devouring  prey  ;  the  claws  must  be  con- 
structed for  seizing  and  tearing  it  to  pieces  ;  the 
teeth  for  cutting  and  dividing  its  flesh  ;  the 
entire  system  of  the  limbs,  or  organs  of  motion, 
for  pursuing  and  overtaking  it  ;  ami  the  organs  of 
sense,  for  discovering  it  at  a  distance.  Nature 
also  must  have  endowed  the  brain  of  the  animal 
with  instincts  sufficient  for  conceabng  itself,  and 
for  laying  plans  to  catch  its  necessary  victims. 

Such  are  the  universal  conditions  that  are  in- 
despensable  in  the  structure  of  carnivorous  ani- 
mals ;  and  every  individual  of  that  description 
must  necessarily  possess  them  romliinod  toeeth'^r. 


GEORGES  CUVIER.  469 

as  the  species  could  not  otherwise  subsist.  Under 
this  general  rule,  however,  there  are  several  par- 
ticular modifications,  depending  upon  the  size, 
the  manners,  and  tlie  haunts  of  the  prey  for 
wliicli  eacli  sjiecies  of  carnivorous  animal  is  des- 
tined or  fitted  by  nature  ;  and  from  each  of  these 
particular  modifications  there  result  certain  dif- 
ferences in  the  more  minute  conformations  of 
particular  parts — all,  however,  conformable  to 
the  general  ])rinciples  of  structure  already  men- 
tioned. Ilenci;  it  follows  that  in  every  one  of 
their  parts  we  discover  distinct  indications,  not 
only  of  the  classes  and  orders  of  t'.ie  animals  ;  but 
also  of  their  genera,  and  even  of  their  species. 

In  order  that  the  jaw  may  be  well  adapted  for 
laying  hold  of  objects,  it  is  necessary  that  its  con- 
dyle should  have  a  certain  form  ;  that  the  resist- 
ance, the  moving  power,  and  the  fulcrum  should 
have  a  certain  relative  position  with  respect  to 
each  other  :  and  that  the  temporal  muscles  should 
be  of  a  certain  size.  The  hollow  or  depression, 
too,  in  which  these  muscles  are  lodged,  must  have 
a  certain  depth  ;  and  the  zygomatic  arch  under 
Avhich  they  pass  must  not  only  have  a  certain  de- 
gree of  convexity,  but  it  must  be  sufficiently 
strong  to  support  the  action  of  the  masseter. 
To  enable  the  animal  to  cany  off  its  prey  when 
seized,  a  corresponding  force  is  requisite  in  the 
muscles  which  elevate  the  liead  ;  and  this  neces- 
sarily gives  rise  to  a  determinate  form  of  the  ver- 
tebras to  which  these  muscles  are  attaclied,  and  of 
the  occiput  into  which  they  are  inserted. 

In  order  that  the  teeth  of  a  carnivorous  animal 
may  be  able  to  cut  the  flesli.  they  require  to  be 
sharp — more  or  less  so  in  proportion  to  the  greater 
or  less  quantity  of  flesh  that  they  have  to  cut.  It 
is  requisite  that  their  roots  should  be  solid  and 
strong,  in  proportion  to  the  quantity  and  size  of 
the  bones  which  they  have  to  break  in  pieces.  The 
whole  of  these  circumstances  must  necessarily  in- 
fluence the  development  and  form  of  all  the  parts 
which  contribute  to  move  the  jaws. 

To  enable  the  claws  of  a  carnivorous  animal  to 
seize  its  prey,  a  consi.iur.dj^o  degree  of  mobility  is 


470  GEORGES  CUVIER. 

necessjiry  in  their  paws  and  toes,  and  a  considera- 
ble etieiigtii  in  the  claws  themselves.  From  these 
circninstanres  there  necessarily  result  certain  de- 
terminate forms  in  all  the  Iwnes  of  their  paws, 
and  in  the  distribution  of  the  nmscles  and  ten- 
dons by  wliich  they  are  moved.  The  fore-arm 
must  IM>.>.S3S3  a  certain  facility  of  movinj?  in  va- 
rious directions,  and  consequently  reipiires  cer- 
tain determinate  forms  in  the  bones  of  which  it 
is  composed.  As  the  Ikjiics  of  the  fore-ami  are 
articulatetl  with  tiie  arm-bone  or  humei-us,  no 
chanpje  can  take  place  in  the  form  or  stiiicture  of 
the  former  witiiout  producing  correspondent 
chanj;es  in  the  form  of  the  latter.  The  shoulder- 
bhide  also,  or  scai)uhi,  requires  a  corrr-spondent 
dej^ee  of  strength  in  all  animals  destined  for 
catching  prey,  by  which  likewise  it  must  neces- 
sarily have  an  appropriate  form.  The  play  and 
action  of  all  these  parts  require  certain  pro- 
portions in  the  muscles  which  set  them  in  motion  ; 
and  the  iin])reRsions  formed  by  these  muscles 
must  still  farther  determine  the  forms  of  all  these 
bones. 

After  these  observations,  it  will  be  easily  seen  that 
similar  conclusions  m;iy  be  drawn  witli  re.spect  to 
the  hinder  limbs  olcarnivorous  animals,  which  re- 
quire particular  conformations  to  lit  them  for  ra- 
pidity of  motit)n  in  general :  and  that  similar  con- 
siderations must  inHuencc  the  forms  and  connec- 
tions of  the  vertobnv  and  other  bones  constituting 
the  trunk  of  the  body,  to  lit  them  for  tlexibility 
and  readine.ss  of  motion  in  all  directions.  The 
bones  also  of  the  nose,  of  the  orbit,  and  of  tiie  eai-s. 
require  certain  forms  .and  structures  to  fit  them 
for  giving  perfection  to  the  senses  of  smell,  sight, 
and  hearing  so  necessary  to  animals  of  prey. 

In  short,  the  shape  and  structure  of  the  teeth 
regulate  the  forms  of  the  condyle,  of  the  shoulder- 
blade,  and  of  the  claws,  in  the  same  manner  as  the 
equation  of  a  curve  regulates  all  its  other  proper- 
ties :  and  as  in  regard  to  any  particular  curve,  all 
its  properties  may  be  ascertained  by  assuming 
each  separate  property  as  the  foundation  of  a  ])ar- 
ticular  e(piatif)n.   in  the  same  manner,  a  claw,  a 


GEORGES  CUVIER.  471 

slioulcU'r-blaclt*.  ;i  condyle,  a  leg  or  arm  bone,  or 
any  otlier  l)oi\e  separately  considered,  enables  us 
to  discover  the  description  of  teeth  to  which 
they  have  belonged  ;  and  so  also  reciprocally  wo 
may  determine  the  forms  of  the  otlier  bones  from 
the  teeth.  Thus  commencing  our  investigation 
by  a  careful  survey  of  any  one  bone  bj'  itself,  a 
pei"son  who  is  sufficiently  master  of  the  laws  of 
organic  structure,  may,  as  it  were,  rei-onstruct  the 
whole  animal  to  which  that  bone  had  belonged. 

This  principle  is  sufficiently  evident  in  its 
general  acceptation,  not  to  recjuire  any  more 
minute  demonstration  ;  but  when  it  comes  to  be 
applied  in  practice,  there  is  a  great  numlx>r  of 
rases  in  which  our  theoretical  knowledge  of  these 
relations  of  forms  is  not  sufficient  to  guide  us,  un- 
less assisted  by  observation  and  experience. 

For  example,  we  are  well  aware  tiwit  all  hoofed 
animals  must  necessarily  be  herbivorous,  because 
they  are  possessetl  of  no  sufficient  means  of  seiz- 
ing upon  prey.  It  is  also  evident,  liavmg  no  other 
vise  for  their  fore-legs  than  to  support  their 
bodies,  that  they  have  no  occasion  for  a  shoulder 
so  vigorously  organized  as  tliat  of  carnivorous 
animals  ;  owing  to  which  they  have  no  clavicles, 
or  acromion  processes,  and  their  shoulder-blades 
are  proportionally  narrow,  Havmg  also  no  occa- 
sion to  turn  their  fore-arms,  their  radius  is  joined 
by  an  ossification  to  the  ulna,  or  is  at  least  articu- 
lated by  gynglyinus  with  the  humerus.  Their 
footl.  being  entirely  herbaceous,  requires  teeth 
with  Hat  surfaces,  on  purpose  to  bruise  the  seeds 
and  i)lants  on  which  they  feed.  For  this  ])urpose 
also,  these  surfaces  require  to  be  unequal,  and  are 
consetjuently  composed  of  alternate  perpendicular 
layers  of  harvl  enamel  and  softer  bone.  Teeth  of 
this  structure  necessarily  require  horizontal  mo- 
tions, to  enable  them  to  tritui'ate  or  grind  down 
the  herbaceous  food ;  and.  accordingly,  tlie  con- 
dyles of  the  jaw  could  not  be  formed  into  such 
confined  joints  as  in  the  carnivorous  animals,  but 
must  have  a  flattened  form,  correspondent  to 
sockets  in  the  temporal  bones,  which  are  also 
more  or  Ic.-s  iiat  (or  their  reception.     Tiie  hollows 


472  THEODORE  L.  CUTLER. 

likewise  of  the  temporal  bones,  having  smaller 
muscles  to  contain,  .are  narrower,  and  not  so 
deep,  etc.  .  .  . 

Hence  any  onp  who  observes  merely  the  ]irint 
of  a  cloven  lioof  may  conclude  that  it  has  been 
left  by  a  ruminant  animal,  and  regard  the  con- 
clusion as  equally  certain  with  any  other  in 
pliysics  or  ir.  morals.  Consequently,  this  single 
foot-mark  clearly  indicates  to  the  observer  the 
forms  of  the  teeth,  of  the  jaws,  of  the  vertebra?,  of 
all  the  leg-bones,  thighs,  shoulders,  and  of  the 
trunk  of  the  body  of  tlio  animal  which  left  the 
mark.  Observation  alone,  independent  entirely  of 
general  principles  of  jihilosophy,  is  suUicient  to 
show  th.nt  there  certainly  are  secret  reasons  for 
all  these  relations  of  which  I  have  l)een  speaking. 
—KciH>li(ti()iifi  i>f  tin'  Surface  of  the  Globe. 

CUYLER,  Theodore  Ledyard,  an  Ameri- 
can clergyman  and  author,  horn  in  Central 
Now  York,  in  1822.  Ho  graduated  at  Trinco- 
ton  in  1S43;  studied  theology  there;  became 
pastor  of  a  Presbyterian  church  in  Burling- 
ton, N.  J.,  afterwards  of  a  "  Dutch  Reformed 
Church "  in  New  York,  and  subsequently 
pastor  of  the  Lafayette  Avenue  Presbyterian 
cliureh  of  Brooklyn.  He  is  the  autlior  of  the 
lV>]lo wing  works:  Stray  Arrows  (18.51);  Cedar 
Christian  (18G4);  The  Empty  Crib  (1868); 
Heart  Life  (1871);  Thought  Hives  (1872); 
Pointed  Papers  for  the  Christian  Life  (1879); 
Burying  the  Channel  and  From  the  Kile  to 
Xoru-ay  and  Homeicard  (1881);  God's  Light 
on  Dark  ('lands  (1882) :  and  Wayside  Springs 
from  tlw  Fou)dain  of  Life  (Ibco). 

ELOQUENCE  IN  THE  PULPIT. 

And  where  should  we  look  for  the  highest  reali- 
zations of  true  eloquence,  but  in  the  pulpit? 
AVhere  is  there  less  excuse  for  tameness,  for  af- 
fectation, for  heart lessness,  for  stupidity  ?  Where 
can  the  strongest  intellect  find  fuller  play?  For 
the  embassador  of  truth  has  not  onlv  uie  loftiest 


THEODORE  L.  CUYLER.  473 

of  themes,  but  his  text-book  is  the  most  perfect  of 
models.  In  it  may  be  found  everything  that  is 
most  sublime  in  imagery,  most  melting  m  pathos, 
most  irresistible  iu  argument.  The  minister  of 
Christ  need  not  betake  himself  to  the  drama  of 
Greece,  the  forum  of  Rome,  or  to  the  mystic  re- 
treats of  German  philosophy  ;  he  need  not  study 
Chatham  in  the  senate  chamber,  or  Erskine  at 
the  bar.  He  may  ever  be  nurturing  his  soul  amid 
those  pages  where  John  Milton  fed,  before  those 
eyes,  which  had  -'failed  with  long  watchmg  for 
liberty  and  law,''  beheld  the  gorgeous  visions  of 
Paradise.  He  may  be  ever  amid  the  scenes 
which  inspired  Bunyan  to  his  matchlctrS  dream, 
and  taught  Jeremy  Taylor  his  hearse-like  melo- 
dies. The  harp  of  Israel's  minstrel  is  ever  in  his 
ear  ;  before  his  eye  moves  the  nKignilii;ent  pan- 
orama of  the  Apocalypse.  He  need  but  open  his 
soul  to  that  •'  oldest  choral  melody,"  the  book  of 
Job  ;  if  it  used  to  inspire  Charles  James  Fox  for 
the  Parliament-house,  why  not  himself  for  the 
pulpit  ":*  Paul  is  ever  at  his  elbow  to  teach  him 
trenchant  argument  ;  John,  to  teach  persuasion  ; 
and  a  heart  of  steel  must  he  have  who  is  not 
moved  to  pathos  in  the  chamber  of  heart-strick- 
en David,  or  under  tlieoiive-treesof  Getlisemane. 

The  Bible  is  the  best  of  models,  too,  for  it  is 
always  true  to  life.  It  reaches  up  to  the  loftiest, 
down  to  the  lowliest  affairs  of  existence.  The 
same  divine  pencil  that  portrayed  the  scenic 
splendors  of  the  Revelation  and  the  av.-ful  trage- 
dy of  Golgotha  condescends  to  etch  ior  us  a  He- 
brew mother  l)enili!ig  over  her  cradle  of  ruslies.  a 
village  maiden  bringing  homo  the  gleanings  of  tlie 
barley-field,  and  a  peiiitent  woman  weeping  on 
the  Saviour's  feet.  ,  What  God  has  ennobled,  vho 
shall  dare  to  call  common  ?  What  true  orator  of 
nature  will  fear  to  introduce  into  the  pulpit  a 
homely  scene  or  a  homespun  character  ;  a  fireside 
incident  or  a  death-bed  agony  :  the  familiar  epi- 
sodes of  the  field  and  the  shop,  the  school-room 
and  the  nurs?ry  ?  lie  does  not  lower  the  dignity 
of  the  prlpii-.  he  rather  imparts,  to  it  the  higher 
dignity  ol  luiuiau  nature— T/Vi»r//(f  Hires. 


474  CYPRIAN. 

CYPRIAN,  (Thasius  C\«ciLius  Cyprianus), 
a  Father  of  the  Christian  Church,  born  at 
Carthage  about  200,  died  in  258,  a.d.  lie  was 
of  a  noble  family,  and  previous  to  his 
convei-sion  to  Christianity  (about  24G)  had  ac- 
quired groat  repute  as  a  '*  rhetorician,"  or,  as 
we  should  say,  a  legal  advocate.  Upon  b3- 
coming  a  Christian,  he  gave  up  his  hii'ge  for- 
tune to  the  poor,  and  devoted  himself  to  the 
Btudy  of  the  Scriptures,  writing  two  treatises 
on  Contempt  of  the  World  and  on  Tlic  Vani- 
ty of  Idols.  Having  been  raised  to  tiie  priest- 
ho(;d.  h.e  was  induced,  against  las  own  desire, 
to  take  up* m  himself  the  bishopric  of  Carth- 
age, then  one  of  the  most  important  sees  in 
the  still  persecuted  Church.  Controvei-sies 
raged  within  and  without  the  Church,  in  all 
of  which  (.'vi)rian  bore  a  prominent  part.  At 
last,  in  257,  the  Emperor  Vnlerius  issued  his 
edict  for  the  legal  prosecution  of  the  Chris- 
tians. Cyprian  was  summoned  to  iippear  be- 
fore the  pi'oconsul,  and  offer  sacrilico  to  the 
gods.  He  refused  to  comply,  and  was 
sentenced  to  death  for  contumacy.  The 
Workr,  of  Cyprian  have  beense\'eral  times  re- 
printeil.  The  standai-d  edition  is  that  of  Pariw 
(1726),  which  contains  a  Life  of  Cyprian, 
by  the  Benedictine.  Dom  Moran.  Among  the 
Lives  of  Cyprian  are  those  of  Gervdise  (I7l7,t, 
Rottberg  (1831),  Poole  (lf^40^  Boh  ringer  (1842), 
and  Colombet  (lS43t. 

THE  L'MTV  oi"  tk;:  chlucu. 
The  Loi'd  paith  unto  Peter,  '"I  say  unto  thee, 
that  tliou  art  Peter,  and  upon  this  rock  I  will 
build  My  Church,  ami  the  gates  of  Hell  shall  not 
prevail  against  it.  And  I  will  give  unto  thee  the 
keys  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  and  whatsoever 
thou  shalt  bind  on  earth,  shall  bo  bound  also  in 
heaven,  and  whatsoever  thou  siialt  loose  on  earth, 
Bhall  be  loo:5cd  iii  heaven."  To  him  again,  after 
i-is  resurrection,  He  says,  •' Feed  ^ly  Sheep."'  Up- 


CYPRIAN.  475 

on  liim,  lieing  one.  He  builds  His  Church  ;  and 
tliough  He  gives  to  all  the  Apostles  a:i  eciuul  pow- 
er, and  says,  '•  As  My  Father  sent  Me,  even  so  send 
I  you  ;  receive  ye  the  Holy  Ghost,  Avhosesoever 
simi  ye  remit,  they  shall  he  remitted  to  him,  and 
■whosesoever  sins  ye  retain,  they  shall  be  retained  ; " 
— yet  in  order  to  manifest  unity,  He  has  by  His 
own  authority  so  i)laced  the  source  of  the  same 
unity,  as  to  begin  from  one.  Certainly  the  other 
Apostles  also  Avcre  what  Peter  was,  endued  with 
an  equal  fellowship  both  of  honor  and  power  ;  but 
a  commencement  is  jnade  from  unity,  that  the 
Church  may  be  set  before  us  as  one  ;  which  one 
Church,  in  the  Song  of  Songs,  doth  the  Holy 
Spirit  design  ajid  i.ame  in  the  Person  of  our  Lord  : 
"  My  dove.  My  spotless  one,  is  but  one  :  she  is  the 
only  one  of  her  mother,  elect  of  her  that  bare 
her." 

He  who  holds  not  this  unity  of  the  Church,  does 
he  thinU  that  he  holds  tlie  faith  ?  He  who  strives 
agahist  and  resists  the  Church,  is  he  assured  that 
lie  is  in  the  Church?  For  the  blessed  Apostle 
Paul  teaches  this  same  thing,  and  manifests  the 
sacrament  of  unity,  thus  speaking:  "There  is 
One  Body  and  One  Spirit,  even  as  ye  are  called  in 
One  Hope  of  your  calling  ;  One  Lord,  One  Faith, 
One  Baptism,  One  God."  This  unity  firmly  should 
we  hold  and  maintain,  especially  we  Bishops,  pre- 
siding in  the  Church,  in  order  that  we  may  ap- 
prove the  Episcopate  itself  to  be  one  and  undi- 
vided. Let  no  one  deceive  the  Brotherhood  by 
falsehood  ;  r.o  one  corrupt  the  truth  of  our  faith, 
by  a  faithless  treachery.  The  Episcopate  is  one  ; 
it  is  a  whole,  in  which  each  enjoys  full  possession. 
The  Church  is  likewise  one,  though  she  be  spread 
abroad,  and  multiplies  with  the  increase  of  her 
progeny  :  even  as  the  sun  has  rays  many,  yet  one 
light ;  and  the  tree  boughs  many,  yet  its  strength 
is  one,  seated  in  the  deep-lodged  root ;  and  as 
when  many  streams  flow  down  from  one  source, 
though  a  multiplicity  of  waters  seems  to  be  dif- 
fused from  the  bountifulness  of  the  overflowing 
abundance,  unity  i3  preserved  in  the  source  itself. 
Part  a  rav  of  the  Sun  from  its  orb.  and  its  unity 


476  CYPRIAN. 

forbids  tliis  division  of  liglit ;  break  a  branch  from 
a  tree,  once  broken  it  can  bud  no  more;  cut  the 
stream  from  its  fountain,  tlie  remnant  ^vill  be 
dried  up.  Thus  tlie  (_"lun-ch,  flooded  with  the 
light  of  the  Lord,  puts  forth  her  rays  througli  the 
wliole  world,  with  ret  one  light,  wliich  is  f,pread 
upon  all  places;  wliile  its  unity  of  body  is  not  in- 
fringed. Slie  stretches  forth  her  branches  over 
the  universal  earth,  in  the  riches  of  plenty,  and 
pours  abroad  her  bountiful  and  onward  streams  ; 
yet  is  there  one  liead,  one  source,  one  Mother, 
abundant  in  the  results  of  her  fruitfulness. 

It  is  of  her  womb  that  we  are  born ;  our 
nourishing  is  from  licr  milk,  our  quickening  from 
her  breath.  The  spouse  of  Christ  cannot  become 
adulterate,  she  is  undefileil  and  chaste :  owning 
but  one  home,  and  guarding  with  virtuous  modesty 
the  sanctity  of  (me  chamiier.  She  it  is  who  keeps 
us  for  God.  and  appoints  unto  the  kingilom  tiie 
sons  she  has  borne.  Whosoever  parts  company 
with  the  Cliurch,  and  joins  himself  to  aii  adul- 
teress, is  estranged  from  the  promises  of  the 
Church.  lie  who  leaves  the  Clmrcli  of  Christ  at- 
tains not  to  Christ's  rewards.  He  is  an  alien,  an 
outcast,  an  enemy.  He  can  no  longer  have  God 
for  a  Fatlier,  who  has  not  the  Church  for  a  Moiher. 
If  any  man  was  able  to  escape,  who  remained 
without  the  ark  of  Noah,  then  will  that  man  es- 
cape who  is  out  of  doors  beyond  the  Church.  The 
Lord  warns  us,  and  says,  "He  who  is  not  with 
Me  is  against  Me,  and  he  who  gathereth  not  with 
Me,  scattereth."  He  who  breaks  the  peace  and 
concord  of  Christ,  sets  himself  against  Chrisit.  He 
who  gathers  elsewhere  but  in  the  Chinch,  scat- 
ters the  Church  of  Christ.  The  Lord  saith.  "I 
and  the  Father  arc  one  ;  "  and  again  of  the  Father, 
the  Son.  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  it  is  written,  '•  And 
these  three  are  one  ; "'  and  does  any  one  think  that 
oneness,  thus  proceeding  from  the  divine  immuta- 
bility, and  cohering  in  heavenly  sacraments,  ad- 
mits of  being  sundered  in  the  Church,  and  split 
by  the  divorce  of  antagonist  wills?  He  who  holds 
not  this  unity,   holds  not  the  law  of  God,   holds 


CYPRIAN.  477 

not  the  faith  of  Father  and  Son,  holds  not  the 
truth  unto  salvation. 

This  sacrament  of  unit}-,  this  bond  of  concord 
inseparably  cohering,  is  signilied  in  the  place  in 
the  Gospr-l,  where  the  coat  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  is  iirnowise  parted  nor  cut,  but  is  received 
a  whole  garment,  by  them  wlio  cast  lots  who 
should  ratlier  wear  it,  and  is  poscssed  as  an  invio- 
late and  individual  robe.  Tlie  divine  Scripture 
thus  speaks,  '•  But  for  the  coat,  because  it  was  not 
sewed,  but  woven  from  the  top  throughout,  they 
said  one  to  another,  Let  U3  not  rend  it,  but  cast 
Jots  vvhose  it  shall  be."  It  has  with  it  a  unity  de- 
ticcnding  from  above,  as  coming,  that  is,  from 
heaven  and  from  tlie  Father  ;  which  it  was  not 
for  the  receiver  and  owner  in  anywise  to  sunder, 
but  which  he  received,  once  for  uU  and  individual- 
ly, as  one  unbroken  whole,  lie  c;aTuiot  own 
Christ's  garment,  who  splits  and  divides  Christ's 
Churcli.  On  the  otlier  hand,  when,  on  Solomon's 
death,  his  kingdom  and  people  were  split  in  parts, 
Aiiijah  tlie  prophet,  meeting  Jeroboam  in  the 
fiolil,  rent  his  garment  into  twelve  pieces,  saying, 
'•Take  thee  ten  pieces  ;  for  thus  saith  the  Lord, 
Behold,  I  will  rend  tlie  kingdom  out  of  the  hand 
of  Solomon,  and  will  give  ten  tribes  to  thee  ;  and 
two  tribes  shall  be  to  him,  for  My  servant  David's 
sake,  and  for  Jerusalem,  the  city  whicii  I  have 
chosen,  to  place  My  Name  there."  Wiien  the 
twelve  tribes  of  Israel  were  torn  asunder  the 
Proph.^t  Ahijah  rent  his  garment.  But  because 
Clu-ist's  people  cannot  be  rent,  His  coat,  woven 
vvnd  conjoined  throughout,  was  not  divided  by 
those  it  fell  to.  Individual,  conjoined,  co-en- 
twined, it  shows  the  coherent  concord  of  our 
people  who  put  on  Christ.  In  tiie  sacrament  and 
sign  of  His  garment.  He  has  declared  the  unity  of 
His  Church. 

Who  then  is  the  criminal  and  traitor,  vvlio  so  in- 
flamed by  the  madness  of  discord,  as  to  think  aught 
can  rend,  or  to  venture  on  rending  God's  unity,  the 
Lord's  garment.  Christ's  Church?  He  Himself 
warns  us  in  His  Gospel,  and  teaches  saying,  *'  And 
there  shall  be  one  flock,  and  one  Shepherd."    And 


47»  C'VriilAX. 

does  any  think  that  there  can  in  one  phico  be 
eitlier  many  sheplienls,  or  many  tiocks?  The 
Apostle  Paul  likewise,  intimatinjic  the  same  unity, 
solemnly  exhorts,  *'  1  lieseech  you.  brethien,  by 
the  Name  of  our  hard  Jesus  (Jlirist,  that  ye  all 
speak  the  same  thing,  and  that  tluTt-  Ix^  no  schisms 
among  you  ;  but  that  ye  be  joined  together  in  the 
R.i!ne  miiid  and  in  the  same  judgment."  And 
again  he  s;iys,  "  Forlx?:iring  or.t.' another  in  love; 
endeavoring  to  keep  the  unity  <)f  the  .Spirit  in  tlie 
bond  of  peace.'"  Think  you  that  any  can  stan«l 
and  live,  who  withdraws  from  the  tJliurch.  and 
forms  himself  a  new  liome,  and  a  <lirt"erent  dwell- 
ing? \V'herea.s  it  was  said  to  ll;i!i,-ih,  in  whom 
was  prefigured  the  Church,  **  Thy  father,  and  thy 
mother,  and  thy  l)n'thr(Mi,  and  all  the  house  of  thy 
father,  thou  shall  gather  unto  tliee  mto  thine 
hf)use  ;  and  it  sliall  como  to  pass  ;  whosoever 
shall  go  abro.ad  U'vond  the  do<ir  of  thine  house, 
his  bliHKl  shall  Imj  on  his  own  head."  And  like- 
wise the  sacrament  of  the  P;is.sover  doth  re(|U ire 
just  tins  in  the  law  of  Exotlus,  that  tlie  l.unb 
wliii-h  is  slain  for  .1  figure  of  Christ,  should  be 
I'aten  in  one  hous<«.  Gxl  speaks  and  says.  '•  In  ont^ 
lumse  .shall  ye  eat  it  ;  ye  shall  not  send  the  tlesh 
aiiroail  from  the  house.  The  Flesh  of  Christ,  and 
the  Holy  Thing  of  the  Lord,  cannot  l>e  .sent 
abroad  :  and  believers  have  not  any  ilwelling  but 
the  (.-hun-li  only.  This  dwelling,  this  hostelry  of 
unanimity,  the  Holy  Spirit  designs  and  betokens 
in  the  Psalni'^.  thus  saying,  •'frod  who  maketh 
men  to  dwell  with  one  miml  in  one  house."  In 
the  hou.s<>  of  (rod.  in  the  Church  of  Christ,  men 
dwell  with  one  mind,  in  concord  and  singleness 
emlurmg.   .  .  . 

I<et  no  on<'  thmk  that  they  can  be  good  men, 
who  leuTe  the  Church.  Wind  does  not  take  the 
wheat,  n  o  storms  overthrow  the  tree  that  ha.s 
a  solid  root  to  rest  on.  It  is  the  light  straw  that 
the  tempest  tosses,  it  is  the  trees  emi)tied  of  their 
strength  that  the  IjIow  of  the  whiriwind  strikes 
down.  These  the  Apostle  John  curses  and  smites, 
saying.  "  Thsy  went  forth  from  ur<,  but  they  were 
not  of  us  :  for  if  thev  had  l^en  of  us.  snrelv  they 


IVI'RIAN.  47!» 

woiiKl  have  roiiiniiK^d  with  us."  Thus  is  it  that 
heresies  botii  often  have  been  caused  and  still 
continue;  while  the  parverted  mind  is  estranged 
froin  peac",  and  unity  is  lost  amongst  faithless 
iliscord.  Nevertlieless.  the  Lord  permits  and  suf- 
fers tliese  tilings  to  be,  preservmg  tlie  power  t>'». 
choice  to  individual  free-will,  in  order  that  while 
the  disc-rimination  of  truth  is  a  test  of  our  own 
hearts  and  minds,  the  perfect  faith  of  them  that 
are  approved  may  shine  forth  in  the  manifest 
Hght.  The  Holy  Spirit  adnioni^lu's  us  by  the 
Apostle,  and  say.s.  "  It  is  needful  also  that  heresies 
should  be.  that  they  wliich  are  approved  may  be 
mtule  manifest  among  you."  Thus  are  the  faith- 
ful approved,  thus  the  false  detected  ;  thus  even 
liere,  before  tiie  day  of  .iiulgment.  the  souls  of  the 
righteous  ami  um-ighteous  are  divideil.  llie  chali 
separated  from  the  wheat.— Tr<:ati'ie  V.;  on  the 
Unity  of  the  Church. 


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