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ALDEN'S  CYCLOPEDIA 


Universal   Literature 


PRESKNTINO 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  NOTICES,  AND  SPECIMENS 

FROM  THE  WRITINGS  OF  EMINENT  AUTHORS 

OF  ALL  AGES  AND  ALL  NATIONS 


VOL.  VII 


NEW  YORK 
JOHN     r..     ALDKN,     PUBI.ISIIER 

1W7 


Copyright.  1887, 

BY 

THE  PROVIDENT  BOOK  CO. 


ARGYLE    PRESS, 
Printing  and  BookbindinQi, 
■*  A  M  WOOSTER  tT.,  H.  r. 


CONTENTS    OF    VOL.    VII. 


PAGE. 

Dow'den,  Edward,  (Sngl. ,  1848-  .)— Two  Infinities.— 
Oasis.— Wise  Passiveness,  .  .  •  .9 

Down 'iNG,  Andrew  Jackson,  (4mcr.,  1815-1852.)— A  Hint 
on  Landscape  Gardening,  •  .  •  .11 

Drake,  Joseph  Rodman,  {Amer.,  1795-1820.)  -The  Gather- 
ing of  the  Fairies.— Ode  to  Fortune.— The  American 
Flag,     .  .......    12 

Drake,  Samuel  Adams,  {Amer.,  1833-  .)— A  Mountain 
Stream,  .  .  •  .  •  •  .18 

Drake,  Samuel  Gardner,  Umer.,  1798-1875.)— The  Fron- 
tiers in  War,  .  •  .  •  •  .20 

Dra'per.  Henry,  {Amer.,  1837-1882.)- Oxygen  in  the  Sun. 
—Talismans,  Amulets,  and  Charms,  .  .       23 

Dra'per,  John  William,  {Amcr.,  1811-1882.)— The  Decline 
of  the  Greek  Mythology,      ....  26 

Dray'ton,  Michael,  (Engl.,  1.563-1631.)— Robin  Hood  in 
Sherwood  Forest.- The  Battle  of  Agincourt.— A  Part- 
ing.—The  Queen  of  the  Fairies,     .  .  .  .30 

Drkn'nan,  William,  (/'•It'",  1"54-1820.)— Erin,  .  36 

Drum'mond,  Hkn-ry,  (Ktujl,  1840-  .)— Natural  Law.— 
Spontaiicfuis  Generation.— Analogy  between  the  Nat- 
ural and  the  Spiritual.— Conformity  to  Type,  .    38 

Dri'm'mond.  William,  (Scot.,  1.585-1649.)- The  Feasting  of 
tlie  River  Forth.— The  Universe.— Man's  Strange  Ends. 
—The  Hunt. —  In  Prai.se  of  a  Private  Life,  .  .    47 

Dry'dkn.  John,  (EikjI..  l()31-1700.)-On  the  Death  of  Oliver 
Cromwell. —Charles  II.  welcomed  to  Kiigland.— On 
the  Coronation  of  Charles  II.— The  War  with  the 
Dutch.— London  after  the  Great  Fire.  — Dryden  to 
Congreve.— David  and  Absalom.— Achitophel—Zimri. 
-Shimei.— Fleeknoe  and  Shadwell.— The  Coronation 
of  Shadwell- Religion,  Natural  and  Revealed— Tol- 
eration  to  Dissenters  granted  by  James  II. —The  Milk- 
white  Hind— The  Panther.  — <Jn  Anne  Killigrew.— 
For  St.  Cecilias  Day.— On  Shakespeare,  51 

Dc  C'BALLi-  (dli  shii'yQ),  Paul  Bklloni,  ( P'i-.-Amrr.,  IK'JO 

.)-The    First  Gorilla  -The   (Jorilla  at    Home.— 

Obongos,   or   Dwarf   Negroes.— Hummer    in    Heandi- 

naTia-A'egetation  in  Norway  and  Sweden . -Winter 

in  Scandinavia,  •/  -  O  >fl  f  ■%'">/  ^  '    '' 


4  CONTENTS. 

TAOE. 
PimKVANT    Uliiil-val,  AkMANTINE  Al'UORK,  (fV.,    IfiOl-lWd.) 

—Consuolo'sTriuiiipl>— A  Pastoral  Scene,  .    91 

DuF>K.RiN,   Kari,  ok,  (^;uf//.,   1820-  .)- The   MidniKht 

Sun. -The  C!old  of  Spitzbergen,  .  .101 

DuK'KKKiN,  Lady,  {Enijl.  1807-18(')7.)— Lanu-nt  of  the  Irish 
Emigrant,         .......  103 

DvMASfdU  iiiu'i,  Alexandre  Davy,   (Fi:,  1803-1870.) -The 

K.vecution  of  King  Charles  I.,        .  .  •  lO.i 

Di'MAs(dii-mri'),  Ai.kxandre,  (Fc,  Ifi'^M-       .)—       .  .100 

Dl-NBAR',  WiLMAM.  (Scot.,  14G0-1.52.5 . )— The  Merle  and  I  he 
Nightingale.— The  Dance  of  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins.— 

The  True  Life, 110 

DuN'cAN,  Henry,  {Scot.,  1774-1846.)— Blessings  of  the  Dew,  114 
Dun'lap,  Wii.uam,  (Amcr.,  1760-1839. )— Charles  Matthews,  1 16 
D'Ur'fey,  Thomas,  (aiffi.,  1650-1723.)— Stillwater,  .  118 

Duyckinck    (dy'kliik),  Eveht  Augustus,    (Amor.,   1816- 
1878.)— The    Death    of    Joseph    Warren . —Jonathan 
Trumbull,         .  .  .  .  .  .  .121 

DuYOKiNCK  (dy'klnk),  George  Long,  (Amer.,  1823-1863.)—  122 
DwifiHT  (dwite),  John  Sullivan.  (Amei:,  1813-       .)— True 

Rest, laa 

DwioHT  (dwIte),  Timothy,  (Amer.,  1752-1817.)— Columbia. 
—The  Immutability  of  God.— The  Beach  of  Truro  and 
Province  Town.— The  Burning  of  Fairfield,  Conn.,  124 

Dyce,  Alexander,  (Brit.,  1797-1869.)— Sbake.speare's  Pre- 
eminence,       .......  130 

Dy'er.  Sir  Kdwahd,  (Kmjl.,  1510-1607.)— My  Mind  to  Me  a 
Kingdom  is,     .  .  .  .  .  .  .  132 

Dy'er,  John,  (&l(/^,  1700-1758.)— Grongar  Hill,       .  .133 

Dy'er,  Thomas  Hkkhy,  [Engl.,  1804-  .)— The  Roman 
Highways,        .......  136 

Earlb  (erl),  John,  (.K)i(/;.,  1601-1065.)— The  Rural  Clown,    137 

Ea.st'man,  Charles  Gamage,  (Amer.,  1816-1861.)— ASnow- 
Storm  in  Vermont,  .....  139 

Ebers  (a'berce),  Geobg,  (fferm.,  1837-  .)— The  Happi- 
ness of  a  King.— Thebes  and  its  City  of  the  Dead,         141 

Ed'oar,  John  George,  {Eiujl.,  ia30-1864.)— St.  Bernard  and 
the  Second  Crusade,  .  .  .  .  .149 

Edge'worth.  Maria,  {Brit.,  1767-1849.)— Thady  Introduces 
the  Rackrent  Family,  .....  153 

Edge'worth,  Richard  Lovell,  (Fn(?/.,  1744-1817.)—  .  1.58 

Ed'wardbu,  Annie.  (A'iif/Z  .) -Learning  his  Fate,      159 

Ed'wards,  Amelia  ISiandkokd,  (Engl.,  1831-  .)— In 
Rome,  .  .  .  .  .161 

Ed'wards,  Jonathan,  (Amcr.,  1703-17.58.)— The  Will  deter- 
mined by  the  Strongest  Motive.— The  Imminent  Peril 
I  if  Sinners,        .......   165 

Ed'wards,  Jonathan  Jr.,  (.4hic;-.,  1745  1801.)  -       .  .166 


CONTENTS.  S 

PAGE. 

ED'wARns.  Matilda  Betham.  (Engl..  1836-  .)— The  AI- 
harnbra.— Kitty's  Account  of  Herself,     .  .  .171 

Eg'gle-ston,  Edward,  (Amer.,  1837-  .)— Patty's  Con- 
version, .  .  .....   174 

Eg'gle-8ton,  George  Cary,  (. 4 mer.,  18-39-  .)— A  Deed 
of  Daring,        .......  178 

Eg'in-hard,  (Frajifc,  770-814,  (—Charlemagne,  .181 

El'iot,  George,  (Engl.,  1810-1880.)— See  Evans,  Marian. 

El'iot,  John,  {Amer.,  1004-1690.)— The  Indian  Bible,  183 

El'iot.  Samuel,  (Amer  ,  1821-  .)— Liberty  among  the 
Ancients  in  general.— The  Liberty  of  the  Hebrews.— 
The  Liberty  of  the  Romans,  .  .  .  .185 

El'let,  Elizabeth  Lvhhir,' (Amer..  1818-1877.)— Rest  for 
the  Weary 191 

Ei.'Li-coTT,  Charles  Joh.n,  {Engl.,  1319-  .)— Difficulties 
in  the  Gospel  History.- The  Triumphant  Entry  into 
Jerusalem,      .......  193 

El'liot,  Sir  Gilbert,  (Scot.,  172^-1777.)— My  Sheep  I  neg- 
lected,   196 

El'liot,  Jane,  (Soit.,  1727-180.5.)— The  Flowers  of  the  For- 
est  197 

El'li-ott,  Charles  Wyllis,  (Amer.,  1817-  .)— The  first 
Spring  at  Plymouth.— New  England  Men,  Women, 
and  Children,  .....  108 

El'li-ott,  "Erkskzer.  (Engl.,  1781-1849.)— The  Excursion. 
—Hymn  to  Britain.— Not  for  Naught. — Sonnet  on 
Spring.- A  Poet's  Epitaph,  .  .  .  202 

El'lis,  Sir  Henry,  (Engl..  177,'>-18.5.5.)— Lord  Amherst  at 
the  Chinese  Court,      .....  208 

El'lis,  Sarah  Stickney,  (Engl.,  1812-1872.)- The  Circle  of 
Gavarnie,  ......  210 

El'lis,  Willlam,  (Engl.,  1791-1872.)— Malagasy  Tombs,        ',12 

Ell'wood,  Thomas,  (Engl.,  1639-1713.)— Milton  and  "  Para- 
dise Regained,"  .  .  .  .  211 

Em'bl'KY,  Emma  Catherine,  (Amer.,  1806-186:1.)— Living 
beyond  their  Means,  .....  210 

Em'er-8on,  Ralph  Waldo,  (^ /I »/u>r.,  1803-1882.)— The  Teach- 
ings of  Nature.— What  is  Nature.— Seeing  Nature.— 
The  U.se  of  Beauty.— Nature  and  the  Orator.— Genu- 
ine Heroiam.-Consistency.— Having  it  made  up.— 
Humanity  in  Art.— All  in  Each.- Recognizing  real 
Worth.— Receiving  and  Giving.  Celts,  Germans, 
Norsemen,  and  Normans.  Knglish  Domesticity.— 
The  Anglican  Church  and  the  Pi-opliv— Upon  Great 
Men.— Plato— Immortality.  Illusions  them.selves  II- 
lualonary— A  S<'rene  old  Age.  — The  I'ltimate  CJreat- 
nesa.  -Brahma  -Motto  to  Er^wrienre.  The  lyords  of 
Life.— Motto  to  ir</r.f/ii;>.  —  The  S<>ng  of  Nature.- 
In  Memorian  K.  B.  E  Tlireiii.dy. -May-Day  -Sur- 
Hum  Corda  -The  SduI  w  I'ropliecy  — The  Past— The 
SnowSt'-irm  The  Mnuiitnin  and  the  Squirrel— The 
Ci)nc')rd  Hyniii.  ......  218 


6  (  ONTKNTS. 

PAGK. 

Em'mons,  NATHANAKii,  (Amer. ,  174r)-l>S40.)  -Ui)ivcrsality  of 
the  Divine  ARwiicy. — (iod's  Agency  in  Evil. — The  De- 
signs of  God  will  prevail,    ....  .^47 

Eno'lish,  Thomas  Dunn,  (.4»!er.,  181!)-  .)— Ben  Bolt.— 
The  Fight  at  Lexington.  — Momma  Phcebe,       .  .250 

Epicte'tus,  (/lonrui,  .^0-150,  A.n.)— The  Function  of  the 
Will.— Position  of  Man  in  the  Univer.se. — The  Individ- 
ual and  the  Universal.— The  Ideal  Stoic  Philosopher,  258 

Epicu'rus,  {Ch-eek,  312-270  b.c.) -His  Physical  Philosophy. 
—His  Theosophy.— His  Moral  Philo.sophy.  —His  Social 
Philosophy,      .......  201 

ERAS'Mr.s,  Desideriit.s,  (Dutch,  1467-1536.)— Erasmus  be- 
tween two  Fires.— Erasmus  and  the  Dominican.— 
Era.smus  to  Pope  Adrian  VI.— Erasmus  upon  the 
Times.— Luther  upon  Erasmus,     ....  266 

EuciLLA  Y  ZuNlGA  (airtlie'  lyah  e  thoo'  nyai-gah),  (Span., 
1.533-1.')95.)— An  Araucanian  Hero. — A  Storm  at  Sea,    273 

Eii'ciLDOUN,  Thomas  of,  (.S'co<.,  about  1275.)— Sir  Tris- 
trem's  Triumph,        ......  278 

Erckmann-Chatrian  (airk'man-shat're-an),  (FY.,  1822  and 
1826-  .) — French  and  Austrian.— An  Awaking  in 
Spring,  .  .  .  .  .  .  .279 

Erskine  (er'skin),  Thomas,  Lord,  {Brit.,  1750-1823.)— The 
Law  of  Libel.— The  Government  of  India.— Justice 
and  Mercy,      .......  286 

EuLER  (oi'Ier),  Leo.nhard,  (Swiss,  1707-1783.)— Newton's 
Discovery  of  Universal  Gravitation,        .  .  .291 

Ei'Rip'iDES,  (Oreek,  480-406  b.  c..)— The  Death  of  Alcestis. 
—The  Last  Scene  in  Jlferiea.— Iphigenia  at  Aulis,  295 

Euse'bius,  {Greek,  265-340.)— Results  of  the  Triumph  of 
Constantine,    .......  310 

Ev'ANS,  Marian,  (Engl.,  1819-1880.)— In  the  House  of  Sor- 
row.—A  Passage  at  Arms.— The  Dodsons.— Tito 
chooses.— Dorothea's  Mistakes . —The  Choir  Invisible. 
—Day  is  dying,  ......  313 

Ev'arts,  William  Maxwell,  (Amer.,  1818-  .)— Neutrals 
and  Belligerents.— The  Nashville  and  the  Shenan- 
doah.—Chase  and  Webster,  ....  333 

Ev'klvn,  John,  (Engl.,  1620-1706.)-The  Great  Fire  in 
London,  .......  341 

EVERETT,  Alexander  Hill,  (Amer.,  1792-1847.)— The 
Young  American.— FVanklin  and  Montesquieu  in  Elys- 
ium,     ........  347 

Ev'euktt,  Edward,  (Amer.,  1794-1865.)— Future  Poets  of 
America.— Alaric  the  Visigoth.— The  Men  and  Deeds 
of  the  Revolution,     .  .  ...  .  354 

Ew'bank,  Thomas,  {Amer.,  1792-1870.)— Funeral  Customs 
at  Rio  Janeiro,  ......  361 

Ewing,  Jitliana  Gattv,  (Engl.,  1841-1885.)— Madam  Lib- 
erality.—Macalister  gaes  Hame,    ....  365 

Fa'ber,  Frederick  William,  (Engl.,  1814-1863.)— Doctrine 
and  Adoration.— Faber  and  Pope  Pius  IX.— Doubting 


CONTENTS.  T 

TAGK. 

and  Suffering.-Reasons  for  leaving  the  Anglican 
Church.— O  come  and  mourn  with  me  awhile.— My 
God,  how  wonderful  Thou  art.-Hark:  hark,  ray- 
Soul.— Sweet  Saviour  bless  us  ere  we  go,  .  .  369 

Fa'ber.  George  Stanley.  (Engl..  177a-l854.>— Infidelity 
put  on  the  Defensive.  —  Alleged  Impossibility  of  a 
Revelation.  —  Alleged  In.-ufficiency  of  the  Evidence 
of  a  Revelation.— The  Believer's  Theory  as  to  a  Reve- 
lation.—The  Unbeliever's  Theory  as  to  a  Revelation. 
—Final  Summation  of  the  Case,    ....  3T7 

Fab'yan.  Robert,  {Engl.  1450-1513.)— Jack  Cade's  Insur- 
rection, .......  38-2 

Faidit  (faydee').  Gaucelm,  (Fr.,  about  1200.)— Richard  of 
the  Lion  Heart,  ......  386 

Fair'fax,  Edward,  (Engl,  1.580-1632.)- Armida  and  her 
Enchanted  Castle.— Rinaldo  at  Mount  Olivet  and  the 
Enchanted  Wood,     ......  388 

Fal'coner,  William,  {Brit.,  1730-1769.)— An  Evening  at 
Sea.— The  Shipwreck  off  Cape  Colonna,  .  .  391 

Fane.  Julian,  (Engl.  1837-1870.)— Ad  Matrem,  1862.— Ad 
Matrem,  1864.-Ad  Matrem,  1870,  .  .  .395 

Fan'shawe,  Lady  Anne,  (Engl.,  1625-1680. )-Lady  and  Sir 
Richard  Fanshawe,  .  .  .  ,  .  396 

Far'aday.  Michael,  {Engl.,  1791-1867.)  —  Natural  and 
Spiritual  Belief.— Force  and  the  Atomic  Theory  of 
Matter.— Food  as  Fuel,        ....  399 

Faria  y  Socza  (faree'ah  e  so'zah),  Makoel,  {Port.,  1590- 
lW9.)—Youth  and  Manhood,  ...  404 

Fahina  (fah-ree'nahi.  Carlo  LriGi,  (Ital.,  1822-1866. )-The 
Surrender  of  Milan,  ......  404 

Far'jeon,  Benjamin  Lv.opold.( Engl.,  1833-  .)— Joshua's 
Courtship.— Naming  the  Child,       .  .  .  408 

Farn'ham.  Eliza  Wool.son,  (Anier.,  1815-1864.)— Morning 
on  the  Prairies,  .....  418 

Farn'ham,  Thomas  Jefferson,  (1804-1848.)— Poets  of  the 
Ocean,  .......  414 

Fakc^ihar  ffar'kwar),  George,  {Brit.,  1678-1707.)— Boni- 
face and  Aimwell,     ......  416 

Fau'har,  Frederick  William,  (Engl.,  18.'J1-  .)— The 
Hill  of  Nazareth  —The  Greatness  of  St.  Paul.— The 
Study  of  Pagan  Moralists,  ...  419 

Faw'cett,  Euoar,  (Amer.,  1847-  .)— The  Gentleman 
who  lived  too  long.— Criticism.— Sleep's  Threshold.— 
Indian  Summer.— Gold,       .....  426 

FAw'rETT,  Henry,  (Engl.,  18*1-1884 . )-Compul80ry  Edu- 
cation, ......  430 

Fawkeh,  Francis,  (Engl.,  1721-1777.)— The  Brown  Jug,        432 

Fav,  Thkouork,  (Amer.,  1807-  .)— On  the  Rhine.- A 
Wearied  Nobleman,  .....  483 

Feukraliht,  Thk.  John  Jay  on  Dangers  from  Foreign 
Powers.  JaiiK-s  .Mailis<iii  on  (jliji-clionHurgeil  against 
the  Constitution.  Alexander  Hamilton  on  l'resi<len- 
llal  Re-eligibility 430 


«  ("(INTENTS. 

I'Afi  E. 

KKL'THAM.OwEN.iA'/if/i..  1009  1077.)— Limitation  of  Iluiimii 
Knowleilfj*'.— Meditation.— No  Man  ciui  seem  pooil  to 
all. -Against  Readiness  to  take  Offense,  .  4.'jl 

Fft'NKi-o.N,  Francois  dk  Salionao  dk  la  Mothe, (/<>.,  1651- 
171.5.>—.Vneient  Tyre. -Simplicity.— Freedom  of  the 
Will 454 

Fknn,  Sir  John,  (Engl.,  1739-1794.)— Dame  Paston's  Letter 
of  Instructions —The  Duke  of  Suffolk's  Farewell 
I.ietter  to  his  Son,     .....  .  464 

Fkn'nkr,  Cornelius  George,  {Amer.,  1823-1847.)— Gulf- 
Weed,    .  .  .  .  .467 

Fer'ouson,  Adam,  {Scot.,  1724-1810.)— Development  of 
Civil  Society,  ,  .468 

FER'otsoN,  Sir  Samuel,  {Irixh,  1810-  .)— The  Forging 
of  the  Anchor,  ......  470 

Fer'ousson,  Robert,  (Scot.,  1750-1774.)— An  Edinburgh 
Sunday,  .......  474 

Fer'rier,  Susan  E.,  (Scot,  1782-1854.)— Miss  Violet  Mac- 
shake,  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .476 


CYCLOPEDIA 


OF 


UNIVERSAL    LITERATURE. 


DOWDEN.  Edward,  an  English  poet,  born 
about  1848.  lie  has  pubUshed  Shakespeare's 
Mind  and  Art  (1875),  and  a  volume  of  Poems 
(1877).  Many  of  his  poems  are  in  the  form  of 
sonnets. 

TWO  IXFINITIES. 
A  lonely  way  :  and  as  I  went,  my  eyes 
Could  not  unfasten  from  the  Spring's    sweet 

things  : 
Last-sprouted  grass,   and  all  that  climbs  and 
clings 
In  loose,  deep  hedges  where  the  primrose  lies 
In  her  own  fairness  ;  buried  blooms  surprise 
The  plunderer  bee,  and  stop  his  murmuringa  ; 
And  the  glad  flutter  of  a  fuuhs  wings 
Out  startles  small  l)lue-si>eckk'd  butterflies. 
HlisHfully  di<l  one  speedwell  plot  beguile 
My  wliole  heart  long  ;  I  loved  each  separate  flower. 
Kneeling.     I  looked  up  suddenly— Dear  God  ! 
There  stretched  the  shining  plain  for  many  a 
mile 
Tlie  mountains  rose  witli  what  invincible  power  ! 
And  how  the  sky  was  fathomless  and  broad  ! 

OASIS. 

I  .ft  them  go  by— the  heats,  the  doubts,  the  strife  ; 

I  ran  sit  here  ami  care  not  for  them  now, 
Dreaming  Iwside  the  glitt4'ring  wave  of  life 
Onec  more — 1  know  not  how. 


10  ANDREW  JACKSON  DOWNING. 

There  is  a  inurnuir  in  my  hoart,  I  hear 

Faint — O  so  faint — some  aii-  I  userl  to  sing  ; 
It  stirs  my  sense  ;  and  odors  dim  and  dear 
The  meadow-breezes  bring. 

Just  this  way  did  the  quiet  twilights  fade 

Over  the  fields  and  happy  homes  of  men, 
While  one  bird  sang  as  now,  piercing  the  shade, 
Long  since — I  know  not  when. 

WISE    PASSIVKNESS. 

Think  you  I  choose  or  that  or  this  to  sing? 

I  lie  as  patient  as  yon  wealthy  stream, 

Dreaming  among  green  fields  its  summer  dream, 
Which  takes  whate'er  the  gracious  hours  will  bring 
Into  its  quiet  bosom  ;  not  a  thing 

Too  common,  since  perhaps  you  see  it  there 

Who  else  had  never  seen  it,  though  as  fair 
As  on  the  world's  first  morn  ;  a  fluttering 

Of  idle  butterflies,  or  the  deft  seeds 
Blown  from  a  thistle-head  ;  a  silver  dove 

As  faultlessly  ;  or  the  large  yearning  eyes 
Of  pale  Narcissus  ;  or  beside  the  reeds 
A  shepherd  seeking  lilies  for  his  love, 

And  evermore  the  all-encircling  skies. 

DOWNING,  Andrew  Jackson,  an  Ameri- 
can landscape  gardener  and  author,  born  at 
Newburgh,  N.  Y.,  in  1815,  died  in  1852. 
When  he  wa.s  seven  years  old  his  father  died. 
He  was  sent  to  school,  but  was  recalled  home 
at  the  age  of  sixteen.  He  had  already  shown 
a  taste  for  botany  and  mineralogy,  and  after 
his  return  from  school,  he  began  a  course  of 
self-education  which  he  continued  through- 
out his  life.  When  scarcely  twenty  years 
old,  he  determined  to  become  a  rural  archi- 
tect. In  1841  he  published  A  Treatise  on  the 
Theory  and  Practice  of  Landscape  Garden- 
ing, which  was  very  popular  both  in  England 
and  America.  Cottage  Residences  {1842),  was 
equally  successful.  In  1845  he  published 
Fruits  and  Fruit-Trces  of  America,  and  in 


ANDREW  JACKSON  DOWNING.         U 

184G  became  editor  of  TJie  Horticulturist, 
published  in  Albany.  Hints  to  Persons  about 
Building  in  the  Country,  an  addition  to 
George  Wightwick's  Hints  to  Young  Archi- 
tects appearedin  1849.  and  Architecture  for 
Country  Houses  in  1850.  Mr.  Downing  was 
drowned  during  the  burning  of  the  steamer 
Henry  Clay  on  the  Hudson,  in  1852.  A  col- 
lection of  his  articles  in  the  Horticulturist 
was  published  in  1854  under  the  title  oi  Rural 
Essays. 

• 

A  HINT  OX  LANDSCAPE  GARDENTNQ. 

The  great  mistake  made  by  most  novices  is  that 
they  .study  gardens  too  much,  and  nature  too 
little.  Now  gardens,  in  general,  are  stiff  and 
graceless,  except  just  so  far  as  nature,  ever  free 
and  flowing,  re-asserts  her  rights,  in  spite  of 
man's  want  of  taste,  or  helps  him  when  he  has  en- 
deavored to  work  in  her  own  spirit.  But  the 
fields  and  woods  are  full  of  instruction,  and  m 
such  features  of  our  richest  and  most  smiling 
and  diversified  country  must  the  best  hints  for 
the  embellishment  of  rural  homes  always  be  de- 
rived. And  yet  it  is  not  any  portion  of  the  woods 
and  fields  that  we  wish  our  finest  pleasure-grounds 
preci-sely  to  resemble.  We  rather  wish  to  select 
from  the  finest  sylvan  features  of  nature,  and  to 
recompose  the  materials  in  a  choicer  manner — by 
rejecting  anything  foreign  to  the  spirit  of  elegance 
ami  refinement  which  should  characterize  the 
landscape  of  the  most  tasteful  country  residence — 
a  landscafje  in  which  all  that  is  graceful  and  beau- 
tiful in  nature  is  preserved — all  her  most  perfect 
forms  and  most  harmonious  lines — but  with  that 
added  refinement  which  high  keeping  and  contin- 
ual care  ronfer  on  natural  l>eauty,  without  im- 
pairing its  innate  spirit  of  freedom,  or  the  truth 
and  fresliness  of  its  intrinsic  character.  A  plant- 
ed elm  of  fifty  years,  which  stands  in  the  midst  of 
a  sMiooth  lawn  before  yonder  mansi(jn — its  long 
grafefiil  brancheH  towering  upwards  like  an  an- 
liipii-    cliussic.il    v;l^c.   and    then    sweeping  to   the 


12  JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 

groutul  witli  a  curve  as  beautiful  aa  the  falling 
spray  of  a  fountain,  lias  all  the  freedom  of  char- 
acter of  its  best  prototypes  in  the  wild  woods, 
with  a  refinement  and  a  perfection  of  symmetry 
which  it  would  be  next  to  impossible  to  find  in  a 
wild  tree.  Let  us  take  it  then  as  the  type  of  all 
true  art  in  landscape  gardening — which  selects 
from  natural  materials  that  abound  in  any  coun- 
try, its  best  sylvan  features,  and  bj'  giving  them  a 
better  opportunity  than  they  could  otherwise  ob- 
tain, brings  about  a  higher  beauty  of  development 
and  a  more  perfect  expression  than  nature  herself 
offers.  Study  landscape  in  nature'  more,  and  the 
gardens  and  their  catalogues  less — is  our  advice 
to  the  rising  generation  of  planters,  who  wish  to 
embellish  their  places  in  the  best  and  purest  taste. 
— Rural  Essays. 

DRAKE,  Joseph  Rodman,  an  American 
poet,  born  at  New  York  in  1795,  died  there  in 
1820.  He  studied  medicine ;  but  in  his  twenty- 
first  year  he  married  the  daughter  of  a 
wealthy  ship-builder,  which  obviated  the  ne- 
cessity of  practicing  his  profession.  He  early 
formed  an  intimate  personal  and  literary 
friendship  with  Fitz-Greene  Halleck  and 
James  Fenimore  Cooper.  In  1818  he  traveled 
in  Europe;  and  upon  his  return  in  the  follow- 
ing year,  he  began  in  conjunction  with  Hal- 
leck the  writing  of  the  poetical  "Croaker" 
papers,  which  appeared  in  the  newspapers. 
He  died  of  consumption  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
five.  His  longest  poem,  The  Culprit  Fay, 
was  written — it  is  said  in  three  days— before 
he  had  reached  the  age  of  twenty-one ;  and  his 
stirring  lines  on  The  American  Flag,  Avritten 
in  1819,  was  one  of  the  "  Croaker"  papers. 

THE  GATHERING  OF  THE  FAIRIES. 
'Tis  the  middle  watch  of  a  summer's  night ; 
The  earth  is  dark,  but  the  heavens  are  bright ; 
Naught  is  seen  in  the  vault  on  high  [sky, 

But  the  moon,   and  the  stars,   and  the  cloudless 


JOSEPH  RODMAN  DKAKE.  18 

And  the  flood  which  rolls  its  milky  hue — 

A  river  of  light  on  the  welkin  blue. 

Tlie  moon  looks  down  on  old  Cro'nest  ; 

Slie  mellows  the  shades  on  his  craggy  breast ; 

And  seems  his  liuge  gray  form  to  throw, 

In  a  silver  cone  on  the  waves  below. 

His  sides  are  broken  by  spots  of  shade, 

By  tlie  walnat-bough  and  the  cedar  made, 

And  through  their  clastering  brandies  dark 

Glimmers  an  I  dies  the  fire-fly's  spark, 

Like  starry  twinkles  that  momently  break 

Through  the  rifts  of  the  gathering  tempests  rack. 

Tlie  stars  ars  on  the  moving  stream. 

And  fling,  as  its  ripples  gently  flow, 
A  burnished  length  of  wavy  beam 

In  an  eel-like,  spiral  line  below  ; 
The  winds  are  wliist,  and  the  owl  is  still, 

The  bat  in  the  shelvy  rock  is  hid, 
And  nought  is  heard  on  the  lonelj'  hill 
But  the  cricket's  chirp,  and  the  answer  shi-ill 

Of  the  gauze- winged  katydid. 
And  the  plaint  of  the  wailing  whippoorwill, 

Who  mourns  unseen,  and  ceaseless  sings 
Ever  a  note  of  wail  and  woe, 

Till  the  morning  spreads  her  rosy  wings. 
And  earth  and  sky  in  her  glances  glow, 

Tis  the  hour  of  fairy  ban  and  spell  :— 

The  wood-tick  has  kept  the  minutes  well ; 

He  has  counted  tliem  all  with  click  and  stroke, 

Df'cp  in  the  lu-art  of  the  mountain  oak  ; 

And  lie  ha.s  awakened  the  sentry  Elve 

Who  slet'ps  with  him  in  the  liaunted  tree, 
To  bid  liim  ring  tlie  hour  of  twelve, 

An<l  call  the  Fays  to  their  revelry  :— 
Twelve  small  strokes  on  his  tinkling  bell— 
'TwiiH  Miaile  of  the  white  snail's  pearly  shell— 
"  Midnight  comes,  and  all  is  well  1 
Hither,  hither  wing  your  w;iy  ! 
Tis  tlie  dawn  of  tli«;  fairy  day  ! "' 

They  come  from  ImmIs  of  lichen  green, 

Tliev  creejt  from  the  iniilleiirs  velvet  screen; 


U  JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 

Some  on  the  backs  of  l)eetles  fly 

From  the  silver  tops  of  moon-touclied  trees. 
Where  tliey  swiinc;  in  tlieir  cobweb  hammocks 
high. 

Anil  rocked  about  in  the  evening  breeze  ; 
Some  from  the  hum-birds  downy  nest — 

They  had  driven  liim  out  by  elfin  power — 
And  pillowed  on  i>lumes  of  his  rainbow  breast, 

Had  slumbered  there  till  the  charmed  hour; 
Some  had  lain  in  the  scoop  of  the  rock, 

With  glittering  ising-stars  inlaid  ; 
And  some  had  opened  the  four-o'clock, 

And  stole  within  its  purple  shade. 

And  now  they  throng  the  moonlight  glade, 
Above — below — on  every  side, 

Their  little  minim  forms  arrayed 
In  the  tricksy  pomp  of  fairy  pride. 

They  come  not  now  to  print  the  lea 

In  freak  and  dance  around  tlie  tree, 

Or  at  the  mushroom  board  to  sup, 

And  drink  the  dew  froni  the  buttercup  : — 

A  scene  of  sorrow  waits  them  now. 

For  an  Ouphe  has  broken  his  vestal  vow  ; 

He  has  loved  an  earthly  maid, 

And  left  for  her  liis  woodland  shade  ; 

He  has  lain  upon  her  lip  of  dew. 

And  sunned  him  in  her  eyes  of  blue. 

Fanned  her  cheek  with  his  wing  of  air, 

Played  in  the  ringlets  of  her  hair. 

And  nestling  on  her  snowy  breast, 

Forgot  the  Lih'-King's  l)ehest. — 

For  this  the  shadowy  tribes  of  air 

To  the  Elfin  Court  must  haste  away  ! — 
And  now  they  stand  expectant  there, 

To  hear  the  doom  of  the  Culprit  Fay. 

The  throne  was  reared  upon  the  grass. 
Of  spice-wood  and  of  sassafras  ; 
On  jMllars  of  mottled  tortoise-shell 

Hung  the  burnished  canopy. 
Ami  o'er  it  gorgeous  curtains  fell 

Of  tlie  tulip's  crimson  drapery. 
The  Monarch  sat  on  his  juiigment-seat. 


JOSEPH  rod:man  drake.  15 

On  his  brov\-  the  crown  imperial  shone 
The  prisoner  Fay  was  at  his  feet. 

And  liis  Peers  were  ranged  around  the  throne. 
—The  Culprit  Fay. 


ODE  TO   FORTUNE. 

Fair  lady  with  the  bandaged  eye  ! 

I  "11  pardon  all  thy  scurvy  tricks  ; 
So  thou  wilt  cut  me,  and  deny 

Alike  thy  kisses  and  thy  kicks. 
I'm  quite  contented  as  I  am  ; 

Have  cash  to  keep  my  duns  at  bay, 
Can  choose  between  beefsteaks  and  ham, 

And  drink  Madeira  every  day. 

My  station  is  the  middle  rank  ; 

My  fortune  just  a  competence — 
Ten  thousand  in  the  Franklin  Bank, 

And  twenty  in  the  six-per-cents. 
No  amorous  chains  my  heart  enthrall ; 

I  neither  Iwrrow,  lend,  nor  sell ; 
Fearless  I  roam  the  City  Hall. 

And  bite  my  thumbs  at  Sheriff  Bell. 

The  horse  that  twice  a  year  I  ride, 

At  Mother  Dawson's  eats  his  fill ; 
My  books  at  Goodrich's  abide. 

My  countr>--seat  is  Weehawk  Hill  : 
My  morning  lounge  is  Eristburn's  shop, 

At  Poppleton's  I  take  my  lunch  ; 
Niblo  prepares  my  nmtton-chop, 

And  Jennings  makes  my  whiskey-punch. 

When  merry.  I  the  hours  amuse 

By  s<iuibbing  Bucktails,  Bucks  and  Balls 
An<l  wiien  I  'm  troiibled  with  the  blues. 

Damn  Clinton  and  al)use  canals.— 
Then,  Fortune,  sin<e  I  ask  no  prize, 

At  least  i)rc-servf  me  from  thy  frown  ; 
The  man  who  don't  attemi)t  to  rise 

Twen"  cnH'lty  to  tumblu  down. 
—Tlic  Croakers. 


16  JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 

THE  AMKRICAN  FLAG. 

"Wlien  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 

Unfurled  lier  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  th«^  azure  robe  of  night, 

And  set  the  Stars  of  glory  there. 
She  mingled  with  it  gorgeous  dyes 

The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies. 
And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light  ; 
Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  called  her  Eagle-bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  miglity  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Majestic  Monarch  of  the  cloud. 
Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest-trumpings  loud, 
And  see  the  lightning-lances  driven. 

When  stride  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  lieaven  ; — 
Child  of  the  Sun  !  to  thee  'tis  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur-smoke. 
To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke. 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar. 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war. 

The  harbingers  of  victory  ! 

Flag  of  the  brave  !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hoi)e  and  triumph  high  ! 
When  speaks  the  signal-trumpet  tone. 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on — 
Ere  jet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet — 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn  ; 
And  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle-shroud. 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall — 
There  shall  tliy  meteor-glances  glow. 
And  cowering  foes  shall  shrink  Ijeneath 


SAMUEL  ADAMS  DRAKE.  17 

Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas  !  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  Stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave  : 
When  Death  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Eacli  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  lieaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly  . 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home  ! 

By  angel  liands  to  valor  given  ! 
Thy  Stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome. 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard-sheet  1 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  Iwfore  us. 
With  Freedom's  soil  Ix-neath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us  I 

DRAKE,  Sa-MUEL  Adams,  a  son  of  S.  G. 
Drake,  born  in  Massachusetts,  in  1S3.3.  is  the 
author  of  various  interesting  works  ;  among 
them  Old  Txindmarks  and  Historic  Fields  of 
Middlesex  (1874),  Bunker  Hill,  the  story  told 
in  letters  by  British  ofUcers  engaged  in  the 
battle  (1875).  Old  Landmarks  and  Historic 
Personages  of  Bostwi  (187G),  Captain  Nelson: 
a  Romance  of  Colonial  Days  (1879),  Around 
the  Huh,  a  book  for  boys,  and  The  Heart  of 
the  White  Monntains  (18Sli.  Neiv  England 
h-(jends  and  Folk  Lore  (1S8.3).  Indian  Histcn-y 
for  Young  Folks  (1884t,  and  The  Making  of 
New  England  (1886). 

Drake,  Francis  Samlkl,  also  a  son  of  S. 
a.  Drake,  born  in  1828,  died  in  1885,  was  the 
nuih<>ro(  a  Dictionary  of  American  Biogra- 
phy (1872). 


18      SAMUEL  ADAMS  DRAKE. 

A   MOUNTAIN  STREAM. 

There  is  a  fine  cataract  on  the  Ellis,  known  as 
Goodrich  Falls.  This  is  a  mile  and  a  half  out  of 
the  village,  where  the  Conway  road  passes  the 
EMis  by  a  bridge  ;  and  being  directly  upon  the 
high-road,  is  one  of  the  best  known.  The  river 
here  suddenly  pours  its  whole  volume  over  a  preci- 
pice eighty  feet  high,  making  the  earth  tremble 
with  the  shock,  I  made  mj'  way  down  the  steep 
bank  to  the  bed  of  the  river  below  the  fall,  from 
which  I  saw,  first,  the  curling  wave — large,  regu- 
lar, and  glassy — of  the  dam,  then  three  wild  and 
foaming  pitches  of  bi-oken  water,  with  detached 
cascades,  gushing  out  from  the  rocks  at  the  right — 
all  falling  heavily  into  the  eddying  pool  below. 
Where  the  water  was  not  white,  or  filliped  into 
fine  spray,  it  was  the  color  of  pale  sherry,  and 
opaque,  gradual!}'  changing  to  amber  gold  as  the 
light  penetrated  it  and  the  descending  sheet  of 
the  fall  grew  thinner.  The  full  tide  of  the  j'iver 
showed  the  fall  to  the  best  possible  advantage. 
But  Spring  is  the  season  of  cascades — the  only  sea- 
son wlien  one  is  sure  of  seeing  them  at  all.  One 
gets  strongly  attached  to  such  a  stream  as  the 
Ellis.  If  it  has  been  his  only  comrade  for  weeks, 
as  it  has  been  mine,  the  liking  grows  stronger 
every  day — the  sense  of  companionship  is  full  and 
complete  :  the  river  is  so  voluble,  so  vivacious,  so 
full  of  noisy  chatter.  If  you  are  dull,  it  rouses 
and  lifts  you  out  of  yourself  :  if  gay,  it  is  as  gay 
as  you.  Besides,  there  is  the  paradox  that,  not- 
withstanding you  may  be  going  in  different  direc- 
tions, it  never  leaves  you  for  a  single  moment. 
One  talks  as  it  runs.  One  listens  as  he  walks.  A 
secret,  an  indefinable  sympathy  springs  up.  You 
are  no  longer  alone. 

Among  other  stories  that  the  river  told  me  was 
the  following :  Once,  while  on  their  way  to 
Canada  through  these  mountains,  awar-party  of 
Indians,  fresh  from  a  successful  foray  on  the  sea- 
coast,  halted  with  their  prisoners  on- the  banks  of 
a  stream  whose  waters  stopped  their  way.  For 
weeks  these  miserable  captives  had  toiled  through 
trackless  forests,  through  swollen  and  angry  tor- 


SAMUEL  ADAMS  DRAKE.  10 

rents,  sometimes  climbing  mountains  on  their 
hands  and  knees — thev  were  so  steep — and  at 
night  stretching  their  aching  limbs  on  the  cold 
ground,  with  no  other  roof  than  the  lieavens. 
The  captives  were  a  mother,  witli  her  new-born 
babe,  scarcely  fourteen  dH3s  old,  her  boy  of  six, 
her  two  tlaughters  of  fourteen  and  sixteen  years, 
and  her  maid.  Two  of  her  little  flock  were  miss- 
ing. One  little  prattler  was  playing  at  her  knee, 
and  another  in  the  orchard,  when  thirteen  red 
devils  burst  in  the  door  of  their  happy  home. 
Two  cruel  strokes  of  the  axe  stretched  them  life- 
lesB  in  their  blood  before  her  frenzied  eyes.  One 
was  killed  to  intimidate,  the  other  was  dispatched 
Ijecause  he  was  afraid,  and  cried  out  to  his  mother. 
There  was  no  time  for  tears — none  even  for  a  part- 
ing kiss.  Think  of  that,  mothers  of  the  nineteenth 
century  !  The  tragedy  finished,  the  hapless  sur- 
vivors were  hurried  from  the  house  into  the  woods. 
There  was  no  resistance.  The  blow  fell  like  a 
stroke  of  lightning  from  a  clear  sky. 

This  mother,  whose  eyes  never  left  the  embroid- 
ered belt  of  the  chief  where  the  scalps  of  her  mur- 
dered baljes  hung ;  this  mother,  who  liad  tasted 
the  agony  of  death  from  hour  to  hour,  and  whose 
incomparable  courage  not  only  supported  her  own 
weak  frame,  but  had  so  far  miraculously  preserved 
tlie  lives  of  her  little  ones,  now  stood  shivering  on 
tlie  .shores  of  the  swollen  torrent  with  her  babe  in 
lier  arms,  and  holding  her  little  boy  by  the  hand. 
In  rags,  bleeding,  and  almost  famished,  her  mis- 
ery should  liave  melted  a  heart  of  stone.  But  she 
well  knew  the  mercy  of  lier  masters.  When 
fainting,  they  had  goaded  her'on  with  blows,  or, 
making  a  gesture  as  if  to  snatch  her  little  one 
from  her  arms,  significantly  grasped  tJieir  toma- 
liawks.  Hope  was  gone ;  but  the  mother's  in- 
stinct was  not  y<!t  extinguished  in  tliat  lieroic 
lireast.  But  at  that  moment  of  sorrow  and  de- 
spair, what  was  her  amazement  to  he.nr  the  In- 
flians  accost  lier  daughter  Sarah,  and  ronmiaiid 
licr  to  sing  th(  in  a  song.  What  mysterious  chonl 
liiul  the  wild  (lowing  river  touched  in  tliose  wiv- 
age  lireiiHts?     The  girl  |ire|>are<l    In   oIm'v,  and  llie 


20  SAMUEL  GARDNER  DRAKE. 

Indians  to  listen.  In  tiic  heart  of  these  vast  soH- 
tudes,  which  never  helore  eclioed  to  a  human 
voice,  the  heroic  EngHsli  maiden  chanted  to  the 
phiintive  refrain  of  the  river  tlu'  sublime  words  of 
the  Psalmist: 
'•  By  the  rivers  of  Babylon,  there  we  sat  down,  yea,  we 

wept,  when  we  lemeinhered  Zion. 
We  handed  oiu'  harps  upon  the  willows  in  the  midst  thereof. 
For  thei-e  they  that  carried  us  away  captive  required  of  us  a 

sontj  ;  and  they  that  wasted  us  required  of  us  mirth." 
As  she  sung,  the  poor  girl's  voice  trembled  and 
lier  eyes  filled,  but  she  never  once  looked  toward 
her  mother.  When  the  last  notes  of  tlie  singer's 
voice  died  away,  the  bloodie-st  devil,  he  who  had 
murdered  the  children,  took  the  V)abe  gently  from 
tlie  mother  without  a  word,  another  lifted  her 
burden  to  his  own  shoulder  :  another,  the  little 
l)oy  ;  when  the  whole  company  filtered  the  river. 
(Jentlemen,  metaphysicians,  explain  that  scene, 
if  you  please  :  it  is  no  romance. — llic  Heart  of  the 
White  Mountainit. 

DRAKE,  Samuel  Gardner,  an  American 
author  born  at  Pittsfield,  N.  H. ,  in  1798,  died 
in  1875.  He  was  educated  in  the  comnxon 
schools  of  Pittsfield,  and  was  for  some  years 
a  teacher.  Becoming  interested  in  antiquari- 
an research,  he  removed  to  Boston  and  es- 
tablished the  first  antiquarian  book-store  in 
tlie  United  States.  In  1832  he  published  In- 
dian Biography,  and  in  1833  the  Book  of  the 
Indians  ;  or  History  and  Biography  of  the 
Indians  of  North  America,  an  important 
work.  Among  his  other  works  are  Old  Indi- 
a)i  Chronicles  (183G),  Indian  Captivities  {18S9), 
Tragedies  of  the  Wilderness  (1841),  Memoir  of 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh  (1862),  a  new  series  of  Old 
Indian  Chronicles  (1867),  Annals  of  Witch 
craft  in  the  United,  States  (1869),  and  a  Histo- 
ry of  the  Five  Years'  French  and  Indian 
War  (1870).  Mr.  Drake  was  one  of  the  found' 
ers  of  the  New  England  Historical  and  Gene- 
alogical Society,  and  for  many  years  editor 
of  its  lieyister. 


SAMUEL  GARDNER  DRAKE.     ~*1 

THE  FRONTIERS  IN   WAR. 

Always  when  war  existed  between  England  and 
France,     nothing   was    expected    by    the    North 
American  colonists  but  that  their  frontiers  were 
to    be    a    scene    of  blood,  and  those    who    con- 
template the  circumstances  of  the  settlers  at  this 
distance  of  time,   will,  without  much  reflection, 
wonder  that  people  could  be  found  who  would 
thrust  themselves  several  miles  into  the  wilder- 
ness, and  take  up  an  abode,  Icnowing  the  perils  to 
which  a  war  exposed  them.     To  understand  tliis 
state  of  things  we  have  only  to  reflect  that  almost 
the  whole  population  were  poor,  and,  as  famihes 
increased,  the  young  men  must  provide  for  them- 
selves and  their  families.     Their  means  would  not 
allow  them  to  purchase  land  already  taken  up, 
and  thus  settle  down  with  those  previously  lo- 
cated,  and  of  course  in  more  security.      Hence, 
young   men   from  old  families,  and  others  from 
abroad,  in  times  of  peace  located  themselves  often 
far  in  advance  of  earlier  settlers.     In  such  situa- 
tions these  found  themselves  on  the  breaking  out 
of   war.  ...  It   must  be  borne  in  mind  that  in 
those  days  thLs  people  was  nearly  cut  off  from  a 
knowledge  of  the  politics  of  their  time  ;  that  their 
means  of  knowing  what  was  passing  in  European 
courts,  and   even  but  a  few    miles  distant,  and  in 
their  own  country,  were  not  only  extremely  scan- 
ty, but  such  a.s  they  did  receive  was  very  thibious 
and  uncertain  ;   and  lience  they  often  knew  noth- 
ing of  war  until  a  deadly  blow  was  struck  in  their 
very  midst.  .  .  .  The  war  which   began  in  1744 
took  tlie  frontiers  by  surprise,  aitliougli  such  an 
event  liad  not  only   been  feared  by  the  officers  of 
the  ci^lomul  governments,  but   was    anticipated, 
yet  with  a  faint  liope  it  might  be  averted  by  the 
negotiations  then  going  on  lietween  the  agents  of 
fJeorge   II..  and  tiiose  of   Louis   XV.,    the  occu- 
pants of  tlie  respfctive  thrones  of  England  and 
France.    Th<.'  French  monarch  wa-s  encouraged  by 
that  of   Spain,  I'hilii)    V..    who  liad  tx-eii  feebly 
figliting  England  for  about  five  years.  The  Spanish 
war    did   not,    however,   iiimiediatcly  affi-'  t.  New 
England,  and  (ieneral  Ogletliorpi'  wassucc-'S'^fully 


22  SAiAlUEL  (.JAKUNEK  DRAKE. 

opposiiifi:  the  agpcressions  of  Spain  at  the  south. 
Tliiks  stood  the  political  atmosphere,  when  sudden- 
ly proceetleil  from  Versailles  the  formal  declara- 
tion of  war  by  France  against  England.  This  was 
done  on  j\huch  1."),  1744,  and  on  the  29th  of  the 
same  month  England  accepted  the  challenge,  de- 
claring war  against  France  in  return. 

It  was  about  two  months  before  the  news  of  the 
declaration  of  war  reached  New  England,  while 
the  French  and  Indians  of  Canada  had  the  intelli- 
gence nearly  a  month  earlier,  and  immediately 
commenced  the  work  of  destruction.  Governor 
Shirley  was  alive  to  the  condition  of  things,  and 
at  once  raised  live  hundred  men  to  be  stationed  at 
points  where  attacks  were  expected  ;  three  hun- 
dred of  them  \vere  for  the  service  on  the  eastern 
border,  and  the  other  two  hundred  for  the  upper 
valley  of  the  Connecticut  river.  There  had  ar- 
rived in  Boston  harbor,  some  time  before  the  news 
of  the  declaration  of  war,  most  opportunely  it  is 
certain,  twenty  cannon  of  forty-two  pound  caliber, 
and  two  thirteen-inch  mortars,  which  had  been 
forwarded  by  the  home  government  for  Castle 
William.  All  necessary  equipments  came  with 
them,  as  mortar-beds,  carriages,  shells,  shot,  etc. 
The  ships  in  which  they  came  arrived  on  the  last 
day  of  the  year  1743  and  the  war  materials  were 
landed  on  Long  AVharf ,  and  thence  in  sloops  taken 
to  the  castle,  the  last  on  Jan,  21,  1744.  Soon 
after  the  news  that  war  had  been  declared  was 
received,  the  General  Court  of  Massachusetts 
ordered  a  Une  of  forts  to  be  constructed,  to  extend 
from  the  Connecticut  River  to  the  boundary  of 
New  York,  and  ninety-six  barrels  of  powder  were 
sent  to  supply  the  inhabitants.  This  was  not  a 
gift,  but  was  dealt  out  to  them  at  cost. 

Few  of  the  people  of  New  England  knew  any- 
thing about  the  frontier  of  Canada,  while  every 
point  of  the  border  of  New  England  was  well 
known  to  the  Indians.  Many  of  these  had  con- 
stantly trailed  with  the  English  at  their  houses, 
and  consequently  knew  minutely  their  situation, 
and  hence  became  sure  guides  to  the  French  in 
their  expeditions.     Indeed,  some  of  the  Indians 


HENRY  DRAPER.  23 

hadlived  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  many  of  the 
towns,  and  the  people  had  become  so  accustomed 
to  them,  that  thny  looked  upon  them  as  friends, 
and  flattered  themselves  with  the  liope  tliat  in  the 
event  of  another  war,  they  would  be  friends,  and 
side  with  them  rather  than  with  their  enemies. 
But  no  sooner  was  it  known  to  them  that  war  had 
been  resolved  upon,  than  all  these  Indians  with- 
drew to  Canada,  and  at  all  times  acted  as  guides 
to  the  French  soldiers.  ...  It  is  easy  to  discern 
how  deplorable  was  the  condition  of  the  scattered 
settlei-s  thus  circumstanced.  It  was  likewise  easy 
to  discern  that  so  long  as  the  French  were  masters 
of  Canada,  a  liability  of  war  between  France  and 
England  would  always  exist.  To  live  in  a  con- 
tinual state  of  suspense  in  times  of  peace,  and  fear 
of  the  tomahawk  and  scalping-knife  in  times  of 
war.  could  oidy  V>e  endured  in  the  hope  that  the 
time  would  come  when  they  could  triumph  over 
their  enemies.  This  could  only  be  -expected  by 
the  reduction  of  Canada. 

The  conquest  of  Canada  had  long  been  contem- 
plated, and  several  times  attempted,  but  hitherto 
those  attempts  had  all  proved  abortive  :  anotlier 
war  had  commenced,  and  with  prospects  not  at 
all  improved.  Nothing  remained  for  New  Eng- 
land but  to  make  the  best  defence  it  could,  and 
this  under  the  certain  prospect  of  a  bloody  con- 
flict.—Hwf  on/  of  the  French  and  Indian  Wat: 

DRAPER,  Henry,  son  of  John  William, 
born  in  1837,  died  in  1882.  He  was  (>ducated 
in  tin;  public  schools  and  the  University  of 
New  York,  from  the  medical  departm(>nt  of 
which  he  graduated  in  18.")8.  Having  served 
for  a  year  on  the  medical  staff  of  Bellevucj 
Hospital,  he  became  Pwfessor  of  IMiysiology 
in  the  University  of  the  City  of  New  York, 
and  in  186C  in  the  medical  department  of  that 
inKtitutioii.  While  young  ho  turned  his  at- 
tention to  microscopical  photograi)hy.  He 
was  tbr  first  to  obtain  a  photograph  of 
the   lines  in  the  sixftra   of  (i.\i-d  stars.     In 


24  HENRY  DRAPER. 

1874  ho  Avas  superintendent  of  the  coThmis- 
sion  created  to  observe  the  transit  of  Venus. 
In  ;i878  he  again  went  to  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains, to  photograph  an  echpse  of  the  sun. 
He  published  in  a  paper  entitled  Discovery  of 
Oxygen  in  the  Sun,  A  New  Theory  of  the 
Solar  Spectrum,  and  Delusions  in  Medicine, 

OXYGEN  IN  THE  SUN. 

If  it  be  concoded  that  there  are  bright  lines  in 
the  spectrum  of  tlie  solar  disk,  which  seems  to  be 
the  opinion  of  several  physicists,  and  especially 
Lockyer,  Cornu,  and  Hennessy,  the  question  of 
their  origin  naturally  attracts  attention.  It  seems 
that  there  is  a  great  probability,  from  general 
chemical  reasons,  that  a  number  of  the  non- 
metals  may  exist  in  the  Sun.  The  obvious  con- 
tinuation of  this  researcli  is  in  that  direction. 
But  the  subject  is  surrounded  by  exceedingly 
great  obstacles,  arising  principally  from  the  diffi- 
culty of  matching  the  conditions  as  to  tempera- 
ture, pressure,  etc.,  found  in  the  Sun.  Any  one 
who  has  studied  nitrogen,  sulpluir,  or  carbon,  and 
lias  observed  the  manner  in  which  the  spectrum 
clianges  by  variations  of  heat  and  pressure,  will 
realize  that  it  is  well-nigh  impossible  to  hit  upon 
the  exact  conditions  under  which  such  bodies  ex- 
ist at  the  level  of  the  photosphere.  The  fact  that 
oxygen,  within  a  certain  range  of  variation,  suf- 
fers less  change  than  others  of  the  non-metals  has 
Vieen  the  secret  of  its  detection  in  the  Sun.  It  ap- 
pears to  have  a  great  stability  of  constitution, 
though  Schuster  has  shown  that  its  spectrum  may 
be  made  to  vary.  ...  On  the  whole,  it  does  not 
seem  improper  for  me  to  take  the  ground  that, 
having  shown  by  photographs  that  tlie  blight 
lines  of  the  oxygen-spark  spectrum  all  fall  oppo- 
site bright  portions  of  the  solar  spectrum,  I  have 
established  the  probability  of  the  existence  of  ox- 
ygen in  the  Sun.  Causes  that  can  modify  in 
some  measure  the  character  of  the  brigiit  bands 
of  the  solar  spectrum  obviously  exist  in  the  Sun, 
and  these,   it  may   be  inferred,   exert  influence 


HENRY  DRAPER.  23 

enough  to  account  for  such  minor  differences  as 
may  be  detected.— 77; <;  Solar  Spectrum . 

TALISMANS,  AMULETS,  AND  CHAEMS. 

Talismans  were  natural  objects,  generally  im- 
agined to  be  marked  like  the  signs  of  the  planets 
or   zodiac,   but    sometimes  they   were    precious 
stones.     They  are  confounded  to  a  certain  extent 
with  amulets,  which  Arabic   word  signifies  any- 
thing suspended.      Charms,    on   the  other   hand, 
from  the  Latin  carmen,  a  song,  refer  to  written 
spells,  collections  of  words  often  without  sense, 
like  the  famous  "Abracadabra."     In  the  time  of 
the  Crusades,  as  so  interestingly  narrated  by  Scott 
in  the  Talisman,  faith  in  the  virtue  of  precious 
stones  was  universal,  and  to  each  was  attributed 
special  properties.     The  heliotrope,  or  blood-stone, 
now   worn  in  seal  rings  so   much,    "stancheth 
blood,  driveth  away  poisons,  preserveth   health  ; 
yea,  and  some  write  that  it  'provoketh  raine  and 
darkeneth   the    sunne,    suffering  not   him     that 
beareth   it  to  be  abused.     A  topaze  healeth  the 
lunaticke  person  of  his  passion  of  lunacie.      The 
garnet  assisteth  sorrow,  and  recreates  the  heart ; 
the  chrysolite  is  the  friend  of  wisdom  and  enemy 
of  folly.     The  great  quack.  Dr.  Dee,  had  a  lump 
of  cannel-coal  that  could  predict."  In  the  fancied 
resemblances  found   among  talismans  none  are 
more  extraordinary  than  those  associated   with 
color.     Because  Avicenna  had  said  that  red  cor- 
puscles moved  the  blood,  red  colors  must  be  em- 
ployed in  diseases  of  that  fluid  :    and  even  in  1765 
the  Emperor  Francis  I.  was  wrapped  up  in  scarlet 
cloth  to  cure  the  small-pox,  and  so  died.     Flannel 
dyed  nine  times   in  blue  was  good  for  scrofula. 
Among  amulets  that  of  Pope  ,\drian  was  curious  : 
it  consisted   of    dried     toad,    arsenic,    tormentil, 
pearl,  coral,  hyacinth,  smaragd,  and  tragacanth, 
and   was   hung   round   the   neck,    and   never  re- 
moved.    The  arsenic  anmlets   worn  during  the 
plague  m   Ixmdon  were  active  on   the  principle 
that  one  poison   wf)uld    prevent   the  entry  of  an- 
other.    Aahmole'seure  for  ague  was  to  take,  early 
in  tlie  morning,  a  good    dose  of  elixir,  .md    liang 


26  John   WILLIAM  DliAl'LR. 

three  spidora  round  liis  neck,  "  which  drove  it 
away,  (xod  be  thanked."  .  .  .  Necklaces  and 
bracelets  were  originally  not  articles  of  ornament, 
but  real  amulets  ;  those  found  on  Egyptian  mum- 
mies are  carved  with  characters  relating  to  tlie 
future  of  the  body,  the  scarabajus,  or  tumble-bug, 
typifying  symbolically  by  liis  performances  tlie 
resurrection. — Delusions  of  Medicine. 

DRAPEE,  John  William,  an  American  au- 
thor, born  near  Liverpool,  England,  in  1811, 
died  near  New  York  in  1882.  He  received 
hi.s  early  education  in  a  Wesleyan  school, 
studied  natural  science  and  the  higher  math- 
ematics under  private  teachers,  and  then 
went  to  the  University  of  London  to  study 
chemistiy  and  medicine.  In  1833  he  came  to 
the  United  States— most  of  his  family  having 
preceded  him — and  entered  the  University  of 
Pennsylvania,  where  he  graduated  in  1836. 
He  was  soon  appointed  to  the  chair  of  Chem- 
istry and  Physiology  in  Hampden  Sidney 
College,  Va.,  in  1839,  to  that  of  Chemistry 
and  Natural  History  in  the  University  of  the 
City  of  New  York,  and  in  1841  became  Pro- 
fessor of  Chemistry  in  the  University  Medi- 
cal College.  He  was  afterwards  President  of 
the  scientific  and  medical  department  of  the 
University.  He  was  a  contributor  to  the 
London  and  Edinburgh  Philosophical  Jour- 
nals, and  to  the  American  Journal  of  Science 
and  Arts.  Among  his  works  are  a  Treatise 
on  the  Forces  ivhich produce  the  Organization 
of  Plants  (184:4:) ,  a  Text-Book  on  Chemistry 
(1846),  Human  Physiology,  Statistical  and 
Dynamic  (1856),  Hu^tory  of  the  Intellectual 
Development  of  Europe  (1862),  Thoughts  on 
the  Future  Civil  Policy  of  America  (1865), 
History  of  the  American  Civil  War  (1867- 
1870),  and  a  History  of  the  Conflict  between 
Religion  and  Science  (1874). 


JOHN  WILLIAM  DRAPER.  27 

THE  DECLJXE  OF  THE  GREEK  MYTHOLOGY. 
Whenever  man  reaches  a  certain  point  in  liis 
mental  progress  he  vill  not  be  satisfied  with  less 
than  an  application  of  existing  rules  to  ancient 
events.  Experience  has  taught  him  that  the 
course  of  the  world  to-day  is  the  same  as  it  was 
yesterday ;  he  unhesitatingh'  believes  that  this 
will  also  hold  good  for  to-morrow.  He  will  not 
bear  to  contemplate  any  break  in  the  mechanism 
of  history  :  he  will  not  be  satisfied  with  a  mere 
uninquiring  faith,  but  insists  upon  having  the  same 
voucher  for  an  old  fact  that  he  requires  for  one 
that  is  new.  Before  the  face  of  History  Mytholo- 
gy cannot  stand.  The  operation  of  this  principle 
is  seen  in  all  directions  thrgughout  (Trp(>k  litera- 
ture after  670  B.C.  ^  ajKi- this  the  more  strikingly 
as  the  time  is  later.  Tlie  national  intellect  became 
more  and  more  ashamed  of  the  fables  it  had  be- 
lieved in  its  infancy.  Of  the  legends,  some  arc  al- 
legorized, some  are  modified,  some  are  repudiated. 
The  great  tragedians  accept  the  myths  in  the  ag- 
gregate, but  decline  tliem  in  particulars  ;  some  of 
the  poets  transform  or  allegorize  tliem  ;  some  use 
them  ornamentally,  as  graceful  decorations.  It  is 
evident  that  lietween  the  educated  and  the  vulgar 
classes  a  divergence  is  taking  place,  and  that  the 
best  men  of  the  times  see  the  necessity  of  either 
totally  abandoning  these  cherished  fictions  to  the 
lower  orders,  or  of  gradually  in-placing  them  with 
something  more  suitable.  Sucli  a  frittering  away 
of  sacred  things  was,  however,  very  far  from 
meeting  witli  jniblic  ai)proVmti<Hi  in  Athens  itself, 
although  so  many  people  in  that  cit}'  had  reached 
that  state  of  mental  dt'velo[)ment  in  which  it  was 
impossible  for  them  to  continue  to  accept  the  na- 
tional faith.  They  tried  to  force  themselves  to 
l>elieve  that  then-  must  be  something  true  in  tliat 
which  had  Ixen  l)elieved  l)y  so  many  great  and 
pious  men  of  old,  which  had  a])prf)ved  itself  by 
lasting  so  many  centuries,  and  of  wliicli  it  was  by 
the  (;omnion  peo]>le  a.sserte<l  tliat  al)solute  demon- 
stration eould  l)o  given.  But  it  was  in  vain  ;  in- 
tel]e<t  liad  outgrown  failli.  Tliey  had  cotne  into 
that  condition  t<»  wlijfli  all  men  :irc  liable — aware 


28  JOHN  WILLIAM  DRAPER. 

of  the  fallac3'  of  tlieir  opinions,  yet  angrj'  that  an- 
otlior  should  roinind  thorn  thereof.  When  the  so- 
cial state  no  longer  permitted  them  to  take  the 
life  of  a  philosophical  offender,  thej^  found  means 
to  put  upon  him  such  an  invisible  pressure  as  to 
present  him  the  choice  of  orthodoxy  or  beggary. 
Thus  they  disapproved  of  Euripides  permitting 
his  characters  to  indulge  in  any  skeptical  reflec- 
tions, and  discountenanced  the  impiety  so  obvious 
in  the  Prometheus  Bound  of  ^schylus.  It  was  by 
appealing  to  this  sentiment  that  Aristophanes  add- 
ed no  little  to  the  excitement  against  Socrates. 
Those  who  are  doubting  themselves  are  often 
loudest  in  public  denunciations  of  a  similar  state 
in  others. 

If  thus  the  poets,  suljmitting  to  common  sense, 
had  so  rapidly  fallen  away  from  the  national  be- 
lief, the  philosophers  pursued  the  same  course.  It 
soon  became  the  universal  impression  that  there 
was  an  intrinsic  opposition  between  philosophy 
and  religion,  and  herein  public  opinion  was  not 
mistaken  ;  the  fact  that  polytheism  furnished  a 
rehgious  explanation  for  every  natural  event  made 
it  essentially  antagonistic  to  seience.  It  was  the 
uncontrollable  advancement  of  knowledge  that 
overthrew  the  Greek  religion.  Socrates  himself 
never  hesitated  to  denounce  physics  for  that  ten- 
dency, and  the  Athenians  extended  his  principles 
to  his  own  pursuits  ;  their  strong  common  sense 
tilling  them  that  tlie  philosophical  cultivation  of 
elhics  must  be  equally  bad.  He  was  not  loyal  to 
science,  but  sought  to  support  his  own  views  by 
exciting  a  theological  odium  against  his  competi- 
tors— a  crime  that  educated  men  ought  never  to 
forgive.  In  the  tragedy  that  ensued  the  Atheni- 
ans only  paid  him  in  his  own  coin.  The  immor- 
alities imputed  to  the  gods  were  doubtless  strongly 
calculated  to  draw  the  attention  of  reflecting 
men  ;  but  the  essential  nature  of  the  pursuit  in 
which  the  Ionian  and  Italian  schools  were  en- 
gaged bore  directly  on  the  doctrine  of  a  providen- 
tial government  of  the  world.  It  not  onlj'  turned 
into  a  fiction  the  time-honored  dogma  of  the  om- 
nipresence of  the  Olympian  divinities — it    even 


JOHN  WILLIAM  DRAPER.  09 

struck  at  tlieir  very  existence,  by  leaving  tlicm 
nothing  to  do.  For  those  personifications  it  intro- 
duced impersonal  Nature  or  the  Elements.  In- 
stead of  uniting  scientific  intei-pretationsto  ancient 
traditions,  it  modified  and  moulded  tlie  old  tradi- 
tions to  suit  the  apparent  requirements  of  science. 
"We  shall  subsequently  see  what  was  the  necessary 
issue  of  this,  that  the  Divinity  Ijecame  excluded 
from  the  world  he  had  made  ;  the  supernatural 
merged  in  n.itural  agency  ;  Zeus  was  superseded 
by  the  air,  Poseidon  by  the  water :  and,  while 
some  of  the  philosophers  received  in  silence  the 
philosophical  legends,  as  was  the  case  with  So- 
crates, or,  like  Plato,  regarded  it  as  a  patriotic 
duty  to  accept  the  public  faith,  others,  like  Xeno- 
phanes,  denounced  the  whole  as  an  ancient  l)lun- 
der,  converted  by  time  into  a  national  impos- 
ture. .  .  . 

As  it  was  with  philosophers,  so  it  was  with  his- 
torians ;  the  rise  of  true  history  brought  the  same 
result  as  the  rise  of  true  philosophy.  In  this  ui- 
stance  there  was  added  a  special  circumstance 
which  gave  to  the  movement  no  little  force. 
Whatever  might  be  the  feigned  facts  of  the  Gre- 
cian foretime,  they  were  altogetlier  outdone  in 
antiquity  and  wonder  by  the  actual  history  of 
Egypt.  What  was  a  pious  man  like  Herodotus  to 
think  when  he  found  that,  at  tlie  very  period  he 
had  supposed  a  sui>erhuman  state  of  tilings  in  liis 
native  country,  tlie  ordinary  passage  of  alfaii-s 
was  taking  place  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile?  And 
so  indeed  it  had  been  for  untold  ages.  To  every 
one  engaged  in  recording  recent  events,  it  must 
have  Vjeen  obvious  tliat  a  chronology  applied  wliere 
the  actors  are  superhuman  is  altogether  without 
basis,  and  that  it  is  a  delusion  to  transfer  the  mo- 
tives and  thoughts  of  men  to  those  who  are  not 
men.  Under  such  circumstances  there  is  a  strong 
inducement  to  <lerline  traditions  altogether  ;  lor 
no  philosophical  mind  will  ever  be  satisfied  witii 
difTerent  tests  for  tlie  presi'iit  and  the  jiast,  i«it 
will  insist  that  actir)nH  and  their  sequences  were 
the  same  in  llie  foretime  as  now. 

Thus   for  many  ages  stood   affairs.     Oik-  after 


30  MICHAEL  DRAYTON. 

another,  liisstorians.  philosopliors,  critics,  poets, 
liad  given  u])  the  national  faith,  and  lived  under  a 
])ressvue  perpetually  laid  upon  them  by  the  pub- 
lie  ;  adopting  generally,  as  their  most  convenient 
course,  an  oiitvNard  compliance  with  the  religious 
recpiirements  of  the  state.  Herodotus  cannot 
reconcile  the  inconsistencies  of  the  Trojan  War 
with  his  knowledge  of  human  actions;  Thucydides 
does  not  dare  to  express  his  disbelief  of  it ;  Era- 
tosthenes sees  contradictions  between  the  voyage 
of  Odysseus  and  tlu;  truths  of  geography  ;  Anaxa- 
goras  is  condemned  to  death  for  impiety,  and  only 
through  the  exertions  of  the  chief  of  state  is  his 
sentence  mercifully  commuted  to  banishment. 
Plato,  seeing  things  from  a  very  general  point  of 
view,  thinks  it  expedient,  upon  the  whole,  to  pro- 
hibit the  cultivation  of  the  higher  branches  of 
pliysics.  Euripides  tries  to  free  himself  from  the 
imputation  of  heresy  as  best  he  may.  j^schylus 
is  condemned  to  be  stoned  to  death  for  blasphe- 
my, and  is  only  saved  by  his  brother  Aminias 
raising  his  mutilated  arm — he  had  lost  his  hand  in 
the  battle  of  Salamis.  Socrates  stands  his  trial, 
and  has  to  drink  hemlock.  Even  great  statesmen 
like  Pericles  had  become  entangled  in  these  ob- 
noxious opinions.  No  one  has  anything  to  say  in 
explanation  of  the  marvelous  disappearance  of 
demigods  and  heroes  ;  why  miracles  are  ended,  or 
why  human  actions  alone  are  now  to  be  seen  in 
the  world.  An  ignorant  public  demands  the  in- 
stant punishment  of  every  suspected  man.  In 
their  estimation,  to  distrust  the  traditions  of  the 
past  is  to  be  guilty  of  treason  to  the  present. — hi- 
tellectvxtl  Develojmient  of  Europe. 

DRAYTON,  Michael,  an  English  poet, 
bom  in  1563,  died  in  1631.  Of  his  personal 
history  little  is  recorded,  except  that  he  is 
said  to  have  had  a  University  training  (ac- 
cording to  some  at  Cambridge,  according  to 
others  at  Oxford) ;  that  he  found  powerful 
patrons,  and  that  he  was  made  Poet  Laureat 
in  1626.  His  poetical  works,  as  printed  col- 
lectively in  1752,  make  four  volumes.      The 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON.  31 

longest  of  these,  The  Poly-Olbion,  containing 
some  30,000  lines,  consists  of  thirty  "songs,"' 
the  first  eighteen  of  them  being  first  publish- 
ed in  1613,  the  remainder  in  1632.  It  is,  as  he 
says,  "A  chorographical  description  of  all 
the  tracts,  rivers,  mountains,  forests,  and 
other  parts  of  this  renowned  Isle  of  Great 
Britain;  with  intermixture  of  the  most  re- 
markable stories,  antiquities,  wonders,  etc., 
of  the  same." 

ROBIN  HOOD  IN  SHERWOOD  FOREST. 

The  merry  pranks  he  played,  would  ask  an  age  to 

tell, 
And  the  adventures  strange  that  Robin  Hood  befel, 
When  Mansfield  many  a  time  for  Robin  hath  been 

laid,  [betraj-ed  ; 

How  he  bath  cozened  them,  that  him  would  have 
How  often  be  bath  t;oine  to  Nottinj^liam  disguised. 
And  cunninj^ly  escaped,  being  set  to  be  surprised. 
In  tliis  our  spacious  isle,  I  tbiak  tbere  is  not  one. 
But  lie   bath  heard  some  talk  of  liim  and  Little 

Jolm  ;  [done, 

And  to  tbe  end  of  time,  the  tales  shall  ne'er  be 
Of  Scarlock,  George-a-Green,  and  Much  tbe  mil- 
ler's son. 
Of  Tuck  the  merry  friar,  wliich  many  a  sermon 

made 
In  praise  of  Robin  Hood,  bis  outlaws,   and  their 

trade. 
An   inindred    valiant   men  bad  this  brave  Robin 

Hood, 
Still  ready  at  his  call,  tbat  bowmen  were  right 

good. 
All  clad  in  Lincoln  Green,  with  caps  of  red  and 

blue. 
His  fellow's  winded   horn  not  one  of  them  but 

knew, 
"When  setting  to  their  lips  their  little  bugles  shrill 
The  warbling  echoes  waked  from  every  dale  an<l 

hill  : 
Their   baldricks    set    with    studs,    athwart    tln'ir 

Hhoulders  ca.st, 
To    which    iindtr   tlieir   arms    their    sheafs    were 

liU(kl<'<l  Cast. 
A  short   sword  at  their  licit,   a  buckler  scarce  a 

span — 
"Who  struck  below  the  knee,  not  counteil  then  a 

man  : 


32  MICHAEL  DRAYTON. 

All  made  of  Spanisli  yew,  their  bows  were  woii- 

dious  strong. 
They   not  an  arrow  drew  but  was  a  cloth-yard 

long. 
Of  archery  they  had  the  very  perfect  craft, 
With  broad-arrow,  or  but,  or  prick,  or  roving  shaft. 
At  marks  full  forty  score,  they  used  to  prick  and 

rove, 
Yet  higher  than  the  breast,  for  <;ompass  never 

strove  ; 
Yet  at  the  farthest  mark  a  foot  could  hardly  win : 
At  long-butts,  sliort,  and  hoyles,  each  one  could 

cleave  the  pin. 
Their  arrows  finely  paired,  for  timber,  and  for 

feather. 
With  birch  and  brazil  pieced,  to  fly  in  any  weather: 
And  shot  they  with  the  round,  the  square,  or  fork- 
ed pile. 
The  loose  gave  such  a  twang,  as  might  be  heard  a 

mile. 
And  of  these  archers  brave,  there  was  not  any  one 
But  he  could  kill  a  deer  his  swiftest  speed  upon. 
Which  they  did  boil  and  roast,  in  many  a  mighty 

wood. 
Sharp  hunger  the  fine  sauce  to  their  more  kingly 

food. 
Then  taking  them  to  rest,  his  merry  men  and  he 
Slept  many  a  summer's  night  under  the  greenwood 

tree. 
From  wealthy  abbots'  chests,  and  churls'  abund- 
ant store, 
What  oftentimes  he  took,  he  shared  amongst  the 

poor  : 
No  lordly  bishop  came  in  lusty  Robin's  way. 
To  him  before  he  went,  but  for  his  pass  must  pay: 
The  widow  in  distress  he  graciously  relieved. 
And    remedied    the   wrongs   of    many   a   virgin 

grieved  : 
He  from  the  husband's  bed  no  married  woman 

wan, 
But  to  his  niistrees  dear,  his  loved  Marian, 
Was  ever  constant  known,  which  wheresoe'er  she 

came. 
Was  sovereign  of  the  woods,  chief  lady  of  the 

game  : 
Her  clothes  tucked  to  the  knee,  and  dainty  braid- 
ed hair. 
With  bow  and  quiver  armed,  she  wandered  here 

and  there 
Amongst  the  forests  wild  :  Diana  nevor  knew 
Such  pleasures,  nor  such  harts  as  Mariana  slew, 
-Poly-Olbion,  Song  XXVIH. 


MICHAEL  DEAYTON.  ^3 

The  spirited  ballad,  The  Battle  of  Agincourt, 
contains  fifteen  stanzas  in  all: 

THE  BATTLE  OF  AGINCOUKT. 
I. 
Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France 
When  we  our  sails  advance, 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry  ; 
But  putting  to  the  main, 
At  Kause,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
"With  all  his  martial  train, 

Landed  King  Harry  ; 
II. 
And  taking  many  a  fort, 
Furnished  in  warlike  sort, 
Marched  towards  Agincourt 

In  happy  hours ; 
Skirmishing  day  by  day 
With  those  that  stopped  his  way, 
Where  the  French  general  lay 

With  all  his  powers, 
ni. 
Which,  in  his  height  of  pride. 
King  Henry  to  deride, 
His  ransom  to  provide 

To  tilt'  King  sending  ; 
Which  he  neglects  the  while, 
As  from  a  nation  vile, 
Yet,  with  an  angry  smile. 

Their  fall  i>ortending. 

IV. 
An<l  turning  to  his  men. 
Quoth  our  hravf  Henry  then. 
"Though  tin-y  to  one  be  ten, 

Be  not  amazed  ; 
Y(!t  have  we  will  begun  ; 
BiittU's  so  bravely  won 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 

By  fame  l)een  raised. 

V. 

"And  for  myKcIf,"  quoth  be, 
"This  my  full  rest  shall  be  ; 


34  MICHAEL  DRAYTON. 

England,  ne'er  mourn  for  lue, 
Nor  more  esteem  me  ; 

Victor  I  will  remain, 

Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain  : 

Never  shall  she  sustain 
Loss  to  redeem  me." 

VIII. 

They  now  to  figlit  are  gone ; 
Armor  on  armor  shone  ; 
Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan  ; 

To  hear  was  wonder  ; 
That  with  the  cries  they  make 
Tiie  very  earth  did  shake  ; 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake, 

Thunder  to  thunder. 

IX. 

Well  it  thine  age  became, 
O  noble  Erpingham  ! 
Which  did  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces  ; 
When  from  a  meadow  by, 
Like  a  storm,  suddenly. 
The  English  archery 

Struck  the  French  horses. 

X. 

With  Spanish  yew  so  strong, 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long. 
That  like  serpents  stung. 

Piercing  the  weather : 
None  from  his  fellow  starts. 
But,  playing  manly  parts, 

Stuck  close  together. 

XI. 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw, 
And  forth  their  bilboes  drew, 
And  on  the  French  they  flew. 

Not  one  was  tardy  : 
Arms  were  from  shoulder  sent. 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent, 
Down  the  French  peasants  went, 

Our  men  were  hardy. 

XV. 

Upon  Saint  Crispin's  day 
Fouglit  was  this  noble  frav, 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON.  35 

Which  fame  did  not  delay 

To  England  to  carry. — 
Oh.  when  shall  Englishmen 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen  ; 
Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Harry  ? 

A   PARTING. 

Since  there  "s  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part : 

Nay,  I  have  done  ;  you  get  no  more  of  me  ; 
And  i  am  glad— yea,  glad  with  all  my  heart — 

That  thus  so  clearly  I  myself  can  free. 
Shake  hands  forever,  cancel  all  our  vows  ; 

And,  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again, 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 

That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 
Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  Love's  latest  breath. 

When,  his  pulse  failing,  Passion  speechless  lies ; 
When  Faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death, 

And  Innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes.— 
Now,  if  thou  wouldst,  when  all  have  given  him 

over. 
From  death  to  life  thou  mightst  him  yet  recover. 

THE  QUEEN   (Jf  THE   FAIRIES. 

Her  chariot  ready  straight  is  made  ; 
Each  thing  therein  is  fitting  laid, 
That  she  by  nothing  might  be  stayed, 

For  nought  must  be  her  letting  ; 
Four  nimble  gnats  the  horses  were. 
Their  harnesses  of  gossamer. 
Fly  Cranion,  her  charioteer, 

UiK)n  the  coach-box  getting. 

Her  chariot  of  a  snail's  line  shell, 
Whidi  for  the  «;olors  did  cxn'll  ; 
The  fair  Queen  Mab  lK'<-oniing  well. 

So  lively  waa  the  linming; 
Tlie  wat  th(!  soft  wood  of  the  bee, 
The  cover  (gallantly  to  m-v) 
The  wing  of  a  pied  butterllco  ; 

I  tnjw  'twas  simple  triiiiniiug. 


•M)  WILLI A.M  DRENNAN; 

Tlie  wlieels  composed  of  crickets'  borie^, 
And  daintily  made  for  the  nonce  ; 
For  fe.ir  of  rattling  on  the  stones 

Wit'i  thistle-down  they  sliod  it; 
For  all  lier  maidens  much  did  fear 
If  Oheron  liad  chanced  to  liear 
That  Mab  his  iineen  should  liave  been  there, 

He  would  not  liave  abode  it. 

Slie  mounts  her  chariot  with  a  trice, 

Nor  would  she  stay  for  no  advice 

Until  her  maids,  that  were  so  nice,  ' 

To  wait  on  lier  were  fitted  ; 
But  ran  herself  away  alone  ; 
Which  when  the}'  heard,  there  was  not  one 
But  hasted  after  to  be  gone. 

As  she  had  been  diswitted. 

Hop  and  Mop,  and  Drab  so  clear, 
Pip  and  Trip,  and  Skip,  that  were 
To  Mab  their  sovereign  so  dear, 

Her  special  maids  of  honor  ; 
Fib  and  Tib,  and  Pink  and  Pin, 
Tick  and  Quick,  and  Jill  and  Jin, 
Tit  and  Nit,  and  Wap  and  Win, 

The  train  that  wait  upon  her. 

Upon  a  grasshopper  they  got. 

And,  what  with  amble  and  with  trot. 

For  liedge  nor  ditch  the}'  spared  not. 

But  after  her  they  hie  them  : 
A  cobweb  over  them  they  throw, 
To  shield  the  wind  if  it  should  blow  ; 
Themselves  they  wisely  could  bestow 

Lest  ai\y  should  espy  them. 

DRENNAN,  William,  an  Irish  physician 
and  poet,  born  in  1754,  died  in  1820.  He  was 
a  prominent  writer  among  the  United  Irish- 
men.'' Among  his  political  writings  are  a 
letter  to  Earl  Fitzwilliam,  and  to  William 
Pitt,  published  near  the  close  of  the  last  cen- 
tury. In  1815  he  put  forth  Glendrilloch 
and  other  Poems.    In  one  of  these  the  appel- 


WILLIAM  DRENNAN.  37 

lation  of  "The Emerald  Isle''  was  first  given 
to  Ireland. 

ERIN. 
When  Erin   fresli  rose   from    the   dark   swelling 

flood 
God  blessed  tlie  dear  Island,  and  said  it  was  good  ; 
The  Emerald  of  Europe,  it  sparkled  and  shone 
In  the  ring  of  the  world  the  most  precious  stone 
In  lier  sun,  in  her  soil,  in  her  station,  thrice  blest 
With  her  back  towards  Britain,  her  face  to  the 

West, 
Erin  stands  promlly  insular,  on  lier  steep  shore, 
And  strikes  her  high  harp   'mid  the  ocean's  deep 

roar. 

But  when  its  soft  tones  seem  to  mourn  and  to 

weep, 
Tlie  dark  chain  of  silence  is  thrown  o'er  the  deep  ; 
At  the  tlioughts  of  the  past,  the  tears  gush  from 

her  eyes,  [rise. 

And  the  pulse  of  her  heart  makes  her  white  bosom 
O  sons  of  green  Erin  !  lament  o'er  the  time 
When    Religion    was    war,   and  our  Country    a 

crime  ; 
When  man  in  Go<rs  image  inverted  his  plan, 
And  moulded  his  God  in  the  image  of  man  ; 

When  the  interest  of  State  wrought  the  general 

woe, 
The  Stranger  a  friend  and  the  Native  a  foe  ; 
While    the    mother    rejoiced    o'er    her    children 

oppressetl, 
And  clasped  the  invader  more  close  to  her  breast ; 
When  with  pale  for  the  body,  and  pale  for  the 

soul,  [whole ; 

Church  and  State  joined  in  compact  to  concjuor  the 
And  as  Sliaimon  was  stained  with  Mile.sian  blood. 
Eyed  each  other  askance,  and  pronounced  it  was 

good. 

By  the  groans  that  ascend  from  your  forefathers' 
grave,  [slave, 

For  their  f  oimtry   thus  loft  to  the  brute  and  the 
Drive  the  Demon  of  Bigotry   liomo  to  bis  den, 


:W  HENRY  DRUMMOND. 

And   where   Britain   made   brutes  now   let    Erin 
make  men.  [unite — 

Let  my  sons  like  the  leaves  of    the    slianirock 
A  partition  of  sects  from  one  footstalk  of  right ; 
Give  eacli  his  full  share  of  tlie  earth  and  the  sky, 
Nor  fatten  the  slave  where  the  serpent  would  die. 

Alas  for  poor  Erin  !  that  some  are  still  seen 
Who  would  dye  the  grass  red  from  their  hatred  to 

green  ;  [them  live, 

Yet  oh  !   when  you  're  up  and  they  're  down,  let 
Tlien  yield  them   that  mercy  which  they   would 

not  give. 
Arm  of  Erin,  be  strong  !  but  be  gentle  as  brave  ! 
And  uplifted  to  strike,  be  still  ready  to  save? 
Let  no  feeling  of  vengeance  presume  to  defile 
The  cause  of,  or  men  of,  The  Emerald  Isle. 

The  cause  it  is  good,  and  the  men  they  are  true^ 
And  tlie  Green  shall  outlive  both  the  Orange  and 

Blue !  [share, 

And  the  triumph  of  Erin  her  daughters   shall 
With  the  full  swelling-chest  and  the  fair-flowing 

hair.  [brave, 

Their  bosom  heaves  high  for  the    worthy   and 
But  no    coward    shall    rest    in  that  soft-flowing 

wave. 
Men  of  Erin  !  arise  and  make  haste  to  be  blest ; 
Rise — Arch  of  the  Ocean,  and  Queen  of  the  West' 

DRUMMOND,  Henry,  an  English  philoso- 
phei- born  about  1840.  "For  several  years," 
he  says,  ' '  it  has  been  my  privilege  to  address 
regularly  two  very  different  audiences  on 
two  very  different  themes.  On  week  days  I 
have  lectured  to  a  class  of  students  on  the 
Natural  Sciences,  and  on  Sundays  to  an  audi- 
ence, consisting  for  the  most  part  of  woi'king- 
men,  on  subjects  of  a  moral  and  religious 
character.  For  a  time  I  succeeded  in  keep- 
ing the  Science  and  the  Religion  sliut  off  from 
one  another  in  two  separate  compartments  of 
my  mind.  But  gradually  the  wall  of  separa- 
tion showed  symptoms  of  giving  way.    The 


HENRY  DRUMMOND.  39 

two  fountains  of  knowledge  also  slowly  be- 
gan to  overflow,  and  finally  their  waters  met 
and  mingled  ;  and  I  found  the  truth  running 
out  to  my  audience  on  Sundays  by  the  week- 
day outlets.  In  other  words,  the  subject- 
matter  Religion  had  taken  on  the  method  of 
expression  of  Science,  and  I  discovered  my- 
self enunciating  Spiritual  Law  in  the  exact 
terms  of  Biology  and  Physics. "  The  result 
of  these  studies  is  summed  up  in  Natural 
Law  in  the  Spiritual  World  (1883). 

NATURAL  LAW. 

Natural  Law  is  a  new  word.  It  is  the  last  and 
the  most  luaguificent  discovery  of  science.  No 
more  telliug  proof  is  open  to  the  modern  world  of 
science  of  the  greatness  of  the  idea  than  the  grand- 
ness  of  the  attempts  which  have  always  been 
made  to  justify  it.  In  the  earlier  centuries,  before 
the  birth  of  science,  Phenomena  were  studied 
alone.  The  world  was  then  a  chaos,  a  collection 
of  single,  isolated,  and  independent  facts.  Deeper 
thinkers  saw,  indeed,  that  relations  must  exist 
between  these  facts,  but  the  Reign  of  Law  was 
never  more  to  the  ancients  than  a  far-off  vision. 
With  Copernicus,  Galileo,  and  Kepler  the  first 
regular  lines  of  the  universe  began  to  be  dis- 
covered. When  Nature  yielded  to  Newton  her 
great  secret,  Gravitation  was  felt  to  be  not  greater 
as  a  fact  in  itself  than  as  a  revelation  that  Law 
was  fact.  And  thenceforth  the  search  for  indi- 
vidual Phenomena  gave  way  before  the  larger 
study  of  their  relations.  The  pursuit  of  Law  be- 
came the  passion  of  science.  .  .  .  The  funda- 
mental conception  of  Law  is  an  ascertained  work- 
ing secjuence,  or  constant  order  among  the  Phe- 
nomena of  Nature.  In  its  true  sense  Natural  Law 
predicates  notliing  of  its  causes.  The  Laws  of 
Nature  are  sinijily  statements  of  the  orderly  con- 
dition of  things  in  Nature— what  is  found  in  Na- 
ture by  a  suUicient  number  of  competent  observ- 
ers. .  .  . 

The  N.itund  Laws,  tlicii,  arc  great  lines  running 


40  HENRY  DRUMMOND. 

not  onlj'  through  tho  world.  Imt,  as  we  now  know, 
through  the  universe,  reducing  it,  like  p;uHllels  of 
latitude,  to  intelligent  order.  In  theuiselves  they 
may  have  no  more  absolute  existence  than  paral- 
lels of  latitude.  But  they  exist  for  us.  They  are 
drawn  for  us  to  understand  the  part  by  some  Hand 
that  drew  the  whole ;  so  drawn,  perhaps,  that, 
undei'standing  the  part,  we  too  in  time  may  learn 
to  understand  the  whole.  Now  the  inquiry  which 
we  propose  to  ourselves  resolves  itself  into  the 
simple  question  :  Do  these  lines  stop  with  what 
we  call  the  Natural  sphere?  Is  it  not  possible 
that  they  may  lead  further?  Is  it  probable  that 
the  Hand  which  ruled  them  gave  up  the  work 
where  most  of  all  they  were  required?  Did  that 
Hand  divide  the  world  into  two,  a  cosmos  and  a 
chaos — the  higher  being  the  chaos  ?  With  Nature 
as  the  symbol  of  all  harmony  and  beauty  that  is 
known  to  man,  must  we  still  talk  of  the  super- 
natural, not  as  a  convenient  word,  but  as  a  differ- 
ent order  of  world — an  unintelligible  world,  where 
the  Reign  of  Mystery  supersedes  the  Reign  of 
Law  ? — Natural  Law,  Introduction. 

SPONTANEOUS    GENERATION. 

Let  us  place  vividly  in  our  imagination  the 
picture  of  the  two  great  Kingdoms  of  Nature — 
the  Inorganic  and  the  Organic — as  these  now 
stand  in  the  light  of  the  Law^  of  Biogenesis.  What 
essentially  is  involved  in  saying  that  there  is  no 
Spontaneous  Generation  of  Life  ?  It  is  meant 
that  the  passage  from  the  Mineral  world  to  the 
Plant  or  Animal  world  is  hermetically  sealed  on 
the  mineral  side.  This  Inorganic  world  is  staked 
off  from  the  Living  world  Ijy  barriers  which  have 
never  yet  been  crossed  from  within.  No  change 
of  substance,  no  modification  of  environment,  no 
chemistry,  no  electricity,  nor  any  form  of  energy, 
nor  anj'  evolution,  can  endow  any  single  atom  of 
the  mineral  world  with  the  attribute  of  Life.  Only 
V)y  the  bending  down  into  this  dead  world  of  some 
living  form  can  these  dead  atoms  be  gifted  with 
the  properties  of  vitality  ;    without  this  prelimi- 


HENRY  DRU^mOND.  41 

nary  contact  with  Life  tliey  remain  fixed  in  the 
inorganic  sphere  forever. 

It  is  a  very  mysterious  Law  which  guards  in 
this  way  the  portals  of  the  Uving  world.  And  if 
there  is  one  thing  in  Nature  more  worth  ponder- 
ing for  its  strangeness,  it  is  the  spectacle  of  this 
vast  lielpless  world  of  the  dead  cut  off  from  the 
living  by  tb.o  I.i^v  of  Biogenesis,  and  denied  for- 
ever the  po.ssiriiiity  of  resurrection  within  itself. 
The  pliysicial  Laws  may  explain  the  inorganic 
world  :  tlie  biological  Laws  may  account  for  the 
development  of  the  organic.  But  of  tlie  point 
where  tliey  meet — of  that  strange  border-land  be- 
tween the  dead  and  the  living — Scienc-e  is  silent. 
It  is  as  if  God  had  placed  everything  in  earth  and 
heaven  in  tlie  hands  of  Nature,  but  reserved  a 
point  at  the  genesis  of  Life  for  His  direct  appear- 
ing.— Natural  Law,  Chap.  I. 

ANALOGY  BETWEEN  THE  NATUBAL  AND  THE 
SPIRITUAL. 

Where  now  in  the  Spiritual  spheres  shall  we 
meet  a  companion  phenomena  to  this  ?  What  in 
the  Unseen  shall  be  likened  to  this  deep  dividing- 
line?  or  where  in  human  experience  is  another 
barrier  which  never  can  be  crossed  ?  There  is 
such  a  barrier.  In  the  dim  but  not  inadequate 
vision  of  the  Spiritual  World  presented  in  the 
Word  of  God,  the  first  thing  that  strikes  tlie  eye  is 
a  great  gulf  fixed.  The  passage  from  the  Natural 
World  to  tlie^ Spiritual  World  is  hermetically  seal- 
ed on  the  natural  side.  Tlie  door  from  tlie  inor- 
ganic to  the  organic  is  shut  :  no  mineral  can  open 
it.  So  the  door  from  tlie  natural  to  the  spiritual 
is  shut  :  and  no  man  can  open  it.  This  world  of 
natural  men  is  staked  off  from  the  Si)iritual 
World  by  barriers  which  have  never  been  crossed 
from  within.  No  organic  change,  no  modifica- 
tion of  environment,  no  mental  energy,  no  moral 
effort,  no  evolution  of  chara<^ter,  no  progress  of 
civilization  can  endow  an}'  single  iiunian  soul 
with  the  attribute  of  Sijiritual  Life.  Tlie  Spirit- 
ual World  is  guarded  from  tlie  world  next  in  order 
beneatli   it  by  a  law  of   Biogenesis:   "  Excppt  a 


42  HENRY  DRUMMOND. 

man  \>o  born  again.  .  .  .  except  a  man  l)e  born  of 
the  water  and  of  the  Spirit,  he  caji  not  enter  the 
Kingdom  of  God."  .... 

What  is  the  evidence  for  this  great  gulf  fixed  at 
the  portals  of  tlie  Spiritual  World  ?  Does  Science 
close  thi*  gate,  or  Reason,  or  Experience,  or  Rev- 
elation? We  reply,  All  four.  The  initial  state- 
ment, it  is  not  to  be  denied,  reaches  ns  from  Rev- 
elation. But  is  not  this  evidence  here  in  court  ? 
Or  shall  it  be  said  that  any  argument  deduced 
from  this  is  a  transparent  circle — that,  after  all, 
we  simply  come  back  to  the  unsubstantiality  of 
the  ipse  dixit  ?  Not  altogether  ;  for  the  analogy 
lends  an  altogether  new  authority  to  the  ipse  dix- 
it. How  substantial  that  argument  really  is,  is 
seldom  realized.  We  yield  the  point  here  much 
too  easily.  The  right  of  the  Spiritual  World  to 
speak  of  its  own  phenomena  is  as  secure  as  the 
right  of  the  Natural  World  to  speak  of  itself. 
What  is  Science  but  what  the  Natural  World  has 
said  to  natural  men?  What  is  Revelation  but 
what  the  Spijitual  World  has  said  to  spiritual 
men? 

The  words  of  Scripture  which  preface  this  in- 
quiry contain  an  explicit  and  original  statement 
of  the  Law  of  Biogenesis  for  the  Spiritual  Life : 
"  He  that  hath  the  Son  hath  Life,  and  he  that  hath 
not  the  Son  hath  not  Life."  Life,  that  is  to  say, 
depends  upon  contact  with  Life.  It  cannot  spring 
up  of  itself.  It  cannot  develop  out  of  anything 
that  is  not  Life.  There  is  no  Spontaneous  Gene- 
ration in  Religion  any  more  than  in  Nature.  Christ 
is  the  source  of  Life  in  the  Spiritual  World  ;  and 
he  that  hath  the  Son  hath  Life,  and  lie  that  hath 
not  the  Son — whatever  else  he  may  liave — hath 
not  Life.  Here,  in  short,  is  the  categorical  denial 
of  Abiogenesis,  and  the  establishment  in  this  high 
field  of  the  classical  formula,  Omne  vivum  ex  vivo 
— no  Life  without  antecedent  Life.  In  this  mys- 
tical theory  of  the  Origin  of  Life  the  whole  of  the 
New  Testament  writers  are  agreed.  And,  as  we 
have  already  seen,  Christ  himself  founds  Christi- 
anity upon  Biogenesis,  st?*;ed  in  its  most  literal 
form  :  "  Except  a  man  be  Ix^rn  of  water  and   tlie 


HENRY  DRUMMOND.  43 

Spirit  he  cannot  enter  into  the  Kingdom  of  God, 
That  ^vhic•l^  is  bora  of  the  flesh  is  flesh  ;  and  that 
which  is  born  of  the  Spirit  is  Spirit.  Marvel  not 
that  I  said  unto  you  ye  must  be  born  again." 
Why  did  he  add  "  Marvel  not?"'  Did  lie  seek  to 
allay  the  fear  in  tlie  bewildered  ruler's  mind  that 
there  was  more  in  this  novel  doctrine  than  a  sim- 
ple analogy  from  the  first  to  the  second  birth  ? — 
Natural  Laiv,  Chap.  I. 

CONFORMITY  TO  TYPE. 

If  the  botanist  be  asked  the  difference  between 
an  oak,  a  palm-tree,  and  a  lichen,  he  will  declare 
that  they  are  separated  from  one  another  by  the 
broadest  line  known  to  classification.  Without 
taking  into  account  the  outward  differences  of 
size  and  form,  the  variety  of  flower  and  fruit,  the 
peculiarities  of  leaf  and  branch,  he  sees  even  in 
their  general  architecture  types  of  structure  as  dis- 
tinct as  Norman,  Gothic,  and  Egyptian.  But  if 
the  first  young  germs  of  these  three  plants  are 
placed  before  him,  and  he  is  called  upon  to  define 
the  difference,  he  finds  it  impossible.  He  cannot 
even  say  which  is  which.  Examined  under  the 
highe.st  powers  of  the  microscope,  they  yield  no 
clue.  Analyzed  by  the  chemist,  with  all  tlie  ap- 
pliances of  his  laboratory,  they  keep  their  secret. 
The  same  experiment  can  be  tried  with  the  embry- 
os of  animals.  Take  the  otndc  of  the  worm,  the 
eagle,  the  elephant,  and  of  man  himself.  Let  the 
most  skilled  observer  apply  the  most  searching 
tests  to  distinguish  the  one  from  the  other,  and  he 
will  fail.  But  there  is  .something  more  surprising 
still.  Compare  the  next  two  sets  of  germs— the 
vegetable  and  the  animal— and  there  is  no  shade  of 
difference.  Oak  and  palm,  worm  and  man,  all 
start  in  life  together.  No  matter  into  what 
strangely  different  forms  they  may  afterwards  de- 
velo|) — no  matter  whetiier  they  are  to  live  on 
sea  or  land,  creep  or  tly.  swim  or  walk,  tbink 
or  vegetate— in  the  embryo,  as  it  first  meets 
the  eye  of  Science,  they  are  indistinguishable. 
The  apple  wliich  fell  in  Newton's  garden,   New- 


44  HENRY  DRUMMOND. 

ton's  dog  Diamond,  and   Newton  himself,  began 
life  at  the  same  point. 

If  we  analyze  this  material  point  at  which  all 
life  starts,  Ave  shall  find  it  to  consist  of  a  clear, 
structureless,  jelly-like  substance  resembling  al- 
bumen, or  white  of  egg.  It  is  made  of  carbon, 
hydrogen,  oxygen,  and  nitrogen  :  its  name  is  Pi'oto- 
plasm.  And  it  is  not  only  the  structural  unit  with 
which  all  living  bodies  start  in  life  but  with  which 
they  are  subsequently  built  up.  "  Protoplasm," 
says  Huxley,  "simple  or  nucleated,  is  the  formal 
basis  of  all  life  :  it  is  the  clay  of  the  potter.  .  .  . 
Beast  and  fowl,  reptile  and  fish,  mollusk,  worm, 
and  polype,  are  all  composed  of  structural  units  of 
the  same  character— namely,  masses  of  protoplasm 
with  a  nucleus." 

What,  then,  determines  the  difference  between 
different  animals  ?  What  makes  one  little  speck 
of  protoplasm  grow  into  Newton's  dog  Diamond, 
and  another — exactly  the  same — into  Newton  him- 
self? It  is  a  mysterious  Something  which  has 
entered  into  this  protoplasm.  No  eye  can  see  it ; 
no  science  can  define  it.  There  is  a  different 
Something  for  Newton's  dog,  and  a  different 
Something  for  Newton  ;  so  that  though  both  use  the 
same  matter,  they  build  up  in  these  widely 
different  ways.  Protoplasm  being  the  clay,  this 
Something  is  the  potter.  And  as  there  is  only  one 
clay,  and  yet  all  these  curious  forms  are  developed 
out  of  it,  it  follows  that  the  difference  lies  in  the 
potters.  There  must,  in  short,  be  as  many  potters 
as  there  are  forms.  There  is  the  potter  who  seg- 
ments the  worm,  and  the  potter  who  builds  up 
the  form  of  the  dog,  and  the  potter  who  moulds 
the  man.  To  understand  unmistakably  that  it  is 
really  the  potter  who  does  the  work,  let  us  follow 
for  a  moment  a  description  of  the  process  by  a 
trained  eye-witness.  The  observer  is  Mr.  Huxley ; 
through  the  tube  of  his  microscope  he  is  watching 
the  development,  out  of  a  speck  of  protoplasm,  of 
one  of  the  commonest  animals  : 

"Strange  possibilities,"  he  says  in  one  of  his 
Lfiy  Stn'mons,  •'  lie  dormant  in  that  semi-fluid 
globule.    Let  a  moderate  supply  of  warmth  reach 


HEXRY  DRUMMOND.  45 

its  watery  cradle,  and  the  plastic  matter  under- 
goes changes  so  rapid,  and  yet  so  steady  and  pur- 
poselike in  their  succession,  that  one  can  only 
compare  them  to  those  operated  by  a  skilled  mod- 
eler upon  a  formless  lump  of  clay.  As  with  an  in- 
visible trowel  the  mass  is  divided  and  subdivided 
into  smaller  and  smaller  portions,  until  it  is  re- 
duced to  an  aggregation  of  granules  not  too  large 
to  build  withal  the  finest  fragments  of  the  nas- 
cent organism.  And,  then,  it  is  as  if  a  delicate 
finger  traced  out  the  line  to  be  occupied  by  the 
spinal  column,  and  moulded  the  contour  of  the 
body;  pinching  up  the  head  atone  end,  the  tail 
at  the  other,  and  fashioning  flank  and  limb  into 
due  proportions  in  so  artistic  a  way,  that,  after 
watching  the  process  hour  by  hour,  one  is  almost 
involuntarily  possessed  by  the  notion  that  some 
more  subtle  aid  to  vision  than  an  achromatic 
would  show  the  hidden  artist,  with  his  plan  before 
him,  striving  with  skilful  manipulation  to  perfect 
his  work." 

Besides  the  fact,  so  luminously  brought  out  here, 
that  the  artist  is  distinct  from  the  semi-fluid 
globule  of  protoplasm  in  which  he  works,  there  is 
this  other  essential  point  to  notice,  that  in  all  his 
"skilful  manipulation"'  the  artist  is  not  working 
at  random,  but  according  to  law.  He  has  "his 
plan  before  him."  In  the  zoological  laboratory  of 
Nature  it  is  not  as  in  a  workshop  where  a  skilled 
artisan  can  turn  his  hand  to  anything ;  where  tlie 
same,  potter  one  day  moulds  a  dog,  the  next  a 
bird,  and  the  next  a  man.  In  Nature  one  potter 
is  set  apart  to  make  each.  It  is  a  more  complete 
Kj-stem  of  division  of  labor.  One  artist  makes  all 
the  dogs,  another  makes  all  the  birds,  a  third 
makes  all  tlie  men.  Moreover,  each  artist  con- 
fines liimself  exclusively  to  working  out  his  own 
plan.  Hf  appears  to  liave  his  own  plan  somehow 
8tamp<Mi  upon  Iiiinself,  and  his  work  is  rigidly  to 
reproduce  himself. 

The  Scientifif  Law  by  which  this  takes  place  is 
the  law  of  "Conformity  to  Type."  It  is  con- 
tained, to  a  large  extent,  in  the  ordinary  "  Law  of 
Inlieritanee  ;  "  or  it  may  be  considered  as  simply 


46  HENRY  DRUMMOND. 

another  way  of  stating  what  Darwin  calls  "the 
Law  of  the  Unity  of  Types."  Darwin  defines  it 
thus  :  "  By  Unit)'  of  Type  is  meant  that  funda- 
mental agreement  in  structure  which  wc  see  in 
organic  beings  of  the  same  class,  and  which  is  quite 
independent  of  their  habits  of  life."  According  to 
this  law  ever}'  living  thing  which  comes  into  this 
world  is  compelled  to  stamp  upon  its  offspring  the 
image  of  itself  :  The  dog,  according  to  its  type, 
produces[a  dog  ;  the  bird,  a  bird.  The  artist  who 
operates  upon  matter  in  this  subtle  way,  and 
can-ies  out  this  law,  is  Life.  There  are  a  great 
many  different  kinds  of  Life.  If  one  might  give 
the  broader  meaning  to  the  words  of  the  Apostle 
— "All  life  is  not  the  same  life.  There  is  one 
kind  of  life  of  men,  another  life  of  beasts,  another 
of  fishes,  and  another  of  birds  " — there  is  the  Life 
of  the  Artist,  or  the  potter  who  segments  the 
worm,  the  potter  who  forms  the  dog,  the  potter 
who  moulds  the  man. 

What  goes  on,  then,  in  the  animal  kingdom  is 
this  :  The  Bird-life  seizes  upon  the  bird-germ, 
and  builds  it  up  into  a  bird,  the  image  of  itself. 
The  Reptile-life  siezes  upon  another  germinal 
speck,  assimilates  surrounding  matter,  and  fash- 
ions it  into  a  reptile.  The  Reptile-life  thus  simply 
makes  an  incarnation  of  itself  ;  the  visible  bird  is 
simply  an  incarnation  of  the  invisible  Bird-life. 

Now  we  are  nearing  the  point  where  the 
spiritual  analog}'  appears.  It  is  a  very  wonderful 
analogy — so  wonderful  that  one  almost  hesitates 
to  put  it  into  words.  Yet  Nature  is  reverent ; 
and  it  is  her  voice  to  which  we  listen.  Those 
lower  phenomena  of  life,  she  says,  are  but  an 
allegory.  There  is  another  kind  of  Life  of  which 
Science  as  yet  Jias  taken  little  cognizance.  It 
obeys  the  same  laws.  It  builds  up  an  organism 
into  its  own  form.  It  is  the  Christ-life.  As  the 
Bird-life  builds  up  a  bird,  the  image  of  itself,  so 
the  Christ-life  builds  up  a  Christ,  the  image  of 
Himself.  When  a  man  becomes  a  Christian,  the 
natural  process  is  this  :  The  Living  Christ  enters 
into  his  soul.  Development  begins.  The  quick- 
ening Life  seizes  upon  the  soul,  assimilates  Bur- 


WILLIAM  DKL'MMONl).  47 

rounding  elements,  and  begins  to  fashion  it.  Ac- 
cording to  the  great  Law  of  Conformity  to  Type 
this  fashioning  takes  a  specific  form.  It  is  tliat  of 
the  Artist  who  fasliions.  And  all  through  Life 
this  wonderful,  mystical,  glorious,  yet  perfectly 
definite  process,  goes  on  '•  until  Christ  be  formed"' 
in  it. 

The  Christian  Life  is  not  a  vague  effort  after 
righteousness — an  ill-defined  pointless  struggle  for 
an  ill-defined  pointless  end.  Religion  is  no  dis- 
heveled mass  of  aspiration,  prayer,  and  faitli. 
There  is  no  more  mystery  in  Religion,  as  to  its 
processes,  than  in  Biology.  There  is  much  mys- 
ter}'  in  Biology.  We  kno%v  all  but  nothing  of 
Life  yet — nothing  of  Development.  There  is  the 
.same  mystery  in  the  Spiritual  Life.  But  the 
great  lines  are  the  same — as  decided,  as  luminous  ; 
and  the  laws  of  Natural  and  Spiritual  are  the 
same — as  unerring,  as  simple.  Will  everything 
else  in  the  natural  world  unfold  its  order,  and 
yield  to  Science  more  and  more  a  vision  of  har- 
mony, and  Religion— whicli  should  complement 
and  perfect  all — remain  a  chaos?  From  the  stand- 
point of  Revelation  no  tnith  is  more  obscure  than 
Conformity  to  Type.  If  Science  can  fin-nish  a 
companion  phenomena  from  an  every-day  pro- 
cess of  the  natural  life,  it  may  at  least  tlirow  this 
most  mystical  doctrine  of  Christianity  into  tiiink- 
able  form.  Is  there  any  fallacy  in  speaking  of  the 
Embryology  of  the  New  Life?  Is  the  analogy 
invalid?  Are  there  not  vital  processes  in  tiie 
Spiritual  an  well  as  in  the  Natural  world  ?  The 
Bird  Jjcing  an  incarnation  of  tlio  Bird-life,  may 
not  the  Christian  Ix?  a  spiritual  incarnation  of  the 
Christ-life?  And  is  there  not  a  real  justification 
in  the  processes  of  the  New-Bifth  for  such  a 
parallel? — Natural  Law,  Chap.  X. 

DRUMMOND,  William,  a  Scottish  poot, 
born  in  ISBf).  died  in  1049.  He  is  oonimoiily 
designat<;d  a.s  "  Drurnrnond  of  Ilawthurn- 
den,"  from  his  anoostral  estate  near  Edin- 
burgh, where  most  of  liis  life  -except  a  resi. 


48  WILLIAM  DRUMMOND. 

dence  of  eight  years  on  the  Continent — was 
passed.  He  was  a  friend  of  Ben  Jonson,  and 
wrote  Notes  of  Ben  Jonson'H  Conversations 
u'itli  William  Druinmond  of  Ha:rfho7-nden, 
Jan.  ,1()U>.  This  worlc,  tlior.gl!  ne.a'r  intended 
for  pubHcatioi),  has  been  sharply  criticised. 
He  wrote  several  historical  works,  but  his 
fame  7-ests  mainly  upon  his  poems.  He  was 
the  earliest  Scottish  poet  who  wrote  well  in  the 
English  language.  A  good  edition  of  his 
poems,  with  a  Memoir  by  Peter  Cunningham, 
appeared  in  1833.  His  Life  has  also  been 
written  by  David  Mason  (1873).  Drummond's 
longest  poem,  Forth  Feasting,  is  a  panegyric 
upon  King  James  I.,  upon  occasion  of  his  vis-, 
iting  his  native  Scotland  in  1617. 

THE  FEASTING   OF  THE  RIVER  FORTH. 

What  blustering  noise  now  interrupts  my  sleeps? 
What  echoing  shouts  thus  cleave  my  crystal  deeps, 
And  seem  to  call  me  from  my  watery  court? 
What  melody,  what  sounds  of  joy  and  sport, 
Are  conveyed  hither  from  each  night-born  spring? 
With  what  loud  murmurs  do  the  mountains  ring, 
Which  in  unusual  pomp  on  tiptoes  stand. 
Anil,  full  of  wonder,  overlook  the  land? 
Whence  come  these  glittering  throngs,  the  me- 
teors bright. 
This  golden  people  glancing  in  my  sight? 
Whence  doth  this  praise,  applause,  and  love  arise? 
What  loadstar  drawetli  us  all  eycB? 
Am  I  awake,  or  have  some  dreams  conspired 
To  mock  my  sense  with  what  I  most  desired  ? 
View  I  that  living  face,  see  I  those  looks, 
Which    with    delight  were    wont    t'  amaze    my 

brooks? 
Do  I  behold  that  worth,  that  man  divine,   - 
This  age's  glory,  by  these  banks  of  mine? 
Then  find  I  true  what  I  long  wished  in  vain  ; 
My  mueh  beloved  prince  is  come  again.  .  .  . 
Let  mother-earth  now  decked  with  flowers  be 
seen. 


"WILLIAM  DRUMMOND.  4ft 

And  sweet-breatheil    zepliyrs  curl  the  meadows 

green  : 
Let  heaven  weep  rubies  in  a  crimson  shower, 
Such  as  on  India's  shores  they  used  to  pour  ; 
Or  with  that  golden  storm  tlie  fields  jidorn 
Which  Jove  rained  wlien  liis  blue-eyed   maid  was 

born. 
May  never  hours  the  web  of  day  oiitweave  ; 
May  never  Night  rise  from  lier  sable  cave  ! 
Swell  proud,  my  billows  :  faint  not  to  declare 
Ycmr  jtn's  as  ample  as  their  causes  are  : 
For  murmui-s  lioarse,  sound  like  Arion's  harp, 
Now  delicately  Hat,  now  sweetly  sharp  ; 
And    you,    my    nymphs,   rise    from    your  moist 

repair. 
Strew  all  your  springs  and  grots  with  lilies  fair. 
To  virgins,  flowers  :  to  sun-burnt  earth  the  rain  ; 
To  mariners,  fair  winds  amidst  the  main  ; 
Cool  shades  to  pilgrims,  which  hot  glances  burn, 
Are  not  bo  plejiaing  as  thy  l)lest  return, 
That  day,  dear  Prince. 

THE   UNIVERSE. 

Of  this  fair  volume  which  we  World  do  name, 
If  we  tlie  leaves  and  sheets  could   turn   with 
care — 

Of  Him  who  it  corrects  and  did  it  frame 

We  clear  might  read  the  art  and  wisdom  rare. 

Find  out  Ilis  power,  which   wildest  powers  dotii 
tame. 
His  providence  extending  everywhere 
His  justice  whicli  fjroud  reli<'ls  doth  not  spare, 

In  every  page  and  period  of  the  same. 
But  silly  we,  like  foolish  children  rest 

Well  plejiHcd  with  colored  vellum,  leaves  of  gold, 
F.iir  dangling  ribbands,  leaving  what  is  best  ; 

On  the  great  W'riter'ssenw;  ne'er  taking  hold. 
Or  if  by  chance  we  stay  our  minds  on  aught. 
It  18  some  picture  on  the  margin  wrought. 

man's  stranqk  ends. 
A  good  that  nev<M'  satistiesthe  mind, 

A  beauty  fa<ling  like  the  y\pril  Mowers, 
A  Hweet  with  lloodHof  gall  thai  runs  com)>ined, 


fiO  WILLIAM  DRUMMOND. 

A  pleasure  jnissing  ere  in  thouj^^lit  made  ours 
An  honor  that  more  fickle  is  than  wind, 

A  glory  at  opinion's  frown  tliat  lowers 

A  treasury  which  bankrupt  time  devours, 
A  knowledge  than  grave  ignorance  more  blind, 

A  vain  delight  our  equals  to  command, 
A  style  of  greatness,  in  effect  a  dream.  • 

A  swelling  thought  of  holding  sea  and  land, 
A  servile  lot  decked  with  a  pompous  name — 

Are  the  strange  ends  we  toil  for  here  below, 

Till  wisest  death  makes  us  our  errors  know. 


THE  HUNT. 

This  world  a  hunting  is  : 
The  prey,  poor  man  ;  the  Nimrod  fierce  is  Death ; 
His  speedy  greyhounds  are 
Lust,  Sickness,  Envy,  Care, 
Strife  that  ne'er  falls  amiss, 
With  all  those  ills  which  haunt  us  while  we  breathe. 
Now,  if  by  chance  we  fly 
Of  these  the  eager  chase, 
Old  Age,  with  stealing  pace. 
Casts  on  his  nets,  and  there  we,  panting,  lie. 

IN    PRAISE  OF  A   PRIVATE   LIFE. 

Thrice  happy  he  who,  by  some  shady  grove, 
Far  from  the  clamorous  world,  dotli  live  his 

own  : 
Thou  solitary,  who  is  not  alone 
But  doth  converse  with  that  eternal  love. 

Oil  how  more  sweet  is  bird's  harmonious  moan, 
Or  the  hoarse  sobbings  of  the  widowed  dove. 
Than  those  smooth  whisperings  near  a  prince's 
throne. 
Which  good  makes  doubtful,  do  the  evil  approve  ! 
Oh    how    more  sweet  is   Zephyr's   wholesome 
breath 
And  sighs  embalmed    which    new-born    flowers 
unfold, 
Than  that  applause  vain  honor  doth  bequeath  ! 
How  sweet  are  streams  to  poison  drank  in  gold  ! 
This  world  is  full  of  horrors,  troubles,  slights  : 
Woods'  harmless  shades  have  only  true  delights. 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  51 

DRYDEX,  John,  an  English  poet,  born  in 
1631,  died  in  1700.  He  was  of  a  good  North- 
amptonshire family,  possessing  a  moderate 
estate.  His  early  training  was  received  at 
Westminster  School  under  th«  famous  teach- 
er Dr.  Busby.  Thence  at  the  age  of  nineteen 
he  went  to  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  where 
he  took  his  degree  of  B.A.  in  1654  and  of 
M.A.  in  1657.  His  university  life  thus  cor- 
responded very  nearly  to  the  Protectorate  of 
Oliver  Cromwell.  When  he  left  Cambridge, 
at  the  age  of  twentj'-seven,  he  seems  to  have 
written  nothing  except  a  few  quite  common- 
place verses.  Cromwell  died  in  September 
165S,  and  within  a  few  days  Dryden  pro- 
duced a  poem  of  thirty -seven  stanzas  in  honor 
of  him: 

ON  THE  DEATH   OF  OLIVER  CROMWELL. 
VI. 

His  grandeur  he  derived  from  Heaven  alone, 
I-Vir  lie  was  {^reai  ere  fortune  made  him  so  : 

And  wars,  like  mists  that  ri.se  against  the  sun. 
Made  liim  but  greater  seem,  not  greater  grow. 

VII. 

No  Ijorrowed  bays  his  temples  did  adorn, 
But  to  our  crown  he  did  fresh  jewels  bring  : 

Nor  was  hi.s  virtue  i)oisoned  soon  as  born, 
With  the  too  early  thoughts  of  being  king. 

X. 

And  yet  dominion  was  not  his  design  ; 

We  (nve  that  blessing,  not  to  him.  l)nt  Heaven. 
Whicii  to  fair  arts  unsought  rewards  did  join  ; 

Rewards  that  less  to  him  than  us  were  given. 

XV. 

His  palms,  though   under  weights  they  did    not 
stan«l, 
Still  thrived  ;  no  Winter  could  his  laurels  fade  ; 
Heaven,    in   his   portrait,    showed   a   workman's 
hand. 
And  drew  it  |Krf<'(l,  yet  witlmut  :i  shade. 


69  JOHN  DRYDEN, 

XXXIII. 

Nor  died  he  wlien  liis  el)hing  fame  went  less, 
But  when  fresli  laurels  courted  him  to  live : 

He  seemed  but  to  prevent  some  new  success, 
As  if  above  what  triumphs  earth  could  give. 

XXXVI. 

No  civil  broils  have  since  his  death  arose, 
But  faction  now  bj^  habit  does  obey  : 

And  wars  have  that  respect  for  his  repose, 
As  winds  for  halcyons  when  they  breed  at  sea. 

XXXVII. 

His  ashes  in  a  peaceful  urn  shall  rest  ; 

His  name  a  great  example  stands,  to  show 
How  strangely  high  example  may  be  blest, 

Where  piety  and  valor  justly  grow. 

But  the  great  Lord  Protector  had  hardly 
been  laid  in  his  tomb  before  it  came  to  be 
clear  to  all  men  that  his  weak  son,  Richard, 
was  in  nowise  capable  of  executing  the  func- 
tions of  the  Protectorate  which  had  been 
devolved  upon  him.  Charles  II.  was  recalled 
from  his  long  exile  to  assume  the  British 
crown.  He  landed  upon  the  English  shores 
in  May  1G60,  twenty  months  after  the  death 
of  Oliver  Cromwell.  Nine  months  afterwards 
the  "  peaceful  "  tomb  in  Westminster  Abbey, 
in  which  the  remains  of  Oliver  had  been 
placed,  was  broken  open,  and  his  bones  were 
dragged  to  Tyburn,  hanged,  and  then  thrown 
into  a  deep  pit,  the  skull  being  set  up  on  a 
pole  at  the  top  of  Westminstcj'  Hall.  Dryden, 
who  had  by  this  time  fairly  established  him- 
self as  a  London  litterateur,  greeted  the  I'e- 
turn  of  Charles  II.,  in  Astrcea  Redux,  an 
adulatory  poem  composed  upon  the  occasion 
of  the  landing  of  the  monarch  : 

CHARLES  II.    WELCOMKD  TO   ENGLAND. 

And  welcome  now,  great  monarch,  to  your  own  ! 
Behold  the  ai)proaching  dills  of  Albion  ; 
It  is  no  longer  motion  cheats  your  view, 
As  you  meet  it,  the  land  approacheth  you. 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  53 

The  land  returns,  and,  in  the  white  it  wears, 

The  marks  of  penitence  and  sorrow  bears. 

But  you,  whose  goodness  jour  descent  doth  show, 

Your  heavenly  parentage  and  earthlj'  too  ; 

By  that  same  mildness,  which  your  father's  crown 

Before  did  ravish,  shall  seLure  your  own. 

Not  tied  to  rules  of  policy,  you  find 

Revenge  less  sweet  tlian  a  forgiving  mind. 

Thus,  when  the  Almighty  would  to  Moses  give 

A  sight  of  all  he  could  behold  and  live, 

A  voice  before  his  entry  did  proclaim 

Long-suffering,  goodness,  mercy,  in  his  name. 

Your  power  to  justice  doth  submit  your  cause, 

Y'our  goodness  only  is  above  the  laws, 

Whose  rigid  letter,  A\hile  pronounced  by  you, 

Is  softer  uiade.  .   .  . 

And  now  Time's  whiter  series  is  begun. 
Which  in  soft  centuries  shall  smoothly  run  : 
Those  clouds  which  overcast  your  morn  shall  fly, 
Dispelled  to  farthest  corners  of  the  sky. 
Our  nation,  with  united  interest  blest, 
Not  now  content  to  i)oise,  sliall  sway  the  rest. 
Abroad,  your  empire  shall  no  limits  know. 
But,  like  the  sea,  in  boundless  circles  flow. 
Your  much-loved  fleet  sliall,  witli  a  wide  command. 
Besiege  the  petty  monarclis  of  tlie  land  : 
And  as  old  Time  his  olfspring  swallowed  down 
Our  ocean  in  its  depths  all  seas  shall  drown. 
Tlieir  wealthy  trade,  from  pirates'  rapine  free. 
Our  merchants  sliall  no  more  adventurers  be; 
Nor  in  the  furthest  East  those  dangers  fear 
Wliich  Immbh;  Holland  must  dissemble  hero. 
Spain  to  your  gift  alone  her  Indies  owes  ; 
For  what  the  powerful  takes  not,  he  bestows  : 
And  France,  tliat  <lid  an  exile's  presence  fear. 
May  justly  appn-hcml  you  still  too  near. 
At  liome  the  liatcful  names  of  parties  cease, 
And  factious  souls  ans  wearied  into  jjeace. 
The  discontented  now  are  only  they 
Whoso  crinn's  In-fon'  did  your  just  cause  betray  : 
Of  thc)H*»  your  e<liftH  sfmn^  rt'«l;iiiii  from  sin 
But  most  your  life  and  blest  example  win. 
Oil,  hap)>y  prince,  whom  heuveu  Imth  taught  the 
way, 


54  JOHN  DRYDEN. 

By  paj'ing  vows,  to  have  more  vows  to  pay  ! 
Oh  liajipy  ago  !  Oh,  times  like  these  alone 
B}'  fate  reserved  for  great  Augustus's  throne  ! 
When  iho  joint  growtli  of  arms  and  art  foreshow 
The  world  a  monarch,  and  that  monarch  you  ! 
— Astrcca  Redux. 

The  coronation  of  Charles  II.  took  place 
some  months  after  his  return  to  England. 
For  this  occasion  Dryden  was  ready  with  a 
Pancfjyric  on  the  Coronation,  quite  as  adula- 
tory as  was  the  Astrcea  Redux  : 

ON  THE  CORONATION  OF  CHARLES  II. 

In  that  wild  deluge  where  the  world  was  drowned. 

When  life  and  sin  one  common  tomb  had  found, 

The  lirst  small  jirospect  of  a  rising  hill 

With  various  notes  of  joy  the  ark  did  fill  : 

Yet    when    that   flood    in    its    own    depths  was 

drowned, 
It  left  behind  it  false  and  slippery  ground  ; 
And  the  moi'e  solemn  point  was  still  deferred, 
Till  new-born  nature  in  fresh  looks  appeared. 
Thus,  Royal  Sir,  to  see  you  landed  here 
Was  cause  of  triumph  for  a  year : 
Nor  would  you  care  those  glorious  joys  repeat 
Till  they  at  once  might  be  secure  and  great ; 
Till  j'our  kind  beams,  by  their  continued  stay, 
Had  warmed  the  ground,  and  called  the  damps 

away. 
Such  vapors,  while  your  powerful  influence  dries, 
The  soonest  vanish  when  they  highest  rise. 
Had  greater  haste  these  sacred  rites  prepared, 
Some  guilty  months  had  in  your  triumph  shared  : 
But  this  untainted  year  is  all  your  own  : 
Your  glories  may  without  our  crimes  be  shown. 
We  had  not  yet  exhausted  all  our  store. 
When  you  refreshed  our  joys  by  adding  more  : 
As  Heaven,  of  old,  dispensed  celestial  dew, 
You  gave  us  manna,  and  still  give  us  dew.  .  .  . 

Next  to  the  sacred  temple  you  are  led, 
Where  waits  a  crown  for  your  more  sacred  head. 
How  justly  from  the  Church  tiiat  crown  is  due, 
Preserved  from  ruin,  and  restored  by  you,*"; 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  55 

The  grateful  choir  their  harmony  employ, 
Not  to  make  greater,  but  more  solemn  joy  ; 
Wrapt  soft  and  warm  your  name  is  sent  on  high 
As  flames  do  on  the  wings  of  incense  fly  : 
Music  herself  is  lost,  in  vain  she  brings 
Her  choicest  notes  to  praise  the  best  of   Kings  ; 
Her  melting  strains  in  you  a  touib  have  found, 
And  lie  like  bees  in  theii  own  sweetness  drowned. 
He  that  brought  peace,  all  discord  could  atone 
His  name  is  music  of  itself  alone. 

Now,  while  the  sacred  oil  anoints  your  head, 
And  fragrant  scents,  begun  by  you,  are  spread 
Through    the    large   dom.e,    the   people's   joyful 

sound, 
Sent  back,  is  still  preserved  in  hallowed  ground ; 
Which,  in  one  blessing  mixed,  descends  on  you. 
As  heightened  spirits  fall  in  richer  dew. 
Not  that  our  riches  do  increase  your  store  : 
Full  of  yourself,  you  can  admit  no  more. 
We  add  not  to  your  glorv,  but  employ 
Our  time,  like  angels,  in  expressing  joy.  .  .  . 

From  your  loved  Thames  a  blessing  yet  is  due. 
Second  alone  to  that  it  brought  to  you  : 
A  queen,  near  whose  chaste  womb,  ordained  by 

fate, 
The  Bouls  of  kings  unborn  for  bodies  wait. 
U  was  your  love  l)efor('  made  discord  cease  ; 
Your  love  is  destined  to  your  country's  peace. 
Both  Indies,  rivals  in  your  bed,  provide 
With  gold  or  jewels  to  adorn  your  bride: 
Tiiis  to  a  mighty  king  presents  rich  ore, 
Wliile  that  with  incense  does  a  good  implore. 
Two  kingdoniH  wait  your   doom,   and,    as    you 

choose, 
This  must  receive  a  crown,  or  that  must  lose. 
Thus  from  your  royal  oak— like  Jove's  of  old — 
Are  answers  sought,  and  destinies  foretold  ; 
Propitious  oracles  are  begged  with  vows, 
.\ini  fnjwns  that  grow  upon  tlie  sacred  boughs. 
Your  subjects,  while  you  weigh  the  nation's  fate, 
SuHjM'nd  to  lK)th  their  doul>tful  love  or  liate  , 
('h(Kjs<!  only,  Sir,  that  so  (hi-y  may  jHissess, 
With  their  own  peace  their  childrcn'H  liapi)inrsH. 

—  Panegyric  un  the  Conmatum  of  Cfutrlrs  I  J. 


56  JOHN  DRYDEN. 

The  princess  whom  Chai'les  II.  selected  for 
his  queen  was  Catherine  of  Braganza.  No 
children  were  born  of  this  marriage,  though 
Charles  had  offspring  enough  by  one  mistress 
or  another,  ui)on  wliom  peerages  were  un- 
sparingly bestowed  by  tlieir  royal  father.  At 
the  restoration  of  Charles  II.  Dry  den  was 
thirty  years  of  age. .  Had  he  died  at  any  time 
during  the  next  seventeen  years,  he  would 
have  left  nothing  behind  him  which  would 
have  given  him  any  permanent  place  in  Eng- 
lish literature.  The  only  poem  of  any  conse- 
quence written  during  those  years  is  the 
Annus  Mirabilis — '"The  Wonderful  Year 
1666" — not  a  very  wonderful  year  after  all; 
the  main  things  being  the  beginning  of  the 
successful  naval  war  with  the  Dutch  and 
their  allies,  and  the  great  fire  in  Londoii. 
The  poem  consists  of  305  quartrain  verses,  of 
which  a  few  are  here  given. 

THE  WAR  WITH  THE  DUTCH. 
1. 

In  thriving  arts  long  time  had  Holland  grown. 

Crouching  at  home  and  cruel  when  abroad  : 
Scarce  leaving  us  the  means  to  claim  our  own  ; 

Our  king  they  courted  and  oiu"  merchants  awed. 
3. 
For  them  alone  the  heavens  had  kindly  heat, 

In  eastern  quarries  ripening  precious  dew  ; 
For  them  the  Idumsan  balm  did  sweat, 

And  in  hot  Ceylon  spicy  forests  grew. 
4. 
Tlie  sun  but  seemed  the  laborer  of  their  year  ; 

Each  waxing  moon  supplied  her  watery  store. 
To  swell  those  tides  which  from  the  Line  did  bear 

Their  brim-full  vessels  to  the  Belgian  shore. 
6. 
What  peace  can  be  where  one  to  both  pretend  ? — 

But  they  more  diligent,  and  we  more  strong — 
Or,  if  a  peace,  it  soon  must  have  an  end  : 

For  they  would  grow  too  powerful  were  it  long. 


JOHN  DRYDEN. 


Behold  two  nations  then,  enjrap^ed  so  far 
That  each  seven  years  the  tit  must  shake  each 
land  ; 
Where  France  will  side  to  weaken  us  by  war, 
Who  only  can  his  vast  designs  withstand. 
9. 
Such  deep  designs  of  empire  does  he  lay 

O'er  them  whose  cause  he  seems  to  take  in  hand; 
And  prudently  would  make  them  lords  at  sea, 
To  whom  with  ease  he  can  give  laws  by  land. 
10. 
This  saw  our  King  ;  and  long  within  his  l)reast 

HLs  pensive  counsels  balanced  to  and  fro  ; 
He  grieved  the  land  lie  freed  should  be  oppressed, 
And  he  less  for  it  than  usurpers  do. 
13. 
The  loss  and  gain  each  fatally  were  great ; 

And  still  his  subjects  calleil  aloud  for  war  ; 
But  peaceful  kings,  o'er  martial  people  set. 
Each  others  poise  and  counterbalance  are. 
14. 
At  length  resolved  to  assert  the  watery  ball. 

He  in  himself  did  wliole  armadas  bring  ; 
Him  aged  seamen  might  their  master  call, 
And  choose  for  general,  were  he  not  tlieir  king. 
a4. 
And    now    ai)proached    their    fleet    from    India, 
fraught 
With  all  the  riches  of  the  rising  sim  ; 
And     precious    sand     from     southern     climates 
brought — 
The  fatal  regions  where  the  war  begun. 
80. 
By  the  rich  scent  we  ff)und  one  perfumed  prey, 

Wliich,  flanked  with  nxks,  did  close  in  <'overtlie; 
And  round  al»ont  their  imndering  <;annon  lay, 
At  once  to  tlireaten  and  invite  the  eye. 

Fiercer  than  cannon,  ajid  than  rocks  more  hard, 
The  Englisli  undertake  the  une<jual  war  : 

Seven  sbiiw  alone,  by  which  tlie  port  is  barred, 
Bt'^iege  tlie  Indies*,  and  »ll  Denmark  dare. 


58  JOHN  DRY  DEN. 

29. 
Amid  whole  heaps  of  spices  lights  a  ball ; 

And  now  their  odors  armed  against  them  fly  ; 
Some  prociouisly  by  shattered  porcelain  fall, 

And  some  by  aromatic  splinters  die. 
30. 
And  though  by  tempests  of  tlie  prize  bereft, 

In  Heaven's  inclemency  some  ease  we  find  : 
Our  foes  we  vanquished  by  our  valor  left. 

And  only  yielded  to  the  seas  and  wind. 

Till  now  alone  the  mighty  nations  strove  ; 

The  rest,  at  gaze,  without  the  lists  did  stand 
And   threatening  France,   placed  like  a  painted 
Jove, 

Kept  idle  thunder  in  his  lifted  hand. 
41. 
Offended  that  we  fought  without  his  leave. 

He  takes  this  time  his  secret  hate  to  show  ; 
Which  Charles  does  with  a  mind  so  calm  receive, 

As  one  that  neither  seeks  nor  shuns  his  foe. 
42. 
With  France,  to  aid  the  Dutch,  the  Danes  unite  : 

France  as  tlieir  tyrant,  Denmark  as  their  slave  ; 
But  when  with  o!ie  three  nations  join  to  fight, 

They  silently  confess  that  one  more  brave. 
— Annus  Mirahilis. 

LONDON   AFTER  THE  GREAT  FIRE. 
296. 
Already,  laboring  with  a  mighty  fate, 

She  shakes  the  rubbisli  from  her  mounting  brow, 
And  seems  to  have  renewed  her  charter's  date 
Which  Heaven  will  to  the  death  of  Time  allow. 
2%. 
More  great  than  human  now,  and  more  august; 

Now  deified,  she  from  her  fires  doth  rise  ; 
Her  widening  streets  on  new  foundations  trust, 
And,  opening,  into  larger  parts  she  flies. 
299. 
Tlie  silver  Thames  her  own  domestic  flood, 

Shall  bear  lier  vessels  like  a  sweeping  train  ; 
And  often  wind,  as  of  his  mistress  proud, 
With  longing  eyes  to  meet  her  face  again. 


JOHN  DliYDEN.  59 

301. 
The  venturous  merchant  who  designed  more  far 

And  touches  on  our  hospitable  shore, 
Charmed  with  the  splendor  of  this  northern  star 

Shall  here  unlade  him,  and  depart  no  more. 
302. 
Our  powerful  navy  shall  no  longer  meet 

The  wealth  of  France  or  Holland  to  invade  : 
The  beauty  of  this  town  without  a  fleet 

From  all  the  world  shall  vindicate  her  trade. 
303. 
.And  while  this  famed  emporium  we  prepare. 

The  British  ocean  shall  such  triumphs  boast, 
That  those  who  now  dislike  our  trade  to  spare, 

Shall  rob  like  pirates  on  our  wealthy  coast. 
304. 
Already  we  have  conquered  half  the  war. 

And  the  less  dangerous  part  is  left  behind  : 
Our  trouble  now  is  but  to  make  them  dare, 

And  not  so  great  to  vanquish  as  to  find. 
305. 
Thus  to  the  Eastern  wealth  through  storms  we  go  ; 

But  now,  the  Cape  once  doubled,  fear  no  more  : 
A  constant  trade-wind  will  securely  blow, 

And  gently  lay  us  on  the  spicy  shore. 
— Annus  Mirabilis. 

Dryden  had  completed  hLs  thirty-fifth  year 
\s\u;n  the  A)inu8  Minibil is  was  written:  but 
neither  this  poem  nor  anything  else  which  he 
was  to  produce  during  the  next  dozen  years 
gave  any  promise  of  that  supreme  excellence 
to  which  he  was  to  attain  in  one  department 
of  poetry:  that  of  satire— using  the  word  in 
its  proper  and  oj-iginal  signification  as  a  keen 
delineation  of  j»liases  of  liiunan  weakness  and 
erroi-;  an<l  the  two  great  argumentative  the- 
ological ]»oems,  th(!  Rcliijio  Ijiici  and  The 
Hind  and  the  Panther,  are  satires  in  the 
strictest  sense;  as  much  so  as  are  Ahualfyni 
and  Arhitophel  and  Mac  Flerknoe.  During 
tln"  {>eriod  betwecMi  his  tliirlicth  and  his  forty- 
seventh  year  Dryden  devote(i  himsetf  aliiKjst 


60  JOHN  DRYDEN. 

exclusively  to  writing  for  the  stage.  His  nu- 
merous tragedies  and  comedies  may  be  dis- 
missed very  briefly.  Not  one  of  them  can  be 
placed  in  even  the  third  rank  of  the  British 
drama.  They  are  bad  in  every  sense  of  the 
word — bad  in  conception,  bad  in  execution, 
bad  in  morals.  Tliey  certainly  had  a  tem- 
porary success ;  and  Dry  den  was  regarded  as 
the  king  of  the  dramatists  of  his  time.  But 
he  came  to  feel  that  the  kingdom  was  not 
worth  ruling  over,  and,  moreover,  that  the 
sceptre  was  passing  into  other  hands.  In 
1694  William  Congreve,  a  clever  young  fellow 
of  twenty-five  bx-ought  out  the  drama  of  The 
Double  Dealer,  which  made  a  decided  sensa- 
tion. Dryden,  who  was  then  sixty-three,  ad- 
dressed to  him  the  most  pathetic  of  all  his 
poems,  hailing  the  young  man  as  his  success- 
or on  the  dramatic  throne : 

DRYDEN  TO  CONGREVi:. 

Well,  then,  the  promised  liour  is  come  at  last, 
The  present  age  of  wit  obscures  the  past :      [writ,- 
Strong  were  our  sires,  and  as  they  fought  they 
Conquering  with  force  of  arms  and  dint  of  wit. 
Theirs  was  the  giant  race  before  the  flood  ; 
And  thus  when  Charles   returned,    our   empire 

stood. 
Like  Janus  he  the  stubborn  soil  manured, 
With  rules  of  husbandry  the  rankness  cured  ; 
Tamed  us  to  manners  when  the  stage  was  i-ude, 
And  boisterous  Englisli  wit  with  art  endued. 
Our  age  was  cultivated  thus  at  length. 
But  wliat  we  gained  in  skill  we  lost  in  strength. 
Our  builders  were  with  want  of  genius  curst ; 
The  second  temple  was  not  like  the  first : 
Till  you,  the  best  Vitruvius,  came  at  length  ; 
Our  beauties  equal,  but  excel  our  strength. 
Firm  Doric  pillars  found  your  solid  base  : 
Thus  all  below  is  strength,  and  all  above  is  grace. 
Oh  that  your  brows  my  laurel  had  sustained  ; 
Well  had  I  been  deposed,  if  you  had  reigned : 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  61 

The  father  had  descended  for  the  son  ; 
For  only  you  are  lineal  to  the  throne. 
Thus  when  the  State  one  Edward  did  depose, 
A  greater  Edward  in  his  room  arose. 
But  now  not  I  but  poetry  is  curst : 
For  Toin  the  second  reigns  like  Tom  the  first. 
But  let  tiiein  not  mistake  my  patron's  part, 
Nor  call  iiis  charity  their  own  desert. 
Yet  tliis  I  jiropliesy  :  tliou  shalt  be  seen 
(Though  with  some  sliort  jjarenthesis  between) 
Higli  on  tiie  tiirone  of  wit,  and.  seated  there, 
Not  7Hi»t'— that 's  little— but  thy  laurel  wear. 
Thy  first  attempt  an  early  promise  made  ; 
Tliat  early  promise  this  ha.s  more  than  paid. 
So  bold,  yet  so  judiciously  you  dare, 
That  your  least  praise  is  to  be  regular,  [wrought ; 
Time,     place,    and    action    may    with    pain    be 
But  genius  must  be  born,  and  never  can  be  taught. 
This  is  your  portion  ;  this  your  native  store. 
Heaven,  that  but  once  was  prodigal  before, 
To  Shakespeare  gave  as  much  :  she  could  not  give 
him  more.  [need  ; 

Maintain  your  post :  that's  all  tlie  fame  you 
For  'tis  impossible  you  sliouM  proceed. 

Already  I  am  worn  with  cares  and  age. 
And  just  abandoning  the  ungrateful  stage  : 
Unprofitabiy  kept  at  Heaven's  expense, 
I  live  a  rent-charge  on  his  providence. 
But  you,  whom  every  Muse  and  (Jrace  adorn, 
Whom  I  foresee  to  better  fortune  born. 
Be  kind  to  my  remains  ;  and,  oh,  defend 
Against  your  judgment  your  departed  friend  ! 
L«;t  not  the  insulting  foe  my  fame  pursue. 
But  shade  tho.se  laurels  that  descend  to  you  ; 
An<l  take  for  tribute  what  these  lines  express  : 
You  merit  more  ;  nor  could  my  love  do  less. 

When  he  wrote  this  magnificent  eulogium 
—none  the  \em  magnificent  from  tlie  fixct 
that  Congreve  was  n(^t  worthy  of  the  hun- 
dredth part  of  the  jiraiso  lavished  upon  him 
—  Dryden  had  fallen  into  somewhat  Khattered 
pecuniary  ciroimstanccK.  For  lialf  a  d./zen 
years  he  had  been  working  as  a  hack-writer 


62  JOHN  DRYDEN. 

— especially  as  a  translator— for  Jacob  Ton- 
son,  a  bookseller  who  was  to  say  the  least, 
extremely  close  in  his  dealings  with  men  of 
letters.  Up  to  the  revolution  of  1688,  by 
which  James  II.  was  deprived  of  his  crown. 
Dry  den  had  a  large  income  from  one  source 
and  another:  from  his  own  moderate  patri- 
mony; from  the  proceeds  of  his  writings;  and 
from  grants  and  pensions  from  the  Govern- 
ment. It  has  been  calculated  that  for  twen- 
ty years  previous  to  1688  he  must  have  been 
in  receipt  of  £700  a  year — equivalent  to  some 
£3,000  (say  $15,000)  in  our  day.  But  he  had  mar- 
ried a  daughter  of  the  not  over-wealthy  Earl 
of  Berkshire,  had  a  considerable  family,  and 
lived  close  up  to  his  income.  The  most  bril- 
liant period  of  his  literary  life  lies  between 
1680  and  1686.  In  those  six  years  were  writ- 
ten Absalom  and  Achitophel,  The  Medal, 
Mac  Flecknoe,  the  Religio  Laid,  The  Hind 
and  the  Panther,  and  several  of  his  best  mi- 
nor poems. 

Absalom  and  Achitophel,  a  poem  of  about 
1000  lines,  is  a  political  satire  aimed  at  the 
party  who  were  plotting  to  exclude  the  Duke 
of  York  (afterwards  King  James  II.)  from 
the  succession  to  the  throne,  and  to  place  the 
crown  upon  the  head  of  the  Duke  of  Mon- 
mouth, one  of  the  illegitimate  sons  of  Charles 
II.  There  are  about  fifty  characters  which 
can  be  clearly  identified.  Thus  "David,"  is 
King  Charles  II.;  "Absalom,"  the  Duke  of 
Monmouth;  "Achitophel,"  the  Earl  of  Shafts- 
bury;  "Zimri,"  the  Duke  of  Buckingham; 
"Shimei,"  Slingsby  Bethel,  the  Puritanical 
Sheriff  of  London. 

DAVm  AND  ABSALOM. 

In  pious  times,  ere  prie.stcraft  did  begin ; 
Before  polygamy  was  made  a  sin  ; 
Wlien  man  on  many  multiplied  his  kiud, 
Ere  one  to  one  was  cursedly  confined  ; 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  60 

When  nature  ])ro!iipied,  and  no  law  denied 
Promiscuous  u.se  of  concubine  and  bride  ; 
Then  Israel's  monarch  after  Heaven's  own  heart 
His  vigorous  warmth  did  variously  impart 
To  wives  and  slaves  ;  and,  wide  as  his  command, 
Scattered  his  Maker's  image  through  the  land. 
Of  all  this  numerous  progeny  was  none 
So  beautiful,  so  brave  as  Absalom  : 
"Whether,  inspired  by  some  diviner  lust, 
His  fatlier  got  him  with  a  greater  gust ; 
Or  that  his  conscious  destiny  made  way 
By  manly  beauty,  to  imperial  sway. 
Early  in  foreign  fields  he  won  renown, 
With  kings  and  states  allied  to  Israel's  crown. 
In  peace  the  thoughts  of  war  he  could  remove, 
And  seemed  as  he  were  only  born  for  love. 
Wliate'or  he  did  was  done  with  so  much  ease. 
In  him  alone  'twas  natural  to  please  : 
His  motions  all  accompanied  with  grace, 
And  paradise  was  opened  in  his  face. 
W^ith  secret  joj*  the  indulgent  David  viewed 
His  youthful  image  in  liis  son  renewed  ; 
To  all  his  wishes  nothing  he  denied  ; 
And  made  the  lovely  Annabel  his  bride. 
If  faults  he  had  (for  who  from  faults  is  free?) 
His  father  could  not,  or  he  would  not  see. 
Some  warm  excesses,  which  th<i  law  forebore. 
Were  construed  youth,  that  purged  by  boiling  o'er. 
— Absalom  and  Achitophel. 

ACHITOPHEL. 

Of  these  the  false  Achitophel  was  first — 

A  name  to  all  succeeding  ages  curst : 

For  clo.se  designs  and  crooked  counsels  fit ; 

Sagacious,  bold,  and  turbulent  of  wit ; 

Restless,  unfixed  in  jiriiiciplc,  and  place  ; 

In  power  unpleased,  impatient  in  disgrace  : 

A  fiery  soul,  whidi  working  out  its  way, 

P'retted  the  pigniy  body  to  decay, 

Anrl  o'er-informed  tlie  tenement  of  clay  ; 

A  daring  jtilot  in  extremity  ;  fhigh 

Plejtscd  with  th(!  danger,  when   the  waves  went 

He  sought  tin-  KlortnH  :  liut,  for  a  calm  unlit. 

Would  Kt<HT  too  nigh  tli<<  sands  to  boa»it  his  wit. 


64  JOHN  DRYDEN. 

(Jreat  wits  to  madness  sure  are  near  allied, 
And  thin  partitions  do  their  hounds  divide  ; 
Else  why  should  he,  with  wealth  and  honor  blest, 
Refuse  his  age  the  needful  hours  of  rest? 
Punish  a  hody  which  he  could  not  please  ; 
Bankrupt  of  life,  and  prodigal  of  ease ! 
And  all  to  leave  what  with  his  toil  he  won, 
To  that  unfeathered  two-legged  thing,  a  son, 
Got  while  his  soul  did  huddled  notions  try, 
And  horn  a  shapeless  lump — like  anarchy? 
In  friendship  false,  implacable  in  hate  ; 
Resolved  to  ruin  or  to  rule  the  State. 
To  compass  this,  the  Trii)le  Bonil  he  broke  ; 
The  pillars  of  the  public  safety  shook. 
And  fitted  Israel  for  a  foreign  yoke  ; 
Then  seized  with  fear,  yet  still  affecting  fame, 
Usurped  a  patriot's  all-atoning  name. 
So  easy  still  it  proves,  in  factious  times, 
With  public  zeal  to  cancel  private  crimes. 
How  safe  is  treason,  and  how  sacred  ill. 
When  none  can  sin  against  the  people's  will ! 
Where  crowds  can  wink,  and  no  offence  be  known. 
Since  in  another's  guilt  they  find  their  o^<'n  ! 
Yet  fame  deserved  i.o  enemy  can  grudge; 
The  Statesman  we  abhor,  but  praise  the  Judge. 
In  Israel's  courts  ne'er  sat  an  Abethdin 
With  more  discerning  eyes,  or  handsmore  clean  ; 
Unbribed,  unsought,  the  wretched  to  redress. 
Swift  of  dispatch,  and  easy  of  access. 
Oh  !  had  he  been  content  to  serve  the  crown," 
With  virtues  only  i)roper  to  the  gown  ; 
Or  had  the  rankness  of  the  soil  been  freed 
From  cockle  that  oppressed  the  noble  seed, 
David  for  him  his  tuneful  harp  had  strung. 
And  heaven  had  wanted  one  immortal  .song. 
But  wild  Ambition  loves  to  slide,  not  .stand. 
And  Fortune's  ice  prefers  to  Virtue's  land. 
Achitophel,  grown  weary  to  possess 
A  lawful  fame  and  lazy  happiness. 
Disdained  the  golden  fruit  to  gather  free, 
And  lent  the  crowd  his  arm  to  shake  the  tree. 
Now,  manifest  of  crimes  contrived,  long  since 
He  stood  at  bold  defiance  with  his  prince  ; 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  65 

Held  up  the  buckler  of  the  People's  cause, 
Against  the  Crown,  and  skulked  behind  the  laws. 
— Absalom  and  Achitophel, 

ZIMRI. 

Some  of  their  chiefs  were  princes  of  the  land  ; 
In  the  fii-st  ranks  of  these  did  Zimri  stand  : 
A  man  so  various,  that  lie  seemed  to  be 
Not  one,  but  all  mankind's  epitome  ; 
Stiff  in  opinion,  always  in  the  wrong  ; 
Was  everything  by  turns,  and  nothing  long  ; 
But  in  the  course  of  one  revolving  moon 
Was  chymist,  fiddler,  statesman,  and  buffoon  : 
Then  all  for  women,  painting,  rhyming,  drinking. 
Besides  ten  thousand  freaks  that  died  in  thinking. 
Blest  madman,  who  could  every  hour  employ, 
With  something  new  to  wish,  or  to  enjo}-  I 
Railing  and  praising  were  his  usual  themes, 
And  both,  to  show  his  judgment,  in  extremes  : 
So  over-violent,  or  over-civil, 
That  every  man  with  him  was  God  or  Devil. 
In  squandering  wealth  was  his  peculiar  art  ; 
Nothing  went  unrewarded  but  desert. 
Beggared  by  fools,  whom  still  he  found  too  late  ; 
He  had  his  jest,  and  they  had  his  estate. 
He  laughed  himself  from  Court,  then  souglit  relief 
By  forming  parties,  but  could  ne'er  be  chief  : 
For,  spite  of  him,  the  weight  of  business  fell 
On  Absalom  ami  wi.se  Achitophel. 
ThuH  wicked  but  in  will,  of  means  bereft, 
He  left  no  faction,  but  of  that  was  left. 
— Absalom  and  Acliitopliel. 

SHIMEI. 

Nor  shall  the  rascal  rabble  here  have  place 
Whom  kings  no  titles  give,  and  (Jod  no  grace, 
Nf^t  biill-face'l  Jonas,  who  could  statutes  draw. 
To  mean  rel)ellion,  and  make  trea.son  law. 
But  he,  though  bad,  is  followed  l)y  a  worse — 
The  wretch  who  (Jod's  anointed  dared  to  curse 
Shimei,  whose  youth  did  early  i»r<)niiHe  bring 
Of  zeal  to  (Joil  and  hatred  to  his  King  ; 
Did  wiw'ly  from  expensive  sins  refrain, 
And  never  broke  the  Sabbath — but  for  gain  : 


66  JOHN  DRYDEN. 

Nor  ever  was  he  known  an  oath  to  vent, 
Or  curse,  unless  against  the  government. 
Tlius  lieaping  wealtli,  by  the  most  ready  way 
Among  the  Jews — whicli  was  to  cheat  and  pray  ; 
Tlie  city  to  reward  his  pious  hate 
Against  liis  master,  chose  liim  magistrate. 
His  hand  a  staff  of  justice  did  uphold  ; 
His  neck  was  loaded  with  a  chain  of  gold. 
During  his  office  treason  was  no  crime  ; 
The  sons  of  Belial  had  a  glorious  time  : 
For  Shimei,  though  not  prodigal  of  pelf. 
Yet  loved  his  wicked  neighbor  as  himself. 
When  two  or  three  were  gathered  to  declaim 
Against  the  monarch  of  Jerusalem, 
Shimei  was  always  in  the  midst  of  them  ; 
And  if  they  cursed  the  king  when  he  was  by, 
AVould  rather  curse  than  break  good  company. 
If  any  dui'st  his  factious  friends  accuse. 
He  packed  a  jury  of  dissenting  Jews  ; 
Whose  fellow-feeling  in  the  godly  cause 
Would  free  the  suffering  saint  from  human  laws. 
For  laws  were  only  made  to  punish  those 
Who  serve  the  king,  and  to  protect  his  foes. 
If  any  leisure  time  he  had  from  power 
(Because  'tis  sin  to  misemploy  an  hour), 
His  business  was,  by  writing,  to  persuade 
That  kings  were  useless,  and  a  clog  to  trade. 
And  that  his  noble  style  he  might  refine, 
No  Rechabite  more  simnned  the  fumes  of  wine  ; 
Chaste  were  his  cellars,  and  his  shrieval  board 
The  grossness  of  a  citj'  feast  abhorred  ; 
His  cooks  with  long  disuse  their  trade  forgot ; 
Cool  was  his  kitchen,  though  his  brains  were  hot. 
Such  frugal  virtues  malice  may  accuse, 
But  sure  'twas  necessary  to  the  Jews  : 
For  towns  once  burned  such  magistrates  require 
As  dare  not  tempt  God's  providence  by  fire. 
With  spiritual  food  he  served  his  servants  woll, 
But  free  from  flesh  that  made  the  Jews  rebel ; 
And  ^loses's  laws  he  held  of  more  account 
For  forty  days  of  fasting  in  the  mount. 
— Absalom  and  Achitophel. 

Absalom  aud  Achiiophpl  was  followod  by  a 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  07 

second  and  longer  part,  written,  however,  by 
Nahum  Tate,  but  revised  by  Dryden,  who 
added  some  two  hundred  lines  devoted  mainh' 
to  an  assault  upon  two  poetasters,  Thomas 
Shadwell  and  Elkanah  Settle,  who  figure 
under  the  names  of  "Og"  and  "Doeg." 
Dryden  now  set  himself  to  the  composition  of 
Mac  Flecknoe,  a  formal  satire  upon  these  two 
writers.  Richard  Flecknoe  was  an  Irishman, 
formerly  a  priest  who  had  come  to  London 
and  set  himself  up  as  a  dramatist  and  poet. 
He  had  died  not  long  before,  leaving  behind 
him  a  name  which  had  come  to  be  a  synonym 
for  supreme  dullness.  Dryden  uses  him 
merely  as  a  rod  for  the  castigation  of  Shad- 
well,  whom  he  represents  as  his  rightful  suc- 
cessor to  the  royal  throne  of  the  Kingdom  of 
Dullness. 

FLECKNOE  AND  SHADWELX.. 

All  human  things  are  subject  to  decay, 
And  when  Fate  summons,  monarchs  must  obey  ; 
This  Flecknoe  found,  who,  like  Auji^ustus  young 
Was  called  to  empire,  and  liad  guverneil  long  : 
In  prose  and  verse  was  owned,  witliout  dispute, 
Tlirough  all  the  realms  of  Nonsense  absolute. 
This  aged  prince,  now  flourishing  in  peace, 
And  blessed  with  issue  of  a  large  increase, 
Worn  out  with  business  did  at  length  debate 
To  settle  the  succession  of  the  State  ; 
An<l  pondering  which  of  all  his  sons  w;is  fit 
To  reign,  and  wage  immortal  war  with  wit, 
Crie<l,  "  'TLs  resolved  :  for  nature  pleads  that  he 
Should  only  rule,  who  most  resembles  me. 
Shadwell  ah)ne  my  perfect  image  bears, 
Mature  in  dullness  from  his  tender  years  : 
Shadwell  alone,  of  all  my  K(jns,  is  he 
Wlio  stands  confirme<l  in  full  stupidity. 
The  rest  to  some  faint  meaning  make  pretense, 
Hut  Shadwell  never  deviates  into  sense. 
Some;  Ix'ams  of  wit  on  other  souls  may  fall, 
Strike  througli,  and  make  a  lucid  interval  ; 
But  Shad  well's  genuine  night  admits  no  ray  ; 


68  JOHN  DRY  DEN. 

His  rising  fogs  prevail  upon  the  day."  .  . 
Here  stopped  the  good  old  sire,  and  wept  for  joy 
lu  silent  raptures  of  the  hopeful  boy. 
All  arguments,  but  most  his  plays  persuade, 
That  for  anointed  dullness  he  was  made. 
— Mac  Fleeknoe. 

THE  CORONATION  OF  SHADWELL. 

Now  Empress  Fame  had  published  the  renown 
Of  Shadwell's  coronation  through  the  town. 
Roused  by  report  of  Fame  the  nations  meet, 
From  near  Bunhill  and  distant  Watlin-strcet. 
No  Persian  carpets  spread  the  imperial  way, 
But  scattered  limbs  of  mangled  poets  lay  ; 
From  dusty  shops  neglected  authors  come, 
Martyrs  of  pies  and  relics  of  the  bum. 
The  hoary  prince  in  majesty  appeared, 
High  on  a  throne  of  his  own  labor  reared. 
At  his  right  hand  our  young  Ascanius  sate, 
Rome's  other  hope,  and  pillar  of  the  State. 
His   brows  thick  fogs,  instead  of  glories,  grace, 
And  lambent  dullness  played  around  his  face. 
As  Hannibal  did  to  the  altars  come, 
Swore  by  his  sire,  a  mortal  foe  to  Rome, 
So  Shadwell  swore — nor  should  his  vow  be  vain — 
That  he  till  death  true  dullness  would  maintain  ; 
And  in  his  father's  right,  and  realm's  defentie. 
Ne'er  to  have  peace  with  Wit,   nor  truce  with 

Sense.  .  .  . 
The  admiring  throng  loud  acclamations  make. 
And  omens  of  his  future  empire  take. 
The  sire  then  shook  the  honors  of  his  head. 
And  from  his  brows  damps  of  oblivion  shed 
Full  on  the  filial  dullness.     Long  he  stood. 
At  length  burst  out  in  this  prophetic  mood  : 
"Heaven  bless  my  son  ;    from  Ireland  let  liim 
reign 
To  far  Barbadoes  on  the  Western  main  ; 
Of  his  dominion  may  no  end  be  known. 
And  greater  than  his  father's  be  his  throne  ; 
Beyond  Love's  kingdom  let  him  stretch  his  pen  ! " 
He  paused,  and  all  the  people  cried,  "  Amen  !  " 
Then  thus  continued  he  :  "  My  Son,  advance 
Still  in  new  impudence,  new  ignorance. 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  G9 

Success  let  others  teacli,  learn  tliou  from  me 
Pangs  without  birth,  and  fruitless  industry. 
Let  Virtuosos  in  five  years  be  writ, 
Yet  not  one  thought  accuse  thy  toil  of  wit.   .  .   . 
Leave  writing  plays,  and  choose  for  thy  command 
Some  peaceful  province  in  Acrostic  Land  ; 
There  thou  may'st  wings  display  and  altars  raise, 
And  torture  one  poor  word  ten   thousand  ways. 
Or,  if  thou  would'st  thy  different  talents  suit. 
Set  thy  own  songs,  and  sing  them  to  thy  lute.'" 

He  said  :  but  his  last  words  were  scarcely  heard  ; 
For  Bruce  and  Longville  had  a  trap  prepared, 
And  down  they  sent  the  yet  declaiming  bard. 
Sinking  he  left  his  drugget  robe  behind, 
Borne  upwards  by  a  subterranean  wind. 
The  mantle  fell  to  the  young  prophet's  part, 
With  double  portion  of  his  father's  art. 

—Mac  Flecknoe. 

Dryden  has  nowhere  more  fully  put  forth 
his  utmost  strength  than  in  the  two  didactic 
poems,  the  Religio  lAtici,  and  The  Hind  and 
the  Panther.  The  former  of  these  poems  is  a 
kind  of  Confession  of  Faith,  when  he  was 
still  nominally  a  Protestant  of  the  Anglican 
type: 

RELIGION,   NATURAL  AND  REVEALKD. 

Dim  as  the  borrowed  beams  of  moon  and  stars 
To  lonely,  weary,  wandering  travellers. 
Is  Reason  to  the  Soul  :  and  as  on  high 
Tliose  rolling  fires  discover  but  the  skj-, 
Not  light  us  here  ;  so  lieason's  gUmmering  ray 
Was  lent  not  to  assure  our  dcjubtful  way. 
But  guide  us  upward  to  a  better  day. 
And  as  those  niglitly  tapers  disappear. 
When  Day's  briglit  lord  a-scends  our  hemisphere, 
So  pale  grows  R<;ason  at  Religion's  sight : 
So  dies,  and  so  dissolves  in  supernatural  Fight. 
Some  few,  whose  lamp  shone  brighter  liavc  Iwcn 
led. 
From  cause  to  raune,  to  Nature's  secret  head  ; 
And  found  thai  un<'  First  Principle  must  Ijc  : 


TO  John  dryden. 

But  wliat  or  who,  th;it  Universal  He — 
Wliether  some  soul  encompassing  this  ball, 
Unmade,  unmoved,  yet  making,  moving  all  ; 
Or  various  atoms'  interfering  dance, 
Leaped  into  form,  the  noble  work  of  Chance  ; 
Or  this  great  All  was  from  eternity. 
Not  even  the  Stagyrite  himself  could  see  ; 
And  Epicurus  guessed  as  well  as  he. 

As  blindly  groped  they  for  a  future  state  ; 
As  rashly  judged  of  Providence  and  Fate. 
But  least  of  all  could  their  endeavors  find 
What  most  concerned  the  good  of  human-kind  ; 
For  happiness  was  never  to  be  found, 
But  vanished  from  'em  like  enchanted  ground. 
One  thought  Content  the  good  to  be  enjoyed  ; 
This  every  little  accident  destroyed. 
The  wiser  madmen  did  for  Virtue  toil — 
A  thorny,  or  at  best  a  barren  soil. 
Ill  Pleasure  some  their  glutton  souls  would  steep. 
But  found  the  line  too  short,  the  well  too  deep  ; 
And  leaky  vessels  which  no  bliss  could  keep. 
Thus  anxious  thoughts  in  endless  circles  roll, 
Without  a  centre  where  to  fix  the  soul : 
In  this  vain  maze  their  vain  endeavors  end. 

How  can  the  Less  the  Greater  comprehend  ? 

Or  finite  Reason  reach  Infinity? 

For  what  could  fathom  God  were  more  than  He. 
The  Deist  thinks  he  stands  on  firmer  ground  ; 

Cries  "  Eureka  !  the  mighty  secret's  found  ! 

God  is  that  spring  of  good,  supreme  and  best ; 

We  made  to  serve,  and  in  that  service  blest," 

If  so,  some  rules  of  worship  must  be  given, 

Distributed  alike  to  all  by  Heaven  ; 

Else  God  were  partial,  and  to  some  denied 

The  means  His  justice  should  for  all  provide. 

This  general  worship  is  to  praise  and  pray  : 

One  part  to  borrow  blessings,  one  to  pay  ; 

And  when  frail  nature  slides  into  offence, 

The  sacrifice  for  crimes  is  Penitence. 

Yet  since  the  effects  of  Providence,  we  find; 

Are  variously  dispensed  to  human-kind. 

That  Vice  triumphs,  and  Virtue  suffers  here — 

A  lirand  that  sovereign  Justice  cannot  bear — 

Our  Reason  prompts  us  to  a  Future  State — 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  71 

The  last  appeal  from  Fortune  and  from  Fate  ; 
"Where  Gods  all-righteous  wajs  will  be  declared  ; 
The  bad  meet  punishment,  the  good  reward. 

Thus  man  by  his  own  strength  to  heaven  would 
soar, 
And  would  not  be  obliged  to  God  for  more. 
Vain,  -svretched  creature  !  how  art  thou  misled 
To  think  thy  wit  these  God-like  notions  bred  ! 
Those  truths  are  not  the  product  of  thy  mind, 
But  dropped  from  heaven  and  of  a  nobler  kind. 
Revealed  Religion  first  informed  thy  sight. 
And  Reason  saw  not,  till  Faith  sprung  the  light. 
•  Hence  all  thy  natural  worship  takes  the  source  ; 
'Tis  Revelation  that  thou  think'st  discourse. 
Else  how  comest  thou  to  see  these  truths  so  clear, 
Whicli  so  obscure  to  heathens  did  appear  ?  .  .  . 
Those  giant  wits  in  happier  ages  born — 
When  arms  and  art  did  Greece  and  Rome  adorn — 
Knew  no  such  system  :  no  such  piles  could  raise 
Of  natiiral  worship,  built  on  prayer  and  praise, 
To  One  Sole  God. 

— Religio  Laid. 

Soon  after  the  accession  of  James  II.,  Dry- 
den  went  over  to  the  Roman  Catholic  faith, 
from  which  he  never  swerved  during  the  re- 
maing  fifteen  years  of  his  life. — The  Hind 
aiul  the  Panther,  written  after  his  conversion, 
is  the  most  labored  of  all  Dryden's  poems  ; 
and  the  longest — extending  to  some  2,500 
lines.  It  is  a  eulogy  upon  the  Roman  Church 
as  opposed  to  the  Anglican  :  the  Hind  repre- 
senting the  former,  and  the  Panther  the  latter 
of  these  two  forms  of  Faith.  To  this  poem  is 
prefixed  a  long  Preface  in  prose  : 

TOLERATION  TO  DISSENTERS  GRANTED  BY  JAMES  II. 

There  are  some  of  the  Cliurch,  by  law  estab- 
lished, who  envy  not  toleration  to  Dissenters  ;  as 
being  well  satisfied  tliat,  according  to  their  own 
j)riii(ii»lfs,  they  ought  not  to  persecute  tlienj.  Yet 
thi'se,  by  rejuson  of  tlieir  fewness,  I  could  not  di.s- 
linguisli  from  the  nunibers  of  the  rest,  witli  whom 
tliev  are  enilxxlied  in  one  <( minion  name.     On  tiie 


72  JOHN  DRYDEN. 

other  side,  there  are  many  of  ourSi'cts — and  more 
indeed  than  I  could  icartunably  liavo  hoped — who 
have  witiidrawn  themselves  from  the  communion 
of  the  Panther,  and  embraced  this  gracious  indul- 
gence of  liis  Majesty  in  point  of  toleration.  But 
to  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  of  these  is  this 
satire  any  way  intended  :  it  is  aimed  only  to  the 
refractory  and  disobedient  on  either  side.  .  .  . 

Some  of  the  Dissenters,  in  their  addresses  to  his 
Majesty,  have  said  :  "That  he  has  restored  God 
to  his  empire  over  conscience."  I  confess  that  I 
dare  not  stretch  the  figure  to  so  great  a  boldness  ; 
but  I  may  safely  say  that  conscience  is  the  royalty 
and  prerogative  of  every  private  man.  He  is  ab- 
solute in  his  own  breast,  and  accountable  to  no 
earthly  power  for  that  which  passes  only  betwixt 
God  and  him.  Those  who  are  driven  into  the 
fold  are,  generally  speaking,  rather  made  hypo- 
crites than  converts. 

The  indulgence  being  granted  to  all  the  Sects,  it 
ought  in  reason  to  be  expected  that  they  should 
both  receive  it,  and  receive  it  thankfully.  For,  at 
this  time  of  the  day,  to  refuse  the  benefit,  and  ad- 
here to  those  whom  they  liave  esteemed  their 
persecutors,  what  else  is  it  but  publicly  to  own. 
that  they  suffered  not  before  for  conscience's  sake, 
but  only  out  of  pride  and  obstinacy,  to  separate 
from  a  Church  for  those  impositions  which  they 
now  judge  may  be  lawfully  obeyed  ?  After  they 
have  so  long  contended  for  their  Classical  ordina- 
tion (not  to  speak  of  rites  and  ceremonies),  will 
they  at  length  submit  to  an  Episcopal  ?  If  they 
can  go  so  far,  out  of  complaisance  to  their  old 
enemies,  methinks  a  little  reason  should  persuade 
them  to  take  another  step,  and  see  whitlier  that 
would  lead  them. 

Of  the  receiving  this  toleration  thankfully  I 
shall  say  no  more  than  that  they  ought— and  I 
doubt  not  they  will— consider  from  what  hands 
they  received  it.  It  is  not  from  a  Cyrus— a  hea- 
then prince  and  a  foreigner — but  from  a  Christian 
King,  their  native  sovereign,  who  expects  a  re- 
turn in  specie  from  them,  that  the  kindness  which 
lie  has  graciously  shown  to  them   may  be  retail- 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  73 

ated  on  those  of  his  own  persuasion. — Preface  to 
the  Hinrl  and  the  Panther. 

THE  HIXD. 
A  milk-wliite  Hind,  immortal  and  unchanged. 
Fed  on  tlie  lawns,  and  in  the  forest  ranged  ; 
Without  unspotted,  innocent  within, 
She  feared  no  danger  ;  for  she  knew  no  sin. 
Yet  she  had   oft  been  chased  with    horns  and 

hounds. 
And  Scythian  shafts  and  many  winged  wounds 
Aimed  at  her  heart  ;  was  often  forced  to  fly, 
And  doomed  to  death,  though  fated  not  to  die. 

Not  so  her  young  :  for  their  unequal  line 
"Was  hero's  make — half  human,  half  divine. 
Their  earthly  mould  obnoxious  was  to  fate ; 
The  immortal  part  assumed  immortal  state. 
Of  these  a  slaughtered  army  lay  in  blood, 
Extended  o'er  the  Caledonian  wood — 
Their  native  walk — whose  vocal  blood  arose, 
And  cried  for  pardon  on  their  perjured  foes. 
Their  fate  was  fruitful,  and  the  sanguine  seed. 
Endued  with  souls,  increased  the  sacred  breed 
So  captive  Israel  multiplied  in  chains, 
A  numerous  exile,  and  enjoyed  her  pains. 
With  grief  and  gladness  mixed  the  mother  viewed 
Her  martyred  offspring,  and  their  race  renewed  : 
Their  corpse  to  perish,  but  their  kind  to  last, 
So  nmeh  the  deatliless  plant  the  dying  fruit  sur- 
passed. 

Panting  and  pensive  now  she  ranged  alone. 
And  wandered  in  the  kingdoms  once  her  own. 
The  common   hunt,    though   from   their  rage  re- 
strained 
By  sovereign  power,  lier  company  disdained  ; 
Grinned  as  tliey  i»;ussed,  and  with  a  glaring  ey»' 
Gave  gloomy  signs  of  secret  enmity. 
'Tis  true  slie  bounded  by,  and  tripped  so  light, 
They  Iiad  not  time  to  take  a  second  siglit ; 
For  truth  has  sucli  a  face,  and  sucli  a  mien. 
As  to  be  lr)ve<l  needs  only  to  be  seen. 

—TJie  IJiml  and  the  Panther. 

THE   PANTHER. 
Tlu"  Pantlier,  sure  tin-  nolilt-sl.  since  (lie  Hind, 
Ami  fairest  creaturo  of  the  siKjtted  kind  : — 


74  JOHN  DRYDEN. 

Oh,  could  her  inborn  stains  bo  washed  away, 
She  were  too  good  to  be  a  beast  of  prey  ! 
How  can  I  praise  or  blauie,  and  not  otTend? 
Or  how  divide  the  frailty  from  the  friend  ? 
Her  faults  and  virtues  lie  so  mixed,  that  she 
Not  wholly  stands  condemned,  nor  wholly  free. . . 
If,  as  our  dreaming  Platonists  report, 
There  could  be  spirits  of  a  middle  sort, 
Too  black  for  heaven,  and  yet  too  •white  for  hell, 
Who  just  dropped  lialf-vvay  down,  nor  lower  fell ; 
So  poised,  so  gently  she  descends  from  high 
It  seems  a  soft  dismission  from  the  sky. 

Her  house  not  ancient,  whatsoe'er  pretence 
Her  clergy  heralds  make  in  her  defence  ; 
A  second  century  not  half-way  run 
Since  the  new  honors  of  her  blood  begun.  .  .  . 
Her  front  erect  with  majesty  she  bore, 
The  crosier  wielded,  and  the  mitre  wore. 
Her  upper  part  of  decent  discipline 
Showed  affectation  of  an  ancient  line  ; 
And    Fathers,   Councils,   Church,   and    Church's 

Head, 
Were  on  her  reverend  phylacteries  read. 
But  what  disgi-aced  and  disavowed  the  rest. 
Was  Calvin's  brand,  that  stigmatized  the  beast. 
Thus,  like  a  creature  of  a  double  kind, 
In  her  own  labyrinth  she  lives  confined. 
To  foreign  lands  no  sound  of  her  has  come. 
Humbly  content  to  be  despised  at  home. 

Such  is  her  faith,  Avhere  good  cannot  be  had, 
At  least  she  leaves  the  refuse  of  the  bad. 
Nice  in  her  choice  of  ill — though  not  of  best — 
And  least  deformed,  because  reformed  the  least. 
In  doubtful  points  betwixt  her  different  friends. 
Where  one  for  Substance,  or  for  Signs  contends. 
Their  contradicting  terms  she  strives  to  join  : 
Sign  shall  be  Substance,  Substance  shall  be  Sign. 

Her  wild  belief  on  every  wave  is  tossed  ; 
But  sure  no  Church  can  better  morals  boast. 
True  to  her  King  her  principles  are  found  ; 
Oh,  that  her  practice  were  but  half  so  sound  ! 
Steadfast  in  various  turns  of  state  she  stood, 
And  sealed  her  vowed  affection  with  her  blood. 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  75 

Nor  ^rill  I  meanly  tax  her  constancy, 

That  interest  or  obligement  made  the  tie, 

Bound  to  the  fate  of  murdered  Monarchy. 

Before  the  sounding  axe  so  falls  the  vine, 

"Whose  tender  branches  round  the  poplar  twine  ; 

She  chose  her  ruin,  and  resigned  her  life, 

In  death  undaunted  as  a  Hebrew  wife. 

A  rare  example  !  but  some  souls  we  see 

Grow  hard,  and  stiffen  with  adversity  ; 

Yet  these  by  fortune's  favors  are  undone  ; 

Resolved,  into  a  baser  form  they  run. 

And  bore  the  wind,  but  cannot  bear  the  sun. 

Let  this  be  Nature's  frailty  or  her  fate. 

Or  the  "Wolf's  counsel — her  new  chosen  mate  ; 

Still  she's  the  fairest  of  tlie  fallen  crew, 

No  mother  more  indulgent  but  tJie  true. 

Fierce  to  her  foes,  yet  fears  her  force  to  try. 
Because  she  wants  innate  authoritj'  ; 
For  how  can  she  constrain  them  to  ol>ey, 
Who  has  herself  cast  off  the  lawful  sway? 
Rebellion  equals  all,  and  those  who  toil 
In  common  theft  will  share  the  common  spoil. 
Let  her  produce  the  title  and  the  right 
Against  her  old  superiors  first  tt)  fight ; 
If  she  reform  my  text,  even  that 's  as  plain 
For  her  own  relxds  to  reform  again. 
As  long  as  words  a  different  sense  will  Ix'ar, 
And  each  may  be  his  own  interpreter, 
Our  airy  faith  will  no  foundation  find  : 
The  word  'a  a  weather-cock  for  every  wind. 
The  Bear,  the  Fox,  tlie  "Wolf,  by  turns  prevail  ; 
The  most  in  power  supplies  the  present  gale. 
The  wretched  Panther  cries  aloud  for  aid 
To  Church  and  Councils,  whom  she  first  Iwtiayed. 
No  hf'lp  from  Fathers  or  Tra<lif  ion's  train — 
Thfjse  ancient  guides  she  taught  us  to  disdain  ; 
And  by  that  Scripture,  which  she  once  abused 
To  reformation,  stands  licrself  accused. 
What  l»ills  for  bn-acli  of  laws  can  she  prefer, 
I'iXpounding  which  she  owns  herself  may  err  t 
Anil,  after  all  lier  winding  ways  are  trie<l, 
If  doubts  arise,  she  Hlij)S  herself  asi<le. 
And  leaves  the  privati;  conscience  for  the  giiiiie. 

Thus  is  the  I'.mther  neither  loved  nor  fe.ireil, 
A  mere  niock-fpieen  of  a  divided  herd  ; 


76  JOHN  DRYDEN. 

Wlnmi  soon,  bj'  lawful  power  she  might  control, 
Herself  a  part  submitted  to  the  wliole. 
Then,  as  tlie  moon,  who  first  receives  the  light 
By  which  she  makes  our  nether  regions  bright, 
So  might  she  shine,  reflecting  from  afar 
The  rays  she  borrowed  from  a  better  star  ; 
Big  with  the  beams  which  from  the  mother  flow 
And  reigning  o'er  the  rising  tides  below. 
Now,  mixing  with  a  savage  crowd  she  goes, 
And  meanly  flatters  her  inveterate  foes  ; 
Ruled  while  she  niles,  and  losing  every  hour 
Her  wretched  remnants  of  precarious  power. 
— The  Hind  and  the  Panther. 

The  apparent  triumph  of  the  Roman  Cath- 
olic Church  in  the  accession  of  James  II.  to 
the  British  throne  was  but  brief.  His  reign 
lasted  not  quite  four  years,  when  he  was 
driven  from  the  throne,  and  the  crown  was 
conferred  upon  William  and  Mary.  Dryden 
failed  to  take  the  oath  of  fealty  to  the  new 
sovereigns,  and  consequently  forfeited  the  po- 
sitions and  pensions  whicli  he  had  enjoyed, 
and  which  constituted  the  greater  pai't  of  his 
income;  and  he  was  forced  to  live  by  his  pen 
during  the  remaining  twelve  years  of  his  life. 
His  principal  works  during  this  time  were 
half  a  dozen  dramatic  pieces,  the  translation 
of  Virgil,  of  Juvenal,  and  the  Fables,  which 
are  paraphrastic  renderings  from  Chaucer, 
Boccaccio,  and  others.  Besides  these  were 
three  or  four  of  the  best  of  his  minor  poems. 
One  of  these  is  an  ' '  Ode  to  the  pious  Memory 
of  the  accomplished  young  Lady  Mrs.  Anne 
Killigrew,  excellent  in  the  two  Sister  Arts  of 
Poetry  and  Painting, "  of  Avhich  we  give  the 
opening  and  concluding  strophes : 

ON  ANNE  KILLIGREW, 

I. 
Thou  youngest  virgin  daughter  of  the  skies 
Made  in  the  last  promotion  of  tlie  blest, 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  77 

Whose  palms,  new-plucked  from  Pahidise, 
In  spreading  brandies  more  sublimely  rise, 

Rich  with  immortal  green  above  the  rest : 
"Whether,  adopted  to  some  neighboring  star, 

Thou  roUest  above  us,  in  thy  wandering  race, 
Or,  in  procession  fixed  and  regular, 

Mov'st  with  the  heaven's  majestic  pace  ; 
Or  called  to  more  superior  bliss. 
Thou  tread'st  with  seraphinis  the  vast  abyss  : 
Whatever  happy  region  is  thy  place. 
Cease  thy  celestial  song  a  little  space. 
Thou  wilt  have  time  enough  for  hymns  divine, 
Since  heaven's  eternal  year  is  thine. 
Hear  then  a  mortal  IMuse  thy  praise  rehearse 

In  no  ignoble  verse  ; 
But  such  as  thy  own  voice  did  practice  here, 

When  tliy  first-fruits  of  poesy  were  given  ; 
To  make  thyself  a  welcome  inmate  there  : 
While  yet  a  young  probationer, 
And  candidate  of  heaven. 

X. 

When  in  mid-air  the  golden  trump  shall  sound, 
To  raise  the  nations  under  ground  : 
When  in  the  valley  of  Jehosaphat 
The  judging  God  shall  close  the  book  of  fate  ; 
And  there  the  last  assizes  keep, 
For  those  who  wake  and  those  who  sleep  ; 
When  rattling  bones  together  fly. 
From  the  four  corners  of  the  skj-  ; 
When  sinews  o'er  the  skeletons  are  spread, 
Those  clothed  with  flesh,   and   life  inspires  the 

dead, 
The  sacred  poets  first  shall  hear  the  sound. 

And  foremost  from  the  tomb  shall  bound. 
For  they  are  covered  with  the  lightest  ground  ; 
And  straight  with  inlwrn  vigor  on  the  wing, 
Lik«'  mounting  larks,  to  the  new  morning  sing  ; 
TlnTc  thou,  sweet  saint.  In-fore  the  choir  shalt  go. 
As  liarljingfT  of  heaven,  the  way  to  show. 
The  way  which  thou  so   well  hast  learnecl  Itclow. 

Drydon  wrote  two  paems  to  be  RUiig  on  Si . 
Ceciiias  Day.  The  last  of  these,  Alexander's 
Feast,  or  thr  F'oirrr  of  }fusir,  i.s  the  most  fre- 


78  JOHN  DRYDEN. 

quentlj^  quoted  of  all  of  Dry  den's  poems ;  but 
the  earlier  one  is  not  inferior  to  it : 

FOR  ST.   CECILIA'S  DAY. 

I. 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 
Tliis  universal  frame  began  : 
AVlien  nature  undcrneatli  a  heap 

Of  jarring  atoms  lay, 
And  could  not  heave  her  head 
The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high  : 

' '  Arise  ye  more  than  dead  !  " 
Then  cold  and  hot,  and  moist  and  dry, 
In  order  to  their  stations  leap. 
And  Music's  power  obej'. 
From  liarmony,  from  heavenly  harmony. 
This  universal  frame  began  : 
From  harmony  to  harmony, 
Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it  ran, 
The  diapason  closing  full  in  Man. 
II. 
What  passion  can  not  Music  raise  and  quell ! 
When  Jubal  struck  the  chorded  shell. 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around. 
And  wondering  on  their  faces  fell 
To  worship  that  celestial  sound.  [dwell 

Less  than  a  God  they  thought  there  could  not 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell, 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well 
What  passion  can  not  Music  raise  and  quell ! 
III. 
The  trumpet's  loud  clangor 

Excites  us  to  arms. 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger 

And  mortal  alarms. 
The  double,  double,  double  beat 
Of  the  thundering  drum 
Cries,  ' '  Hark  !  the  foes  come  ; 
Charge,  charge  !  'tis  too  late  to  retreat !" 

IV. 

The  soft  complaining  flute 

In  dying  notes  discovers 

The  woes  of  hopeless  lovers 
Whose  dirge  is  whispered  by  the  warbling  lute. 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  79 

V. 

Sharp  violins  proclaim 
Their  jealous  pangs,  and  desperation, 
Fury,  frantic  indignation. 
Depth  of  pains,  and  height  of  passion, 
For  the  fair  disdainful  dame. 
But  oil !  what  art  can  teach. 
What  human  voice  can  reach 
Tlie  sacred  organ's  praise? 

Notes  inspiring  holy  love. 
Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 
To  mend  the  choirs  above? 

VI.  ♦ 

Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race  ; 
And  trees  uprooted  left  their  place, 

Sequacious  of  the  lyre  : 
But  bright  Cecilia  raised  the  wonder  higher  : 
When  to  her  organ  vocal  breath  was  given 
Mistaking  earth  for  heaven, 
vn. 
As  from  the  power  of  sacred  lays 
The  spheres  began  to  move, 
And  sung  the  great  Creator's  praise 

To  all  the  blest  above  ; 
So,  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
This  crumbling  pageant  shall  devour, 
The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high  ; 
The  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die  ; 
And  Music  shall  untune  the  sky. 

Dryden's  dramatic  pieces  number  about 
thirty— tragedies,  comedies,  tragi-comedies 
and  operas.  The  earliest  was  The  Wild  Gal- 
lant, a  comedy  (1662),  the  latest,  Love  Trium- 
pliant,  a  tragi-comedy  (1694).  The  larger, 
and  by  far  the  best  part  of  his  prose  writings 
are  of  a  critical  character. 

ON  SHAKESPEARE. 

ShakPHpoare  was  the  man  who  of  all  modem, 
and  perliajjs  ancient  jKjotfi,  had  the  largest  and 
in<«t  roniprchciiHive  soul.  All  the  images  of  na- 
ture wimc  still  prcs<iit  lo  liiin,  and  he  drew  thorn 


80  JOHN  DKYDEN. 

not  laboriously,  but  luckily  ;  when  he  describes 
anything,  you  more  than  see  it,  you  feel  it  too. 
Those  wlio  accuse  him  to  have  wanted  learning, 
give  him  tiie  greater  commendation.  He  was 
naturally  learned  ;  he  needed  not  the  spectacles  of 
books  to  read  nature  ;  he  looked  inwards,  and 
found  her  there.  I  cannot  say  he  is  everywhere 
alike  ;  were  he  so,  I  should  do  him  injury  to  com- 
pare him  with  the  greatest  of  mankind.  He  is 
many  times  flat,  insipid — his  comic  wit  degener- 
ating into  clenches,  his  serious  swelling  into  bom- 
bast. But  he  is  always  great  when  some  great 
occasion  is  presented  to  him  ;  no  man  can  say  he 
ever  had  a  fit  subject  for  his  wit,  and  did  not  then 
raise  himself  as  high  above  the  rest  of  poets, 
"  Quantum  lent  a  solent  inter  viburna  cupressi." 
The  consideration  of  this  made  Mr.  Hales  of  Eton 
say  that  there  was  no  subject  of  wiiich  any  poet 
ever  writ  but  he  would  produce  it  much  better 
done  in  Shakespeare  ;  and  however  others  are  now 
generally  preferred  before  him,  yet  the  age  where- 
in he  lived,  which  had  contemporaries  with  him, 
Fletcher  and  Jonson,  never  equalled  them  to  him 
in  their  esteem  ;  and  in  the  last  king's  court, 
w'hen  Ben's  reputation  was  at  its  highest.  Sir 
John  Suckling,  and  with  him  the  greater  part  of 
the  courtiers,  set  our  Shakespeare  far  above  him. 
— Essay  on  Dramatic  Poesy. 

Dryden's  death  was  somewhat  sudden. 
Early  in  the  Spring  of  1700  he  had  a  severe 
attack  of  the  gout;  one  toe  became  much 
inflamed,  and  not  being  properly  attended 
to,  mortification  set  in.  The  surgeon  advised 
an  amputation,  but  Dryden  objected  on  the 
ground  of  his  advanced  age,  and  the  inutil- 
ity of  prolonging  a  maimed  existence.  The 
mortification  spread,  and  it  was  clear  that 
either  the  whole  leg  must  be  amputated, 
with  a  strong  probability  of  a  fatal  result,  or 
that  speedy  death  was  inevitable.  On  the 
last  day  of  April  the  Postboy  announced  that 
"John  Dryden,  Esq.,  the  famous  poet,  lies 


PAUL  B.  DU  CHAILLU.  ^l 

a-dying;  "  and  he  died  at  three  o'clock  on  the 
next  morning.  The  body  was  embahiied,  and 
lay  in  state  for  several  days  at  the  College  of 
Physicians  and  Surgeons.  The  pompous  pub- 
lic funeral  took  place  in  vVestminster  Abbey 
on  May  13;  the  body  was  interred  in  the 
Poets'  Corner,  by  the  side  of  the  graves  of 
Chaucer  and  Cowley.  It  was  not  until  twen- 
ty years  afterwards  that  a  modest  monu- 
ment was  put  up  at  the  expense  of  Lord  Mul- 
grave,  afterwards  Earl  of  Buckinghamshire, 
His  wife  survied  him  fourteen  years,  and 
died  insane.  The  last  of  their  three  sons  died 
in  1711. 

DU  CHAILLU,  Paul  Belloni,  a  Franco- 
American  explorer,  born  at  Paris,  about  1830. 
His  father  had  established  himself  as  a  trader 
on  the  West  Coast  of  Africa,  where  Paul 
joined  him  at  an  early  age.  In  1852  he  came 
to  the  United  States,  with  a  large  cargo  of 
ebony,  and  published  several  papers  relating 
to  the  Gaboon  country.  In  1855  he  returned 
to  Africa,  and  spent  three  or  four  years  in 
exploring  the  almost  unknown  region  lying 
about  two  degrees  on  each  side  of  the  equa- 
tor. He  returned  to  America  in  1859,  bring- 
ing with  him  a  large  collection  of  curiosities, 
stuffed  birds,  and  animals,  among  which  were 
several  skins  and  skeletons  of  the  gorilla,  a 
huge  ape.  He  is  probably  the  first  white 
man  who  ever  saw  the  animal  alive.  In  1861 
he  published  an  account  of  these  expeditions 
under  the  title.  Explorations  and  Adventures 
in  Equatorial  Africa.  The  truthfulness  of 
his  narrative  was  sharply  questioned  by  some 
English  savans;  and  to  vindicate  himself  Du 
Chaillu  went  again  to  Equatorial  Africa,  and 
traveled  there  for  two  yc^ars  (18G3-G5).  He 
returned  to  Anieric;i,  and  in  ISO?  ])ulilished 
A  Journey   to  Ashanyo-lAind,  and  Further 


82  PAUL  n.  DU  CUAII.LU. 

Penetration  into  Equatorial  Africa.  During 
the  next  twelve  years  he  i-esided  in  America, 
having  been  naturahzed  as  a  citizen  of  the 
United  States.  H(;  dehvered  lectures  on  his 
travels  and  prepared  several  small  books,  in 
which  many  of  his  experiences  are  related 
for  juvenile  readers:  Stories  of  the  Gorilla 
Country  (1868),  Wild  Life  under  the  Equator 
(18G9),  Lost  in  the  Jungle  (1869),  My  Apingi 
Kingdom  (1870),  Tlie  Country  of  the  Dwarfs 
( 1 S71 ) .  Subsequently  he  made  several  winter 
and  summer  tours  in  Sweden,  Norway,  Lap- 
land, and  Finland,  an  account  of  which  he 
published  in  1881,  in  two  large  volumes,  en- 
titled The  Land  of  the  Midnight  Sun. 

THE  FIRST  GORILLA. 

We  started  early,  and  pushed  for  the  most 
dense  and  impenetrable  part  of  the  forest,  in  hopes 
to  find  the  very  home  of  the  beast  I  so  much 
wished  to  shoot.  Hour  after  hour  we  traveled, 
and  yet  no  signs  of  gorilla  :  only  the  everlast- 
ing little  chattering  monkeys — and  not  many  of 
these — and  occasionally  birds.  Suddenly  Miengai 
uttered  a  little  cluck  with  his  tongue,  which  is  the 
native's  way  of  showing  that  something  is  stir- 
ring, and  that  a  sharp  lookout  is  necessary.  Pres- 
ently I  noticed,  ahead  of  us  seemingly,  a  noise  as  if 
of  some  one  breaking  down  branches  or  twigs  of 
trees.  This  was  a  gorilla,  I  knew  at  once  by  the 
eager  and  satisfied  looks  of  the  men.  Tliej^  looked 
once  more  carefully  at  their  guns,  to  see  if  by  any 
chance  the  powder  had  fallen  out  of  the  pans,  I 
also  examined  mine,  to  make  sure  that  all  were 
right ;  and  then  we  marched  on  cautiously.  The 
singular  noise  of  the  breaking  of  tree-branches 
continued.  We  walked  with  the  greatest  care, 
making  no  noise  at  all.  But  we  pushed  on,  until 
finally  we  saw  through  the  thick  woods  the  mov- 
ing of  the  brandies  and  small  trees  which  the 
gi-tat  beast  was  tearing  down,  probably  to  get 
from  them  the  berries  and  fruits  lie  lives  upon. 

Suddenly,  as  we  were  yet  creeping  along,  in  a 


PAUL  B.  DU  CHAILLU.  83 

silence  which  made  a  heary  breath  seem  loud  and 
distinct,  the  woods  were  at  once  filled  with  the 
tremendous  barking  roar  of  the  gorilla.  Then  the 
underbrush  swayed  rapidly  just  ahead,  and  pres- 
ently before  us  stood  an  immense  male  gorilla. 
He  had  gone  through  the  jungle  on  his  all- fours  ; 
but  when  he  saw  our  party  he  erected  himself  and 
looked  us  boldly  in  the  face.  He  stood  about  a 
dozen  yards  from  us,  and  was  a  sight  I  think 
never  to  forget.  Nearly  six  feet  high,  with  im- 
mense lx)dy,  huge  chest,  and  great  muscular  arms. 
with  fiercely-glaring  large  deep  gray  eyes,  and  a 
hellish  expression  of  face,  which  seemed  to  me 
like  a  nightmare  vision  :  thus  stood  before  us 
this  king  of  the  African  forests.  He  was  not 
afraid  of  us.  He  stood  there,  and  beat  his  breast 
with  Ills  huge  fists  till  it  resounded  like  an  im- 
mense bass-drum,  which  is  their  mode  of  offering 
defiance  ;  meantime  giving  vent  to  roar  after 
roar.  So  deep  is  this  roar  that  it  seems  to  proceed 
less  from  the  mouth  and  throat  than  from  the  deep 
chest  and  vast  paunch.  .  .  . 

His  eyes  l)egan  to  flash  fiercer  fire  as  we  stood 
motionless  on  the  defensive  :  and  the  crest  of 
short  hair  which  stands  on  his  forehead  began  to 
twitch  rapidly  up  and  down,  while  his  powerful 
fangs  were  shown  as  he  again  sent  forth  a  thun- 
derfjus  roar.  He  advanced  a  few  steps;  then 
8tofi}K'd  to  utter  tha^t  hideous  roar  again  ;  ad- 
vanced again,  and  finally  stopped  when  at  a  dis- 
tance of  about  six  yards  from  us.  And  liere,  ;is 
he  Ix-gan  another  of  his  roars,  and  beating  his 
breast  in  rage,  we  fired.  •  With  a  groan  which  had 
something  terribly  human  in  it.  and  yet  was  full 
of  brutisliness,  lie  fell  forward  on  his  face.  The 
Ijody  shook  convulsively  for  a  few  miiuites,  the 
liinlis  moved  about  in  a  struggling  way,  and  then 
all  was  <juiet.  Death  ii;id  done  its  work,  and  1 
had  leisure  to  examine  tiie  huge  body.  It  proved 
to  Ik.'  five  feet  eight  inches  higli  ;  and  the  nuisi^uJar 
development  of  tlie  arms  and  breast  showed  wliat 
immense  stn-ngth  it  had  possessed. — E(juaivriul 
Africa,  Chap.  VII. 


84  PAUL  B.  DU  CHAILLU. 

THE  GORILLA   AT  HOME. 

It  has  been  my  fortune  to  be  the  first  white 
man  who  can  speak  of  the  gorilla  from  personal 
knowledge  ;  and  my  experience  and  observation 
prove  that  many  of  the  actions  reported  of  it  are 
false  and  vain  imaginings  of  ignorant  negroes  and 
credulous  travelers.  The  gorilla  does  not  lurk  in 
trees  by  the  roadside,  and  drag  up  unsuspicious 
passers-by  in  its  claws,  and  choke  them  to  death  ; 
it  does  not  attack  the  elephant  and  beat  him  to 
death  with  sticks  :  it  does  not  carry  off  women 
from  the  native  villages.  It  does  not  build  itself 
a  house  of  leaves  and  twigs  in  the  forest-trees, 
and  sit  on  the  roof,  as  has  been  confidently  re- 
ported. It  is  not  gregarious  even  ;  and  the  nu- 
merous stories  of  its  attacking  in  great  numbers 
have  not  a  grain  of  truth  in  them. 

It  lives  in  the  loneliest  and  darkest  portions  of 
the  dense  African  jungle,  preferring  deep  wooded 
valleys,  and  also  rugged  heights.  The  high  plains 
also,  whose  surface  is  strewn  with  immense 
boulders,  seem  to  be  its  favorite  haunts.  Water  is 
found  everywhere  in  this  part  of  Africa ;  but  I 
have  noticed  that  the  gorilla  is  always  found  very 
near  to  a  plentiful  supply.  It  is  a  restless  and 
nomadic  beast,  wandering  from  place  to  place, 
and  scarcely  ever  found  for  two  days  together  in 
the  same  neighborhood.  In  part,  this  restlessness 
is  caused  by  the  struggle  it  has  to  find  its  favorite 
food.  The  gorilla — though  it  has  such  immense 
canines,  and  though  its  vast  strength  doubtless  fits 
it  to  capture  and  kill  almost  every  animal  which 
frequents  the  forest— is  a  strict  vegetarian.  I  ex- 
amined the  stomachs  of  all  which  I  was  lucky 
enough  to  kill,  and  never  found  traces  there  of 
ought  but  berries,  pine-apple  leaves,  and  other 
vegetable  matter.  It  is  a  huge  feeder,  and  no 
doubt  soon  eats  up  the  scant  supply  of  its  natural 
food  which  is  found  in  any  limited  space,  and  is 
then  force<i  to  wander  on  in  constant  battle  with 
famine.  Its  vast  paunch,  which  swells  before  it 
when  it  stands  upright,  proves  it  to  be  a  vast 
feeder  ;  and,  indeed,  its  great  frame  and  enormous 


PAUL  B.  DU  CHAILLU.  85 

muscular  development  could  not  l3e  supported  on 
little  food.  .  .  . 

The  gorilla  is  not  gregarious.  Of  adults  I  found 
almost  always  one  male  with  one  female,  tliough 
sometimes  the  old  male  wanders  companionless. 
In  such  cases — as  with  the  "  rogue  "  elephant — he 
is  particularly  morose,  malignant,  and  dangerous 
to  approach.  Young  gorillas  I  found  sometimes 
in  companies  of  five  ;  sometimes  less,  but  never 
more.  Tlie  young  always  ran  off,  on  all-fours, 
shrieking  with  fear.  They  are  difiicult  to  ap- 
proach, as  their  hearing  is  acute,  and  they  lose 
no  time  in  making  their  escape,  while  the  nature 
of  the  ground  makes  it  hard  for  the  hunter  to -fol- 
low after.  The  adult  animal  is  also  shy,  and  I 
have  hunted  all  day  without  coming  upon  my 
quarry,  when  I  felt  sure  that  they  were  carefully 
avoiding  me.  When,  however,  at  last  fortune 
favors  the  hunter,  and  he  comes  accidentally  or 
by  good  management  upon  his  prey,  he  need  not 
fear  its  running  away.  In  all  my  hunts  and  en- 
counters with  this  animal,  I  never  knew  a  grown 
male  to  run  off.  When  I  surprised  a  pair  of 
gorillas,  the  male  was  generally  sitting  down  on  a 
rock  or  against  a  tree,  in  some  darkest  corner  of 
the  jungle,  where  tlie  brightest  sun  left  its  traces 
only  in  a  dim  and  gloomy  twilight.  The  female 
was  mostly  feeding  near  by  ;  and  it  is  singular 
that  she  almost  always  gave  the  alarm  by  running 
off,  with  loud  and  sudden  cries  or  shrieks.  Then 
the  male,  sitting  for  a  moment  with  a  savage 
frown  upon  his  face,  slowly  rises  to  his  feet,  and, 
looking  with  glowing  and  malign  eyes  at  the  in- 
truders, iK'gins  to  beat  his  brea.st,  and  lifting  up 
his  round  head,  utters  his  frightful  roar.  This 
begins  witli  several  sharp  barks  like  an  enraged  or 
mad  dog,  whereup<jn  ensues  a  long,  deeplj-  gut- 
teral  rolling  roar,  continued  for  over  a  minute, 
and  whicli.  doubled  and  nmltiplied  bj-  the  re- 
sounding ecluK's  of  the  forest,  fills  the  hunter's 
ears  like  the  deep  rullmg  thunder  of  an  approach- 
ing storm.  I  have  rejuson  to  Ijelieve  that  I  have 
heard  this  roar  at  a  «liKtan(e  of  three  miles.  .  .  . 
The  common  walk  of  the  gorilla  is  not  on  his 


86  PAUL  B.  DU  CHAILLU. 

hind  legs,  but  on  all  fours.  In  this  posture  the 
arms  are  so  long  that  the  head  and  breast  are 
raised  considerably,  and  as  it  runs  the  liind  legs 
are  brought  far  beneath  the  body.  The  leg  and 
arm  on  the  same  side  are  moved  together,  which 
gives  the  breast  a  curious  waddle.  It  can  run  at 
great  speed.  The  young— parties  of  which  I  often 
pursued— never  took  to  trees,  but  ran  along  the 
ground,  and  at  a  distance,  with  their  bodies  half 
erect,  looked  not  unlike  negroes  making  ofT  from 
pursuit.  I  have  never  found  the  female  to  attack, 
though  I  have  been  told  by  the  negroes  that  a 
mother  with  a  young  one  in  charge  will  some- 
times make  light.  It  is  a  pretty  thing  to  see  such 
a  mother  with  the  baby  gorilla  sporting  about  her. 
I  have  watched  them  in  the  wood,  till  eager  as  I 
was  to  obtain  specimens,  I  had  not  the  heart  to 
Bhoot.  But  in  such  casesmiy  negro  hunters  exhib- 
ited no  tenderness,  but  killed  their  (juarry  without 
loss  of  time.  When  the  mother  runs  off  from  the 
hunter,  the  young  one  grasps  her  about  the  neck, 
and  hangs  beneath  her  breasts,  with  its  little  legs 
about  her  belly. 

I  think  the  adult  gorilla  perfectly  untamable. 
In  the  course  of  this  narrative  the  reader  will  find 
accounts  of  several  young  gorillas  which  my  men 
captured  alive,  and  wliich  remained  with  me  for 
short  periods  till  their  deaths.  In  no  case  could 
any  treatment  of  mine— kind  or  harsh — subdue 
these  little  monsters  from  their  first  and  lasting 
ferocity  and  malignity.  The  gorilla  is  entirely  and 
constantly  an  enemy  to  man  ;  resenting  its  captiv- 
ity, young  as  my  specimens  were,  refusing  all 
food  except  the  berries  of  its  native  woods,  and 
attacking  with  teeth  and  claws  even  me,  who  was 
in  most  constant  attendance  upon  them  ;  and  final- 
ly dymg  without  any  previous  sickness,  and  with- 
out other  ascertainable  cause  than  the  restless 
chafing  of  a  spirit  which  could  not  suffer  captivity 
nor  the  presence  of  man. — Equatorial  Afrtca, 
Chap.  XX. 

OBONGOS.  OR  DWARF  NEdROES. 

I  had  heard  that  there  was  a  village  of  the  01)on- 


PAUL  li.  DU  CHAILLU.  87 

gos,  or  dwarfed  wild  negioes,  somewliere  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  one  of  uiy  first  inquiries  was 
naturally  whether  there  was  any  chance  of  my 
seeing  this  singular  people,  who,  it  appears,  con- 
tinually come  to  the  villages  but  would  not  do  so 
while  I  was  there.  Two  guides  were  given  me, 
and  I  took  only  three  of  my  men.  We  reached 
the  place  after  twenty  minutes'  walk.  In  a  re- 
tired nook  of  the  forest  were  twelve  huts  of  this 
strange  tribe,  scattered  without  order.  When  we 
approached  no  sign  of  living  creature  was  to  be 
seen,  and,  in  fact,  we  found  them  deserted.  The 
abodes  were  very  filthy,  and  whilst  we  were  en- 
deavoring to  examine  them,  we  were  covered 
with  fleas,  and  obliged  to  beat  a  retreat.  The  vil- 
lage had  been  abandoned  by  its  inhabitants,  no 
doubt  on  account  of  their  huts  being  so  much  in- 
fested with  these  insects.  Leaving  the  abandon- 
ed huts,  we  continued  our  way  through  the  forest  ; 
and  presently,  within  the  distance  of  a  quarter  of  a 
mile,  we  came  upon  another  village,  composed, 
like  the  last,  of  about  a  dozen  ill-constructed  huts. 
The  dwellings  had  been  newly  made,  for  the 
branches  of  the  trees  of  which  they  were  formed 
had  still  their  leaves  on  them,  quite  fresh.  We 
approached  witli  the  greatest  caution,  in  order 
not  to  alarm  the  wild  inmates  ;  but  all  our  care 
was  fruitless,  for  the  men,  at  least,  were  gone 
when  we  came  up.  We  hastened  to  the  huts,  and 
luckily  found  three  old  women,  and  one  young 
man,  who  had  not  had  time  to  run  away,  besides 
several  children,  the  latter  hidden  in  one  of  the 
huts. 

Du  Chaillu  managed  to  ro-assure  the  wo- 
men, and  in  th(;  course  of  several  visits  was 
allowed  to  tnko  measurements  of  the  height 
of  half  a  dozen  of  them.  They  ranged  from 
4  ft.  4  in.,  to  5  ft.,  the  latter  being  considered 
unusually  tall;  the  height  of  the  young  man 
was  4  ft.  0  in.     The  description  continues: 

The  color  of  these  people  w.-is  a  dirty  yellow, 
and  tlieir  eves  had  an  uiitanialili-   wildmss  al)out 


88  PAUL  B.  DU  CIIAILLU. 

tliem  that  struck  me  as  very  remarkable.  In  their 
whole  appearance,  pliysique,  and  color,  and  in 
their  habitations,  they  are  totally  unlike  the  Ash- 
angos  among  whom  they  live.  The  Ashangos,  in- 
deed, are  quite  anxious  to  disown  kinship  witJi 
them.  They  do  not  intermarry  with  them  ;  but 
declare  that  the  Obongos  intermarry  among  them- 
selves— sisters  with  brothers — doing  this  to  keep 
their  families  together  as  much  as  they  can.  The 
smallness  of  their  communities,  and  the  isolation 
in  which  these  wretched  creatures  live,  must  ne- 
cessitate close  inter-breeding,  and  I  think  it  very 
possible  that  this  circumstance  may  be  the  cause 
of  the  pliysical  deterioration  of  their  race. 

Their  foreheads  are  exceedingly  low  and  narrow, 
and  tliey  have  prominent  cheek-bones,  but  I  ^id 
not  notice  any  peculiarity  in  their  hands  or  feet, 
or  in  the  position  of  the  toes,  or  in  the  relative 
length  of  their  arms  or  bodies  ;  but  their  legs  ap- 
peared to  be  rather  short  in  proportion  to  their 
trunks  ;  the  palms  of  their  hands  seemed  quite 
white.  The  hair  of  their  heads  grows  in  very 
short  curly  tufts  ;  this  is  the  moi'e  remarkable,  as 
the  Ashangos  and  neighboring  tribes  have  rather 
long  bushy  hair  on  their  heads,  which  enables 
them  to  dress  it  in  various  ways.  With  the  Obon- 
gos the  dressing  of  the  hau'  in  masses  or  plaits,  as 
is  done  by  the  other  tribes,  is  impossible.  The 
young  man  had  an  unusual  quantity  of  hair  on 
liis  legs  and  breast,  growing  in  sliort  curly  tufts 
similar  to  the  hair  on  the  head.  The  only  dress 
they  wear  consists  of  pieces  of  grass-cloth  which 
they  buy  of  the  Ashangos,  or  which  these  latter 
give  them  out  of  pure  kindness,  for  I  observed 
that  it  was  quite  a  custom  of  the  Ashangos  to 
give  their  old  worn  denguis  to  these  poor  Obongos. 

The  Ashangos  like  the  presence  of  this  curious 
people  near  their  villages,  because  the  Obongo 
men  are  very  expert  and  nimble  in  trapping  wild 
animals  and  fish  in  the  streams,  the  surplus  of 
which,  after  supplying  their  own  wants  they  sell 
to  their  neighbors  in  exchange  for  plantains,  and 
also  for  iron  implements,  cooking  utensils,  water- 
jars,  and  all  manufactured  articles  of  which  they 


PAUL  B.  DV  C:HAILLU.  89 

stand  in  need.  The  woods  neai*  their  villages  are 
so  full  of  traps  and  pitfalls  that  it  is  dangerous 
for  any  but  trained  woodsmen  to  wander  about  in 
them. — Ashango  Land,  Chap.  XVI. 

sr^DiER  i>'  scA^•DI^•A\^A. 

From  the  last  days  of  May  to  the  end  of  July,  in 
the  northern  part  of  this  land,  the  sun  shines  day 
and  niglit  upon  its  mountains,  fjords,  rivers,  lakes, 
forests,  valleys,  towns,  villages,  hamlets,  fields, 
and  farms  ;  and  thus  Sweden  and  Norway  may 
be  called  the  '"Land  of  the  Midnight  Sun.''  Dur- 
ing this  period  of  continuous  daylight  the  stars  are 
never  seen,  the  moon  appears  pale,  and  sheds  no 
light  upon  the  earth.  Summer  is  short,  giving 
just  time  enough  for  the  wild-flowers  to  grow,  to 
bloom,  and  to  fade  away,  and  barely  time  for  the 
husbandman  to  collect  his  harvest,  which,  hon-- 
ever,  is  sometimes  nipped  by  a  Summer  frost. 

A  few  weeks  after  tlie  midnight  sun  has  passed, 
the  hours  of  sunshine  shorten  rapidly,  and  by  the 
middle  of  August  the  air  becomes  chilly  and  the 
nights  colder,  although  during  the  day  the  sun  is 
warm.  Then  the  grass  turns  yellow,  the  leaves 
change  their  color,  and  wither,  and  fall ;  the 
swallows  and  other  migrating  birds  fly  towards 
the  south  ;  twilight  comes  once  more  ;  the  stars, 
one  by  one,  make  their  appearance,  shining  bright- 
ly in  tlie  pale  blue  sky  ;  the  moon  shows  itself 
again  as  (jueen  of  night,  and  lights  and  cheers  the 
long  and  dark  days  of  the  Scandinavian  Winter. 
The  time  comes  at  last  when  the  sun  disappears 
entirely  from  sight ;  the  heavens  appear  in  a  blaze 
of  light  and  glwry,  and  the  stars  and  the  moon 
I)ale  Ijefore  the  aurora  bc)realis. — The  Land  of  the 
Midnight  Sun.  Vol.  I.,  Chap.  I. 

VEOETATION   IN   NORWAY   AND  SWEDEN, 

There  is  no  land,  from  the  Arctic  Circle  north- 
ward, which  presents  sucli  a  mild  climate  and 
luxuriant  vegetation  as  Norway  and  Sweden.  The 
countricH  siluatefl  in  the-  sanu;  latitudes  in  Asia  or 
America  present  a  colil  and  barren  aspect  com- 
pared with  tliesc.     This  cliniat''  i-;  <iue  to  several 


90  PxiUL  B.  DU  CHAILLU. 

causes  :  the  Gulf -stream,  the  Baltic,  and  the  Gulf 
of  Bothnia  ;  the  position  of  the  mountains  which 
shelter  the  valleys ;  the  prevalence  of  southerly 
and  south-westerly  winds,  which  blow  almost  all 
tlie  year  round,  especially  in  Norway  ;  the  long 
iiours  of  simshine,  and  the  powerful  sun.  On  the 
Norwegian  side,  along  the  coast  and  the  fjords, 
owing  to  tlie  genial  influence  of  the  Gulf-stream, 
tln^  Spring  begins  earlier,  and  the  Summer  is  long- 
er than  in  Sweden  ;  but  the  days  of  sunshine  are 
less,  as  the  climate  is  more  rainy  ;  consequently 
the  vegetation  does  not  increase  so  fast.  Summer 
succeeds  Winter  more  rapidly  on  the  Gulf  of 
Bothnia,  and  vegetation  increases  almost  visibly, 
especially  as  the  dew  is  very  heavy.  Owing  to  a 
less  rigorous  Winter  on  the  Norwegian  coast,  and 
a  longer  period  of  medium  or  milder  weather, 
several  trees  flourish  to  a  higher  latitude  than  in 
Sweden.  Rye,  which  in  the  Arctic  Circle  is  plant- 
ed at  the  beginning  or  middle  of  June,  attains  a 
height  of  seven  or  eight  feet  early  in  August,  hav- 
ing reached  ninety-six  inches  in  eight  or  nine 
weeks  ;  and,  when  first  planted,  sometimes  grows 
at  the  rate  of  three  inches  a  day.  The  barley  at 
Niava  was  ready  for  the  harvest  in  the  middle  of 
August,  six  or  seven  weeks  after  being  sown. — 
27ie  Land  of  the  Midnight  Sun,  Vol.  I. ,  Chap.  XI. 

WINTER  IN  SCANDINAVIA. 

How  great  is  the  contrast  between  Summer  and 
Winter  in  the  beautiful  peninsula  of  Scandinavia 
— "  the  Land  of  the  Midnight  Sun  !  "  In  Decem- 
ber, in  the  far  North,  a  sunless  sky  hangs  over  the 
country  ;  for  the  days  of  continiious  sunlight  in 
Summer,  there  are  as  many  without  the  sun  ap- 
pearing above  the  horizon  in  Winter.  During  that 
time,  even  at  the  end  of  December — which  is  the 
darkest  period — when  the  weather  is  clear,  one  can 
read  from  eleven  a.m.  to  one  p.m.  without  arti- 
ficial light  ;  but  if  it  is  cloudy,  or  snow  is  falling, 
lamps  must  be  used.  The  moon  takes  the  place 
of  the  sun ;  the  stars  shine  brightly,  the  atmos- 
phere is  pure  and  clear,  and  the  sky  very  blue. 
The  aurora  borealis  sends  its  flashes  and  streamers 


Madame  DUDEVAXT.  91 

of  light  high  up  towards  tlie  zenitli  ;  ami  there 
are  days  when  the  electric  storm  culminates  in  a 
corona  of  gorgeous  color,  presenting  a  spectacle 
never  to  he  forgotten.  I  have  traveled  in  many 
lands,  and  within  the  tropics,  but  I  have  never 
seen  such  glorious  nights  as  those  of  Winter  in 
"the  Land  of  the  Midnight  Sun."' 

The  long  twilights  which,  farther  south,  make 
the  evening  and  the  morning  blend  into  one,  are 
here  succeeded  by  long  dark  nights  and  short 
days.  All  nature  seems  to  be  in  deep  repose  ;  the 
gurgling  brook  is  silent ;  the  turbulent  streams  are 
frozen  ;  the  waves  of  the  lakes,  upon  which  the 
rays  of  the  Summer  sun  played,  strike  no  more  on 
the  pebbled  shores  ;  long  crystal  icicles  hang  from 
the  mountain  sides  and  ravines  ;  the  rocks  upon 
which  the  water  dripped  in  Summer  appear  like 
sheets  of  glass.  The  land  is  clad  in  a  mantle  of 
snow,  and  the  pines  are  the  Winter  jewels  of  the 
landscape.  Day  after  day  the  atmosphere  is  so  still 
that  not  a  breath  of  wind  seems  to  pass  over  the 
hills ;  but  suddenly  these  periods  of  repose  are 
succeeded  by  dark  and  threatening  skies,  and  vio- 
lent tempests.  On  the  Norwegian  coast  fearful 
and  terrific  storms  lash  the  sea  with  fury,  break- 
ing the  waves  into  a  thousand  fragments  on  the 
ragged  and  rocky  shores.  Under  the  fierce  winds' 
the  pines  bend  their  heads,  and  the  mountain 
snow  is  swept  away  and  to  immense  heights,  hid- 
ing everything  from  sight.— TVic  Land  of  the  Mid- 
night Sim,  Vol.  II.,  Chap.  I. 

DUDEVANT,  Armantine  Lucile  Aurore 
(DupiN),  a  French  novelist,  best  known  un- 
der the  pseudonym  of  "George  Sand,"  born 
in  1804,  died  in  1876.  On  her  father's  death, 
when  she  was  four  years  old,  she  was  placed 
under  the  ciire  of  his  mother,  at  Nohant.  In 
her  thirteenth  year  she  was  sent  to  a  convent 
boarding  Sf;hool  at  Paris,  wliero  slie  Ijecamo 
very  devout  and  wislied  to  take  the  veil. 
She  was  recalled  to  Nohant  in  1820.  She 
then  became;  an  enthusiastic  student  of 
Locke,   Aristotle,    Leibnitz,    and    Rousseau. 


92  Madame  DUDEVANT. 

When  h(n'  grandmother  died  she  went  to 
Paris,  to  hve  witli  her  mother.  At  eighteen 
she  married  Casimir  Dudevant,  a  I'ctired  offi- 
cer. Husband  and  wife  were  unsuited  to 
each  other,  and  in  1831  an  amicable  separa- 
tion took  place,  M.  Dudevant  having  posses- 
sion of  the  estate  at  Nohant,  and  Madame  Du- 
devant going  to  Paris,  hoping  to  support  her- 
self and  her  daughter  by  drawing,  painting, 
and  writing.  After  many  rebuffs  from  liter- 
ary men,  she  became  a  contributor  to  Figaro. 
Her  first  novel,  Rose  et  Blanche,  was  written 
in  conjunction  with  Jules  Sandeau.  Its  pub- 
lisher offered  to  take  another  novel.  Sandeau 
had  nothing  ready,  and  Madame  Dudevant 
offered  Indiana,  which  she  had  just  complet- 
ed. It  was  published  in  1832  under  the  name 
of  George  Sand.  The  novel  was  a  brilliant 
success,  which  was  heightened  by  the  mys- 
tery attached  to  the  author.  Valentine  fol- 
lowed in  the  same  year.  In  1833  she  publish- 
ed Lelia,  the  outcome  of  her  own  bitter  ex- 
perience, apparently  an  arraignment  of  mar- 
riage and  a  defence  of  social  disorder.  The  next 
year  she  set  out  for  Italy,  and  for  more  than 
a  year  she  remained  in  Venice,  and  wrote  for 
the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  Metella  (1833), 
Jacques  and  Leone  Leoni  (1834),  Atidre,  Mat- 
tea  (1835),  the  Lettres  d'  un  Voyageur,  and 
Lettres  d'  un  Oncle.  She  returned  to  France 
in  1835,  and  the  next  year  obtained  a  legal 
separation  from  her  husband.  The  decree 
gave  her  again  the  control  of  her  fortune, 
and  the  exclusive  care  of  her  children,  and 
restored  to  her  her  father's  estate  at  Nohant. 
The  editor  of  the  Revtce  des  Deux  Mondes  re- 
fusing to  pubhsh  her  novel,  Horace,  on  ac- 
count of  its  socialistic  tendency,  she  broke  off 
her  connection  with  that  periodical,  and  in 
conjunction  with  Leroux  and  Viardot  estab- 
lished La  Revue  Contemporaine,  in  which  ap- 


Madame  DUDEVA>;T.  9a 

peared  Horace.  Consuelo  (1844).  and  its  sequel 
La  Comtesse  de  Rudolstadt  (1845).  Jeanne 
(1844),  was  the  first  of  a  series  of  pastoial 
tales.  La  Mare  au  Diable  (1846),  La  petite 
Fadette  (1848),  translated  under  the  title  of 
Fanchon  the  Cricket,  and  Fran^-ois  le  Cham- 
pi  (1849),  are  the  finest  of  these  productions. 
V  Historie  de  ma  Vie  was  published  in  1853- 
55.  During  the  Franco-Prussian  war,  Mme. 
Dudevant  went  along  the  French  lines  as  far 
as  she  was  permitted  to  go,  taking  notes 
which  were  afterwards  embodied  in  the  Jow- 
nal  d'  Mu  Voyageur  p)endant  la  Guerre  (1871). 
Madame  Dudevant  was  the  author  of  about 
sixty  novels,  twenty  plays,  and  many  minor 
works.  At  different  times  she  contributed 
political  articles  to  various  newspapers.  Dur- 
ing the  last  years  of  her  life,  she  wrote  sever- 
al delightful  tales  for  her  grandchildren.  A 
volume  of  these,  Contes  d'  une  Grand  mere, 
was  published  after  her  death. 

CONSUELO'S  TRIUMPH. 

Consuelo  made  haste  to  tlie  church  Mendicant!, 
whither  the  crowd  were  already  flocking,  to  listen 
to  Porpora's  admirable  music.  She  went  up  to 
the  organ-loft  in  which  the  choirs  were  already  in 
air,  with  the  professor  at  his  desk.  On  entering 
she  knelt  down,  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and 
prayed  fervently  and  devoutly. 

"  Oh,  my  God,"  she  cried  with  the  voice  of  the 
heart.  "  thou  knowest  that  I  seek  not  advance- 
ment for  the  humiliation  of  my  rivals.  Thou 
knowest  that  I  have  no  thought  to  surrender  my- 
Kflf  to  the  world  and  worldly  acts,  abandoning 
thy  love,  and  straying  into  the  paths  of  vice. 
Thou  knowest  that  iiriut!  dwells  not  in  me,  and 
that  I  implore  thee  to  support  me,  and  to  swell 
my  voice,  and  to  exfjand  my  thoughts  as  I  sing 
thy  praises,  oidy  that  I  may  dwell  witl>  him 
wliom  my  mother  permitted  me  to  love." 

When  the  first  sounds  of  the  orchestra  eallod 
Consuelo  to  lier  place,  she  rose  slowly,  her  man- 


94  Madame  DLTDIIVANT. 

tilla  fell  from  her  shoiildors,  and  her  face  was  at 
lengtli  visible  to  the  impatient  and  restless  spec- 
tators in  the  neighboring  tribune.  But  what 
marvelous  change  is  here  in  this  young  girl,  just 
now  so  pale,  so  cast  down,  so  overwhelmed  by 
fatigue  and  fear  !  The  ether  of  heaven  seemed  to 
bedew  her  loft}-  forehead,  while  a  gentle  languor 
was  diffused  over  the  noble  and  graceful  outlines 
of  her  figure.  Her  tran<iuil  countenance  expressed 
none  of  those  petty  passions,  which  seek,  as  it 
were,  to  exact  aj)plause.  There  was  something 
about  her  solemn,  mysterious  and  elevated — at 
once  lovely  and  afTecting, 

"  Courage,  my  daughter,"  said  the  professor  in 
a  low  voice.  "  You  are  about  to  sing  the  music 
of  a  great  master,  and  he  is  here  to  listen  to  you." 

"Who? — Mai'cello ? "  said  Consuelo,  seeing  the 
professor  lay  the  Hymns  of  Marcello  open  on  the 
desk. 

"Yes — Marcello,"  replied  he.  "  Sing  as  usual — 
nothing  more  and  nothing  less — and  all  will  be 
well." 

Marcello,  then  in  the  last  year  of  his  life,  had 
in  fact  come  once  again  to  revisit  Venice,  his 
birth-place,  where  he  had  gained  renown  as  com- 
l^oser,  as  writer,  and  as  magistrate.  He  had  been 
full  of  courtesy  towards  Porpora,  who  had  re- 
quested him  to  be  present  in  his  school,  intending 
to  surprise  him  with  the  performance  of  Consuelo, 
who  knew  his  magnificent  "  I  cieliimmensi  nar- 
rano  "  by  heart.  Nothing  could  be  better  adapted 
to  the  i-eligious  glow  that  now  animated  the 
heart  of  this  noble  girl.  So  soon  as  tiie  first  words 
of  this  lofty  and  brilliant  production  shone  before 
her  eyes,  she  felt  as  if  wafted  into  another  sphere. 
Forgetting  Count  Zustiniani — forgetting  the  spite- 
ful glances  of  her  rivals — forgetting  even  Anzoleto 
— she  thought  only  of  God  and  of  Marcello,  who 
seemed  to  interpret  those  wondrous  regions  whose 
glory  she  was  about  to  celebrate.  What  subject 
so  beautiful ! — what  concejjtion  so  elevated  ! — 

I  cieli  imineiisi  iiarrano 
Del  grandi  Iddio  la  gloria 

II  flrmamento  lucido 
All  universe  annunzia 


IMADAilE  DUDEVAXT.  95 

Qiianto  sieno  mirabili 
Delia  sua  destra  le  opere. 

A  divine  glow  overspread  her  features,  and  the 
sacred  fire  of  genius  darted  from  her  large  black 
eyes,  as  the  vaulted  roof  rang  with  that  un- 
equalled voice,  and  with  those  loft}'  accents  which 
could  only  proceed  from  an  elevated  intellect, 
joined  to  a  good  heart.  After  he  had  listened  for 
a  few  instants,  a  torrent  of  delicious  tears  streamed 
from  Marcello's  eyes.  The  count,  unable  to  re- 
strain his  emotion,  exclaimed — "  By  the  Holy 
Rood,  this  woman  is  beautiful  !  She  is  Santa 
Cecelia,  Santa  Teresa,  Santa  Consuelo !  She  is 
poetry,  she  is  music,  she  is  faith  personified!" 
As  for  Anzoleto,  who  had  risen,  and  whose  trem- 
bling limbs  barely  sufficed  to  sustain  him  with  the 
aid  of  his  hands,  which  clung  convulsively  to  the 
grating  of  the  triljune,  he  fell  back  upon  liis  seat 
ready  to  swoon,  intoxicated  with  pride  and  joy.  It 
required  all  the  respect  due  to  the  locality,  to  pre- 
vent the  numerous  dilettanti  in  the  crowd  from 
bursting  into  applause,  as  if  they  had  been  in  the 
theatre.  The  count  would  not  wait  until  the  close 
of  the  service  to  express  his  enthusiasm  to  Porpora 
and  Consuelo.  She  was  obliged  to  repair  to  the 
tribune  of  the  Count  to  receive  the  thanks  and 
gratitude  of  Marcello.  She  found  him  so  much 
agitated  as  to  be  hardly  able  to  speak. 

"  My  daugiiter,"  said  he,  with  a  broken  voice, 
"  receive  tlie  blessing  of  a  dying  man.  You  have 
caused  me  to  forget  for  an  instant  the  mortal  suf- 
fering of  many  years.  A  miracle  seems  exerted 
in  my  behalf,  and  the  unrelenting  frightful  mala- 
dy appears  to  have  fled  forever  at  the  sound  of 
your  v<jice.  If  the  angels  above  sing  like  you,  I 
shall  long  to  (juit  the  world  in  order  to  enjoy  that 
happiness  which  you  have  made  known  to  me. 
Biesiiings  then  be  on  you,  oh  my  child,  and  may 
your  earthly  happiness  correspond  to  your  de- 
serta  !  "  I4iave  heard  Faustina,  Romanina,  Cu/,- 
zoni.  and  tlie  rest  ;  but  they  are  not  to  l)e  named 
along  with  30U.  It  is  reserved  for  you  to  let  tlie 
world  hear  what  it  has  never  yet  heanl,  and  to 
make  it  ffcl  wli.it  im  man  lias  ever  yet  felt." 


96  Mapamk  DUDEVANT. 

Consuplo.  ovorwholmod  by  tliis  magTiifkcnt  lailo- 
giuui,  bowed  lier  lioiid,  and  almost  bi-uding  to  the 
ground,  kissed,  without  being  able  to  utter  a 
word,  the  livid  fingers  of  the  dying  man. 

During  the  remainder  of  the  service,  Consuelo 
disi)layetl  energy  and  resources  whicli  completely 
removed  any  hesitation  Count  Zustiniani  might 
have  felt  respecting  her.  She  led,  she  animated, 
she  sustained  the  choir,  displaying  at  each  instant 
prodigious  powers,  and  the  varied  (jualities  of  her 
voice  rather  than  tlie  strength  of  her  lungs.  For 
those  who  know  how  to  sing  do  not  become  tired, 
and  Consuelo  sang  with  as  little  effort  and  labor 
as  others  might  have  in  merely  breathing.  She 
was  heard  above  all  the  rest,  not  because  she 
screamed  like  those  performers,  without  soul  and 
without  breath,  but  because  of  the  unimaginable 
purity  and  sweetness  of  her  tones.  Besides,  she  felt 
that  she  was  understood  in  every  minute  partic- 
ular. She  alone,  amidst  the  vulgar  crowd,  the 
shrill  voices  and  imperfect  trills  of  those  around 
her,  was  a  musician  and  a  master.  She  filled, 
therefore,  instinctively  and  without  ostentation, 
her  powerful  part,  and  as  long  as  the  service 
lasted  she  took  the  prominent  place  which  she 
felt  was  necessary.  After  all  was  over,  the  chor- 
isters imputed  it  to  her  as  a  grievance  and  a 
crime  ;  and  those  very  persons  who,  failing  and 
sinking,  had  as  it  were  implored  her  assistance 
with  their  looks,  claimed  for  themselves  all  the 
eulogiums  which  are  given  to  the  school  of  Porpo- 
ra  at  large. — Consuelo. 

A   PASTORAL  SCENE. 

I  was  walking  on  the  border  of  a  field  which 
some  peasants  were  in  the  act  of  preparing  for 
the  approaching  seed-time.  The  arena  was  vast ; 
the  landscape  was  vast  also,  and  enclosed  with 
great  lines  of  verdure,  somewhat  reddened  by  the 
approach  of  autumn,  that  broad  field''  of  a  vig- 
orous brown,  where  recent  rains  had  left,  in  some 
furrows,  lines  of  water  which  the  sun  made  glit- 
ter like  fine  threads  of  silver.  The  day  had  been 
clear  and  warm,  and  the  eartii,  freshlj'  opened  by 


Madajme  DUDEVxVNT.  97 

the  cutting  of  the  ploughshares,  exhaled  a  light 
vapor.  In  the  upper  part  of  the  field,  an  old  man 
gravely  held  his  plough  of  antique  form,  drawn 
by  two  quiet  oxen,  witli  pale  yellow  skins— real 
patriarchs  of  the  meadow— large  in  stature, 
rather  thin,  with  long  turned  down  horns,  old  la- 
borers whom  long  liabit  had  made  "  brothers."  as 
they  are  called  by  our  country  people,  and  who, 
when  separated  from  each  otlier,  refuse  to  work 
with  a  new  comjxmion,  and  let  themselves  die  of 
sorrow.  The  old  husbandman  worked  slowly,  in 
silence,  without  useless  efforts ;  his  docile  team 
did  not  hurry  any  more  than  he  ;  but,  owing  to 
the  continuity  of  a  labor  without  distraction,  and 
the  appliance  of  tried  and  well  sustained  strength, 
his  furrow  was  as  soon  turned  as  that  of  his  son, 
who  was  ploughing  at  a  short  distance  from  him, 
witli  four  oxen  not  so  stout,  in  a  vein  of  stronger 
and  more  stony  soil. 

But  that  which  afterwards  attracted  my  atten- 
tion was  really  a  beautiful  spectacle— a  noble  sub- 
ject for  a  painter.  At  the  other  extremity  of  the 
arable  field,  a  good-looking  young  man  was  driving 
a  magnificent  team  :  four  pairs  of  young  animals  of 
a  dark  color,  a  mixture  of  black  and  bay  with 
streaks  of  fire,  witli  those  short  and  frizzly  heads 
which  still  savor  of  tlie  wild  IjuII,  those  large  sav- 
age eyes,  those  sudden  motions,  that  nervous  and 
jerking  laixjr  which  still  is  irritated  by  the  yoke 
and  the  goad,  and  only  obeys  with  a  start  of 
anger  tJie  recently  imposed  authority.  They  were 
what  are  called  newly-yoked  steers.  Tlie  man 
who  governed  lliem  liad  to  clear  a  corner  formerly 
devoted  to  pasturage,  and  filled  with  century -old 
Ktum]>s,  the  tusk  of  an  athlete,  for  which  his 
energ}-,  his  youth,  and  Ids  eight  almost  unbroken 
animals  were  barely  sufiieient. 

A  child  six  or  seven  years  old,  beautiful  as  an 
angel,  with  his  shoulders  coven-d,  over  his  blouse, 
by  a  lambskin,  which  made  him  resemble  the 
little  Saint  John  tlit;  Fiaptist  of  the  painters  of  the 
rr-storation,  walked  in  tlu;  furrow  parallel  to  he 
ploUKb.  and  toiiclii-d  tin-  flank  of  the  oxen  w  iih  a 
long  and  liglit  stick  pointed  with  a  slightly  sharp- 


m  Madame  DUDEVANT. 

encd  goad.  The  proud  animals  quivered  under 
the  small  hand  of  the  child,  and  made  their  yokes . 
and  the  thongs  hound  over  their  foreheads  creak, 
while  they  gave  violent  shocks  to  the  plough 
handles.  When  a  root  stopped  the  ploughshare, 
the  husbandman  shouted  with  a  powerful  voice, 
calling  each  beast  by  his  name,  but  rather  to  calm 
than  excite  ;  for  the  oxen,  irritated  by  this  sudden 
resistance,  leaped,  dug  up  the  ground  with  tlieir 
broad  forked  feet,  and  would  have  cast  themselves 
out  of  the  track,  carrying  the  plough  across  the 
field,  if,  with  his  voice  and  goad,  the  young  man 
had  not  restrained  the  four  nearest  him,  wliile  the 
child  governed  the  other  four.  He  also  shouted, 
the  poor  little  fellow,  with  a  voice  which  he  wished 
to  make  terrible,  but  which  remained  as  gentle  as 
his  angelic  face.  It  was  all  beauflful  in  strength 
or  in  grace,  the  landscape,  the  man,  the  child,  the 
bulls  under  the  yoke  ;  and  in  spite  of  this  power- 
ful struggle  in  which  the  earth  was  overcome, 
there  was  a  feeling  of  gentleness  and  deep  calm 
which  rested  upon  all  things.  When  the  obstacle 
was  surmounted,  and  tlie  team  had  resumed  its 
equal  and  solemn  step,  the  husbandman,  wliose 
feigned  violence  ^vas  only  an  exercise  of  vigor, 
and  an  expenditure  of  activity,  immediately  re- 
covered the  serenity  of  simple  souls,  and  cast  a 
look  of  paternal  satisfaction  on  his  child,  who 
turned  to  smile  on  him. 

Then  the  manly  voice  of  this  young  father  of  a 
family  struck  up  the  melancholy  and  solemn 
strain  which  the  ancient  tradition  of  the  country 
transmits,  not  to  all  ploughmen  indiscriminately, 
but  to  those  most  consummate  in  the  art  of  excit- 
ing and  sustaining  the  ardor  of  the  oxen  at  work. 
This  chant,  the  origin  of  wliich  was  perhaps  con- 
sidered sacred,  and  to  which  mysterious  influences 
must  formerly  have  been  attributed,  is  still  re- 
puted, at  this  daj-,  to  possess  the  virtue  of  keep- 
ing up  the  courage  of  the  animals,  of  appeasing 
their  dissatisfaction,  and  of  charming  the  ennui  of 
their  long  task.  It  is  not  enough  to  know  how  to 
drive  them  well  while  tracing  a  perfectly  straight 
furrow,  to  lighten  their  labor  by  raising  or  de- 


Madame  DUDEVANT.  99 

pressing  the  point  of  the  ploughsliare  opportunely 
•in  tlie  soil  :  no  one  is  a  perfect  ploughman  if  he 
does  not  know  how  to  sing  to  the  oxen,  and  this 
is  a  science  apart,  which  requires  taste  and  pecu- 
liar adaptation.  This  chant  is,  to  say  the  truth, 
only  a  kind  of  recitative,  interrupted  and  resumed 
at  will.  Its  irregular  form  and  its  false  intona- 
tions, speaking  according  to  the  rules  of  musical 
art,  render  it  untranslatable.  But  it  is  none  the 
less  a  beautiful  chant,  and  so  appropriate  to  the 
nature  of  the  labor  which  it  accompanies,  to  the 
gait  of  the  ox,  to  the  calmness  of  those  rural 
scenes,  to  the  simplicity  of  the  men  who  sing  it, 
that  no  genius,  a  stranger  to  the  labors  of  the  soil, 
could  have  invented  it,  and  no  singer  other  than  a 
"finished  ploughman"  of  that  country  could  re- 
peat it.'  At  those  epochs  of  the  year  when  there 
is  no  other  labor  and  no  other  movement  in  the 
country  than  that  of  ploughing,  this  chant,  so 
simple  and  .so  powerful,  rises  like  the  voice  of  a 
breeze,  to  which  its  peculiar  toning  gives  it  a  kind 
of  resemblance.  The  final  note  of  each  phrase, 
continued  and  trilled  with  an  incredible  length 
and  power  of  breath,  ascends  a  quarter  of  a  note 
with  systematic  dissonance.  This  is  wild,  but  the 
charm  of  it  is  invincible,  and  wlien  you  become 
accustomed  to  hear  it,  you  cannot  conceive  how 
any  song  could  Ije  sung  at  those  hours  and  in  those 
places  witliout  disturbing  their  liarmony. 

It  was  then  that,  on  seeing  this  b<'autiful  pair, 
the  man  and  the  child,  accomplish  under  sucli 
poetical  conditions,  and  witli  so  nmcli  graceful- 
ness united  with  strength,  a  labor  full  of  grandeur 
and  solemnity,  I  felt  a  deep  pity  niiiiglfd  with 
an  involuntary  respect.  "Happy  thu  Inisband- 
man  !"  Yes,  doubtless,  I  should  be  liappy  in  his 
place,  if  my  arm,  suddeidy  become  strong,  and 
my  chest,  l)ecome  powerful,  could  thus  fertilize 
and  sing  nature,  without  my  eyes  ceasing  to  see 
and  my  brain  to  comprehend  the  harmony  of  ool- 
OfH  and  of  sounds,  the  fineness  of  tones,  and  the 
gracefulness  of  outlin(.>s — in  one  word,  tlie  mysteri- 
OUH  l>eauty  of  tilings  !  and  es[)ecially  witliout  my 
heart  ceasing  to  Ix;  in  relation  with  tin-  divine  fe«*l- 


100  Madajie  DUUEVANT. 

ing  which  presided  over  the  immortal  and  sub- 
lime creation  ! 

But,  alas !  that  man  has  never  understood  the 
mystery  of  tlie  beautiful,  that  child  will  never 
understand  it.  May  God  preserve  me  from  be- 
lieving that  they  are  not  superior  to  the  animals 
they  govern,  and  that  they  have  not  at  moments 
a  kind  of  ecstatic  revelation  which  charms  their 
fatigue  and  soothes  their  cares  !  I  see  iipon  their 
noble  foreheads  the  seal  of  the  Lord,  for  they  are 
born  kings  of  the  soil,  much  more  than  those  vvlio 
own  it  because  they  have  paid  for  it.  And  the 
proof  that  they  feel  this  is,  that  they  cannot  be 
expatriated  with  impunity,  that  they  love  this  soil 
watered  with  their  sweat,  that  the  true  peasant 
dies  of  nostalgia  under  the  harness  of  the  soldier, 
far  from  the  field  that  saw  his  birth.  But  this 
man  wants  a  part  of  the  delights  that  I  possess, 
immaterial  delights  which  are  certainly  his  right, 
his,  the  workman  of  this  vast  temple  whicli  heav- 
en alone  is  vast  enough  to  enclose.  He  wants  the 
knowledge  of  his  feelings.  Those  mOio  have  con- 
demned him  to  servitude  from  his  mother's 
womb,  not  being  able  to  deprive  him  of  revery, 
have  deprived  him  of  reflection. 

Well !  such  as  he  is,  incomplete  and  condemned 
to  an  eternal  childhood,  he  is  much  more  beauti- 
ful than  lie  in  whom  science  has  smothered  feel- 
ing. Do  not  elevate  yourselves  above  him,  you 
who  think  yourselves  invested  with  the  legitimate 
and  imprescriptive  right  to  command  him,  for 
this  frightful  error  under  which  you  labor  proves 
that  your  mind  has  killed  your  heart,  and  that 
you  are  the  most  incomplete  and  the  blindest  of 
men.  .  .  .  Next  year  that  furrow  will  be  filled  up 
and  covered  by  a  new  one.  Thus  also  is  impress- 
ed and  disappears  the  trace  of  the  greater  portion 
of  mankind  in  the  field  of  humanity.  A  little 
earth  effaces  it.  and  the  furrows  we  have  opened 
follow  each  other  like  the  graves  in  a  cemetery. 
Is  not  the  furrow  of  the  ploughman  quite  as  valu- 
able as  that  of  the  idle  man,  who  has  nevertheless 
a  name,  a  name  which  will  survive,  if  by  singu- 
larity or  any  absurdity  he  makes  a  little  noise  in 
the  world  'i^The  DeviVss  Pool. 


Earl  of  DUFFERIN.  lOi 

DUFFERIN  (Frederick  Temple  Hamilton 
Blackwood),  Earl  of,  an  English  statesman 
and  author,  born  in  1826.  His  is  the  son  of 
the  fourth  Baron  Dufferin  and  Helen  Selina 
Sheridan,  lady  Dufferin,  mentioned  below. 
He  was  educated  at  Eton  and  Oxford.  In 
1846  he  visited  Ireland,  and  subsequently- 
published  a  Narrative  of  a  Journey  from  Ox- 
ford to  Skihbereen  during  the  Year  of  the 
Irish  Famine.  In  1860  he  published  Letters 
from  High  Latitudes,  an  account  of  a  yacht 
voyage  to  Iceland  and  Spitzbergen  in  1859. 
He  was  Under  Secretary  of  State  from  1864  to 
1866,  Governor  General  of  Canada  (1872-1878), 
Ambassador  to  St.  Petersburg  in  1879,  to 
Constantinople  in  1881,  and  Cairo  in  1882,  and 
became  Viceroy  to  India  in  1884.  He  is  the 
author  of  Tenure  of  Land  in  Ireland,  and 
Contributions  to  an  Inquirij  into  the  State  of 
Ireland.  A  volume  of  his  Speeches  and  Ad- 
dresses was  published  in  1882. 

THE  MIDNIGHT  SUN. 

It  was  now  just  upon  the  stroke  of  midnight. 
Ever  since  leaving  England,  as  each  four-and- 
twf-nty  hours  \v(-  climbed  up  nearer  to  the  pole, 
tlie  U*lt  of  tlusk  dividing  day  from  day  had  been 
growing  narrower  and  narrower,  until  having 
nearly  reached  the  Arctic  Circle,  this— the  last 
night  we  were  to  traverse— had  dwindled  to  a 
thread  of  shadow.  Only  another  half-dozen 
leagues  more,  and  we  would  stand  on  the  tliresh- 
old  of  a  four  montlis'  day  !  For  the  few  preced- 
ing hours,  clouds  had  completely  covered  tlie 
heavens,  except  where  a  clear  interval  of  sky,  that 
lay  along  tlie  northern  horizon,  promised  a  glow- 
ing stage  for  the  sun's  last  obse<piies.  But  like  the 
heroes  of  old  he  had  veiled  his  face  to  die,  and  it 
waa  not  until  h<-  dr<)|)p<M]  down  to  the  sea  that  the 
whole  hemisphere  ovcrllowed  with  glory,  ami  the 
gilded  page.-mt  fonccrted  for  his  funeral  Katheie.l 
in  Hlr)w  jiroeession   round  his  grave  :    reniinding 


102  Earl  of  DUFFERIN. 

one  of  those  tardy  honors  paid  to  some  great 
prince  of  song,  who — left  during  hfe  to  languish 
in  a  garret — is  buried  by  nobles  in  Westminster 
Abbey.  A  few  minutes  more  the  hist  fiery  seg- 
ment had  disappeared  beneath  the  purple  horizon, 
and  all  was  over. 

' '  The  King  is  dead — the  King  is  dead — the  King 
is  dead  !  Long  live  the  King  !  "  And  up  from 
the  sea  that  had  just  entombed  his  sire,  rose  the 
young  monarch  of  a  new  day  ;  while  the  courtier 
clouds,  in  their  ruby  robes,  turned  faces  still 
aglow  with  the  favors  of  their  dead  lord,  to  bor- 
row brighter  blazonry  from  the  smile  of  a  new 
master. 

A  fairer  or  a  stranger  spectacle  than  the  last 
Arctic  sunset  cannot  well  be  conceived.  Evening 
and  morning — like  kinsmen  whose  hearts  some 
baseless  feud  has  kept  asunder — clasping  hands 
across  the  shadow  of  the  vanished  night. — Letters 
from  High  Latitudes. 

THE  COLD  OF  SPITZBERGEN. 

During  the  whole  period  of  our  stay  in  Spitz- 
bergen,  we  had  enjoyed  unclouded  sunshine.  The 
nights  were  even  brighterthan  the  days.  The  cold 
was  never  very  intense,  though  the  thermometer 
remained  Ijelow  freezing  ;  but  about  four  o'clock 
every  evening,  the  salt-water  bay  in  which  the 
schooner  lay,  Was  covered  over  with  a  pellicle  of 
ice  one  eighth  of  an  inch  in  thickness,  and  so  elas- 
tic, that  even  when  the  sea  beneath  was  consider- 
ably agitated,  its  surface  remained  unbroken — the 
smooth  round  waves  taking  the  appearance  of 
billows  of  oil.  If  such  is  the  effect  produced  by 
the  slightest  modification  of  the  sun's  power,  in 
the  month  of  August — you  can  imagine  what 
must  be  the  result  of  his  total  disappearance  be- 
neath the  horizon.  The  winter  is,  in  fact,  unen- 
durable. Even  in  the  height  of  summer,  the 
moisture  inherent  in  tlie  atmosphere  is  often  froz- 
en into  innumeraljle  particles,  so  minute  as  to  as- 
sume the  appearance  of  an  impalpable  mist.  Oc- 
casionally persons  have  wintered  on  the  island, 
but    unless  the  greatest   precautions    have  been 


Lady  DUFFERIN.  103 

taken  for  their  preservation,  the  consequences  have 
been  almost  invariably  fatal. 

No  description  can  give  an  adequate  idea  of  the 
six  months'  winter  in  this  part  of  the  world. 
Stones  crack  with  the  noise  of  thunder ;  in  a 
crowded  hut  the  breath  of  its  occupants  will  fall 
in  flakes  of  snow,  wine  and  spirits  turn  to  ice ; 
the  snow  burns  like  caustic  ;  if  iron  touches  the 
flesh,  it  brings  the  skin  awaj'  with  it ;  the  soles  of 
your  stockings  may  he  burnt  off  your  feet  before 
you  feel  the  slightest  warmth  from  the  fire  ;  linen 
taken  out  of  boiling  water,  intsantly  stiffens  to 
the  consistency  of  a  wooden  board  ;  and  heated 
stones  will  not  prevent  the  sheets  of  the  bed  from 
freezing.  If  these  are  the  effects  of  the  climate 
witliin  an  air-tight,  fire-warmed,  crowded  hut, 
what  must  they  be  among  the  dark,  storm-lashed 
mountain  peaks  outside  I— Letters  from  High 
Latitudes. 

DUFFERIN,  Helen  Selina  (Sheridan), 
Lady,  an  English  poet,  born  1807,  died  in 
1867.  She  was  a  granddaughter  of  Richard 
Brinsley  Sheridan,  and  a  sister  of  the  Hon. 
Mrs.  Norton.  She  was  the  author  of  several 
popular  ballads,  one  of  which  is  the  Lament 
of  the  Irish  Emigrant  written  about  the  year 
18.38.  She  married  the  Hon.  Price  Black- 
wood, afterwards  the  fourth  Baron  Dufforin. 

lament  of  the  misu  emigrant, 
I  'm  sittin'  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side. 
On  a  bright  May  niornin',  long  ?go, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride  ; 
The  corn  was  springin'  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high  ; 
And  thf  rf'd  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

An<l  ihf  love-light  in  your  eye. 

The  i)l;i(;e  is  little  changed,  Mary, 

Thf  day  is  liright  as  then, 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear, 

And  tlic  corn  is  grren  again  : 


104  •     Lady  DUFFICRTN. 

But  I  miss  tho  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 
And  your  bread  i  warm  on  my  cheek  ; 

And  I  still  keep  listenin'  for  the  words 
You  never  more  will  speak. 

'Tie  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane, 

And  the  little  church  stands  near — 
The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary, 

I  see  the  spire  from  here. 
But  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 

And  my  step  might  break  your  rest — 
For  I  'velaid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep, 

With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I'm  very  lonely,  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends  ; 
But,  oh  !  they  love  the  better  still 

The  few  our  Father  sends ! 
And  you  were  all  I  had,  Mary — 

My  blessin'  and  my  pride  : 
There's  nothing  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 

Yours  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary, 

That  still  kept  hoping  on, 
When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul. 

And  my  arm's  young  strength  was  gone ; 
There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip. 

And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow — 
I  bless  you,  Mary,  for  that  same. 

Though  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 

I  thank  you  for  the  patient  smile 

When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break — 
When  the  hunger  pain  was  gnawin'  there, 

And  you  hid  it  for  my  sake  ; 
I  bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word, 

When  your  lieart  was  sad  and  sore — 
Oh,  I  'm  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary, 

Where  grief  can't  reach  you  more  ! 

I  'm  bidding  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  Mary— kind  and  true  ! 
But  I  '11  not  forget  you,  darling, 

In  the  land  1  'm  going  to  ; 


ALEXANDRE  DUMAS,  Pere.  105 

They  say  there  "s  bread  and  work  for  all, 
And  the  sun  shines  always  there — 

But  I  "11  not  forget  old  Ireland, 
Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair  ! 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods 

I  '11  sit,  and  shut  my  eyes, 
And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again 

To  the  place  wliere  Mary  lies  ; 
And  I  "11  think  I  see  the  little  stile 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side,  [mom, 

And  the  springin'  corn,  and  the  bright  May 

When  Gxst  you  were  my  bride. 

DUMAS,  Alexandre  Davy,  a  French  dra- 
matist and  novelist,  son  of  General  Alexan- 
dre Dumas,  born  in  1803,  died  in  1870.  When 
three  years  old  he  lost  his  father.  His  mother 
sent  him  to  school,  where  he  paid  little  at- 
tention to  his  studies,  but  became  a  good 
horseman  and  a  good  shot.  When  fifteen 
years  old  he  was  placed  in  a  notary's  office. 
Family  embarrassments  sent  him  to  Paris, 
where  by  the  aid  of  Gen.  Foy,  he  obtained  a 
clerkship  in  the  household  of  the  Duke  of  Or- 
leans. He  devoted  his  leisure  to  dramatic 
(•(imposition,  in  which  he  had  already  made 
several  es.says.  In  1828  he  brought  out  HenH 
III.  et  sa  Cour,  an  historical  play,  which, 
though  assailed  by  the  critics  was  well  re- 
ceived by  the  public.  Richard  d'  Arlington, 
Teresa  (18.31),  the  ToiirdeNesle  (18.32),  Angele 
(1833),  Catharine  Howard  (183-4),  Mademoi- 
selle  de  Belle- Ifile  (1H37),  Mariage  sorts  Louis 
XV.  (1841),  Les  Dei..oiseUes  de  St.  Cyr  (1843), 
are  among  the  plays  which  followed  in  rapid 
succession,  and  drew  crowded  houses.  In 
las.*)  he  published  his  first  romance.  Isabellede 
liavii've.  Other  novels  dealing  witli  ej)isodes 
in  French  history,  and  his  Iiujjrcssions  de 
Voyage  (lK.'iy  41)  were  well  received.  The 
Three  Guardsmen  and  the  Count  of  Monte 
Cristo  (1845;  had  a  brilliant  success.     \n   1844 


106  ALEXANDRE  DUMAS,  Peue. 

he  issued  some  forty  volumes  bearing  his 
name,  claiming  that  though  lie  employed  as- 
sistants, yet  his  share  in  the  plan  and  execu- 
tion of  every  work  Avas  sufficient  to  make  the 
work  truly  his  own.  He  continued  to  write 
for  the  stage,  and  also  published  some  histor- 
ical works,  among  them  Louis  XIV.  et  son 
Siecle,  and  Florence  et  les  Medicis.  In  184(5 
he  accompanied  the  Duke  de  Montpensier  to 
Spain,  and  afterwards  visited  Africa.  On 
his  return  he  built  a  large  theatre  for  the 
production  of  his  plays.  His  theatre  did  not 
prosper.  The  revolution  of  1848  involved 
him  in  difficulties,  and  he  was  also  obliged  to 
defend  himself  in  lawsuits  with  several  news- 
papers with  which  he  had  failed  to  carry  out 
his  contracts.  The  publication  of  his  interest- 
ing Memoires  was  begun  in  1852.  He  under- 
took the  publication  of  a  daily  newspaper 
and  a  monthly  review,  both  of  which  failed 
after  a  few  numbers.  He  then  continued  his 
Memoires  and  romances  in  the  Mousquetaire. 
He  joined  Garibaldi  in  1860,  and  wrote  a  vol- 
ume entitled  Memoires  de  Garibaldi.  His 
last  years  were  impoverished.  Health  and 
vigor  failed.  At  the  beginning  of  the  war  in 
1870  he  was  removed  from  Paris  to  Dieppe, 
where  he  died  on  the  5th  of  December.  The 
works  bearing  his  name  are  said  to  number 
some  twelve  hundred  volumes.  He  brought 
out  about  sixty  dramas,  only  a  few  of  which, 
among  them  Mariage  sous  Louis  XV.,  and 
Mademoiselle  de  Belle-Isle,  keep  their  place 
on  the  stage.  The  Count  of  Monte  Cristo, 
the  Three  Guardsmen,  and  its  sequel, 
Txoenty  Years  after.  Marguerite  de  Valois, 
The  Watchmaker  and  the  Memoirs  of  a  Phy- 
sician, Balsamo,  are  among  the  most  popu- 
lar of  the  works  bearing  his  name. 

THE  EXECUTION  OF  KINO  CHARLES  1. 

Meanwhile,  Athos,  in  his  concealment,  waited 


ALEXANDRE  DIBIAS,  Pere.  107 

in  vain  the  signal  to  recommence  his  work.  Two 
long  hours  he  waited  in  terrible  inaction.  A 
death-like  silence  reigned  in  the  room  above.  At 
last  he  determined  to  discover  the  cause  of  this 
stillness.  He  crept  from  his  hole,  and  stood,  liid- 
den  by  the  black  drapery,  beneath  the  scaffold. 
Peeping  out  from  the  drapery,  he  could  see  the 
rows  of  halberdiers  and  musketeers  round  the 
scaffold,  and  the  first  ranks  of  the  populace,  sway- 
ing and  groaning  like  the  sea. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  then  ?  "  he  asked  himself, 
trembling  more  than  the  cloth  he  was  holding 
back.  "  The  people  are  hurrying  on,  the  soldiers 
under  arms,  and  among  the  spectators  I  see 
D'Artaguan.  What  is  he  waiting  for  ?  What  is 
he  looking  at  ?  Good  God  !  have  they  let  the 
headsman  escape  ?  " 

Suddenly  the  dull  beating  of  muffled  drums 
filled  the  square.  The  sound  of  heavy  steps  was 
heard  above  his  head.  The  next  moment  the  very 
planks  of  the  scaffold  creaked  with  the  weight  of 
an  advancing  procession,  and  the  eager  faces  of 
the  spectators  confirmed  what  a  last  hope  at  the 
bottom  of  his  heart  had  prevented  his  believmg  till 
then.  At  the  same  moment  a  well-known  voice 
above  him  pronounced  these  words  : 

"  Colonel,  I  wish  to  speak  to  the  people." 

Athos  shuddered  from  head  to  foot.  It  was  the 
king  speaking  on  the  scaffold.  By  his  side  stood 
a  man  wearing  a  mask,  and  carrying  an  axe  in 
his  hand,  which  he  afterwards  laid  on  the  block. 
The  sight  of  the  mask  excited  a  great  amount  of 
curiosit}'  in  the  people,  the  foremost  of  whom 
strained  their  eyes  to  discover  who  it  could  be. 
But  they  could  discern  nothing  but  a  m.an  of  mid- 
dle height,  dressed  in  black,  ap[)arently  past  mid- 
dle age,  for  the  end  of  a  grey  Iw'ard  peeped  out  from 
the  bottom  of  the  ma.sk  which  concealed  his  feat- 
ures. The  king's  ni|uest  had  undoubtedly  Ix'en 
acceded  to  b}'  an  affirmative  sign,  for,  in  firm, 
sonorous  accents,  which  vibrated  in  the  deptlis  of 
Athos'  heart,  the  king  Ix'gan  his  speech,  explain- 
ing his  conduct,  and  counselling  them   for    the 


10b  ALEXANDRE  DUMAS,  Pere. 

welfare  of  England.  He  was  interrupted  by  the 
noise  of  the  axe  grating  on  the  block, 

"  Do  not  touch  the  axe,"  said  the  king,  and  re- 
sumed his  speech.  At  the  end  of  his  speech,  the 
king  looked  tenderly  round  upon  the  people.  Then, 
unfastening  the  diamond  ornament  which  the 
queen  had  sent  him,  he  placed  it  in  the  hands  of 
the  priest  who  accompanied  Juxon.  Then  he 
drew  from  his  breast  a  little  cross  set  in  diamonds, 
which,  like  the  order,  liad  been  the  gift  of  Henri- 
etta Maria,  "  Sir,"  said  he  to  the  priest,  "  I  shall 
keep  this  cross  in  my  hand  till  the  last  moment. 
You  will  take  it  from  me  when  I  am  dead."  He 
tlien  took  his  hat  from  his  head,  and  threw  it  on 
the  ground.  One  by  one,  he  undid  the  buttons  of 
his  doublet,  took  it  off,  and  deposited  it  by  the 
side  of  his  hat.  Then,  as  it  was  cold,  he  asked  for 
his  gown,  which  was  brought  to  him.  All  the  pre- 
parations were  made  with  a  frightful  calmness. 
One  would  have  thought  the  king  was  going  to 
bed,  and  not  to  his  coffin, 

"  Will  these  be  in  your  way  ?  "  he  said  to  the 
executioner,  raising  his  long  locks  :  "  if  so,  they  can 
be  tied  up."  Charles  accompanied  these  words 
with  a  look  designed  to  penetrate  the  mask  of  the 
unknown  headsman.  His  calm,  noble  gaze  forced 
the  man  to  turn  away  his  head,  and  the  king  re- 
peated his  question. 

"It  will  do,"  replied  the  man  in  a  deep  voice, 
"  if  you  separate  them  across  the  neck," 

"  This  block  is  very  low,  is  there  no  other  to  be 
had?" 

"  It  is  the  usual  block,"  replied  the  man  in  the 
mask. 

"  Do  you  think  you  can  behead  me  with  a  sin- 
gle blow  ?  "  asked  the  king. 

"  I  hope  so,"  was  the  reply.  There  was  some- 
thing so  strange  in  these  words  that  everybody 
except  the  king  shuddered. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  be  taken  by  surprise,"  added 
the  king,  '"I  shall  kneel  down  to  pray,  do  not 
strike  then.  ' 

"When  shall  I  strike?" 


ALEX.1XDRE  DUMAS.  FiLS.  109 

"  When  I  shall  lay  aiy  head  on  the  block,  and 
say  '  Remember .' ' — then  strike  boldly."' 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  king  to  those  around 
him,  "I  leave  you  to  brave  the  tempest,  and  go 
before  j^ou  to  a  kingdom  whic-li  knows  no  storms. 
Farewell."'  Then  he  knelt  down,  made  the  sign  of 
the  cross,  and  lowering  his  face  to  the  planks,  as 
if  he  would  have  kissed  them,  he  said  in  a  low 
tone,  in  French,  *•  Count  de  la  Fere,  are  you 
there  ? "' 

"  Yes.  your  majesty,"  he  answered  trembling. 

"  Faithful  friend,  noble  heart  ?"  said  the  king, 
"  I  should  not  have  been  rescued.  I  have  ad- 
dressed my  people,  and  I  have  spoken  to  God ; 
last  of  all  I  speak  to  you.  To  maintain  a  cause 
which  I  believe  sacred,  I  have  lost  the  throne, 
and  my  children  the  inheritance.  A  million  in 
gold  remains  :  I  buried  it  in  the  cellars  of  Newcas- 
tle Keep.  You  only  know  that  this  money  exists. 
Make  use  of  it,  then,  whenever  you  think  it  will 
l>e  most  useful,  for  my  eldest  son's  welfare.  And 
now  farewell."' 

"  Farewell,  saintly,  martyred  majesty,"  lisped 
Athos,  chilled  with  terror. 

A  moment's  silence  ensued,  and  then,  in  a  full, 
sonorous  voice,  the  King  said,  "  Remember .'" 

He  had  scarcely  uttered  the  word  when  a  heavy 
blow  shook  the  scaffold,  and  wliere  Athos  stood 
inunovable  a  warm  drop  fell  upon  his  brow.  He 
reeled  back  with  a  shudder,  and  the  same  mo- 
ment the  drops  became  a  black  torrent.  Athos 
fell  on  his  knees,  and  remained  some  moments,  as 
if  Ix'wildered  or  stunned.  At  last  he  rose,  and 
taking  his  handkerchief,  steeped  it  in  the  blood  of 
the  martyred  king.  Tlien,  as  the  crowd  gradu- 
ally disp<'rsed,  he  leapt  down,  crept  from  l)e- 
hind  tlie  drapery,  gliding  lietween  two  horses, 
mingl(<l  with  the  crowd,  and  was  the  first  to  ar- 
riv»'  at  the  inn.  Having  gained  his  room,  he  rais- 
ed his  hand  to  his  forehead,  and  finding  his  fin- 
gerscovere<i  witli  the  king's  blood,  fell  down  in- 
sensible.—r(/t/i///  )'<(irn  After. 

JjUMAS,  Alexandre,  hoh  of  the  preceding, 


110  WILLIAM  DUNBAR. 

was  born  in  Paris  in  1824.  His  first  work 
was  a  volume  of  verso  published  in  his  eight- 
eenth year.  He  accompanied  his  father  to 
Spain  and  Africa,  and  on  his  return  publish- 
ed Les  Aventures  de  Quatre  Femmes  et  d'  un 
Perroquet,  whicli  showed  no  gi'eat  talent.  La 
Dame  aux  Cam>^lias  (1848),  the  story  of  Marie 
Duplessis,  a  woman  of  the  town,  found  an 
immense  number  of  readers.  It  was  after- 
wards dramatized  by  its  author,  and  was  also 
reproduced  in  Verdi's  opera  of  La  Traviata. 
Among  his  other  novels  are  Le  Docteur  Ser- 
vans  and  Antonine  (1849),  Trots  Homines 
Forts  (1850),  Diane  de  Lys  (1852),  La  Dame 
aux  Perles,  and  La  Vie  a  Vingt  Ans.  Du- 
mas has  been  more  successful  as  a  dramatist 
than  as  a  novelist,  his  success  being  founded 
upon  his  power  to  deal  satirically  with  the 
follies,  vices,  and  crimes  of  society.  He  has 
dramatized  his  own  work  Diane  de  T^ys,  and 
his  father's  Joseph  Balsamo.  He  has  also 
written,  besides  other  plays,  Le  Demi-Monde 
(1855),  La  Question  d'  Argent,  Le  Pere  pro- 
digue  (1859),  La  Femme  de  Claude  (1872),  and 
Monsieur  Alphonse  (1873).  He  was  admitted 
to  the  French  Academy  in  1874. 

DUNBAR,  William,  a  Scottish  poet,  born 
about  1460,  died  about  1525.  He  was  educat- 
ed at  the  University  of  St.  Andrews,  entered 
the  Franciscan  Order,  and  traveled  over 
England  and  France.  Returning  to  Scotland, 
he  became  a  favorite  at  the  Court  of  James 
IV.  Some  of  his  poems  were  printed  as  early 
as  1508;  many  of  them  remained  in  manu- 
script for  two  centuries.  A  complete  edition 
was  issued  in  1824,  with  a  Life  of  Dunbar,  by 
David  Laing.  One  of  his  pleasantest  poems. 
The  Merle  (Blackbird)  and  the  Nightingale,  is 
a  dialogue  between  these  two  birds,  the 
Merle  advocating  a  joyous  life  spent  in  the 
service  of  earthly  love,  while  the  Nightingale 


WILLIAM  DUNBAK.  Ill 

avers  that  the  only  \v0rth3-  love  is  that  whicli 
is  given  solely  to  God.  They  debate  the  mat- 
ter through  a  dozen  stanzas,  when  the  Merle 
avows  himself  convinced  by  the  ii'i)resenta- 
tions  of  the  Nightingale : 

THE  MERLE  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

Then  said  the  Merle  :  mine  error  I  confess  ; 
This  frustir  love  is  all  but  vanity  : 
Blind  ignorance  me  gave  sic  hardiness. 
To  argue  so  again'  the  verity  ; 
Wlierefore  I  counsel  every  man  that  he 
With  love  not  in  the  feindis  net  be  tone, 
r'>ut  love  the  love  that  did  for  his  love  die  : 
All  love  is  lost  but  upon  God  alone. 

Then  sang  they  both  with  voices  loud  and  clear  : 
The  Merle  sang  :    Man,  love  God  that  lias  thee 

wrought, 
The  Nightingale  sang  :   Man  love  the  Lord  most 

dear, 
That  thee  and  all  this  world  made  of  nought. 
The  Merle  said  :  Love  him  that  thy  love  has  sought 
Fro'  heaven  to  earth,  and  here  took  fl(sh  and  bone. 
The  Nightingale  sang  :  And  with  his  dead   tliee 

bought : 
All  love  is  lost  but  upon  Him  alone. 

Tlien  flew  thir  birdis  o'er  the  boughis  sheen, 

Singing  of  love  amang  the  leavis  small 

Wh(*se  eidant  plead  yet  made  my  thoughtis  groin, 

Ii<}ili  sleeping,  waking,  in  rest  and  in  travail  ; 

Me  to  rccomfort  most  it  does  avail. 

Again  for  love,  when  love  I  can  find  none, 

To  think  how  sung  this  Merle  and  Nightingale  : 

All  love  is  lost  but  upon  God  alone. 

The  Dance  consists  of  ten  stanzas,  Mahoini 
(that  is  Mahomet,  a  kind  of  incarnation  of  the 
Evil  One)  summons  his  princii)al  servitors 
to  make  an  entertainment  before  him.  The 
Seven  Deadly  Wins  make  their  appearance, 
and  each  of  them  recites  a  verse  satirizing 
the  vices  of  the  times: 


112  WILLIAM  DUNBAR. 

THE  DANCE  OK  THE  SEVEN  DEADLY  SINS. 

in. 
Lets  see,  quoth  he,  now  wha  begins  : 
With  that  the  foul  Seven  Deadly  Sins 

Begoud  to  leap  at  anis. 
And  first  of  all  in  Dance  was  Pride, 
With  hair  wjld  baek,  and  bonnet  on  side, 

Like  to  make  vaistie  wanis  ; 
And  round  about  him.  as  a  wheel, 
Hang  all  in  rumples  to  the  heel 

His  kethat  for  the  nanis  : 
Mony  proud  trumpour  with  him  trippit 
Through  scalding  fire,  aj-e  as  they  skippit 

The  girned  with  hideous  granis. 

IV. 

Then  Ire  came  in  with  sturt  and  strife  ; 
His  hand  was  aye  upon  his  knife, 

He  brandislied  like  a  beir  : 
Boasters,  braggars,  and  bargainers, 
After  him  passit  in  to  pairs, 

AH  boden  in  feir  of  weir  ; 
In  jacks,  and  scryppis,  and  bonnets  of  steel. 
Their  legs  were  chainit  to  the  heel, 

Frawart  was  their  affeir  : 
Some  upon  other  with  brands  beft, 
Some  jaggit  others  to  the  lief  t, 

With  knives  that  sharp  could  shear. 

V. 

Next  in  the  Dance  followit  Envy, 
Filled  full  of  feud  and  felony, 

Hid  malice  and  despite  : 
For  privy  hatred  that  traitor  tremlit ; 
Him  followit  mony  freik  dissemlit. 

With  fenyeit  wordis  cjuhyte  : 
And  flatterers  into  men's  faces  ; 
And  backbiters  in  secret  places. 

To  lie  that  had  delight  ; 
And  rownaris  of  false  lesings, 
Alace  I  that  courts  of  noble  kings 

Of  them  can  never  be  quit. 

VI. 

Next  him  in  Dance  came  Covetyce, 
Reot  of  all  evil,  and  ground  of  vice, 


WILLIAM  DUNBAR.  113 

That  never  cnnld  l)e  content : 
Catives,  wretches,  and  ockeraris, 
Hudpikes.  hoarders,  gatlieraris. 

All  with  that  warlock  went  : 
Out  of  their  throats  they  shot  on  other 
Het,  molten  gold,  me  thocht,  a  futher 

As  fire-flaucht  maist  fervent ; 
Aye  as  they  toomit  them  of  shot, 
Fiends  filled  them  new  up  to  the  throat 

With  gold  of  all  kind  prent. 
vu. 
Syne  Sweimess,  at  the  second  bidding, 
Came  lik  a  sow  out  of  a  midding, 

Full  sleepy  was  his  grunyie : 
Mony  swear  bumbard  belly  huddroum, 
Mony  slut,  daw,  and  sleepy  duddroun, 

Him  servit  aye  with  sonnyie; 
Redrew  them  furth  infill  a  chain, 
And  Belial  with  a  bridle  rein 

Ever  lashed  them  on  the  lunyie  : 
In  Daunce  they  were  so  slaw  of  feet, 
They  gave  them  in  the  fire  a  heat, 

And  made  them  quicker  of  cunyie. 

Then  Lechery,  that  laithly  corpse, 
Came  l>erand  like  ane  baggit  horse, 

And  Idleness  did  him  lead  ; 
There  was  with  him  ano  ugly  sort. 
And  mony  stinking  foul  tramort. 

That  had  in  sin  Ijecn  dead  : 
When  they  were  enterit  in  the  Dance, 
They  were  full  strance  of  countenance, 

Like  torches  burning  red. 

IX. 

Then  the  foul  monnter.  Gluttony, 
Of  wame  insatiable  and  greedy. 

To  Dance  he  did  him  dress  : 
Him  foUowit  mony  f(»ul  drunkart, 
With  can  and  collop,  cup  and  quart, 

In  Hurfit  and  exc-ess  ; 
Full  mony  a  waistlesH  wally-drag. 
With  waiiics  uiiwicldablc,  did  furth  wag, 

In  creesli  tiial  <lid  incress  : 


114  HENRY  DUNCAN. 

Drink  !  aye  tliey  cried,  with  inony  a  gaip, 
Tiie  fiends  gave  tluMu  liet  lead  to  laip, 
Their  leveray  was  ua  less. 

THE  TRUE  LIFE. 
Be  merry,  man.  and  tak  not  sair  in  mind 
The  wavering  of  this  wretclied  world  of  sorrow  ; 
To  God  be  humble,  to  thy  friend  be  kind, 
And  witli  tliy  neighbors  gladly  lend  and  borrow  ; 
His  chan(!e  to-night,  it  may  be  thine  to-morrow  ; 
Be  blythe  in  hearte  for  my  aventure, 
For  oft  with  wise  men  it  has  been  said  aforow 
Without  Gladness  availes  no  Treasure. 

Make  thee  gude  clicer  of  it  that  God  thee  sends. 
For  warld's  wrak  but  welfare  nought  avails  ; 
Nae  gude  is  tliine  save  only  that  tiiou  spends, 
Remanant  all  thou  bruikes  but  with  bails  ; 
Seek  to  solace  when  sadness  thee  assails  ; 
In  dolour  lang  thy  life  may  not  endure, 
Wherefore  of  comfort  set  up  all  thy  sails  ; 
Without  Gladness  availes  no  Treasure. 

Follow  on  pity,  flee  trouble  and  debate, 
With  famous  folkis  hald  thy  company  ; 
Be  charitable  and  hum'le  in  thine  estate, 
For  warldly  honour  lastes  but  a  cry. 
For  trouble  in  earth  tak  no  melancholy  ; 
Be  rich  in  patience,  if  thou  in  gudes  be  poor. 
Who  lives  merrily  he  lives  mightily  ; 
Without  Gladness  availes  no  Treasure. 

DUNCAN,  Henry,  a  Scottish  clergyman 
and  author,  born  in  1774,  died  in  1846.  In 
1810  he  instituted  at  Ruthwell  a  parish  sav- 
ings' bank,  the  success  of  which  led  to  the 
establishment  of  other  banks  of  the  same 
character.  He  also  discovered  in  1828  the 
footprints  of  animals  on  layers  of  clay  be- 
tween the  sandstone  beds  in  a  quarry  in 
Dumfriesshire.  He  was  the  author  of  The 
Cottage  Fireside  and  The  Sacred  Philosophy 
of  the  Seasons  (1836-7). 


HENRY  DI7NCAN.  115 

BLESSINGS  OF  THE  DEW. 

The  beneficial  effects  of  dew,  in  reviving  and 
refreshing  the  entire  landscape,  have  already  been 
adverted  to.  How  frequently  do  we  observe  the 
aspect  of  the  fields  and  woods  improved  by  the 
dew  of  a  single  night.  In  the  summer  season, 
especialh',  when  the  solar  heat  is  most  intense, 
and  when  the  luxuriant  vegetation  requires  a  con- 
stant and  copious  supply  of  moisture,  an  abund- 
ant formation  of  dew  often  seasonably  fefresbea 
the  thirsty  herbs,  and  saves  them  from  the  parch' 
ing  drought.  In  Eastern  countries  like  Judea, 
wliere  the  summer  is  fervid  and  long  continued, 
and  the  evaporation  excessive,  dew  ia  both  more 
needed,  and  formed  in  much  greater  abundance, 
than  in  our  more  temperate  climate.  There  it 
may  \>e  said  to  interpose  between  the  vegetable 
world  and  the  scorching  influence  of  a  powerful 
and  unclouded  sun — to  be  the  hope  and  joy  of 
the  husbandman,  the  theme  of  his  earnest  prayer 
and  heartfelt  gratitude.  Accordijigly,  the  sacred 
writers  speak  of  it  as  the  choicest  of  blessings 
wherewith  a  land  can  be  blessed  ;  while  the  want 
of  it  is  with  them  almost  synonymous  with  a 
curse.  Moses,  blessing  the  land  of  Joseph,  classes 
the  dew  among  "  the  precious  things  of  heaven  ;" 
and  David,  in  his  lamentation  over  Saul  and 
Jonathan,  poetically  invoking  a  curse  upon  the 
]»lace  where  they  fell,  wishes  no  dew  to  descend 
upon  the  mountains  of  Gilboa.  The  Almighty 
liirnself,  promising,  by  the  mouth  of  one  of  his 
prophets,  to  ble.ss  his  chosen  people,  says,  "  1  will 
Ik-  as  the  dew  unto  Israel ;  he  shall  grow  as  a  lily, 
and  cast  forth  his  roots  as  Lebanon."  Here  the 
refreshing  and  fertilizing  effects  of  dew  beauti- 
fully represent  the  prosi)erity  of  the  nation  which 
(iod  sjK'cially  favors  and  protects.  The  dew  ia 
also  employed,  by  thv  prophet  Micah,  to  illustrate 
the  influence  of  (Jwl's  people  in  tlie  midst  of  an 
I'vil  world,  where  he  says,  that  •'the  remnant  of 
Jacob  shall  bt*  in  the  midst  of  many  people,  as  a 
dew  from  the  I/)rd."  What  emhlefii  more  expres.s- 
ivc  of  that  spiritual  life,  in  some  of   its  members, 


IIG  WILLIAM  DUNLAP. 

which  preserves  a  people  from  entire  corruption 
and  decay  ! 

Another  beautiful  application  of  the  dew  in 
Scripture,  is  its  being  made  to  represent  the  in- 
fluence of  heavenly  truth  upon  the  soul.  In  the 
commencement  of  his  sublime  song,  Moses  em- 
ploys these  exquisite  expressions  : — "  My  doctrine 
shall  drop  as  the  rain,  my  speech  shall  distil  as 
the  dew  ;  as  the  small  rain  upon  the  tender  herb, 
and  as  the  showers  upon  the  grass."  Similar 
passages  might  be  (luoted  from  the  sacred  writers, 
wherein,  by  a  felicity  of  comparison  that  all  must 
at  once  acknowledge,  the  word  and  ordinances  of 
God  are  likened  to  the  dew  of  the  iield.  ...  As 
the  dew  of  a  night  will  sometimes  bring  back 
beauty  and  bloom  to  unnumbered  languishing 
plants  and  flowers,  and  spread  a  pleasant  fresh- 
ness over  all  the  fields,  so  will  some  rich  and 
pK>werful  exposition  of  revealed  truth,  or  some 
ordinance,  dispensed  with  genuine  fervor,  not  un- 
frequentlj'  enliven  and  whollj'  refresh  a  Christian 
congregation,  or  even  spread  a  moral  verdure  over 
a  large  portion  of  the  visible  church. — Sacred 
Philosophy  of  the  Seasons. 

DUNLAP,  "William,  an  American  painter 
and  author,  born  in  1766,  died  in  1839.  He 
studied  in  London  under  Benjamin  West, 
and  on  his  return  to  America  busied  himself 
with  painting  and  dramatic  writing.  His 
best  play  is  The  Father  of  an  Only  Child, 
which  was  brought  out  in  1789,  and  was  very- 
successful.  He  was  sole  manager  of  the  Park 
Theatre  from  1798  to  1805.  He  was  the  author 
of  The  Memoirs  of  George  Frederick  Cooke 
(1812),  a  Life  of  Charles  Brockden  Brotcn,  A 
History  of  the  American  Theatre,  a  stand- 
ard work  (1833),  History  of  the  Arts  of  Design 
in  the  United  States  (ISSi) ,  Thirty  Years  Ago  ; 
or  the  Memoirs  of  a  Water  Drinker  (1836),  a 
History  of  New  York  for  Schools  (1837),  and  a 
History  of  New  Netherlands,  Province  of  New 
York,  and  State  of  New  York,  with  a  curious 


WILLIAM  DUNLAP.  117 

and  valuable  appendix  (1839).  Mr.  Dunlap 
was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  New  York 
Academj-  of  Design. 

CHARLES  MATHEWS. 

It  Tas  in  the  month  of  April,  in  the  year  1823, 
that  I  embarked  with  two  hundred  and  fifty 
others,  in  the  steamboat  Chancellor  Livingston, 
for  Albany.  After  the  bustle  of  leave-taking,  and 
the  various  ceremonies  and  multifarious  acts  of 
hurried  business  which  daily  take  place  on  the  de- 
parture of  one  of  these  self -moving  hotels  from 
the  city  of  New  York,  I  had  leisure  to  look  around 
me,  with  the  intention  of  finding  some  acquaint- 
ance as  a  companion,  or  at  least  to  satisfy  my 
curiosity  as  to  who  were  on  board.  I  had  seen 
many  faces  known  to  me  when  I  first  entered 
the  boat,  but  they  had  vanisiied  :  all  appeared,  at 
first,  strange.  I  soon,  however,  observed  James 
Fenimore  Cooper,  the  justly  celebr.nted  novelist, 
in  conversation  with  Dr.  Francis.  ...  I  soon 
after  noted  a  man  of  extraordinary  appearance, 
who  moved  rapidly  about  the  deck,  and  occasion- 
ally joined  the  gentlemen  above  named.  His  age 
might  be  forty  ;  his  figure  was  tall,  thin,  and 
muscular ;  one  leg  was  shorter  than  the  other, 
which,  although  it  occasioned  a  halt  in  his  gait, 
<li<l  not  impede  his  activity  ;  his  features  were  ex- 
tremely irregular,  yet  his  physiognomy  was  in- 
telligent, and  his  eyes  remarkably  searching  and 
expressive.  I  had  never  seen  Mathews,  either  in 
j)rivate  or  public,  nor  do  I  recollect  that  I  had  at 
that  time  ever  seen  any  representation  of  him,  or 
heard  his  person  described  ;  but  I  instantly  con- 
iluded  that  this  was  no  other  than  the  celebrated 
mimic  and  player.  Doubtless  his  dress  and  man- 
ner. whi<h  were  evidently  English,  and  that 
peculiarity  which  still  marks  some  of  the  votaries 
of  the  histrionic  art,  helped  me  to  this  conclusion. 
I  say,  "still  marks  ;"  for  I  remember  the  time 
whin  the  di.stinction  was  so  gross  that  a  child 
wniiM  s.iy,  "There  goi's  a  play-actor."  .  .  . 

Tlif  figure  and  manner  f)f  the  actor  were  Buffi- 
ciently  uncommon  to  attract  the  attention  of  a 


118  THOMAS  D'URFEY. 

throng  of  men  usually  employed  in  active  busi- 
ness, but  here  placed  in  a  situation  which,  of  all 
others,  calls  for  something  to  while  away  time  ; 
but  when  some  who  traced  the  likeness  between 
the  actor  on  the  deck  of  the  steamboat,  and  the 
actor  on  the  stage  of  the  theatre,  buzzed  it  about 
that  this  was  the  mirth-inspiring  Mathews,  curios- 
ity showed  itself  in  as  many  modes  as  there  were 
varieties  of  character  in  the  motley  crowd  around 
him.  This  very  natural  and  powerful  propensity, 
which  every  person  who  exposes  himself  or  herself 
upon  a  public  stage,  to  the  gaze  of  the  mixed  mul- 
titude, wishes  ardently  to  excite,  was,  under  the 
present  peculiar  circumstances  of  time,  place,  and 
leisure,  expressed  in  a  manner  rather  annoying  to 
the  hero  of  the  sock,  who  would  now  have  will- 
ingly appeared  in  the  character  of  a  private  gen- 
tleman. .  .  .  One  clown,  in  particular,  followed 
the  object  of  his  very  sincere  admiration  with  a 
pertinacity  which  deserved  a  better  return  than  it 
met.  He  was  to  Mathews  a  perfect  Monsieur 
Tonson,  and  his  appearance  seemed  to  excite  the 
same  feelings.  The  novelist  and  physician  point- 
ed out  to  me  the  impertinent  curiosity  of  this  ad- 
mirer of  the  actor,  and  we  all  took  some  portion 
of  mischievous  delight  in  observing  the  irritability 
of  Mathews.  It  increased  to  a  ludicrous  degree 
when  Mathews  found  that  no  effort  or  change  of 
place  could  exclude  his  tormentor  from  his  sight; 
and  when,  after  having  made  an  effort  to  avoid 
him,  he,  on  turning  his  head,  saw  Monsieur  Ton- 
son  fixed  as  a  statue,  again  listening  in  motionless 
admiration  to  his  honeyed  words,  the  actor  would 
suddenly  change  from  the  animated  relation  of 
story  or  anecdote,  with  which  he  had  been  enter- 
taining his  companions,  to  the  out-pouring  of  a 
rhapsody  of  incoherent  nonsense,  uttered  with  in- 
credible volubility.  .  .  .  But  he  found  that  this 
only  made  his  aclmirer  listen  more  intently,  and 
open  his  eyes  and  mouth  more  widely  and  earnest- 
ly.—His^or?/  of  the  American  Theatre. 

D'URFEY,  Thomas,  An  English  humorous 
poet  of  French  descent,  born  in  1 650,  died  in 


EVERT  A.  DUYCKINCK.  119 

1723.  He  was  trained  for  the  law,  but  aban- 
doned the  legal  profession  for  literature.  He 
wrote  numerous  dramatic  pieces,  ballads, 
songs,  and  sonnets,  and  was  a  court  favorite 
during  the  reigns  of  Charles  II.,  William  and 
Mary,  and  Anne.  Most  of  his  works  are  of  a 
very  loose  character.  That  by  which  he  is  best 
known  is  a  collection  of  poems,  only  a  part  of 
which  are  by  himself,  entitled  Wit  and 
Mirth,  or  Pills  to  purge  Melancholy  (6  vols., 
1719^20). 

STILL  WATER. 

Damon,  let  a  friend  advise  you. 
Follow  Closes,  though  she  flies  you  ; 
Though  her  tongue  your  suit  is  slighting, 
Her  kind  eyes  you  '11  find  inviting  : 
Women's  rage,  like  shallow  water, 
Does  but  show  their  hurtless  nature  ; 
When  the  stream  seems  rough  and  frowning. 
There  is  then  less  fear  of  drowning. 

Let  me  tell  the  adventurous  stranger, 
In  our  calmness  lies  our  danger  ; 
Like  a  river's  silent  running, 
Stillness  shows  our  depth  and  cunning  : 
She  tliat  rails  you  into  trembling. 
Only  shows  lier  fine  dissembling  ; 
But  the  fawner,  to  abuse  you, 
Thinks  you  fools,  and  so  will  use  you. 

DUYCKINCK,  Evert  Augustus,  an  Amer- 
ican author,  born  in  1816,  died  in  1878.  He 
was  the  son  of  Evert  Duyckinck  the  publish- 
er. Ho  was  educ-ated  at  Columbia  College, 
studied  law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in 
1837.  After  traveling  for  a  year  in  Europe, 
he  returned  to  New  York,  and  in  1840,  in 
conjunction  with  Cornelius  Mathews,  he  es- 
tablished a  monthly  periodical  entitled  Arc- 
tunts,  a  ./(uirtuil  of  Books  and  Opinion, 
whidi  was  continuf^d  for  two  years.  In  1847 
Ik;  Ixcame  tlio  editor  of  The  Literary    Woj'ld, 


120  EVEliT  A.  DUYCKINCK. 

which  with  an  interval  of  about  a  year  was 
carried  on  by  him  and  his  brother  George  L. 
Duyckinck  until  the  close  of  1853.  They  now 
began  a  Cyclopedia  of  American  Literature, 
which  was  published  in  1856.  Ten  years  later 
a  supplement  was  added  by  E.  A.  Duyckinck, 
who  besides  contributing  to  periodicals,  also 
published  The  Wit  and  Wisdom  of  Sydney 
Smith,  with  a  memoir  (1856),  Memorials  of 
John  Allen  (1864),  Poems  relating  to  the 
American  Revolution,  with  memoirs  (1865), 
History  of  the  War  for  the  Union  (1861  65), 
National  Portrait  Gallery  of  Eminent  Amer- 
icans (1866),  History  of  the  World  (1870),  and 
Memorials  of  Francis  L.  Hawks  (1871). 

THE  DEATH  OF  JOSEPH  WARREN. 

It  was  understood  that  on  the  eighteenth  of  the 
month,  Gage  would  take  possession  of  Charles- 
town,  the  peninsula  to  the  north  of  Boston,  on 
which  stood  Bunker's  and  Breed's  Hill.  The  latter, 
nearest  to  the  town,  was  the  scene  of  the  great 
conflict,  though  its  more  inland  neighbor  has 
carried  off  the  honor  of  the  name.  On  the  fif- 
teenth, the  Committee  of  Safety  resolved  to  estab- 
lish a  position  on  Bunker  Hill.  William  Prescott, 
the  grandfather  of  the  historian,  was  placed  in 
command  of  a  thousand  men,  and  the  next  night, 
that  of  the  16th,  marched,  as  he  conceived  the  in- 
structions, to  Breed's  Hill.  A  redoubt  was  marked 
out,  and  an  intrenchment  raised  by  the  extraor- 
dinary energy  of  the  band,  between  midnight  and 
dawn,  when  the  work  was  first  discovered  by  the 
British.  How  well  that  earthwork  and  its  adjoin- 
ing fence  matted  with  hay,  were  defended  through 
the  sultry  noon  by  the  body  of  unrefreshed,  night- 
worn  farmers,  with  what  death  to  the  invaders,  is 
matter  of  history.  As  the  news  spread  of  the 
actual  engagement,  as  the  fires  of  Copp's  Hill  and 
the  vessels  of  war  in  the  harbor  sped  against  the 
devoted  work,  as  the  smoke  of  burning  Charles- 
town  darkened  the  bright  day,  one  and  another 
came  to  the  aid    of  the  gallant    Prescott,   who 


EVERT  A.  DUYCKINCK.  131 

awaited  the  attack  in  his  redoubt.  Stark  brought 
his  levies  to  tlie  defense  of  the  liill :  Ponieroj-  and 
Warren  came  alone.  The  last  arrived  in  the  after- 
noon, shortly  before  the  first  assault  of  Howe  and 
his  forces.  He  had  been  with  the  Provincial  Con- 
gress, of  which  he  was  president,  the  day  before, 
had  passed  the  night  in  "Watertown,  and  reached 
Cambridge  indisposed  in  the  morning.  The  news 
of  the  Britisli  attack  shook  off  his  headache ;  he 
consulted  with  the  Committee  of  Safety,  and  hur- 
ried to  that  "  gory  bed  "  of  honor,  the  redoubt  on 
Breed's  Hill.  He  was  met  by  Putnam  on  the 
field,  who  requested  his  orders.  He  had  none  to 
give,  only  to  ask,  "  Where  he  could  be  most  use- 
ful." Putnam  pointed  to  the  redoubt,  with  an  in- 
timation that  he  would  be  covered.  "I  come 
not."  was  his  reply,  "for  a  place  of  safety,  but 
where  the  onset  will  be  most  furious."  Putnam 
still  pointed  to  the  redoubt  as  the  main  point  of 
attack.  Here  Prescott  tendered  him  the  com- 
mand ;  his  answer  again  was  in  the  same  spirit : 
"  I  came  as  a  volunteer,  to  learn  from  a  soldier  of 
experience."  He  encountered  the  full  perils  of 
that  gallant  defence,  marked  by  its  fearful  anx- 
iety in  the  failure  of  the  scanty  ammunition.  He 
wa.s  the  last,  we  are  told,  in  the  trenches,  and  at 
the  very  outset  of  the  retreat  fell,  mortally  struck 
by  a  ball  in  the  forehead.  So  ended  this  gallant 
life,  on  the  height  at  Breed's  Hill,  on  that  memor- 
able June  17,  Ylia.— National  Portrait  Gallery. 

.JONATHAN  TRUMBULL. 

The  personal  qualities  of  Trumbull  were  rarely 
adapted  to  serve  the  cause  in  whichhis  life  was  pass- 
ed. The  participant  in  three  great  wars,  the  exjwri- 
ence  of  Nestor  was  added  to  a  natural  prudence 
and  moderation  which  were  seldom  at  fault.  His 
simplicity  of  character  was  the  secret  of  its  great- 
ness. He  early  fixed  the  principles  of  his  life, 
and  steadily  adhered  to  them  to  the  end.  So  hon- 
ors camo  to  him,  and  were  heaped  upon  him— the 
steady,  inrsistent,  useful  devout  citizen  of  Leban- 
on. There  was  his  iiome,  there  was  his  armor, 
and  he  aiijtears  seldom  to  have  traveled  much  be- 


122  JOHN  SULLIVAN  DWIGHT. 

yond  its  rural  precincts  ;  but  his  influence  knew  no 
bounds,  it  was  seen  and  felt  in  every  vein  of  the 
public  life,  in  the  court,  in  the  camp — wo  may  al- 
most say  in  the  pulpit,  for  divinity  never  entirely 
lost,  amidst  the  cares  of  business  and  of  state,  her 
early  pupil.  Connecticut  may  well  honor  his  mem- 
ory, and  in  times  of  doubt  and  peril,  think  how  her 
Revolutionary  governor,  Trumbull,  would  have 
thought  and  acted.  If  it  be  true  that  the  ori- 
gin of  the  term,  "  Brother  Jonathan,"  familiarly 
applied  to  the  nation,  originated,  as  is  sometimes 
said,  with  an  expression  of  General  Washington, 
in  an  emergency  of  the  public  service:  "We 
must  consult  brother  Jonathan  on  the  subject," 
we  may  find  a  happy  memorial  of  his  fame  in  a 
phrase  which  bids  fair  to  be  more  lasting  than 
many  a  monument  of  stone  or  maxhle.— National 
Portrait  Galery. 

George  Long  Duyckinck,  brother  of  Ev- 
ert, born  in  1823,  died  in  1863.  He  was  edu- 
cated at  Geneva  College,  N.  Y.,  and  at  the 
University  of  the  City  of  New  York.  He  was 
associated  with  his  brother  in  the  editorship 
of  the  Literary  World,  and  in  the  preparation 
of  the  valuable  Cyclopedia  of  American  Lit- 
erature (1856).  He  was  also  the  author  of 
biographies  of  George  Herbert,  and  Bishops 
Kerr,  Latimer,  and  Jeremy  Taylor. 

DWIGHT,  John  Sullivan,  an  American 
translator  and  musical  critic,  born  at  Boston 
in  1813.  He  graduated  at  Harvard  in  1832, 
and  studied  at  the  Cambridge  Divinity 
School.  In  1838  he  published  Translations 
from  the  Select  Minor  Poems  of  Goethe  and 
Schiller.  In  1840  he  became  pastor  of  the 
Unitarian  congregation  at  Northampton, 
Mass.  Soon  afterwards  he  left  the  minis- 
terial office  and  devoted  himself  to  literature, 
especially  in  its  relation  to  music.  He  con- 
tributed to  literary  periodicals,  and  delivered 
lectures   upon    Bach,    Beethoven,    Handel, 


JOHN  SULLIVAN  DWIGHT.  123 

Mozart,  and  other  eminent  musical  compos- 
ers. He  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Brook 
Farm  Association.  In  1852  he  commenced 
the  publication  of  Divighfs  Journal  of  Music. 

TRrE  REST. 

Sweet  is  the  plea^sure  itself  cannot  spoil ! 

Is  not  true  leisure  one  with  true  toil  ? 

Thou  that  would  taste  it,  still  do  thy  best ; 

Use  it,  not  waste  it — else  'tis  no  rest. 

Wouldst  behold  beauty  near  thee,  all  round  ? 

Only  hath  duty  such  a  sight  found. 

Rest  is  not  quitting  the  busy  career  ; 

Rest  is  the  fitting  of  self  to  its  sphere. 

'Tis  the  brook's  motion,  clear  without  strife, 

Fleeing  to  ocean  after  its  life. 

Deeper  devotion  nowhere  hath  knelt ; 

Fuller  emotion  heart  never  felt. 

'Tis  loving  and  serving  the  liighest  and  best ; 

'Tis  onward  !  unswerving— and  that  is  true  rest. 

VANTTAS  !  VANITATUM    VANITAS  ! 

I've  set  my  heart  upon  nothing,  you  see  : 

Hurrah  ! 
And  so  the  world  goes  well  with  me  : 

Hurrah  ! 
And  who  lias  a  mind  to  be  fellow  of  mine, 
Why,  let  him  take  hold  and  help  me  drain 
These  mouldy  lees  of  wine. 

I  set  my  heart  at  fu^t  upon  wealth  : 

Hurrah ! 
And  l*artered  away  my  peace  and  my  health  : 

But  ah  ! 
Tlu;  slippfry  change  went  alxjut  like  air, 
And  when  I  had  clutched  nie  a  handful  here — 
Away  it  went  there. 

I  set  my  heart  upon  woman  next : 

Hurrah  ! 
For  her  Bweet  sake  was  (jft  jierplexcd  : 

Hurrah  ! 


124  TIMOTHY  DWIGHT. 

The  False  one  looked  lor  a  daintier  lot, 
The  Constant  one  wearied  nie  out  and  out, 
The  Best  was  not  easily  got. 

I  set  my  heart  upon  travels  grand  ; 

Hurrah  ! 
And  spurned  our  plain  old  Father-land  : 

But  ah ! 
Naught  seemed  to  be  just  the  thing  it  should — 
Most  comfortless  beds  and  indifferent  food  1 
My  tastes  misunderstood  ! 

I  set  my  heart  upon  sounding  fame : 

Hurrah  ! 
And  lo  1  I'm  eclipsed  by  some  upstart's  name ; 

And  ah  ! 
"When  in  public  life  I  loomed  up  quite  high, 
The  folks  that  passed  me  would  look  awry  ; 
Their  very  worst  friend  was  I. 

And  then  I  set  my  heart  upon  war : 

Hurrah  I 
We  gained  some  battles  with  eclat : 

Hurrah  1 
We  troubled  the  foe  with  sword  and  flame — 
And  some  of  our  friends  quite  fared  the  same. — 
I  lost  a  leg  for  fame. 

Now  I  've  set  my  heart  upon  nothing,  you  see  : 

Hurrah  ! 
And  the  whole  wide  world  belongs  to  me : 

Hurrah ! 
The  feast  begins  to  run  low,  no  doubt ; 
But  at  the  old  cask  we  'U  have  one  good  bout : — 

Come,  drink  the  lees  all  out ! 
—Transl.  from  Goethe. 

DWIGHT,  Timothy,  an  American  clergy- 
man, teacher,  and  author,  born  in  1752,  died 
in  1817.  His  mother  was  a  daughter  of  Jona- 
than Edwards.  At  the  age  of  thirteen  he  was 
admitted  to  Yale  College,  graduated  in  1769, 
and  two  years  afterwards  became  a  tutor  in 
the  college.  He  retained  this  position  for  six 
years.     In  1777  he  was  licensed  to  preach, 


TIMOTHY  D WIGHT.  U'o 

and  in  the  same  j-ear  became  a  chaplain  in 
the  American  army.  In  1783  he  was  ordain- 
ed minister  of  Greenfield,  Conn.,  where  he 
also  successfully  conducted  an  academy.  In 
1795  he  was  elected  President  of  Yale  College, 
and  Professor  of  Divinity.  He  remained  at 
the  head  of  the  college  until  his  death,  twenty- 
one  years  later.  His  poem,  Columbia,  writ- 
ten about  1778  while  serving  as  chaplain  in 
the  army  was  very  popular  at  the  time.  His 
other  works  are,  Tlie  History,  Eloquence,  and 
Poetry  of  the  Bible,  an  address  (1772),  The 
Conquest  of  Canaan,  an  epic  poem  (1785), 
Greenfield  Hill,  a  poem  (1794),  Theology  Ex- 
plained and  Defended  (1818),  consisting  of  173 
sermons;  and  Travels  in  New  England  and 
New  York,  a  series  of  letters  written  during 
his  college  vacations,  and  published  in  1821. 
He  also  published  a  large  number  of  separate 
sermons : 

COLUMBIA. 

I. 
Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise, 
The  quf-^n  of  the  world,  and  the  child  of  the  skiee! 
Thy  gfiiius  commamls  thee  ;  with  rapture  behold. 
While  ages  on  ages  thy  splendors  unfold. 
Thy  reign  is  the  last,  and  the  noblest  of  time, 
Most  fruitful  thy  soil,  most  inviting  thy  clime  ; 
Let  the  crimes  of  the  East  ne'er  encrimson  thy 

name. 
Be  Freedom,  and  Science,  and  Virtue,  thy  fame. 

II. 
To  con«iue«t  and  shuighter,  let  Europe  aspire  : 
Whelm  nations  in  hh^xJ,  and  wrap  cities  in  fire  : 
Thy  h<T(K'8  the  rights  of  mankind  shall  defend. 
And  triumph  pursue  them,  and  glory  attend. 
A  world  is  thy  realm  :  for  a  world  l)e  thy  laws, 
Enlargeil  jih  thine  empire,  un«l  just  as  thy  <aus<»  ; 
On  Freedom's  hroad  ba.sis,  that  empire  shall  rise, 
Extend  with  the  main,  and  dissolve  with  the  skies. 


136  TIMOTHY  DWIGHT. 

III. 
Fair  Science  her  gates  to  thy  sons  gliall  unbar, 
And  tlie  east  see  thy  morn  hide  the  beams  of  her 

star. 
New  bards,  and  new  sages,  unrivaled  shall  soar 
To  fame  unextinguishd  when  time  is  no  more  ; 
To  thee,  the  last  refuge  of  virtue  design'd. 
Shall  fly  from  all  nations  the  best  of  mankind  ; 
Here,   grateful  to  heaven,   with  transport  shall 

bring 
Their  incense,  more  fragrant  than  odors  of  spring. 

VI. 

Thus,  as  down  a  lone  valley,  with  cedars  o'erspread, 
From  war's  dread  confusion  I  pensively  strayed — 
Tlie  gloom  from  the  face  of  fair  heaven  retired  ; 
The    winds    ceased    to  murmur ;    the    thunders 

expired  ; 
Perfumes,  as  of  Eden,  flow'd  sweetly  along. 
And  a  voice,  as  of  angels,  enchantingly  sung  : 
"  Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise, 
The  queen  of  the  world, and  the  child  of  the  skies!" 

THE  IMMUTABILITY  OF  GOD. 

By  his  Immutability,  God  is  posse.ssed  of  im- 
measurable dignity  and  greatness ;  and  fitted  to 
be  entirely  feared,  loved,  honored,  and  obeyed,  by 
all  his  rational  creatures.  The  humble  and  im- 
perfect dignity  of  created  beings  is  entirely  de- 
pendent for  existence  on  stability  of  character. 
Infinite  dignity  cannot  belong  to  a  character 
which  is  not  literally  unchangeable.  Created  dig- 
nity is  completely  destroj^ed  by  fickleness  :  the 
least  mutability  would  destroy  that  which  is  un- 
created. The  least  possible  change  will  be  a 
change  from  perfection  to  imperfection  ;  a  change 
infinite  in  itself,  and  infinitely  for  the  worse. 
God,  if  changed  at  all,  would  cease  to  be  God,  and 
sink  down  from  his  infinite  exaltation  of  being 
and  character  towards  the  humble  level  of  imper- 
fect creatures.  How  differoitly,  in  this  case, 
would  his  nature,  his  laws,  his  designs,  and  his 
government  appear  to  us  !  Were  the  least  change 
to  commence,  who  can  divine  its  consequences,  or 
foresee  their  progress  and  their  end  ?    Who  can 


TIMOTHY  DWIGHT.  127 

conjecture  what  would  be  its  influence  on  his 
character,  his  designs,  or  his  conduct  V  AVho  can 
foretell  the  efTects  which  it  would  produce  on 
the  empire  which  he  has  created,  and  on  the  in- 
numerable beings  by  which  it  is  inhabited  'i  Who 
does  not  see,  at  a  glance,  that  God  could  no 
longer  be  regarded  with  that  voluntary  and  su- 
preme veneration,  now  so  confessedly  his  due,  be- 
cause he  had  descended  from  his  own  infinite  dig- 
nity, and  was  no  longer  decked  tcith  majesty  and 
execllency,  nor  arrayed  in  glory  and  beauty  ? 
AVho  does  not  feel,  that  a  serious  apprehension  of 
such  a  change  would  diffuse  an  alarm  through  all 
virtuous  beings,  and  carry  terror  and  amazement 
to  the  most  distant  regions  of  the  universe  V 

By  his  Immutability,  God  is  qualified  to  form, 
and  to  pursue,  one  great  plan  of  Creation  and 
Provi<lence  ;  one  harmonious  scheme  of  boundless 
good  ;  and  to  carry  on  a  perfect  system,  in  a  per- 
fect manner,  tcithont  variableness  or  shadow  of 
turning.  An  Immutable  God,  only,  can  be  ex- 
pected to  do  that,  and  nothing  but  that,  which  is  su- 
premely right  and  desirable  ;  to  make  every  part 
of  his  great  work  exactly  what  it  ought  to  be  ;  and 
to  constitute  of  all  the  parts  a  perfect  whole.  In 
this  immense  work  one  character  is  thus  every- 
where displayed  ;  one  God  :  one  Ruler  ;  one  Sun 
of  Righteousness,  enlightening,  warming,  and 
quickening  the  innumerable  beings,  of  which  it  is 
comi)Osed.  Diversities,  indeed,  endless  diversi- 
ties, of  his  agency  exist  throughout  the  different 
parts  of  this  work  ;  but  they  are  mere  changes  of 
the  same  light ;  the  varying  colors  and  splendors 
of  the  same  glorious  Sun. 

Without  this  uniformity,  this  oneness  of  char- 
acter, supreme  dignity  could  not  exist  in  the  great 
Agent.  Without  this  consistency,  safety  could 
not  l«  found  ;  reliance  could  not  be  exercised,  by 
his  r-reatun-s.  (itnl  is  the  ultimate  object  of  ap- 
ical to  intflligt-nt  l)eings  ;  the  ultimate  objeet  of 
confideru*-  and  Iioik'.  However  injured,  deceived, 
or  dt«troyf'il,  by  liis  f.'llow-creatun-s,  every  ra- 
tional Uiiig  still  finils  a  refuge  in  his  Creator.  To 
him,  ultimately,  he  refers  all  his  wanta,  distresst^s, 


128  TIMOTHY  DVVIGHT. 

and  intorosts.  Whoever  else  may  bo  deaf  to  his 
complaints,  he  is  still  assured  that  God  will  hear. 
Whoever  else  withholds  the  necessary  relief  of  hia 
sufferings,  or  the  necessary  supplies  of  his  wants, 
still  he  knows  that  God  will  give.  This  considera- 
tion, which  supports  the  soul  in  every  extremity, 
is  its  last  resort,  its  final  refuge.  Could  God 
change,  this  asylum  would  be  finally  shut ;  Con- 
fidence would  expire  ;  and  Hope  would  bo  buried 
in  the  grave.  Nay,  the  immortal  Mind,  itself,  un- 
less prevented  by  an  impossibility,  inherent  in  its 
nature,  would  languish  away  its  existence,  and 
return  to  its  original  Nothing. — Theology  Ex- 
plained and  Defended. 

THE  BEACH  OF  TRURO  AND  PROVINCE  TOWN. 

From  Truro  to  Province  Town  our  road  lay 
chiefly  on  the  margin  of  a  beach,  which  unites  it 
with  Truro.  The  form  of  this  township,  exclu- 
sively of  Long  Point,  is  not  unlike  that  of  a  chemi- 
cal retort :  the  town  lying  in  the  inferior  arch  of 
the  bulb,  and  Race  Point  on  the  exterior,  and  the 
beach  being  the  stern.  Immediately  before  the 
town  is  the  harbor,  commonly  styled  Cape  Cod 
Harbor ;  the  waters  of  which  extend  round  the 
north  end  of  Truro  a  considerable  distance  into 
the  last  mentioned  township.  Between  this  marsh 
and  the  waters  of  Province  Town  harbor  on  one 
side  and  the  Atlantic  on  the  other,  runs  the  beach. 
From  observing  it  in  various  places  along  the  road 
from  Eastham  I  was  induced  to  believe  that  it 
borders  the  ocean  from  Rtice  Point  to  the  Elbow, 
and  perhaps  reaches  still  farther. 

This  remarkable  object  is  an  enormous  mass  of 
sand,  such  as  has  been  already  described  ;  fine, 
light,  of  a  yellowish  hue,  and  the  sport  of  every 
wind.  It  is  blown  into  plains,  valleys,  and  hills. 
The  hills  are  of  every  height,  from  ten  to  two 
hundred  feet.  Frequently  they  are  naked,  round, 
and  extremely  elegant,  and  often  rough,  pointed, 
wild,  and  fantastical,  with  all  the  varied  forms, 
which  are  seen  at  times  in  drifts  of  snow.  Some 
of  them  are  covered  with  beach-grass :  some 
fringed    with    whortleberry-bushes ;     and    some 


TBIOTHY  DWIGHT.  129 

tufted  with  a  small  and  singular  growth  of  oaks. 
The  variety  and  wildnessof  the  forms,  the  desolate 
aspect  of  the  surface,  the  height  of  the  loftier 
elevations,  the  immense  length  of  the  range,  and 
the  tempestuous  tossing  of  the  clouds  of  sand, 
formed  a  group  of  objects,  novel,  sublime,  and 
more  interesting  than  can  be  imagined.  It  was  a 
barrier  against  the  ambition  and  f  retf  ulness  of  the 
ocean,  restlessly  and  always  employed  in  assail- 
ing its  strength,  and  wearing  away  its  mass.  To 
my  own  fancy  it  appeared  as  tlie  eternal  boundary 
of  a  region,  wild,  dreary,  and  inhospitable,  where 
no  human  being  could  dwell,  and  into  which  every 
human  foot  was  forbidden  to  enter.  Tlie  parts  of 
this  barrier  wliich  have  been  covered  with  whortle- 
berry-bushes, and  with  oaks,  have  been  either  not 
at  all,  or  very  little  blown.  The  oaks,  particular- 
ly, appear  to  be  the  continuation  of  the  forests 
originally  formed  on  this  spot.  Their  appearance 
was  new  and  singular.  Few,  if  any  of  them,  rose 
above  the  middle  stature  of  man  :  yet  they  were 
not  shrubs,  but  trees  of  a  regular  stem  and  struc- 
ture. They  wore  all  the  marks  of  extreme  age  ; 
were  in  some  instances  already  decayed,  and  in 
others  decaying  ;  were  hoary  with  moss,  and  were 
deformed  by  branches,  broken  and  wasted,  not  by 
violence,  but  by  time.  The  whole  appearance  of 
one  of  these  trees  strongly  reminded  me  of  a  little 
withered  old  man.  Indeed,  a  Lilliputian  of  three 
score  years  and  ten,  compared  with  a  veteran  of 
Brolxlingnag,  would  very  naturally  illustrate  the 
resemblance,  or  rather  the  contrast,  between  one 
of  these  dwarfs,  and  a  full-grown  tenant  of  our 
forests.— -Traue/s  iu  New  England  and  New  York. 

THE  BURNING  OF  FAIRFIELD,  CONN. 
On  the  7th  of  July,  1779,  Gov.  Trj-on  sailed  from 
New  Haven  to  Fairfield  ;  and  the  next  morning 
disembarked  upon  the  beach.  A  tew  militia  aw- 
Hembh-d  to  oj)p(jso  iheni  ;  and  in  a  desultory,  scat- 
tered manner,  fuugiit  with  great  intrepidity 
tlirougli  lUDHl  of  the  day.  Thf-y  killed  some,  took 
wvcral  prisoners,  and  wounded  more.  lint  the 
exjxHliliou   was  so  sudden  and  unexpected,  that 


130  ALEXANDER  IJYCE. 

tlic  efforts  made  in  this  manner,  wei'o  necessarily 
fruitless.  The  town  was  plundered  ;  a  great  part 
of  the  houses,  together  witli  tlie  two  churches,  the 
court-house,  jail,  and  school-houses,  were  burnt. 
The  barns  had  just  been  fUled  with  wlieat  and 
other  produce.  The  inhabitants,  therefore,  were 
turned  out  into  the  world,  ahnost  literally  desti- 
tute. .  .  .  While  the  town  was  in  flames,  a  thun- 
der-storm oversiu'ead  the  heavens,  just  as  night 
came  on.  The  conflagration  of  near  two  hundred 
houses  illumined  the  eartli,  the  skirts  of  the  clouds, 
and  the  waves  of  the  Sound,  with  a  union  of 
gloom  and  grandeur,  at  once  inexpressibly  awful 
and  magnificent.  The  sky  speedily  was  hung 
with  the  deepest  darkness,  wherever  the  clouds 
were  not  tinged  by  the  melancholy  lustre  of  the 
flames.  At  intervals,  the  lightnings  blazed  with 
a  livid  and  terrible  splendor.  The  tlmnder  rolled 
above.  Beneath,  the  roaring  of  the  fires  filled  up 
the  intervals,  with  a  deep  and  hollow  sound, 
which  seemed  to  be  the  protracted  murmur  of  the 
thunder,  reverberated  from  one  end  of  heaven  to 
the  other.  Add  to  this  convulsion  of  the  elements, 
and  these  dreadful  effects  of  vindictive  and  wan- 
ton devastation,  the  trembling"  of  the  earth  ;  the 
sharp  sounds  of  muskets  occasionally  discharged  ; 
the  groans,  here  and  there,  of  the  wounded  and 
dying,  and  the  shouts  of  triumph  :  then  place  be. 
fore  your  eyes  crowds  of  the  miserable  sufferers, 
mingled  with  bodies  of  the  militia,  and  from  the 
neighboring  hills  taking  a  farewell  prospect  of 
their  property  and  their  dwellings,  their  liappiness 
and  their  hopes  :  and  3'ou  will  form  a  just  but  im- 
perfect picture  of  the  burning  of  Fairfield.  It 
needed  no  great  effort  of  imagination  to  believe 
that  the  final  day  had  arrived  ;  and  that,  amid 
this  funereal  darkness,  the  morning  would  speed- 
ily dawn,  to  which  no  night  would  ever  succeed  ; 
the  graves  yield  up  l-heir  inhabitants ;  and  the 
trial  commence,  at  which  was  to  be  finally  settled 
the  destiny  of  man. — Travels  in  New  England  and 
New  York. 

DYCE.  Alexander,  a  British  author,  born 
in  1797,  died  in  1869.     He  was  born  in  Edin- 


ALEXANDER  DYCE.  131 

burgh,  educated  at  Edinburgh  and  Oxford 
Universities,  and  after  serving  for  some 
years  as  curate  in  the  counties  of  Cornwall 
and  Suffolk,  went  to  reside  in  London,  and 
devoted  himself  to  literary  history  and  criti- 
cism. He  edited  the  works  of  Greene,  Web- 
ster, Marlowe,  Shirley,  Middleton,  Beaximont 
and  Fletcher,  Joh  n  Skelton,  and  other  Eng- 
lish writers :  published  two  editions  of  Shake- 
speare, the  first  A  Complete  Edition  of  the 
Works  of  Shakespeare;  the  Text  Revised; 
with  Account  of  the  Life,  Plays,  and  Edi- 
tions of  Shakespeare  (1850-58) ;  the  second 
edition  (18G4-7);  A  Fete  Notes  on  Shakespeare 
(1853),  Remarks  on  Collier's  and  Knight's 
Editions  of  Shakespeare  (1844),  and  numer- 
ous other  valuable  works.  In  1840,  in  con- 
junction with  Collier,  Halliwell,  and  others, 
he  founded  the  Percy  Society  for  the  publica- 
tion of  old  English  ballads  and  plays. 

SHAKESPEARE'S  PRE-EinNENCE. 

"  In  several  publications  are  to  be  found  essays 
on  the  old  English  theatre,  the  writers  of  which 
Beeni  desirous  of  conveying  to  their  readers  the 
idea,  that  Shakespeare  had  dramatic  contempora- 
ries nearly  equal  to  himself  ;  and  for  criticism  of 
Bucli  a  tendency  two  distinguislied  men  are  per- 
haps answerable — Lamb  and  Hazlitt — wli©  have, 
on  the  whole,  exaggerated  the  general  merits  of  the 
dramatists  of  Elizaljeth  and  James's  days. 
"  Shakesjieare,"  says  Hazlitt,  '•  towered  above  his 
fellows,  '  in  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent,' 
but  he  wa«  one  of  a  race  of  giants,  the  tallest,  the 
strongest,  the  most  graceful  and  Ix-'autiful  of 
them  ;  but  it  xrax  a  common  and  a  nohh-  hrootl." 
A  falser  n.-mark,  I  con(X'ive.  has  seldom  been 
ma<le  by  critic.  Shakespeare  is  not  oidy  im- 
mea.surably  sujierior  to  the  dramatists  of  his  time 
in  creativ*'  power,  in  insight  into  the  human  heart, 
and  in  [)njfound  thought  ;  but  he  is,  moreover  ut- 
terly unlike  them  in  almost  every  respect— unlike 
them  ui   liis  method  of  developing  character,  in 


i:V2  8iu  EDWAKD  DWAl. 

his  diction,  in  liis  versification  ;  nor  should  it  be 
forgotten  tliat  some  of  those  scenes  whicli  have 
been  most  admired  in  the  works  of  his  contempo- 
raries were  intended  to  affect  the  audience  at  the 
expense  of  nature  and  probability,  and  tliese  stand 
in  marked  ccmtrast  to  all  that  we  possess  as  un- 
questionably from  the  pen  of  Shakespeare.—^ 
Complete  Edition  of  the  Works  of  Shakespeare. 

DYER,  Sir  Edward,  an  English  poet,  born 
about  1540,  died  about  1607.  He  was  educat- 
ed at  Oxford,  and  was  employed  on  various 
embassies  by  Queen  Elizabeth.  Several  edi- 
tions of  his  poems  have  been  printed,  the 
latest  in  1872.  His  best  poem,  "  My  Mind  to 
me  a  Kingdom  is,"  has  been  claimed  for 
Thomas  Bird  (1543-1623),  and  for  Joshua  Syl- 
vester (1563-1618) ;  but  Dyer's  claim  is  best 
authenticated. 

MY  MIND  TO  ME  A  KINGDOM    IS. 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is  ! 

Such  present  joys  therein  I  find, 
That  it  excels  all  other  bliss 

That  earth  affords  or  grows  by  kind  : 
Though  much  I  want  which  most  would  have, 
Yet  still  my  mind  forbids  to  crave. 

No  princely  pomp,  no  wealthy  store, 

No  force  to  win  the  victory ; 
No  wily  wit  to  salve  a  sore, 

No  shape  to  feed  a  loving  eye  ; 
To  none  of  these  I  yield  as  thrall, 
For  why,  my  mind  doth  serve  for  all. 

I  see  how  plenty  surfeits  oft. 
And  hasty  climbers  soon  do  fall ; 

I  see  that  those  which  are  aloft, 
Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all ; 

These  get  with  toil,  they  keep  with  fear . 

Such  cares  my  mind  could  never  bear. 

Content  I  live,  this  is  my  stay  ; 

I  seek  no  more  than  may  suflRce ; 
I  press  to  bear  no  haughty  sway  ; 


JOHN  DYER.  18:3 

Look,  what  I  lack  my  mind  supplies  : 
Lo  !  thus  I  triumph  like  a  king, 
Content  with  that  my  mind  doth  bring. 

Some  have  too  mucli,  yet  still  do  crave  ; 

I  little  have  and  seek  no  more. 
They  are  but  poor,  though  much  they  have, 

And  I  am  rich  with  little  store  : 
They  poor,  I  rich  ;  they  beg,  I  give  ; 
They  lack,  I  leave  ;  they  pine,  I  live. 

I  laugh  not  at  another's  loss  ; 

I  grudge  not  at  another's  gain  ; 
No  worldly  waves  my  mind  can  toss  ; 

My  state  at  one  doth  still  remain: 
I  fear  no  foe,  I  fawn  no  friend  ; 
I  loathe  not  life,  nor  dread  my  end.    ^ 

Some  weigh  their  pleasure  by  their  lust, 
Their  wisdom  by  their  rage  of  will ; 

Their  treasure  is  their  only  trust ; 
A  cloaked  craft  their  store  of  skill : 

But  all  the  pleasure  that  I  find. 

Is  to  maintain  a  quiet  mind. 

My  wealth  is  health  and  perfect  ease  ; 

My  conscience  clear  my  chief  defence ; 
I  neither  seek  by  ))ril)es  to  please. 

Nor  by  deceit  to  breed  offence  : 
Thus  do  I  live  ;  thus  will  I  die ; 
Would  all  did  so  as  well  as  I ! 

DYER,  John,  an  English  poet,  born  in 
Wales  in  1700,  died  in  17.58.  He  was  educat- 
ed at  Westminster  School,  practiced  paint- 
ing with  indiffcn^nt  success,  and  at  the  age  of 
forty  entered  the  Church,  and  received  sev- 
eral valuabh^  livings.  He  wrote  poetry  botli 
before  and  after  he  took  Orders.  His  long- 
est poem,  Tlin  F/rt'ce,  a  successful  imitati(in 
of  Virgil's  (JponjirH,  was  published  just  be- 
fore his  death.  His  best-known  poem,  Gron- 
f/ar  /fill,  was  written  in  his  twenty-sixth 
year.  It  describes  a  mountain  not  far  from 
the  place  of  iiis  birtli. 


134  JOHN  DYER. 

GRONGAR  HILL. 

Silent  nymph,  witli  curious  eye, 

Who,  the  purple  evening,  lie 

On  the  mountain's  lonely  van, 

Beyond  the  noise  of  busy  man  : 

Painting  fair  the  form  of  things, 

While  the  yellow  linnet  sings, 

Or  the  tuneful  nightingale 

Charms  the  forest  with  her  tale  ; 

Come,  with  all  thy  various  hues, 

Come,  and  aid  thy  sister  muse  ; 

Now,  while  Phoebus,  riding  high, 

Gives  lustre  to  tlie  land  and  sky  ! 

Grongar  Hill  invites  my  song, 

Draw  the  landscape  bright  and  strong.  .  , 

Wide  and  wider  spreads  the  vale, 
As  circles  on  a  smooth  canal : 
The  mountains  round,  unhappy  fate  ! 
Sooner  or  later,  of  all  height. 
Withdraw  their  summits  from  the  skies, 
And  lessen  as  the  others  rise  : 
Still  the  prospect  wider  spreads, 
Adds  a  thousand  woods  and  meads  ; 
Still  it  widens,  widens  still. 
And  sinks  the  newly  risen  hill. 

Now  I  gain  the  mountain's  brow, 
What  a  landscape  lies  below ! 
No  clouds,  no  vapors  intervene, 
But  the  gay,  the  open  scene. 
Does  the  face  of  nature  show, 
In  all  the  hues  of  heaven's  bow  ; 
And,  swelling  to  embrace  the  light, 
Spreads  around  beneath  the  sight.  .  .  . 

Below  me  trees  unnumbered  rise. 
Beautiful  in  various  dyes  : 
The  gloomy  pine,  the  poplar  blue, 
The  yellow  beech,  the  sable  yew, 
The  slender  fir  that  taper  grows, 
The  sturdy  oak  with  broad-spread  boughs. 
And  beyond  the  purple  grove, 
Haunt  of  Phyllis,  queen  of  love ! 
Gaudy  as  the  opening  dawn, 
Lies  a  long  and  level  lawn. 
On  which  a  dark  hill,  steep  and  high. 


JOHN  DYER/  135 

Holds  and  charms  the  wandering  eye  ! 

Deep  are  his  feet  in  Towy's  flood, 

His  sides  are  clothed  with  waving  wood, 

And  ancient  towers  crown  his  brow, 

That  cast  an  awful  look  below  ; 

Whose  ragged  walls  the  ivy  creeps, 

And  with  her  arms  from  falling  keeps  : 

So  both  a  safety  from  the  wind 

On  mutual  dependence  find. 

'Tis  now  the  raven's  bleak  abode  ; 

'Tis  now  the  apartment  of  the  toad  ; 

And  there  the  fox  securely  feeds. 

And  there  the  poisonous  adder  breeds, 

Concealed  in  ruins,  moss,  and  weeds  ; 

While,  ever  and  anon,  there  falls 

Hugh  heaps  of  hoary  mouldered  walls. 

Yet  Time  has  seen — that  lifts  the  low, 

And  level  lays  the  lofty  brow — 

Has  seen  this  broken  pile  complete, 
Big  with  the  vanity  of  state  ; 
But  transient  is  the  smile  of  Fate  ! 
A  little  rule,  a  little  sway, 
A  sunbeam  in  a  winter's  day. 
Is  all  the  proud  and  mighty  have 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 
And  see  the  rivers,  how  they  run 
Through  woods  and  meads,  in  shade  and  sun. 
Sometimes  swift,  sometimes  slow, 
Wave  succeeding  wave,  they  go 
A  various  journey  to  the  deep. 
Like  human  life,  to  endless  sleep  ! 
Thus  is  Nature's  vesture  wrought. 
To  instruf;t  our  wandering  thought ; 
Thus  slie  dresses  green  and  gay. 
To  disperse  our  cares  away.  .  .  . 

See,  on  the  mountain's  southern  side, 
Where  the  prospect  opens  wide, 
Where  the  evening  gilds  the  tide, 
How  close  anfl  small  tlie  liedges  lie  ! 
What  streaks  of  meadows  cross  the  eye  I 
A  step,  nu'thinks,  may  pass  the  stream, 
So  little  <listant  dangers  seem  ; 
So  wp  mist.'ike  the  future's  face, 
Eyeil  through  hope's  dehnling  glass; 


136  THOMAS  HENRY  DYER. 

As  yon  summits  soft  and  fair, 
Clad  in  cokas  of  tlie  air, 
Whic}i  to  those  wlio  journey  near, 
Barren,  brown,  and  rough  appear  ; 
Still  we  tread  the  same  coarse  way, 
The  present 's  still  a  cloudy  day.  .  .  . 

Now,  even  now,  my  joys  run  high, 
As  on  the  mountain  turf  I  lie  ; 
While  the  wanton  zephyr  sings. 
And  in  the  vale  perfumes  his  wings  ; 
While  the  waters  murmur  deep, 
While  the  shepherd  charms  his  sheep, 
While  the  birds  unbounded  fiy. 
And  with  music  fill  the  sky, 
Now,  even  now,  my  joys  run  high. 

Be  full,  ye  courts  ;  be  great  who  will ; 
Search  for  Peace  with  all  your  skill ; 
Open  wide  the  lofty  door. 
Seek  her  on  the  marble  floor  : 
In  vain  you  search,  she  is  not  there  ; 
In  vain  you  search  the  domes  of  Care  I 
Grass  and  flowers  Quiet  treads, 
On  the  meads  and  mountain  heads, 
Along  with  Pleasure  close  allied, 
Ever  by  each  other's  side  : 
And  often,  by  the  murmuring  rill, 
Hears  the  thrush,  while  all  is  still, 
Within  the  groves  of  Grongar  Hill. 

DYER,  Thomas  Henry,  an  English  author, 
born  in  1804.  He  was  privately  educated. 
For  some  years  he  was  employed  in  a  West 
India  house,  but  after  the  emancipation  of 
the  negroes,  he  established  himself  in  London 
and  adopted  literature  as  a  profession.  He 
published  ^  Life  of  Calvin  (18.50),  a.  History  of 
Modern  Europe  (1861),  a  History  of  the  City 
of  Rome  (1865),  a  History  of  Povipeii  (1867), 
History  of  the  Kings  of  Rome  (1868),  Ancient 
Athens  i\^7?>) .  He  also  published  many  arti- 
cles in  the  Classical  Museum  and  in  Smith's 
Dictionaries  of  Biography  and  Geography. 


JOHN  EARLE.  137 

THE  ROMAN  HIGHWAYS. 

The  great  Roman    liighways  did  not    exceed 
fifteen  feet  in  breadth,  and  were  sometimes  a  foot 
or  two  less.     In  constructing  tliem.  the  earth  was 
excavated  till  a  solid  foundation  was  obtained,  or, 
in  swampy  places,  a  foundation  was  made  by 
driving  piles.      Over  this,  which  was  called  the 
gremium,  four  courses  or  strata  were  laid  ;  namely 
the  statnmen,  the  rudus,   the  nucleus,   and    the 
pai'imentuvi.    The  statumen,  which  rested  on  the 
gremium,  consisted  of  loose  stones  of  a  moderate 
size.     The  riulii.s  or  rubble-work,  over  this,  about 
nine  inches  thick,  was  composed  of  broken  stones, 
cemented  with  lime.      The  nucleus,   half  a  foot 
thick,  was  made  with  pottery  broken  into  small 
pieces,  and  also  cemented  with  lime.      Over  all 
was  the  x^avimentum,  or  pavement,  consisting  of 
large  polygonal  blocks  of  hard  stone,  and,  particu- 
larly in  the  neighborhood  of  Rome,  of  basaltic 
lava,   nicely  fitted  together,   so  as  to  present  a 
smooth  surface.   The  road  was  somewhat  elevated 
in  the  centre,  to  allow  the  water  to  run  off,  and 
on  each  side  were  raised   footpaths  covered  with 
gravel.     At  certain  intervals  were  blocks  of  stone, 
to  enable  a  horseman  to  mount.     Roads  thus  con- 
structed  were  of  such  extraordinary  dural)ility, 
tliat  portions  of  some  more  tlian  a  thousand  years 
oI<l  are  still  in  a  liigli  state  of  preservation,— i/t.s- 
tory  of  the  City  of  Rome. 

EARLE,  John,  an  English  clergyman  and 
author,  born  in  1(301,  died  in  1GG5.  He  was 
educated  at  Oxford,  became  chaplain  and  tu- 
tor to  Prince  Charles,  with  whom  he  went 
into  exile,  and  was  in  consequence  deprived 
of  all  his  property.  After  the  Restoration  he 
was  made  Dean  of  Westminster;  in  1GC2  was 
consecrated  Bishop  of  Worcester,  and  in  the 
following  year  was  transferred  to  the  see  of 
Salisbury.  His  principal  work,  Min-ocosmo- 
■irnphie,  or  A  Pccrc.  of  fhr  World  diseorcred 
III  EHficiycH  find  ChnnictcrH,  was  first  jjuhlisli- 
I'd  in  \i')2H,    it  was  very  jjopular,   for  six  edi- 


138  JOHN  EARLE. 

tions  appeared  within  two  years.  A  tenth 
edition  was  printed  in  178C,  and  a  new  edition, 
with  Notes  and  an  Appendix,  by  PhiUp  Bhss, 
in  1811.  Prominent  among  the  numerous 
"  characters  "  dehneated  by  Earle  are  an  An- 
tiquary, a  Player,  a  Dun,  and  a  Clown. 

THE  RURAL  CLOWN. 

The  plain  country  fellow  is  one  that  manures 
his  ground  well,  but  lets  himself  lie  fallow  and 
untilled.     He  has  reason  enough  to  do  his  busi- 
ness, and  not  enough  to  be  idle  or  melancholy. 
He  seems  to  have  the  punishment  of  Nebuchad- 
nezzar,  for  his  conversation    is    among    beasts, 
and  his  talons  none  of  the  shortest,  only  he  eats 
not  grass,  because  he  loves  not  sallets.     His  liand 
guides  the  plough,  and  the  plough  his  thoughts, 
and  his  ditch  and  land-mark  is  the  very  mound  of 
his  meditations.     He  expostulates  with  his  oxen 
very  understandingly,    and  speaks  gee  and  ree 
better  than  English.     His  mind  is  not  much  dis- 
tracted with  objects  ;  but  if  a  good  fat  cow  come 
in  his  way,  he  stands  dumb  and  astonished,  and 
though  his  haste  be  never  so  great,  will  fix  here 
half  an  hour's  contemplation.     His  habitation  is 
some  poor  thatched  roof,  distinguished  from  his 
barn  by  the  loopholes  that  let  out  smoke,  which 
the  rain  had  long  since  washed  through,  but  for 
the  double  ceiling  of  bacon  on  the  inside,  which 
has  hung  there  from  liis  grandsire's  time,  and  is 
yet  to  make  rashers  for  posterity.     His  dinner  is 
his  other  work,  for  he  sweats  at  it  as  much  as  at 
his  labor  ;    he  is  a  terrible  fastener  on  a  piece  of 
beef,  and  you  may  hope  to  stave  the  guard  oflf 
sooner.     His  religion  is  a  part  of  his  copyhold, 
which  he  takes  from  his  landlord,   and  refers  it 
wholly  to  his  discretion  :  yet  if  he  give  him  leave, 
he  is  a  good  Christian,  to  his  power  (that  is), 
comes  to  church  in  his  best  clothes,  and  sits  there 
with  his  neighbors,   where  he  is  capable  only  of 
two  prayei-s,  for  rain  and  fair  weather.     He  ap- 
prehends God's  blessings  only  in  a  good  year  or  a 
fat  pasture,  and  never  praises  him  but  on  good 
ground.    Sunday  he  esteems  a  day  to  make  merry 


CHARLES  GAMAGE  EASTMAN.         139 

in,  and  thinks  a  bagpipe  as  essential  to  it  as  eve- 
ning-prayer, where  he  walks  very  solemnly  after 
service  with  his  hands  coupled  behind  him,  and 
censures  the  dancing  of  his  parish.  His  compli- 
ment with  his  neighbor  is  a  good  thump  on  the 
back,  and  his  salutation  commonly  some  blunt 
curse.  He  thinks  nothing  to  be  vices  but  pride 
and  ill-husbandry,  from  which  he  will  gravely 
dissuade  the  youth,  and  has  some  thrifty  hobnail 
proverbs  to  clout  his  discourse.  He  is  a  niggard 
all  the  week,  except  only  market-day.  where,  if 
his  com  sell  well,  he  thinks  he  may  be  drunk  with 
a  good  conscience.  He  is  sensible  of  no  calamity 
but  the  burning  a  stack  of  corn,  or  the  overflowing 
of  a  meadow,  and  thinks  Noah's  flood  the  greatest 
plague  that  ever  was,  not  because  it  drowned  the 
world,  but  spoiled  the  grass.  For  death  he  is 
never  troubled,  and  if  he  get  in  but  his  harvest  be- 
fore, let  it  come  when  it  will,  he  cares  not. 

EASTMAN,  CiLVRLES  G-amage,  an  American 
journalist  and  poet,  born  at  Fryeburg,  Me., 
in  1S16,  died  at  Burlington,  Vt.,  in  1861.  He 
studied  at  the  University  of  Vermont;  be- 
came editor  of  several  local  journals  in  Ver- 
mont, and  in  1846  proprietor  and  editor  of 
The  Vermont  Patriot,  at  Montpelier.  He 
was  a  frequent  contributor  to  literary  periodi- 
cals, and  pronounced  several  poems  before 
college  societies.  A  volume  of  his  poems  was 
published  in  1848,  and  an  enlarged  edition, 
prepared  by  his  widow,  in  1880. 

A  SNOW-STORM  LN   VEIRMOKT. 

Tis  a  fparful  night  in  the  Winter-time, 

Ah  co1<1  an  it  ever  can  be  : 
The  roar  of  the  Ktorni  is  heard  like  the  chime 

Of  the  waves  of  an  angry  sea. 
The  moon  is  full,  but  tlie  wmgs  to-night 
Of  tlie  furious  bla.st  daah  out  Iht  light ; 
\nd  ovrT  thf>  sky,  fn)m  south  to  north, 
Not  a  star  is  seen  as  the  storm  comes  forth 

In  the  strength  of  a  mighty  glee. 


liO        CHARLES  G  A  MAGE  EASTMAN. 

All  day  had  the  snow  oome  down — all  day, 

As  it  never  came  down  before, 
Till  over  tlie  ground,  at  sunset,  lay 

Some  two  or  three  feet  or  more. 
The  fence  was  lost,  and  the  wall  of  stone  ; 
The  windows  blocked  and  the  well-curb  gone  ; 
The  haj'stack  rose  to  a  mountain  lift ; 
And  the  woodpile  looked  like  a  monster  drift. 

As  it  lay  by  the  farmer's  door. 

As  the  night  set  in,  came  wind  and  hail, 

While  the  air  grew  sharp  and  chill. 
And  the  warning  roar  of  a  fearful  gale 

Was  heard  on  the  distant  hill ; 
And  the  norther !  see,  on  the  mountain  peak 
In  his  breath  how  the  old  trees  writhe  and  shriek  ! 
He  shouts  on  the  plain.  Ho  !  lio  ! 
He  drives  from  his  nostrils  the  blinding  snow. 

And  growls  with  a  savage  will ! 

Such  a  night  as  this  to  be  found  abroad  I 

In  the  hail  and  the  freezing  air. 
Lies  a  shivering  dog,  in  the  field  by  the  road. 

With  the  snow  on  his  shaggy  hair. 
As  the  wind  drives,  see  him  crouch  and  growl, 
And  shut  his  eyes  with  a  dismal  howl ; 
Then,  to  shield  himself  from  the  cutting  sleet. 
His  nose  is  pressed  on  his  quivering  feet : — 

Pray,  what  does  the  dog  do  there? 

An  old  man  came  from  the  town  to-night. 

But  he  lost  the  travelled  way  ; 
And  for  hours  he  trod  with  main  and  might 

A  path  for  his  horse  and  sleigh  ; 
But  deeper  still  the  snow-drifts  grew, 
And  colder  still  the  fierce  wind  blew  ; 
And  his  mare — a  beautiful  Morgan  brown — 
At  last  o'er  a  log  had  floundered  down. 

That  deep  in  a  iiollow  lay. 

Many  a  plunge,  with  a  frenzied  sflort, 

She  made  in  the  heavy  snow  ; 
And  her  master  urged,  till  his  breath  gtTTT  short, 

With  a  word  and  a  gentle  blow  ; 


GEORG  EBERS.  141 

But  the  snow  was  deep,  and  the  tugs  were  tight, 
His  hands  were  nuoib,  and  had  lost  their  might  ; 
So  he  struggled  back  again  to  his  sleigh, 
And  strove  to  shelter  himself  till  day, 
With  his  coat  and  the  buffalo. 

He  has  given  the  last  faint  jerk  of  the  rein, 

To  rouse  up  his  dying  steed  : 
And  the  poor  dog  howls  to  the  blast  in  vain 

For  help  in  his  masters  need. 
For  awhile  he  strives  with  a  wistful  cry 
To  catch  the  glance  of  his  drowsy  eye  ; 
And  wags  his  tail  when  the  rude  winds  flap 
The  skirts  of  his  coat  acrobS  his  lap. 

And  whines  that  he  takes  no  heed. 

The  wind  goes  down,  the  storm  is  o'er  ; 

'Tis  the  hour  of  midnight  past  ; 
The  forest  writhes  and  bends  no  more, 

In  the  rush  of  the  sweeping  blast. 
The  moon  looks  out  with  a  silver  light 
On  the  high  old  hills,  willi  the  snow  all  white  ; 
And  the  giant  shadow  of  Camel's  Hump, 
Of  ledge  and  tree,  and  ghostly  stump. 

On  the  silent  plain  are  cast. 

But  cold  and  dead,  by  the  hidden  log. 
Are  they  who  came  from  the  town  : 
The  man  in  the  sleigh,  the  faithful  dog. 

And  the  beautiful  Morgan  brown  ! 
He  .sits  in  his  sleigh  ;  with  steady  grasp 
He  holds  the  reins  in  his  icy  clasp  : 
The  dog  with  his  nose  on  his  master's  feet, 
And  tlie  mare  half  seen  through  the  crusted  sleet 
Where  she  lay  when  she  floundered  down. 

EBERS,  Georo,  a  German  orientalist  and 
novelist,  born  at  Berlin  in  1H.37,  after  his 
father's  death.  He  received  his  early  educa- 
tion from  his  mother,  studied  in  Frobel's 
HcMool  at  Keilhau,  and  afterwards  in  the 
Universities  of  Gottingen  and  Berlin,  giving 
the  preference  to  oriental,  philosophical,  and 
archa^'ological  studies.      He  then  visited  the 


142  GEORG  EBERS. 

principal  museums  of  Egyptian  antiquities  in 
Europe,  and  in  1865  established  himself  at 
Jena  as  a  private  tutor  in  the  Egyptian  lan- 
guage and  antiquities.  In  the  previous  year 
he  had  published  An  Egyptian  Princess,  an 
historical  romance  giving  a  description  of  life 
in  Egypt  about  the  time  of  the  Persian  con- 
quest (340  n.(i.).  His  works,  Egypt  and  the 
Books  of  Moses,  and  A  Scientific  Journey  to 
Egypt,  published  in  1869-70,  led  to  his  ap- 
pointment in  the  latter  year  to  a  professor- 
ship at  Leipzig.  While  traveling  in  Egypt  in 
1872-73,  he  discovered  an  important  papyrus, 
which  he  described  in  a  treatise,  and  which 
was  named  in  his  honor  the  Papyrus  Ebers. 
Ho  also  published  in  1872  a  work  entitled 
Through  Goshen  to  Sinai.  A  severe  attack 
of  paralysis  in  1876  rendered  him  unable  to 
walk.  He  sought  recreation  in  imaginative 
writing,  and  in  1877  published  Uarda,  a  Ro- 
mance of  Ancient  Egypt,  a  book  which  has 
been  translated  into  nearly  all  the  languages  of 
Europe.  It  was  followed  by  Egypt — descrip- 
tive, historical,  and  picturesque  (1878),  Homo 
Sum,  a  novel  (1878),  The  Sisters,  a  romance 
(1880),  Palestine  (1881)  a  work  written  in  col- 
laboration with  Guthe,  and  The  Burgomas- 
ter's Wife:  a  Tale  of  the  Siege  of  Leyden 
(1882) .  He  has  also  contributed  many  articles 
to  pei-iodicals  on  the  Egyptian  language  and 
antiquities. 

THE  HAPPINESS  OF  A  KING. 

Amasis  listened  attentively,  drawing  figures  the 
while  in  the  sand  with  the  golden  flower  on  his 
staff.  At  last  he  spoke  :  "  Verily,  Croesus,  I  '  the 
great  God,'  the  '  sun  of  righteousness,'  '  the  son  of 
Neith.'  'the  lord  of  warlike  glory,'  as  the  Egypt- 
ians call  me,  am  tempted  to  envy  thee,  dethroned 
and  plundered  as  thou  art.  I  have  been  as  happy 
as  thou  art  now.  Once  I  was  known  througli  all 
Egypt,  though  only  the  poor  son  of  a  captain,  for 


GEORG  EBERS.  143 

my  light  heart,  happy  temper,  fun  and  high  spir- 
its. The  common  soldiers  would  do  anything  for 
me,  my  superior  officers  could  have  found  much 
fault,  but  in  the  mad  Amasis,  as  they  called  me, 
all  wa.s  overlooked,  and  among  my  equals  (the 
other  under-officers),  there  could  be  no  fun  or 
merry-making  unless  I  took  a  share  in  it.  My 
predecessor.  King  Hophra,  sent  us  against  Cyrene. 
Seized  with  thirst  in  the  desert,  we  refused  to  go 
on  ;  and  a  suspicion  that  the  king  intended  to  sac- 
rifice us  to  the  Greek  mercenaries  drove  the  army 
to  open  mutiny.  In  my  usual  joking  manner  I 
called  out  to  my  friends  :  '  You  can  never  get  on 
without  a  king,  take  me  for  your  ruler  ;  a  merrier 
you  will  never  find  ! '  The  soldiers  caught  the 
words.  'Amasis  will  be  our  king,'  ran  through 
the  ranks  from  man  to  man,  and  in  a  few  hours 
more  they  came  to  me  with  shouts  and  acclama- 
tions of  '  The  good,  jovial  Amasis  for  our  king  I ' 
One  of  my  boon  companions  set  a  field-marshal's 
helmet  on  my  head  :  I  made  the  joke  earnest,  and 
we  defeated  Hophra  at  Momemphis.  The  people 
joined  in  the  conspiracy,  I  iiscended  the  throne, 
and  men  pronounced  me  fortunate.  Up  to  that 
time  I  had  been  every  Egyptian's  friend,  and  now 
I  was  the  enemy  of  the  best  men  in  the  nation. 

"The  priests  swore  allegiance  to  me,  and  ac- 
cepted me  as  a  member  of  their  caste,  but 
only  in  the  hope  of  guiding  me  at  their  will. 
My  former  superiors  in  command  either  envied 
me,  or  wished  to  remain  on  the  same  terms 
of  intercourse  as  formerly.  One  day,  therefore, 
when  the  officers  of  the  host  were  at  one  of  my 
banquets  and  attempting,  as  usual,  to  maintain 
their  old  convivial  footing.  I  showed  them  the 
golden  basin  in  whicli  their  feet  had  been  washed 
before  sitting  down  to  meat  ;  five  days  later,  as 
they  were  again  chinking  at  one  of  my  revels,  I 
caused  a  golden  image  of  the  great  god  Ra  to  be 
placed  up<jn  the  richly-ornamented  banciueting- 
table.  On  perceiving  it,  tlu-y  fell  down  to  wor- 
ship. As  they  rose  from  their  knees,  I  took  the 
sceptre,  and  holding  it  up  on  high  with  much 
solemnity,  exclaimed:    'In  five  days  an  artificer 


144  GEORG  EBERS. 

has  transformed  the  despised  vessel  into  which  ye 
spat  and  in  which  men  washed  your  feet,  into  this 
divine  image.  Siu-li  a  vessel  was  I,  but  the  Deity 
which  can  fasliion  better  and  more  quickly  than 
a  goldsmith,  has  made  me  your  king.  Bow  down, 
then,  before  me,  and  worship.  He  who  hence- 
forth refuses  to  obey,  or  is  unmindful  of  the  rev- 
erence due  to  the  king,  is  guilty  of  death  ! ' 

"  They  fell  down  before  me,  every  one,  and  I 
saved  my  authority,  but  lost  my  friends.     As  I 
now  stood  in  need  of  some  other  prop,  I  fixed  on 
the  Hellenes,  knowing  that  in  all  military  qualifi- 
cations one  Greek  is  worth  more  than  five  Egypt- 
ians, and  that  with  this  assistance  I  should  be  able 
to  carry  out  those  measures  which  I  thought  ben- 
eficial.     I  kept  the  Greek    mercenaries  always 
round  me,  I  learnt  their  language,  and  it  was  they 
who  brought  me  the  noblest  human  being  I  ever 
met,    Pythagoras.      I    endeavored    to    introduce 
Greek  art  and  manners  among  ourselves,  seeing 
what  folly  lay  in  a  self-willed  assurance  to  that 
which  has  been  handed  down  to  us,  when  it  is  it- 
self bad  and  unworthy,  while  the  good  seed  lay  on 
our  Egyptian  soil,  only  waiting  to  be  sown,    I 
portioned  out  the  Avhole  land  to  suit  my  purposes, 
appointed  the  best  police  in  the  world,  and  accom- 
plished much  ;    but  my  highest  aim— namely,    to 
infuse  into  this  country  at  once  so  gay  and  so 
gloomy,  the  spirit  and  intellect  of  the  Greeks, 
their  sense  of  beauty  in  form,  their  love  of  life 
and  joy  in  it— this  all  was  shivered  on  the  same 
rock  which  threatens  me  with    overthrow    and 
ruin  whenever  I  attempt  to  accomplish  anything 
new.     The  priests  are  my  opponents,  my  masters, 
they  hang  like  a  dead  weight  upon  me.    Clinging 
with  superstitious  awe  to  all  that  is  old  and  tradi- 
tionary, abominating  everthing  foreign,  and  re- 
garding every  stranger  as  the  natural  enemy  of 
their    authority    and    their  teaching,    they    can 
lead  the  most  devout  and  religious  of  all  nations 
with  a  power  that  has  scarcely  any  limits.     For 
this  I  am  forced  to  sacrifice  all  my  plans  ;  for  this 
I  see  my  life  passing  away  in  bondage  to  their  se- 
vere ordinances,  this  will  rob  my  death-bed  of 


GEORG  EBERS.  145 

peace,  and  I  cannot  be  secure  that  this  host  of 
proud  mediators  between  god  and  man  will  allow 
me  to  rest  even  in  my  grave.  .  .  .  Those  very  boys 
of  whom  thou  speakest  are  the  greatest  torment 
of  my  life.  They  perform  for  me  the  service  of 
slaves,  and  obey  my  slightest  nod.  .  .  .  Each  of 
these  youths  is  my  keeper,  my  spy.  They  watch 
my  smallest  actions  and  report  them  at  once  to 
the  priests.  .  .  .  But  every  position  has  its  duties, 
ajid  as  the  king  of  a  people  who  venerate  tradition 
as  the  highest  divinity,  I  must  submit,  at  least  in 
the  main,  to  the  ceremonies  handed  down  through 
thousands  of  years.  Were  I  to  burst  these  fetters, 
I  know  positively  that  at  my  death  my  body 
would  remain  unburied  ;  for  I  know  that  the 
priests  sit  in  judgment  on  every  corpse,  and  de- 
prive the  condemned  of  rest,  even  in  the  grave." 
— An  Egyptian  Princess. 

THEBES  AND  ITS  CITY  OF  THE  DEAD. 

By  the  walls  of  Thebes— the  old  city  of  a  hun- 
dred gates— tlie  Nile  spreads  to  a  broad  river  ;  the 
heights,  which  follow  the  stream  on  both  sides 
here  take  a  more  decided  outline  ;  solitary,  almost 
cone-shaped  peaks  stand  out  sharply  from  the 
level  background  of  the  many-colored  limestone 
hills,  on  which  no  palm-tree  flourishes  and  in 
which  no  humble  desert  plant  can  strike  root. 
Rocky  crevasses  and  gorges  cut  more  or  less 
deeply  into  the  mountain  range,  and  up  to  its 
ridge  extends  the  desert,  destructive  of  all  life, 
with  sand  and  stones,  with  rocky  cliffs  and  reef- 
like desert  hills.  Behind  the  eastern  range  the 
desert  spreads  to  the  Red  Sea  ;  behind  the  western 
it  stretches  without  limit  into  infinity.  In  the  be- 
lief of  the  Egyptians  beyond  it  lay  the  region  of 
the  dead.  lit^tween  these  two  ranges  of  hills, 
which  serve  iis  walls  or  ramparts  to  keep  back  the 
desert-sand,  flows  the  fresh  and  bounteous  Nile, 
iK'Htowing  blessing  and  al)UJidance  ;  at  once  the 
fatlu-r  and  the  cradle  of  millions  of  l^eings.  On 
each  shore  si)r('ads  th«'  wide  plain  of  black  and 
fruitful  soil,  an<l  in  the  depths  many-shaped  crea- 


146  GEORG  EBERS. 

tures,  in  coats  of  mail  or  scales,  swarm  and  find 

subsistence. 

The  lotos  fldats  on  the  minor  of  tlie  waters,  and 
among  the  papyrus  reeds  by  tlie  sliore  water-fowl 

innumerable  build  their  nests.  Between  the  river 
and  the  mountain-range  lie  fields,  which  after  the 
seed-time  are  of  a  shining  blue-green,  and  towards 
the  time  of  harvest  glow  like  gold.  Near  the 
brooks  and  water-wheels  here  and  there  stands  a 
shady  sycamore ;  and  date-palms,  carefully 
tended,  group  themselves  in  groves.  The  fruitful 
palm,  watered  and  manured  every  year  by  the 
inundation,  lies  at  the  foot  of  the  sandy  desert- 
hills  behind  it,  and  stands  out  like  a  garden  flower- 
bed from  the  gravel-path. 

In  the  fourteenth  century  before  Christ— for  to 
so  remote  a  date  we  must  direct  the  thoughts  of 
the  reader— impassable  limits  had  been  set  by  the 
hand  of  man,  in  many  places  in  Thebes,  to  the  in- 
roads of  tlie  water  ;  high  dykes  of  stone  and  em- 
l)ankments  protected  the  streets  and  squares,  the 
temples  and  the  palaces  from  the  overflow.  Canals 
tliat  could  be  tightly  closed  up  led  from  the  dykes 
to  the  land  within,  and  smaller  branch-cuttings  to 
the  gardens  of  Thebes.  On  the  right— the  eastern 
—bank  of  the  Nile  rose  the  buildings  of  the  far- 
famed  residence  of  the  Pharaohs.  Close  by  the 
river  stood  the  immense  and  gaudy  temples  of 
the  city  of  Amon ;  behind  these  and  at  a  short 
distance  from  the  Eastern  hills— indeed  at  their 
very  foot  and  partly  even  on  the  soil  of  the  desert 
—were  the  palaces  of  the  king  and  nobles,  and 
the  shady  streets  in  which  the  high,  narrow  houses 
of  the  citizens  stood  in  close  rows.  Life  was  gay 
and  busy  in  the  streets  of  the  capital  of  the  Pha- 
raohs. 

The  western  shore  of  the  Nile  showed  a  quite 
different  scene.  Here  too  there  was  no  lack  of 
stately  buildings  or  thronging  men  ;  but  while  on 
the  farther  side  of  the  river  there  was  a  xiompact 
mass  of  houses,  and  the  citizens  went  cheerfully 
and  openly  about  their  day's  work,  on  this  side 
there  were  solitary  splendid  structures,  round 
which  little  houses  and  huts  seemed  to  cling  as 


GEORG  EBERS.  147 

children  cling  to  the  protection  of  a  mother.    And 
these  buildings  lay  in  detached  groups. 

Any  one  climbing  the  hill  and  looking  down 
would  form  the  notion  that  there  lay  below  him 
a  number  of  neighboring  villages,  each  with  its 
lordly  manor-house.  Looking  from  the  plain  up 
to  the  precipice  of  the  western  hills,  hundreds  of 
closed  portals  could  be  seen,  some  solitary,  others 
closely  ranged  in  rows  ;  a  great  number  of  them 
towards  the  foot  of  the  slope,  yet  more  half-way 
up,  and  a  few  at  a  considerable  lieight.  And  even 
more  dissimilar  were  the  slow-moving,  solemn 
groups  in  the  roadways  on  this  side,  and  the 
cheerful,  confused  throng  yonder.  There,  on  the 
eastern  shore,  all  were  in  eager  pursuit  of  labor  or 
recreation,  stirred  by  pleasure  or  by  grief,  active 
in  deed  and  si^eech  :  here,  in  tlie  west,  little  was 
Bpoken,  a  spell  seemed  to  check  the  footstep  of  the 
wanderer,  a  pale  liand  to  sadden  tlie  bright  glance 
of  every  eye,  and  to  banish  the  smile  from  every 
lip.  And  yet  man}'  a  gaily-dressed  bark  stopped 
at  the  shore,  there  was  no  lack  of  minstrel  bands  ; 
grand  processions  passed  on  to  the  western  heights; 
but  the  Nile  boats  bore  the  dead,  the  songs  sung 
here  were  songs  of  lamentation,  and  the  procession 
consisted  of  mourners  following  the  sarcophagus. 
We  are  standing  on  the  soil  of  the  City  of  the 
Dea»l  of  Thebes. 

Nevertheless,  even  here  nothing  is  wanting  for 
return  and  revival,  for  to  the  Egyptian  liis  dead 
ilied  not.  He  closed  his  eyes,  he  bore  him  to  the 
Necropolis,  to  tlie  house  of  the  embalmer,  or  Kol- 
chytes,  and  then  to  the  grave  ;  but  he  knew  that 
tlie  Kcmls  of  the  dr'{)arted  lived  on  ;  that  the  justi- 
fied, aljsorljed  into  Osiris,  lloated  over  tiie  heavens 
in  tlie  vessel  of  the  Sun  ;  that  they  appeared  on 
earth  in  the  form  they  choose  to  take  upon  them, 
and  that  they  might  exert  influence  on  the  cur- 
rent lives  of  the  survivors.  So  he  took  care  to 
give  a  worthy  iuU-rment  to  his  dead,  altove  all  to 
have  the  \Hn\y  einijalmed  so  a«  to  endure  long; 
and  had  fixed  times  U>  bring  fresh  offerings  for  the 
dead  of  nesli  and   fowl,   with  dnnk-olferiiigs  and 


148  GEORG  EBERS. 

sweet- smelling    essences,    and    vegetables    and 
flowers. 

Neitlier  at  the  obsequies  nor  at  the  offerings 
miglit  the  ministers  of  the  gods  be  absent,  and  tlie 
silent  City  of  the  Dead  was  regarded  as  a  favored 
sanctuary  in  which  to  establisli  schools  and  dwell- 
ings for  the  learned.     So  it  came  to  pass  that  in 
the  temples  and  on  the  site  of  the  Necropolis, 
large  communities  of  priests  dwelt  together,  and 
close  to  the  extensive  embalming  houses  lived  nu- 
merous Kolcliytes,  who  handed  down  the  secrets 
of  their  art  from  fatlier  to  son.     Besides  these 
there    were  other  manufactories  and  shops.     In 
the  former,  sarcophagi  of  stone  and  of  wood,  lin- 
en bands  for  enveloping  nmmmies,  and  amulets  for 
decorating  them,  were  made  ;  in  tlie  latter,   mer- 
chants kept  spices  and  essences,  flowers,  fruits, 
vegetables,  and  pastry  for  sale.     Calves,   gazelles,' 
goats,  geese  and  other  fowl,  were  fed  on  enclosed 
meadow-plats,   and  the  mourners  betook  them- 
selves thither  to  select  what  they   needed  from 
among  the  beasts  pronounced  by  the  priests  to  be 
clean  for  sacrifice,  and  to  have  them  sealed  with 
the  sacred  seal.      Many  bought  only  part  of  a  vic- 
tim at  the  shambles— the  poor  coufd  not  even  do 
this.      They  bought  only  colored   cakes  in  the 
shape  of  beasts,   which    symbolically    took    the 
place  of  the  calves  and  geese  which  their  means 
were  unable  to  procure.     In  the  handsomest  shops 
sat  servants  of  the  priests,   who  received  forms 
written  on  rolls  of  papyrus  which  were  filled  up 
in  the  writing  room  of  the  temple  with  those 
sacred    verses    which  the    departed    spirit  must 
know  and  repeat  to  ward  off  the  evi!  genius  of 
the  deep,  to  open  the  gate  of  the  under- world,  and 
to  be  held  righteous  before  Osiris  and  the  forty- 
two  assessors  of  the  subterranean  court  of  justice. 
What  took  place  within  the  temples  was  conceal- 
ed from  view,  for  each  was  surrounded  by  a  high 
enclosing  wall  with  lofty,  carefully-closed  portals, 
which  were  only  opened  wlien  a  chorus  of  priests 
came  out  to  sing  a  pious  hymn,  in  the  morning  to 
Horus  the  rising  god,  and  in  the  evening  to  Turn 
the  descending  god. 


JOHN  GEORGE  EDGAR.  149 

As  soon  as  the  evening  hj^mn  of  the  priests  was 
heard,  the  Necropolis  was  deserted,  for  the 
mourners  and  those  wlio  were  visiting  the  graves 
were  required  by  this  time  to  return  to  their  boats 
and  to  quit  the  City  of  the  Dead,  Crowds  of 
men  who  had  marched  in  the  processions  of  the 
west  bank  hastened  in  disorder  to  the  shore,  driv- 
en on  by  the  body  of  watchmen  who  took  it  in 
turns  to  do  this  duty,  and  to  protect  the  graves 
against  robbers.  The  merchants  closed  their 
booths,  the  embalmers  and  workmen  ended  their 
day's  work  and  retired  to  their  houses,  the  priests 
returned  to  the  temples,  and  the  inns  were  filled 
with  guests,  who  had  come  hither  on  long  pil- 
grimages from  a  distance,  and  who  preferred  pass- 
ing the  night  in  the  vicinity  of  the  dead  whom 
they  had  come  to  visit,  to  going  across  to  the  bust- 
ling noisy  city  on  the  farther  shore.  The  voices 
of  the  singers  and  of  the  wailing  women  were 
hushed,  even  the  song  of  the  sailors  on  the  num- 
berless ferry-boats  from  the  western  shore  to 
Thebes  died  away ;  its  faint  echo  was  now  and 
then  borne  across  on  the  evening  air,  and  at  last 
all  was  still. — Uarda. 

HiDGAR,  John  George,  an  English  biog- 
rapher and  historian,  born  about  1830,  died 
in  1864.  His  principal  works,  designed  main- 
ly for  young  readers,  are:  TJie  Boyhood  of 
Great  Men,  Footprints  of  Famous  Men,  His- 
tory for  Boijh,  Sea- Kings  and  Naval  Heroes, 
Wars  of  the  Roses,  and  Cncsades  and  the 
Crusaders. 

ST.  BERNARD  AND  THE  SECOND  CRUSADE. 
In  the  year  1137,  when  England  wjis  entering 
on  the  dynastic  war  l)etween  Stephen  and  the  Em- 
pre.ss  Maud,  which  terminated  in  the  acces-sionof 
the  Plantagain'ts  to  the  throne,  Louis  VI.,  after 
having  govtrrifil  Fraiirc!  for  thirty  years,  with 
crfMlit  to  himself  and  advantage  to  hi.s  kingdom. 
de|»arf«'d  this  life  at  I'aris.  When  prostrated  on 
ills  iineaHy  «oiir)i,  the  dying  king  gave  his  heir 
that  kind  of  advice  whirh  comes  ho  solemnly  from 


150      JOHN  GEORGE  EDGAR. 

the  lips  of  a  man  whose  soul  is  going  to  judgment. 
"  Remember,"  says  he,  "that  royalty  is  a  public 
trust,  for  the  exercise  of  which  a  rigorous  account 
will  be  exacted  by  Him  who  has  the  sole  disposal 
of  crowns."  Louis  the  Young,  to  whom  this  ad- 
monition was  addressed,  ascended  the  French 
throne  when  scarcely  more  than  eighteen,  and  es- 
poused Eleanor,  daughter  of  tlie  Duke  of  Aqui- 
taine.  The  king,  who  had  been  educated  with 
great  care,  gave  promise  of  rivaling  the  policy 
and  prowess  of  liis  father  ;  and  the  young  queen, 
besides  being  endowed  by  fortune  with  a  magnifi- 
cent duchy,  had  been  gifted  by  nature  with  rare 
beauty  and  intellect.  Everything  prognosticated 
a  prosperous  future. 

Scarcely,  however,  had  Louis  taken  the  reins  of 
government,  than  the  prospect  was  clouded  by 
the  insubordination  of  the  Count  of  Champagne 
and  tlie  pretensions    of    the    Pope.     Louis,   not 
daunted  by  the  league  which  they  formed,  mount- 
ed his  war-liorse,  and  set  out  to  maintain  his  au- 
thority.    But  the  expedition  terminated  in  a  trag- 
ical event,  which  seemed  to  change  the  king's  na- 
ture.    While  besieging  Vitey,  he  cruelly  set  fire 
to  a  church  in  which  the  inhabitants  had  taken 
refuge  ;  and  having  burned  the  edifice,  with  thir- 
teen hundred  human  beings  within  its  walls,  he 
experienced    such    remorse  that  for  some  time 
afterwards  he  had  hardly  courage  to  look  upon 
the  face  of  day.     The  tragical  scene  was  ever 
present  to  the  young  king's  memory  ;  and  while 
still  brooding  painfully  over  the  crime,  news  of 
the  fall  of  Edessa  reached  France.      The  idea  of 
pacifying  his  conscience  by  a  new  crusade  imme- 
diately occurred  ;  and  an  assembly  of  barons  and 
bishops  was  summoned  to  consider  the  project. 
This  assembly  submitted  the  propriety  of  such  an 
enterprise  to  the  Pope,  and  who  after  expressing 
approval,  confided  to  St.  Bernard  the  preaching 
of  a  new  crusade. 

Bernard— who  was  then  Abbot  of  Clairvaux, 
and  at  the  height  of  his  fame— entered  upon  his 
mission  with  zeal.  Having,  in  the  Spring  of  1146, 
convoked  an  assembly  at  Vezelay,   he  presented 


JOHN  GEORGE  EDGAR.      151 

himself  in  the  garb  of  an  anchorite,  and,  on  a  hill 
outside  the  town,  addressed  an  immense  con- 
course, among  whom  figured  the  King  and  Queen 
of  France,  surrounded  by  barons  and  prelates. 
Never  was  an  orator  more  successful.  Indeed, 
Bernard  produced  an  impression  hardly  less  mar- 
velous than  Peter  the  Hermit  had  done  lialf  a  cen- 
tury earlier  ;  and,  as  he  concluded,  his  audience 
raised  the  old  cry  of  "  God  wills  it !"' 

While  the  hillside  was  ringing  with  enthusiastic 
shouts,  Louis,  throwing  himself  on  his  knees,  re- 
ceived the  cross  ;  and  Eleanor  immediately  follow- 
ed her  husband's  example.  Shouts  of  "The 
Cross  !  The  Cross  !  "  then  rose  on  all  hands  ;  and 
peers  and  peasants,  bishops  and  burghers,  rushing 
forward,  cast  themselves  at  Bernard's  feet.  Such 
was  the  demand,  that  the  crosses  provided  for  the 
occasion  were  quite  insufficient.  But  Bernard, 
tearing  up  his  vestments,  got  over  the  difl&culty  ; 
and  the  sacred  emblem  soon  appeared  on  every 
shoulder. 

Elate  with  the  success  of  his  oratory,  Bernard 
traveled  through  France,  preaching  the  crusade  ; 
and  having  in  every  city  and  province  roused  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  populace,  he  repaired  to  Ger- 
manj'.  At  that  time  the  crown  of  the  Empire  of 
the  West  rested  on  the  brow  of  Conrad  III. — but 
not  quite  so  easily  as  he  could  have  wished.  In 
fact,  the  German  Kaiser  had  a  formidable  rival  in 
the  Duke  of  Bavaria,  and  felt  the  reverse  of  secure. 
When,  therefore,  Bernard  reached  Spires,  and 
asked  the  Emperor  to  arm  for  the  defense  of  the 
Holy  Sepulchre,  Conrad,  who  was  holding  a  Diet, 
evinced  no  ardor  for  the  enterprise.  "Consider,"  he 
said,  "  the  troubles  in  which  the  empire  would  be 
Involved."  "The  Holy  See,"  sai<l  Bernard,  "  has 
placed  you  on  the  imi)erial  throne,  and  knows 
how  to  support  you  tlierc.  If  you  defend  God's 
heritage",  the  Clmrcli  will  take  care  of  yours." 

But  still  Conrad  hesitated  ;  and  the  preacher's 
ehMjuenro  was  exertcjd  in  vain.  At  length,  one 
day  wln-n  licrnard  wa.s  saying  Mass  before  the 
emperor  and  the  princes  and  th(!  lords  a.sKenibled 
at  Spires,  lie  paused  in  the  midst  of  the  service  to 


152      JOHN  GEOKGE  EDGAR. 

expatiate  on  the  guilt  of  those  who  refused  to 
fight  against  Clirist's  enemies  ;  and  produced  such 
an  effect  wliile  picturing  the  Day  of  Judgment, 
that  Conrad's  hesitation  vanislied.  "  I  know  what 
I  owe  to  Christ/-  he  said,  approaching,  with  tears 
m  his  eyes  to  receive  the  cross  ;  "  and  I  swear  to  go 
where  his  service  calls  me."— "This  is  a  mira- 
cle ! "  exclaimed  the  peers  and  princes  present, 
as  they  followed  their  sovereign's  example,  and 
vowed  to  attend  his  steps. 

Having  gained  over  Conrad,  the  eloquent  Saint 
pursued  his  triumphs,  and  soon  fired  Germany 
with  zeal.  When  he  returned  to  France,  and  re- 
ported his  success,  preparations  began  in  both 
countries.  Enthusiasm  was  general ;  men  of  all 
ranks  assumed  the  cross  :  and  even  women  vowed 
to  arm  themselves  with  sword  and  lance,  and  took 
an  oath  to  fight  for  the  Holy  Sepulchre. 

It  was  arranged  that  Louis  and  Conrad  should 
depart  in  the  Spring  of  1147,  and  that  the  French 
and  German  armies  should  unite  at  Constantino- 
ple. When  the  time  approached,  all  rushed  east- 
ward, with  the  cry  of  "God  wills  it ! "  and  every 
road  was  covered  with  pilgrims  on  their  way  to 
the  camps.  Bernard  must  almost  have  felt  some 
dismay  at  the  effect  of  his  eloquence.  "  Villages 
and  castles,  are  deserted,"  he  wrote  to  the  Pope, 
"  and  there  are  none  left  but  widows  and  orphans,' 
whose  parents  are  still  living." 

Early  in  the  Spring  of  1147,  Europe  was  in  com- 
motion. Everywhere  in  Germany  and  France 
men  were  seen  with  the  cross  on  their  shoulders. 
Shepherds  flung  down  their  crooks,  husbandmen 
abandoned  their  teams,  traders  quitted  their 
booths,  barons  left  their  castles,  and  bishops  de- 
serted their  bishoprics,  to  arm  for  the  defence  of 
the  Holy  Sepulchre.  From  England,  exhausted 
by  dynastic  war,  and  Italy,  agitated  by  ecclesiast- 
ical strife,  bands  of  warriors  issued  to  swell  the 
armies  of  Conrad  and  Louis.  Many  ladies  armed 
themselves  for  the  crusade,  and  prepared  to 
signalize  their  pimvess  under  the  leadership  of  a 
female  warrior  whose  dress  excited  much  admira- 


MARIA  EDGE  WORTH.  153 

tion,  and  whose  gilded  boots  procured  for  her  the 
name  of  '"Golden-legs.*' 

At  Ratisbon,  about  Easter,  the  Emperor  of 
Germany  assembled  his  warriors.  Accompanied 
by  a  host  of  nobles— among  whom  were  his  broth- 
er Otho,  Bishop  of  Frisigen  :  his  nephew.  Freder- 
ick Barbarossa,  Duke  of  Suabia  :  the  Marquis  of 
Montferrat,  and  the  Duke  of  Bohemia— Conrad 
commenced  his  march  eastward,  at  the  head  of  a 
hundred  thousand  men,  and  sent  messengers  to 
announce  to  the  Emperor  of  the  East  the  intention 
of  the  crusaders  to  cross  the  Greek  territories. 

At  this  period,  Emanuel  Comnenus  reigned  at 
Constantinople.  On  receiving  Conrad's  message 
he  returned  an  answer  highly  complimentary.  But 
while  professing  great  friendship  for  the  new 
crusaders,  he  made  all  their  movements  known  to 
the  Saracens,  and  so  managed  matters  that  their 
march  was  frequently  interrupted.  The  elements 
appeared  not  less  hostile  to  Conrad's  army  than 
the  Greeks.  While  the  Germans  encamped  to 
keep  the  Feast  of  the  Assumption  in  a  valley  on 
the  river  Melas,  a  storm  suddenly  arose,  and 
swelled  so  violently  that  horses,  baggage,  and 
tents  were  carried  away.  The  crusaders,  amazed 
and  terrified,  gathered  themselves  up  ;  and  deplor- 
ing their  mishaps,  pursued  their  way  to  Constan- 
tinople.—ITie  Crusades  and  the  Crusaders. 

EDGEWORTH,  Maria,  a  British  novelist, 
bom  in  1767,  died  in  1849.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  Richard  Lovell  Edgeworth  and 
his  first  wife,  and  was  born  in  Berkshire 
County,  England.  She  was  educated  by  her 
father,  who  wlicn  she  was  fifteen  years  of 
age,  removed  to  Ireland  with  his  family.  In 
1798  Practiidt  I-yiurafuni,  the  Joint  work  of 
father  and  daught<'r,  was  published.  Two 
years  later  ajjix-arcil  Cnstlr  liackrrnt,  the 
sole  work  of  iXw  daughter,  which  at  once  es- 
tabUshed  her  reputation  as  a  novelist.  This 
wn8  followed  by  another  novel,  Belinda,  and 
by  an  Essay  on  Irish  Jinlls.ihn  latter,  however, 


154  MARIA  EDGEWORTH. 

was  written  in  partnership  with  her  father. 
In  1804  appeared  Popular  Tales;  in  1809-12 
Tales  of  Fashionable  Life,  including  Ennui, 
Tlie  Dun,  Manoeuvring,  Almeira,  Vivian, 
The  Absentee,  Madame  de  Fleury,  and  Emile 
de  Coulanges.  These  works  contain  several 
fine  character-studies.  They  were  followed 
by  Patronage  (1814),  and  Harrington,  Or- 
mond,  and  Comic  Dramas  (1817).  Mr.  Edge- 
worth  died  in  this  year,  and  his  daughter 
devoted  herself  to  the  completion  of  his 
Memoirs,  which  had  been  commenced  by  him. 
They  were  published  in  1820.  In  1822  ap- 
peared Rosamond,  a  Sequel  to  Early  Lessons, 
to  which  Mr.  Edgeworth  had  contributed,  in 
1825  Harry  and  Lucy,  and  in  1834  Helen,  one 
of  her  best  novels.  Miss  Edgeworth  aimed  to 
paint  national  manners,  and  to  enforce  mor- 
ality. Her  works  are  delineations  of  charac- 
ter, and  are  characterized  by  good  sense  and 
humor.  She  is  eminently  successful  in  de- 
picting the  Irish  character.  Her  vivacious 
dialogue,  varied  incident,  and  clear  and  flow- 
ing style  render  her  novels,  if  not  intensely 
interesting,  extremely  pleasant  reading.  '  'As 
a  painter  of  national  life  and  manners,  and  an 
illustrator  of  the  homelier  graces  of  human 
character.  Miss  Edgeworth  is  surpassed  by 
Sir  Walter  Scott  alone  ;  while  as  a  direct 
moral  teacher,  she  has  no  peer  among  novel- 
ists." 

THADY  INTRODUCES  THE  RACKRENT  FAMILY. 
M}^  real  name  is  Thady  Quirk,  though  in  the 
family  I  have  always  been  known  by  no  other 
than  ' '  honest  Thady ; "  afterward,  in  the  time  of 
Sir  Murtagh,  deceased,  I  remember  to  hear  them 
calling  me  ''  old  Thady,"  and  now  I'm  come  to 
"  poor  Thady  ; "  for  I  wear  a  long  great-coat  win- 
ter and  summer,  which  is  very  handy,  as  I  never 
put  my  arms  into  the  sleeves  ;  they  are  as  good  as 
new,  though  come  Holantide  next  I've  had  it  these 


ILMilA  EDGEWORTH.  155 

seven  years  ;  it  holds  on  by  a  single  button  round 
my  neck,  cloak-fashion.  To  lo^k  at  me  you  would 
hardly  think  •'  poor  Thadj"'  was  the  father  of  At- 
torney Quirk  :  he  is  a  high  gentleman,  and  never 
minds  what  poor  Th-^dy  says,  and  having  better 
than  fifteen  hundred  a  year,  landed  estate,  looks 
down  upon  honest  Thady  ;  but  I  wash  my  hands  of 
his  doings,  and  as  I  have  lived,  so  will  I  die — true 
and  loyal  to  the  family.  The  family  of  the  Rack- 
rents  is,  I  am  proud  to  say,  one  of  the  most  an- 
cient in  the  kingdom.  Everybody  knows  this  is 
not  the  old  family  name,  which  was  O'Shaughlin, 
related  to  the  kings  of  Ireland — but  that  was  be- 
fore my  time.  My  gi-andfather  was  driver  of  the 
great  Sir  Patrick  O'Shaughlin,  and  I  heard  him 
when  I  was  a  boy,  telling  how  the  Castle  Rack- 
rent  estate  came  to  Sir  Patrick  ;  Sir  Tallyhoo 
Rackrent  was  cousin-german  to  him,  and  had  a 
fine  estate  of  his  own,  only  never  a  gate  upon  it, 
it  being  his  maxim  that  a  car  was  the  best  gate. 
Poor  gentleman  !  he  lost  a  fine  hunter  and  his  life 
at  last  by  it,  all  in  one  day's  hunt.  But  I  ought 
to  bless  that  day,  for  the  estate  came  straight  into 
the  family,  upon  one  condition  which  Sir  Patrick 
O'Shaughlin  at  the  time  took  sadly  to  lieart,  they 
say,  but  thought  better  of  it  afterward,  seeing 
how  large  a  stake  depended  upon  it — that  he 
should,  by  act  of  Parliament,  take  and  bear  the 
surname  and  arms  of  Rackrent. 

Now  it  wa.s  that  the  world  was  to  see  what  was 
in  Sir  Patrick.  On  coming  into  the  estate  he 
gave  the  finest  entertainment  ever  was  heard  of  in 
the  country  ;  not  a  man  could  stand  after  supper 
but  Sir  Patrick  himself,  who  could  sit  out  the 
best  man  in  Ireland,  let  alone  the  three  kingdoms 
itHelf.  He  ha<l  his  Ixjuse,  from  one  year's  end  to 
another,  as  full  of  company  as  ever  it  could  liold, 
and  fuller  ;  for  ratlicr  than  hf  left  out  of  the 
parties  at  ('a.stle  liackrent,  many  gentlemen,  and 
those  men  of  the  first  consequence  and  landed  es- 
tat<'8  in  the  country — sudi  ;ih  the  O'Neils  of  Bally- 
nagrotty,  and  the  Moneygawis  of  Mount  Juliet's 
Town,  and  O'Shannons  of  New  Town  Tullyhog— 
made  it  their  clioice,  often  and  often,  when  there 


156  MARIA  EDGE  WORTH. 

was  no  moon  to  be  had  for  love  or  money,  in  long 
winter  nights,  to  sleep  in  the  chicken-liouse,  wliich 
Sir  Patrick  had  fitted  up  for  the  purpose  of  ac- 
commodating his  friends  and  the  public  in  gen- 
eral, who  liorored  him  unexpectedly  at  Castle 
Rackrent ;  and  this  went  on  I  can't  tell  you  how 
long — the  wliole  country  rang  witli  his  praises — 
Long  life  to  him  !  I  'm  sure  I  love  to  look  upon 
his  picture,  now  opposite  to  me  ;  though  I  never 
saw  him,  he  must  have  been  a  portly  gentleman 
— his  neck  something  short,  and  remarkable  for 
the  largest  pimple  on  his  nose,  which,  by  his  par- 
ticular desire,  is  still  extant  in  his  picture,  said  to 
be  a  striking  likeness,  though  taken  when  young. 
He  is  said  also  to  be  the  inventor  of  raspberry 
whiskey,  which  is  very  likely.  ...  A  few  days 
before  his  death  he  was  very  merry  ;  it  being  his 
honor's  birthday,  he  called  my  grandfather  in, 
God  bless  him  !  to  drink  the  company's  health, 
and  filled  a  bumper  himself,  but  could  not  carry 
it  to  his  head,  on  account  of  the  great  shake  in  his 
liand ;  on  this  he  cast  his  joke,  saying,  '  "What 
would  my  poor  father  say  to  me  if  he  was  to  pop 
out  of  the  grave  and  see  me  now  ?  I  remember 
when  I  was  a  little  boy,  the  first  bumper  of  claret 
he  gave  me  after  dinner,  how  he  praised  me  for 
carrying  it  so  steady  to  my  mouth.  Here  's  my 
thanks  to  him — a  bumper  toast.'  Then  he  fell  to 
singing  the  favorite  song  he  learned  from  his 
father — for  the  last  time,  poor  gentleman  ;  he 
sung  it  that  night  as  loud  and  as  hearty  as  ever, 
with  a  chorus  : 

He  that  goes  to  bed,  and  goes  to  bed  sober,  [October  ; 

Falls  as  the  leaves  do,  falls  as  the  leaves  do,  and  dies  in 
But  he  that  goes  to  bed,  and  goes  to  bed  mellow. 
Lives  as  he  ought  to  do,  lives  as  he  ought  to  do,  and  dies  tja 
honest  fellow. 

* '  Sir  Patrick  died  that  night:  just  as  the  company 
rose  to  drink  his  health  with  three  cheers,  he  fell 
down  in  a  sort  of  fit,  and  was  carried  off  :  they 
sat  it  out,  and  were  surprised,  on  inquiry  in 
the  morning,  to  find  that  it  was  all  over  with 
poor  Sir  Patrick.  Never  did  any  gentleman  live 
and  die  more  beloved  in  the  country  by  rich  and 
poor.     His  funeral  was  such  a  one  as  was  never 


MARIA  EDGEWORTH.  157 

known  before  or  since  in  the  county !  All  the 
gentlemen  in  the  three  counties  were  at  it ;  far  and 
near  how  they  flocked  !  my  great-grandfather 
said,  that  to  see  all  the  women  in  their  red 
cloaks,  you  would  have  taken  them  for  the  army 
drawn  out.  Then  such  a  fine  whillaluh  !  you  might 
have  heard  it  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  county, 
and  happy  the  man  who  could  get  but  a  sight  of 
the  hearse  I  But  who'd  have  thought  it?  just  as 
all  was  going  on  right — through  his  own  town 
they  were  passing — when  the  body  was  seized  for 
debt.  A  rescue  was  apprehended  from  the  mob, 
but  the  heir,  who  attended  the  funeral,  was 
against  that,  for  fear  of  consequences,  seeing  that 
those  villains  who  came  to  serve  acted  under  the 
disguise  of  the  law  ;  so,  to  be  sure,  the  law  must 
take  its  course,  and  little  gain  had  the  creditors 
for  their  pains.  First  and  foremost,  they  had  the 
curses  of  the  country  ;  and  Sir  Murtagh  Rackrent, 
the  new  heir,  in  the  next  place,  on  account  of  this 
affront  to  the  body,  refused  to  pay  a  shilling  of 
the  debts,  in  which  he  was  countenanced  by  all 
the  best  gentlemen  of  property,  and  others  of  his 
acquaintance.  .  .  . 

'•  Sir  Murtagh— I  forgot  entirely  to  mention  that 
—had  no  childer.  so  the  Rackrent  estate  went  to 
his  younger  brother,  a  young  dashing  officer,  who 
came  among  us  before  I  knew  for  the  life  of  me 
whereabouts  I  was,  in  a  gig  or  some  of  them 
things,  with  another  spark  along  with  him,  and 
led-horses,  and  servants,  and  dogs,  and  scarce  a 
place  to  put  any  Christian  of  them  into  ;  for  my 
late  lady  had  sent  all  the  feather-beds  off  before 
her,  and  blankets  and  household  linen,  down  to 
the  very  knife-cloths,  on  the  cars  to  Dublin, 
wliieh  were  all  her  own,  lawfully  \y,ik\  for  out  of 
her  own  money.  So  the  house  wa.s  quite  bare, 
an<l  Miy  young  nia-ster.  the  moment  ever  he  set 
foot  in  it  f)Ut  of  his  gig,  tliouglit  all  those  things 
iiiuHt  fome  of  theniselves,  I  l)elieve,  for  lie  never 
looked  after  anything  at  all,  but  harum-Kcarum 
railed  fr)r  everytliing,  as  if  we  were  conjurors,  or 
he  in  a  public  liouse.  For  my  part,  I  could  not 
lieatir  niyHelf  anyhow  ;   I  liad  been  so  mucli  used 


158     RICHARD  LOVKLL  EDGEWORTH. 

to  my  late  master  and  mistress,  all  was  upside 
down  with  me,  and  the  new  servants  in  the  serv- 
ants' hall  were  quite  out  of  my  way  ;  I  had  no- 
l)ody  to  talk  to,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  pipe 
and  tobacco,  should.  I  verily  believe,  have  broke 
my  heart  for  poor  Sir  Murtagh.  But  one  morn- 
ing as  my  new  master  cauglit  a  glimpse  of  me,  as 
I  was  looking  at  liis  horse's  heels  in  hopes  of  a 
word  from  him,  'And  is  that  old  Thady?' 
says  he,  as  he  got  into  his  gig.  I  loved  him  from 
that  day  to  this,  his  voice  was  so  like  the  family  ; 
and  he  threw  me  a  guinea  out  of  his  waistcoat 
iwcket,  as  he  drew  up  the  reins  with  his  other 
hand,  his  horse  rearing  too  ;  I  thought  I  never  set 
my  eyes  on  a  finer  figure  of  a  man,  quite  another 
sort  from  Sir  Murtagh,  though  withal,  to  me,  a 
family  likeness.  A  fine  life  should  we  have  led  had 
he  staid  among  us,  God  bless  him  !  He  valued  a 
guinea  as  little  as  any  man ;  money  to  him  was  no 
more  than  dirt,  and  his  gentleman,  and  groom, 
and  all  belonging  to  him,  the  same  ;  but  the  sport- 
ing season  over,  he  grew  tired  of  the  place, 
and  having  got  down  a  gi'eat  architect  for  the 
house,  and  an  improver  for  the  grounds,  and  seen 
their  plans  and  elevations,  he  fixed  a  day  for  set- 
tling with  the  tenants,  but  went  off  in  a  whirl- 
wind to  town,  just  as  some  of  them  came  into  the 
yard  in  the  morning. — Castle  Backrent. 

EDGEWORTH,  RICHARD  Lovell,  the 
father  of  Maria,  born  at  Bath,  England,  in 
1744,  died  in  1817.  He  came  of  an  Irish  fami- 
ly, and  was  educated  at  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  and  at  Oxford.  He  had  great  me- 
chanical ingenuity.  In  1771  he  took  part  in 
the  superintendence  of  works  undertaken  to 
alter  the  course  of  the  Rhone,  and  resided  in 
Lyons  for  two  years.  In  1782  he  removed  to 
Ireland.  He  entered  the  Irish  Parliament  in 
1798,  and  was  one  of  the  opponents  of  the 
union  of  England  and  Ireland.  Besides  par- 
liamentary reports  he  wrote,  either  alone,  or 
in  conjunction  with  his  daughter,  Practical 


ANyiE  EDWARDES.  159- 

Education  (1798),  Early  Lessons,  Essay  on 
Irish  Bulls  (1802),  Professional  Education 
(1808),  Essay  on  the  Constriictioh  of  Roads 
and  Carriages  (1813).  and  numerous  essays  on 
scientific  subjects.  His  Memoirs,  begun  by 
him,  were  completed  after  his  death,  by  his 
daughter. 

EDWARDES,  ANNIE,  an  English  author, 
has  written  numerous  interestmg  novels, 
among  which  are  A  Point  of  Honor,  A  Blue 
Stocking,  Steven  Laivrence,  Susan  Fielding, 
Archie  Lovell,  Jet:  Her  Face  or  Her  For- 
tune, Leah  :  A  Woman  of  Fashion,  Ought  we 
to  Visit  Her,  Vivian,  the  Beauty,  Philip 
Earnscliffe,  and  A  Girton  Girl. 

LEARNING  HIS  FATE. 

He  had  spoken  no  syllable  of  his  passioVi  to  Di- 
nah, was  too  self-distrustful  to  tell  his  secret  by 
means  so  matter-of-fact  as  a  sheet  of  paper  and 
tlie  post.  And  so,  like  many  another  timid  suitor, 
Geoffrey  Arbuthnot  elected  to  play  a  losing  game. 
With  immense  fidelity  in  his  breast,  but  with- 
out a  word  of  explanation,  he  set  off  by  noon 
of  that  day  to  London — not  ignorant  that  Gas- 
ton's eyes  and  those  of  Dinah  Tliurston  had  al- 
ready met.  A  girl's  vanity,  if  not  lier  heart, 
might  well  have  been  wcunded  by  such  conduct. 
In  after  times  Geoffrey  Arbuthnot,  musing  over 
his  lost  hai)piness,  would  apply  such  medicine  to 
liis  sore  spirit  as  the  limited  pharmacopoeia  of 
dlsapjMjintment  can  offer.  If  be  bad  had  a  man's 
metal,  if  instead  of  flying  like  a  schoolby,  he  had 
K;iid  to  her,  on  that  evening  when  G;uston  drove 
past  tbeni  at  the  f^aU'.  "Take  me  or  reject  me, 
but  choose  1 " — bad  lie  thus  spoken,  Geoffrey  used 
to  think,  he  might  have  won  her. 

Ti)-n\^ht,  on  the  Guernsey  waste  land,  with 
heaven  so  broad  alxive,  with  earth  so  friendly,  the 
past  seemed  tfi  return  to  him  without  effort  of  his 
own,  and  without  stiu)^.  .  .  .  .Springing  to  his 
feet,  (h'offrey  resolved  to  l)roo<l  over  the  irrcvoca- 


160  ANNIE  EDWARDRS. 

ble  no  longer.  He  emptied  the  ashes  from  his 
pipe,  then  replaced  it,  witli  Dinah's  delicate  mor- 
sel of  handiwork,  in  his  pocket.  He  took  out  his 
watch.  It  was  more  than  time  for  him  to  be  off  ; 
and  after  a  farewell  glance  at  the  campanula- 
shrouded  knolls,  Geff  started  briskly  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Tintajeux  Manoir.  .  .  .  He  was  dusty  and 
wearied  when  he  drew  near  the  village.  The  rec- 
tory, the  seven  public-houses  of  Lesser  Cheriton, 
looked  more  blankly  unhabited  than  usual. 
Some  barn-door  fowls,  a  few  shining-necked  pi- 
geons, strutted  up  and  down  the  High  Street,  its 
only  occupants.  When  he  readied  the  cottage  no 
one  answered  his  i"ing.  The  aunt  was  evidently 
absent.  Dinah,  thought  Geoffrey,  would  be  busy 
among  her  flowers,  or  might  have  taken  her  sew- 
ing to  the  orchard  that  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the 
garden.  He  had  been  told,  on  some  former  visit, 
to  go  round,  if  the  bell  was  unanswered,  to  a  side 
entrance,'  lift  the  kitchen-latch,  and  if  the  door 
was  unbolted,  enter.  He  did  so  now  ;  passed 
through  the  kitchen,  burnished  and  neat  as 
though  it  came  out  of  a  Dutch  picture — through 
the  tiny,  cool-smelUng  dairy,  and  out  into  the 
large  shadows  of  the  garden  beyond. 

Silence  met  him  everywhere.  The  roses,  only 
budding  a  fortnight  ago,  had  now  yearned 
into  June's  deep  crimson.  The  fruit-tree  leaves 
had  grown  long  and  greyish,  forming  an  impene- 
trable screen  which  shut  out  familiar  perspectives, 
and  gave  Geoffrey  a  sense  of  strangeness  that  he 
liked  not.  Under  the  south  wall,  where  the  ap- 
ricots already  looked  like  yellowing,  was  a  turf 
path  leading  you  field  ward,  through  the  entire 
length  of  the  garden.  Along  tins  path  with  unin- 
tentionally muffled  footsteps,  Geoffivy  Arbuthnot 
trod.  When  he  reached  the  hedge  that  formed 
the  final  boundary  between  garden  and  orchard  a 
man's  voice  fell  on  his  ear.  He  stopped,  trans- 
fixed, as  one  might  do  to  whom  the  surgeon's  ver- 
dict of  "  No  Hope  ■"  lias  been  delivered  with  cruel 
unexpectedness.  The  voice  was  his  cousin  Gas- 
ton's. .  .  .  Youth,  the  possibility  of  every  youth- 
ful joy,  died  out  in  that  moment's  anguish,  from 


AMELIA  BLANDFORD  EDWARDS.      161 

Geff  Arbuthnot's  heart.  But  the  stuff  the  man 
was  made  of  showed  itself.  More  potent  than  all 
juice  of  f^ape  is  pain  for  evoking  the  best  and  the 
worst  from  human  souls.  Desolate,  bemocked  of 
fate,  he  turned  away,  the  door  of  his  earthly  Para- 
dise shutting  on  him.  walked  back  to  the  schol- 
ar's attic  in  John's,  whose  full  loneliness  he  had 
never  realized  till  now,  and  during  two  hours' 
space  gave  way  to  such  abandonment  as  even  the 
bravest  men  know  under  the  \vTench  of  sudden 
and  total  loss.— During  two  hours'  space!  Then 
the  lad  gathered  up  his  strength  and  faced  the 
position.  As  regarded  himself,  the  path  lay  plain. 
He  must  work  up  to  the  collar,  hot  and  liard, 
leaving  himself  no  time  to  feel  the  parts  that 
were  galled  and  wrung.  But  the  others  ?  At  the 
point  which  all  had  reached,  what  was  his,  Geoffrey 
Arbuthnot's,  duty  in  respect  to  them  ?  It  was  his 
duty,  he  thought— after  a  somewhat  blind  and 
confused  fashion,  doubtless— to  stand  like  a  bro- 
ther to  this  woman  who  did  not  love  him.  Stifling 
every  baser  feeling  towards  Gaston,  it  was  his 
duty  to  further,  if  he  could,  the  happiness  of  them 
botii.  The  sun  should  not  go  down  on  his  despair. 
He  would  see  his  rival,  would  visit  Dinah  Thurs- 
ton's lover  to-night.— .1  Girton  Girl. 

EDWARDS,  Amelia  Bl.\ndford,  an  Eng- 
lish author,  born  in  London,  in  1831.  She 
was  educated  at  home.  When  seven  years 
old  she  sh<jwed  her  talent  for  literature,  and 
before  she  was  fourteen  contributed  to  the 
Family  Herald  and  otlier  minor  jx-riodicals. 
Her  first  novel  was  ^f^J  Brollirr's  Wife  (\H't'>). 
It  was  followed  by  The  Ladder  of  Life  ( IS.')7). 
Hand  and  Glove  (1K.")0),  Barbara  s  Hisfori/ 
(18641,  Half  it  Million  of  Monet/,  ^[iss  Caren\ 
a  volume  of  short  stories,  and  Ballads  (ISO.')), 
Deheitham'y  Votv  (IKC.O, /«  the  Days  of  my 
Youth,  Monme.nr  Maurice  (1873),  and  I^ml 
Brarkenlmry  (\HH()).  Miss  Edwards  ha«  also 
written  A  Summary  of  English  History 
(1856),  The  History  of  France  (1858),  The  Sto- 


162     AMELIA  BLANDFORD  EDWARDS. 

ry  of  Cervantes  (1863),  Untrodden  Peaks  and 
Unfrequented  Valleys  (1873),  A  Thousand 
Miles  up  the  Nile  (1877),  and  other  works. 
She  is  one  of  the  leading  Egyptologists  of 
England,  a  member  of  the  Biblical  Archaeolog- 
ical Society  and  of  the  Society  for  the  Pro- 
motion of  Hellenic  Studies,  and  is  a  contribu- 
tor to  English  and  foreign  journals  and  to  the 
Encyclopaedia  Britannica. 

IN  ROME. 

We  lived  on  the  Pincian  Hill,  close  by  the  gar- 
dens of  the  French  Academy.  Far  and  wide  be- 
neath our  windows  lay  the  spires  and  housetops  of 
the  Eternal  city,  with  the  Doria  pines  standing 
out  against  the  western  horizon.  At  the  back 
we  had  a  loggia  overlooking  the  garden  studios  of 
the  French  school,  with  the  plantations  of  the 
Borghese  Villa  and  the  snow-streaked  Appenines 
beyond.  Ah,  what  glorious  sights  and  sounds  we 
had  from  those  upper  windows  on  the  Pincian 
Hill !  What  pomp  and  pageantry  of  cloud  !  What 
mists  of  golden  dawn  !  What  flashes  of  crimson 
sunset  upon  distant  peaks !  How  often  we  heard 
the  cliimes  at  midnight,  rung  out  from  three  hun- 
dred cliurches,  and  were  awakened  in  the  early 
morning  by  military  music,  and  the  tramp  of 
French  troops  marching  to  parade !  After  break- 
fast, we  used  to  go  down  into  the  city  to  see 
some  public  or  private  collection  ;  or,  map  in 
hand,  trace  the  sight  of  a  temple  or  a  forum. 
Sometimes  we  made  pious  pilgrimages  to  places 
famous  in  art  or  history,  such  as  the  house  of  Ri- 
enzi,  the  tomb  of  Raffaelle,  or  the  graves  of  our 
poets  in  the  Protestant  Burial-ground.  Some- 
times, when  the  morning  was  wet  or  dull,  we 
passed  a  few  pleasant  liours  in  the  studios  of  the 
Via  Margutta,  where  the  artists  "most  do  congre- 
gate," or  loitered  our  time  away  among  the  curi- 
osity shops  of  the  Via  Condotti.  Later  in  the  day 
our  horses  were  brouglit  round,  and  we  rode  or 
drove  beyond  the  walls,  towards  Antemnae  or 
Veii  ;  or  along  the  meadows  beliind  the  Vatican  ; 
or  out  hy  tlie  fountain  of  Egeria,  in  siglit  of  those 


AMELIA  BLANDFORD  EDWARDS.     163 

ruined  aqueducts  which  thread  the  brown  wastes 
of  the  Campagna,  like  a  funeral  procession  turned 
to  stone.  Then,  when  evening  came,  we  piled  the 
logs  upon  the  liearth  and  read  aloud  by  turns  ;  or 
finished  the  morning's  sketches.  Now  and  then,  if 
it  were  moonhght,  we  went  out  again  ;  and  some- 
times, though  seldom,  dropped  in  for  an  hour  at 
the  Opera,  or  tlie  Theatre  Metastasio.  .  .  .  Thus 
the  winter  months  glided  away,  and  the  spring- 
time came,  and  Lent  was  kept  and  ended.  Thus 
Rome  made  holiday  at  Easter  ;  and  the  violets 
grew  thicker  than  ever  on  the  grave  of  Keats ;  and 
the  primroses  lay  in  clusters  of  pale  gold  about  the 
cypress  glades  of  Monte  Mario.  Thus,  too,  we  ex- 
tended oiu-  rambles  for  many  a  mile  beyond  the 
city  walls,  trampling  the  wild  flowers  of  the  Cam- 
pagna ;  tracking  the  antique  boundaries  of  Lutium 
and  Etruria  :  mapping  out  the  battle-fields  of  the 
j^neid;  and  visiting  the  sites  of  cities  whose  history 
has  been  for  long  centuries  confounded  with  tra- 
dition, and  whose  temples  were  dedicated  to  a  re- 
ligion of  which  the  poetry  and  the  ruins  alone  sur- 
vive. It  was  indeed  a  happy,  happy  time ;  and  the 
days  went  by  as  if  they  had  been  set  to  music.  .  . 

One  day,  as  the  Spring  was  rapidly  merging  into 
Summer,  we  drove  out  from  Rome  to  Albano. 
It  was  quite  early  .when  we  started.  The  grassy 
mounds  of  the  Campo  Vaccino  were  crowded 
with  bullock-tracks  as  we  went  down  the  Sacred 
Road  ;  and  the  brown  walls  of  the  Colosseum 
were  touched  with  golden  sunshine.  The  same 
shadows  tliat  had  fallen  daily  for  centuries  in  the 
same  places,  darkened  the  windings  of  the  lower 
passages.  The  bine  day  shone  tlirough  the  upper- 
most arches,  and  the  shrubs  that  grew  upon  them 
waved  t(j  and  fro  in  the  morning  breeze.  A  monk 
was  preachijig  in  the  midst  of  thf  arena  ;  and  a 
French  military  band  was  practicing  upon  the 
op«'n  ground  iM-hind  the  building. 

"  Oh.  for  a  living  Ciesar  to  expel  these  Gauls  !  " 
muttered  Hugh,  aiming  the  <'nd  of  bis  cigarat  the 
spurred  heels  of  a  dandy  little  .<?oJ/.s/jV7</«^>i«H^  who 
was  sjiuntering  "  delicately,"  like  King  Agag,  on 
the  Hunny  side  of  the  road. 


ir,t     AMELIA  BLANDFOllI)  EDWARDS. 

Passing  out  by  the  San  Giovanni  gate,  we  en- 
tered upon  those  broad  wastes  tliat  lie  to  the 
soutlieast  of  the  city.  (Join^  forward  theiiec, 
witli  the  aijuoducts  to  our  left,  and  the  old  Appian 
Waj'.  lined  with  erumbling  sepulchres,  reacliiiig 
for  miles  in  one  unswerving  line  to  our  far  riglit, 
we  soon  left  Rome  behind.  Faint  patches  of 
vegetation  gleamed  here  and  there,  like  streaks  of 
light ;  and  nameless  ruins  lay  scattered  broadcast 
over  the  bleak  shores  of  this  ' '  most  desolate  re- 
gion." Sometimes  we  came  upon  a  primitive  bul- 
lock-wagon, or  a  peasant  driving  an  ass  laden  with 
green  boughs ;  but  these  signs  of  life  were  rare. 
Presently  we  passed  the  remains  of  a  square  tem- 
ple, with  Corinthian  pilasters — then  a  drove  of 
shaggy  ponies — then  a  little  truck  with  a  tiny 
pent-house  reared  on  one  side  of  the  seat,  to  keep 
the  driver  from  the  sun — then  a  flock  of  rusty 
sheep — a  stagnant  pool — a  clump  of  stunted  trees 
— a  conical  thatched  hut — a  round  sepulchre,  half 
buried  in  the  soil  of  ages — a  fragment  of  broken 
arch  ;  and  so  on,  for  miles  and  miles,  across  the 
barren  plain.  By  and  by,  we  saw  a  drove  of 
buffaloes  scouring  along  toward  the  aqueducts, 
followed  by  a  mounted  herdsman,  buskined  and 
brown,  with  his  lance  in  his  hand,  his  blue  cloak 
floating  behind  him,  and  his  sombrero  down  upon 
his  brow — the  very  picture  of  a  Mexican  hunter. 
Now  the  Campagna  was  left  behind,  and  Albano 
stood  straight  before  us,  on  the  summit  of  a  steep 
and  weary  hill.  Low  lines  of  whitewashed  wall 
bordered  the  road  on  either  side,  inclosing  fields 
of  fascijie,  ox'chards,  olive-grounds,  and  gloomy 
plantations  of  cypresses  and  pines.  Next  came  a 
range  of  sand-banks  with  cavernous  hollows  and 
deep  undershadows  ;  next,  an  old  cinque-cento 
gateway,  crumbling  away  by  the  roadside  ;  then  a 
little  wooden  cross  on  an  overhanging  crag  ;  then 
the  sepulchre  of  Pompey  ;  and  then  the  gates  of 
Albano,  through  which  we  rattled  into  the  town, 
and  up  to  the  entrance  of  the  Hotel  de  Russie. 
Here  we  tasted  the  wine  that  Horace  praised, 
and  lunched  in  a  room  that  overlooked  a  brown 
sea  of  Campagna,  with  the  hazy  Mediterranean  on 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS.  165 

the  farthest  horizon,  and  tower  of  Corioli  standing 
against  the  clear  sky  to  our  left.— Barbara's  His- 
tory. 

EDWARDS,  Jonathan,  an  American  di- 
vine and  metaphysician,  born  at  East  Wind- 
sor, Conn.,  in  1703,  died  at  Princeton,  N.  J., 
in  1758.  He  entered  Yale  College  at  thirteen, 
and  was  licenced  to  preach  at  nineteen  ;  but 
before  accepting  any  regular  pastoral  charge, 
he  resolved  to  devote  two  more  years  to 
study.  From  1724  to  1726  he  was  tutor  at 
Yale.  Early  in  1727  he  was  ordained  as  col- 
league to  his  maternal  grandfather,  Mr.  Stod- 
dard, the  pastor  at  Northampton,  Mass.,  be- 
coming sole  minister,  two  years  later,  upon 
the  death  of  Mr.  Stoddard.  His  ministry  at 
Northampton  lasted  twenty-four  years.  Dis- 
putes upon  ecclesiastical  points  arose  between 
him  and  his  congregation,  and  he  was  forced 
to  resign.  He  then  became  a  missionary 
among  the  remnant  of  the  Housatonuck 
Indians  at  Stockbridge,  Mass.,  where  he 
wrote  the  Inquiry  into  the  Freedom  of  the 
Will ;  GocVs  La-nt  End  in  the  Creation,  the 
treatises  on  The  Affections,  on  Original  Sin, 
and  on  The  Nature  of  True  Virtue,  and  pro- 
jected a  voluminous  History  of  Redemption, 
which  had  been  begun  several  years  before. 
In  1757  his  son-in-law,  Rev.  Aaron  Burr, 
President  of  Princeton  College,  died,  and  Ed- 
wards was  chosen  as  his  successor.  He  was 
installed  in  this  otHce  in  February,  1758,  but 
died  a  month  after,  from  an  attack  of  small- 
pox. Besides  the  works  already  mentioned 
and  a  Life  of  Dacid  Brainard,  his  son-in-law, 
numerous  Sermons  of  Edwards'  were  pub- 
lishf^d  during  lus  lifetime  and  after  his  death. 
Several  editions  of  his  Works  have  been  pub- 
lished; the  most  complete  of  whicli,  with  a 
Memoir,  is  by  his  great-grandson  Sereno  Ed- 


16(5  JONATHAN  EDWARDS. 

wards  Dwight  (10  vols.,  1830;  afterwards  in 
a  more  compact  form  in  4  large  volumes). 

His  son,  Jonathan  Edwards,  Jr.,  (1745- 
1801)  was  educated  at  Princeton,  where  he 
became  tutor  after  his  graduation.  In  1769 
he  was  ordained  pastor  of  the  church  at 
White  Haven,  Conn.,  continuing  as  such 
until  1795,  when  he  resigned  in  consequence 
of  theological  diflCerences  between  him  and 
his  congregation.  In  1799  he  was  elected 
President  of  Union  College,  Schenectady,  N. 
Y.,  but  died  two  years  after  his  inauguration. 
His  Complete  Wo7'ks,  edited,  with  a  Memoir, 
by  his  grandson,  Rev.  Tryon  Edwards,  were 
published,  in  2  vols.,  in  1842.— Tryon  Ed- 
wards, (1809 ),  graduated  at  Yale,  studied 

theology  and  afterwards  law,  and  in  1834  be- 
came pastor  at  Rochester,  N.  Y.,  and  in  1845 
at  New  London,  Conn.  He  was  a  frequent 
contributor  to  religious  periodicals,  and  wrote 
or  compiled  several  books,  among  which  are : 
Self -Cultivation  (1843j,  Select  Poetry  for 
Children  and  Youth  (1851),  The  World's 
Laconics  (1852),  and  Sketches  for  the  Fireside 
(1867). 

THE  WILL  DETERMINED  BY  THE  STRONGEST  MOTIVE. 
By  determining  the  Will — if  the  phrase  be  used 
with  any  meaning — must  be  intended,  causing 
that  the  act  of  the  Will  or  choice  should  be 
thus,  and  not  otherwise  :  and  the  Will  is  said  to 
be  determined  when,  in  consequence  of  some 
action  or  influence,  its  choice  is  directed  to,  and 
fixed  upon  a  particular  object.  As  when  we  speak 
of  the  determination  of  motion,  we  mean  causing 
the  motion  of  the  body  to  be  such  a  way,  or  in 
such  a  dnection,  rather  than  another.  To  talk  of 
the  determination  of  the  Will,  supposes  an  effect, 
which  must  have  a  cause.  If  the  Will  be  deter- 
mined, there  is  a  determiner.  This  must  be  sup- 
posed to  be  intended  even  by  them  that  say  the 
Will  determines  itself.  If  it  be  so,  the  Will  is 
both  determiner  and  determined  ;    it  is  a  cause 


JONATILVN  EDWARDS.  167 

that  acts  and  produces  effects  upon  itself,  and  is 
the  object  of  its  own  influence  and  action. 

With  respect  to  that  grand  inquiry,  What  determ- 
ines the  Will  ?  it  is  sufficient  to  my  present  pur- 
pose to  say,  it  is  a  motive,  which,  as  it  stands  in 
the  view  of  the  mind,  is  the  strongest,  that  determ- 
ines the  Will.  By  motive  I  mean  the  whole  of 
that  whicli  moves,  excites,  or  invites  the  mind  to 
volition,  whether  that  be  one  thing  singly,  or 
many  things  conjunctly.  Many  particular  things 
may  concur  and  unite  their  strength  to  induce 
the  mind  ;  and,  when  it  is  so,  all  together  are  as  it 
were  one  complex  motive.  And  when  I  speak  of 
the  strongest  motive.  I  have  respect  tothestrength 
of  the  whole  that  operates  to  induce  to  a  particu- 
lar act  of  voUtion,  whether  that  be  the  strength  of 
one  thing  alone,  or  of  many  together.  Whatever 
is  a  motive,  in  this  sense,  must  be  something  that 
is  extant  in  the  view  or  apprehension  of  the  un- 
derstanding, or  perceiving  faculty.  Nothing  can 
induce  or  invite  the  mind  to  will  or  to  act  any 
thing,  any  further  than  it  is  perceived,  or  is  in 
some  way  or  other  in  the  mind's  view  ;  for  what 
is  wholly  unperceived,  and  perfectly  out  of  the 
mind's  view,  cannot  affect  the  mind  at  all.  It  is 
most  evident  tliat  nothing  is  in  tlie  mind,  or 
reaches  it,  or  takes  any  hold  of  it,  any  other  wise 
than  as  it  is  perceived  or  thought  of. 

And  I  think  it  must  be  allowed  by  all  that  every 
thing  that  is  proj>erly  called  a  motive,  excitement, 
or  inducemeijt  to  a  perceiving,  willing  agent,  has 
some  sort  and  degree  of  tendency  or  advantage  to 
move  or  excite  the  Will,  previous  to  the  effect, 
or  to  the  act  of  the  Will  excited.  This  previous 
tendency  of  the  motive  is  what  I  call  the  strength 
of  the  motive.  That  motive  which  has  a  less  de- 
gree of  previous  advantage,  or  tendency  to  move 
the  Will,  or  that  api)ear8  less  inviting,  as  it  stands 
in  view  of  the  mind,  is  what  I  call  a  tveaker  mo- 
tive. On  the  contrary,  that  which  appears  most 
inviting,  and  h;i8,  by  what  appijars  concerning  it 
to  the  understanding  or  ai)i»rehenHiou,  the  great- 
CHt  degree  of  previous  tendency  to    excite   and 


168  JONATHAN  EDWARDS. 

induce  the  clioico,   is   wlmt  I   call  the  strongest 
motive. 

Things  that  exist  in  the  view  of  the  mind  have 
their  strength,  tendency,  or  advantage  to  move  or 
excite  its  Will,  from  many  things  appertaining  to 
the  nature  and  circumstances  of  the  thing  viewed, 
the  nature  and  circumstances  of  the  mind  that 
views,  and  the  degree  and  manner  of  its  views,  of 
which  it  would  perhaps  be  hard  to  make  a  perfect 
enumeration.  But  so  much  I  think  may  be  de- 
termined in  general,  without  room  for  controversy, 
that  whatever  is  perceived  or  apprehended  by  an 
intelligent  and  voluntary  agent,  which  has  the  na- 
ture and  influence  of  a  motive  to  volition  or  choice, 
is  .considered  or  viewed  as  good;  nor  has  it  any 
tendency  to  invite  or  engage  the  election  of  the 
Boul  in  any  further  degree  than  it  appears  such. 
For  to  say  otherwise,  would  be  to  say  that  things 
that  appear  have  a  tendency  by  the  appearance 
they  make,  to  engage  the  mind  to  elect  them, 
some  other  way  than  by  their  appearing  eligible 
to  it ;  which  is  absurd.  And  therefore  it  must  be 
true,  in  some  sense,  that  the  Will  is  always  as  the 
greatest  apparent  good  is. 

I  use  the  term  good  as  of  the  same  import  as 
agreeable.  To  appear  good  to  the  mind,  as  I  use 
the  phrase,  is  the  same  as  to  appear  agreeable,  or 
seem  pleasing  to  the  mind.  Certainly  nothing  ap- 
pears inviting  and  eligible  to  the  mind,  or  tending 
to  engage  its  inclination  and  choice,  considered  as 
ex\\  or  disagreeable  ;  nor,  indeed,  as  indifferent, 
and  neither  agreeable  nor  disagreeable.  But  if  it 
tends  to  draw  the  inclination,  and  move  the  Will, 
it  must  be  under  the  notion  of  that  which  suits  the 
mind.  And  therefore  that  must  have  the  greatest 
tendency  to  attract  and  engage  it,  which,  as  it 
stands  in  the  mind's  view  suits  it  best,  and  pleases 
it  most ;  and  in  that  sense  it  is  the  greatest  appar- 
ent good.  The  word  good,  in  this  sense,  includes 
in  its  signification  the  removal  or  avoiding  of  evil, 
or  of  that  wliich  is  disagreeable  and  uneasy.  It  is 
agreeable  and  pleasing  to  avoid  wliat  is  disagreea- 
ble and  unpleasing,  and  to  have  uneasiness  re- 
moved. 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS.  169 

When  I  say,  the  Will  is  as  the  greaUiSt  apparent 
goofl  is,  or  that  volition  has  alwajs  for  its  object 
tlie  thing  which  appears  most  agreeable,  it  must 
be  carefully  observed  that  I  speak  of  the  direct 
and  imiiu'diate  object  of  the  act  of  volition  ;  and 
not  of  some  object  that  the  act  of  the  Will  has  not 
an  immediate  but  only  an  indirect  and  remote  re- 
spect to.  Many  acts  of  volition  have  some  remote 
relation  to  an  object  that  is  different  from  the 
thing  most  immediately  willed  and  chosen.  Thus, 
when  a  drunkard  lias  his  liquor  before  him,  and 
he  has  to  choose  whether  to  drink  or  no,  the 
proper  and  immediate  objects  about  which  his 
present  volition  is  conversant,  and  between  which 
his  clioice  now  decides,  are  his  own  acts,  in  drink- 
ing the  liquor  or  letting  it  alone  ;  and  this  will 
certainly  be  done  according  to  what,  in  the  pre- 
sent view  of  his  mind,  taken  in  the  whole  of  it,  is 
the  most  agreeable  to  him.  If  he  chooses  or  wills 
to  drink  it,  and  not  to  let  it  alone,  then  his  action, 
as  it  stands  in  the  view  of  his  mind,  witli  all  that 
Ix^longs  to  its  ajjpearance  there,  is  more  agreeable 
and  pleasing  than  letting  it  alone. 

But  tlie  objects  to  which  this  act  of  volition  may 
relate  more  remotely,  and  between  whicli  liis 
choice  may  determine  more  indirectly,  are  the 
present  pleasure  the  man  expects  by  drinking,  and 
the  future  misery  which  he  judges  will  be  the 
conseiiuence  of  it.  He  maj'  judge  that  this  future 
niis»'ry  when  it  comes,  will  be  more  disagreeable 
anil  unpleasant  than  refraining  from  drinking  now 
would  be.  But  these  two  things  are  not  the 
projier  objects  that  the  act  of  volition  spoken  of  is 
nextly  conversant  alx)ut.  For  the  act  of  Will 
sjioken  of  is  concerning  present  drinking  or  for- 
Iwaring  to  drink.  If  he  wills  tf>  drink,  drinking  is 
the  pro[>er  object  of  tlie  act  of  liis  Will :  and 
drinking,  on  some  account  or  other,  now  appears 
inoHt  agreeable  to  him,  and  suits  him  best.  If  lie 
chooses  to  refrain,  tlieii  refraining  is  tiie  immedi- 
ate object  of  his  will,  an<l  is  in<jst  pleasing  to  him. 
If  in  the  <lioice  he  makes  in  the  ca.se,  lie  prefer*  a 
present  pleitsure  to  a  future  advantage,  whicii  he 
judges  will  l)o  greater  when  it  conies,  then  a  lefwer 


170  JONATHAN  EDWARDS. 

present  pleasure  appears  more  agreeable  to  him 
than  a  greater  advantage  at  a  distance.  If,  on 
the  contrary  a  future  advantage  is  preferred,  then 
that  appears  most  agreeable  and  suits  liini  best. 
And  so  still  the  present  volition  is  as  the  greatest 
apparent  good  at  present  is.— The  Freedom  of  the 
Will,  Part  I.,  Section  3. 

THE  IMMINENT  PERIL  OF  SINNERS. 

The  wrath  of  God  is  like  great  waters  that  are 
dammed  for  the  present ;  they  increase  more  and 
more,  and  rise  higher  and  higher,  till  an  outlet  is 
given  ;  and  the  longer  the  stream  is  stopped,  the 
more  rapid  and  mighty  is  its  course  when  once  it 
is  let  loose.  It  is  tn.ie  that  judgment  against  your 
evil  works  has  not  been  executed  hitherto  ;  the 
floods  of  God's  vengeance  have  been  withheld ; 
but  your  guilt  in  the  mean  time  is  constantly  in- 
creasing, and  you  are  every  day  treasuring  up 
more  wrath  ;  the  waters  are  constantly  rising,  and 
waxing  more  and  more  mighty  ;  and  there  is  noth- 
ing but  the  mere  pleasure  of  God  that  holds  the 
waters  back,  that  are  unwilling  to  be  stopped,  and 
press  hard  to  go  forward.  If  God  should  only 
withdraw  his  hand  from  the  floodgate,  it  would 
immediately  fly  open,  and  the  fiery  floods  of  the 
fierceness  and  wrath  of  God  would  rush  forth  with 
inconceivable  fury,  and  would  come  upon  you 
with  omnipotent  power:  and  if  your  strength 
were  ten  thousand  times  greater  than  it  is,  yea, 
ten  thousand  times  greater  than  the  strength  of 
the  stoutest,  sturdiest  devil  in  hell,  it  would  be 
nothing  to  withstand  or  endure  it. 

The  bow  of  God's  wrath  is  bent,  and  the  arrow 
made  ready  on  the  string,  and  Justice  bends  the 
arrow  at  your  heart,  and  strains  the  bow  ;  and 
it  is  nothing  but  the  mere  pleasure  of  God  -and 
that  of  an  angry  God,  without  any  promise  or  ob- 
ligation at  all— that  keeps  the  arrow  one  moment 
from  being  made  drunk  with  your  blood.  Thus 
all  you  that  never  passed  under  a  great  change  of 
hefert,  hj  the  mighty  power  of  the  Spirit  of  God 
upon  your  souls  ;  all  of  you  that  were  never  bom 
again,  and  made  new  creatures,  and  raised  from 


MATILDA  BETHAM  EDWARDS.         171 

being  dead  in  sin,  to  a  state  of  new  and  before  al- 
together unexperienced  light  and  Ufe,  are  in  the 
hands  of  an  angry  God.  However  you  may  have 
reformed  jour  life  in  many  things,  and  may  have 
had  reUgious  affections,  and  may  keep  up  a  form 
of  religion  in  your  families  and  closets,  and  in  tl>e 
house  of  God,  it  is  nothing  but  his  mere  pleasure 
that  keeps  you  from  being  this  moment  swallow- 
ed up  in  everlasting  destruction. 

The  God  that  holds  you  over  the  pit  of  hell — 
much  as  one  holds  a  spider  or  some  loathsome  in- 
sect over  the  fire — abhors  you,  and  is  dreadfully 
provoked.  His  wrath  towards  you  burns  like  fire; 
He  looks  upon  you  as  being  worth}-  of  nothing 
else  but  to  be  cast  into  the  fire.  He  is  of  purer 
eyes  than  to  bear  to  have  you  in  his  sight ;  you 
are  ten  thousand  times  more  abominable  in  his  eyes 
than  the  most  hateful  venomous  serpent  is  in  ours. 
You  have  offended  him  infinitely  more  than  ever 
a  stubborn  rebel  did  his  prince  ;  and  yet  it  is  noth- 
ing but  his  hand  that  holds  you  from  falling  into 
the  fire  every  moment.  It  is  to  be  ascrilied  to 
nothing  else  that  you  did  not  go  to  hell  the  last 
niglit ;  that  you  was  suffered  to  awake  again  in 
this  world,  after  you  closed  your  eyes  to  sleep. 
And  there  is  no  other  reason  to  be  given  why  you 
have  not  dropped  into  hell  since  you  arose  in  the 
morning,  but  that  God's  hand  has  held  you  up. 
Tliere  is  no  other  rea.son  to  be  given  why  you  have 
not  gone  to  hell  since  you  have  sat  here  in  the 
liousc  of  God,  provoking  his  pure  eyes  by  your 
sinful,  wicked  manner  of  attending  his  solemn 
worship.  Yea,  there  is  nothing  else  that  is  to  be 
given  a.s  a  reason  why  you  do  not  at  this  very  mo- 
ment drop  down  into  hell. — Sermon,  '"  Sinners  in 
the  Hand  of  an  angry  God." 

EDWARDS,  Matilda  Barbara  de  Betham. 
an  English  author,  born  at  Westerfiold.  Suf- 
folk, ill  is:i0.  Her  first  novel  The  White  House 
hy  the  Sea,  jjublishcd  in  18.57,  pas^Kod  through 
Hevoral  cditionH.  Hha  has  sinco  (xmtributcd 
«'ritiral  and  social  papers  to  Punch,  the  I'all 


172       MATILDA  BETHAM  EDWARDS. 

Mall  Gazette,  Fraser's  Magazine,  and  other  pe- 
riodical publicatit)ns,  and  has  written  numer- 
ous novels  and  books  for  children.  Among 
them  are  Holidays  among  the  Mountains  ;  or 
Scenes  and  Stories  of  Wales,  and  Little  Bird 
Red  and  Little  Bird  Blue  (1861),  John  and  I, 
and  Snoxv-Flakes  and  the  Stories  they  told  the 
Children  (1862),  Doctor  Jacob  (1864),  A  Win- 
ter ivith  the  Su-allows  (1867),  Di-.  Campany's 
Courtship,  and  Through  Spain  to  the  Saha- 
ra (1868),  Kitty  (1869),  The  Sylvestres  (1871), 
Mademoiselle  Joseiihine's  Fridays  (1874),  A 
Year  in  Westei^  France  (1877),  Holidays  in 
Eastern  France  (1879),  Six  Life  Studies  of 
Famous  Women  (1880),  and  Pemrla  (1884). 

THE  ALHASIBRA. 

The  Alhambra  is  so  ruined  as  a  whole,  and  yet 
so  perfect  in  parts,  so  bare  here,  so  rich  in  color 
there,  so  desolate  and  j^et  so  haunted  by  voices, 
that  it  reminds  one  most,  I  think,  of  beautiful  an- 
tique jewelry.  Some  of  the  jewels  have  dropped 
out,  the  gold  is  tarnished,  the  clasp  is  broken,  the 
crown  is  bent,  but  gaze  a  little  while,  and  all  be- 
comes as  it  once  was.  Pearl  and  amethyst,  emer- 
ald and  opal,  blaze  out.  .  .  .  Nothing  is  lost,  or 
changed,  or  dead.  .  .  .  What  never  ceases  to  sur- 
prise you  is  the  richness  and  the  delicate,  one 
might  almost  say  effeminate,  finish  and  elaborate- 
ness of  every  part.  Tlie  walls  are  covered  with 
faience  and  arabesque  ;  the  ceilings  are  either  in- 
laid pine  or  cedar-wood,  and  hollowed  after  the 
fashion  of  stalactite  caves  ;  the  floors  are  of  pol- 
ished white  marble,  the  palm-like  columns  of  ala- 
baster, and  fountains  abound  everywhere.  There 
is  nothing  to  add  and  nothing  to  take  away  from 
this  Palace  of  Aladdin  ;  and  as  you  learn  to  know 
the  place,  j'ou  love  it,  and  marvel  more  andinore. 
But  if  it  is  a  Palace  of  Aladdin  now,  wliat  must 
it  liave  been  wlien  the  fountains  were  shedding 
foods  of  pearl  in  the  sunlight  ;  when  all  the 
C()uii.->  were  filled  with  perfume  of  myrtle,  of  ole- 
ander, and  of  orange  blossom  ;  when  the  delicate 


MATILDA  BETHAM  EDWARDS.         173 

columns,  were  covered  with  gold,  and  the  fretted 
domes  blazed  with  color,  orange,  purple,  and  red  ? 
— Through  Sjxim  to  the  Sahara. 

KITTY'S  ACCOUXT  OF  HERSELF. 

I  am  a  social  gypsy  :  born  of  them,  bred  among 
them,  made  love  to  by  tliem.  We  lived  like 
vagabonds  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  taking  no  care 
for  the  morrow  ;  feasting  one  day,  starving  the 
next ;  but  we  broke  no  laws  except  those  of  cus- 
tom and  comfort.  The  men  were  honest,  the 
women  were  good,  and  a  universal  tie  of  kindness 
and  cliarity  bound  tliem  together.  It  was  a  mer- 
ry life  that  we  led  in  this  Bohemia  of  ours,  and 
as  free  from  care  as  the  life  of  the  birds  in  the 
woods.  If  one  of  us  wanted  a  shilling,  a  coat,  or  a 
loaf  of  bread,  there  were  neighbors  ready  for  us  : 
and  towards  myself  the  goodness  was  such  as  I 
should  be  wicked  to  forget.  It  was  not  a  life  of 
inward,  if  of  out%vard,  vulgarity.  We  adored 
pictures,  and  music,  and  beautiful  things,  and 
often  went  without  food  to  get  a  taste  of  them. 
Yet  as  I  grew  to  be  a  woman  I  hated  the  life.  I 
longed  for  softness  and  refinement,  as  other 
women  long  for  finery  and  admiration.  Perhaps 
it  was  because  I  came  of  gentle  blood — so  they 
told  me — and  the  instinct  of  respectability  was  too 
strong  for  me.  I  felt  like  an  alien,  and  I  deter- 
mined to  elevate  luyself ,  some  day  or  other,  at  any 
cost.  I  used  to  sit  at  home — a  very  Cinderella 
among  the  ashes — thinking,  thinking  ;  scheming, 
Bchemmg.  I  had  no  gifts  ,  that  was  the  worst  of 
it.  I  could  act  passably,  but  not  well  enough  to 
go  on  the  stage.  I  could  sing  and  play  a  little, 
but  had  no  musical  instmct  in  me  ;  I  could  not 
draw  a  line  to  save  my  life.  My  only  natural  gift 
sp«'ni<'d  llie  artof  acfiuiring  popularity — I  ought  to 
Hav  afTf'ction.  Peopir  always  liked  me  letter  than 
anylKxly  else.  It  was  as  if  wherever  I  went  I 
t'.\frciwfl  a  magiietir  influence,  and  thi.s  often 
-.vitliout  any  volition  of  my  own.  If  we  were 
duniu'd  by  rtonu-  hard-lu'arte<l  grocer  or  Imtcher,  I 
w«-nt  to  him  and  talkcci  him  int«»  waiting  for  his 
ijKJiiey  a  little  longer.     Tliere  was  a  poor  old  Pole 


174  EDWARD  EGGLESTON. 

in  our  little  colony,  a  teacher  of  languages,  who 
would  go  without  bread  to  buy  mo  sweetmeats. 
If  Mrs.   Cornfield's  pupils  brought  little  gifts  of 
flowers  or  fruit,  they  were  always  presented  to  me. 
When  one  of  tliem,  Laura  Norman,  asked  me  to 
stay  at  her  father's  house  in  the  country,  and  I 
went,   of  course  old  Dr.    Norman,   who  wag    a 
widower  of  forty-five,  fell  in  love  with  me  ;   and 
his  son,  a  youth  of  nineteen,  fell  in  love  with  me 
too,  and  I  had  no  more  sought  their  love  than  I 
had  sought  the  love  of  the  others  at  home.     In  an 
ill-advised  moment  I  consented  to  become  Dr. 
Norman's  wife,  and  if  Myra  had  not  offered  me  a 
home  with  her,   I    should  have  married    him ; 
whether  for  good  or  evil  I  know  not— I  fancy  for 
evil.     You  know  how  entirely  Myra  leaned  upon 
me  and  looked  up  to  me.      I  believe  she  would 
have  given  me  the  half  of  her  fortune  in  her  gen- 
erous, impulsive  affection  ;  and  we  were  {IS  liiippy 
together  as  two  women  can  be,  when  the  only  tie 
that  binds  them  together  is  that  of  helplessness  on 
one  side  and  capability  on  the  other.     Myra  is  a 
mere  child,  as  you  know,  and  it  was  not  likely 
that  we  should  have  much  in  common.     Then  I 
came  to  know  you,  and  just  when  I  have  grown 
fonder  of  you  than  of  all  these  lovers  of  mine— I 
must  go.     To  lose  the  others  pained  me  chiefly  on 
their  account ;  but  to  lose  you  who  have  been  my 
companion,   my  teacher,  my  ideal,  is  like  going 
into  a  strange  land,  where  I  should  bo  of  no  more 
account  than  thousands  of  forlorn  emigrants.     It 
is  very  hard,"  Kitty  said  sorrowfully  ;    "so  hard 
that  it  leads  me  to  doubt  whether  things    are 
always  ordered  for  the  best,"  and  she  broke  into  a 
vehement,  indignant  sob.— Kitty. 

EGGLESTON,  Edward,  an  American  au- 
thor, born  at  Vevay,  Indiana,  in  1837.  He 
entered  the  Methodist  ministry,  and  at  nine- 
teen rode  a  "  Hoosier  circuit."  After  ten 
years  of  preaching  he  quitted  the  active  min- 
istry and  entered  upon  literary  work.  He 
was  successively  editor  of  the  Little  Corporal 


EDWAKD  EGULESTUN.  175 

magazine  and  The  Sunday -School  Teacher  in 
Chicago,  and  of  the  Independent  and  the 
Hearth  and  Home  in  New  York.  He  has 
written  several  novels  and  books  for  young 
people,  depicting  life  in  the  smaller  towns  and 
scattered  settlements  of  the  "Western  States 
thirty  years  ago.  Among  his  works  are,  The 
Hoosier  Schoolmaster  (1871),  The  End  of  the 
World  (1872),  The  Mystery  of  Metropolisville 
(1873),  The  Circuit  Rider  (1874),  Tlie  School- 
masters Stories  (1875),  Boxy  (1878),  The 
Hoosier  Schoolboy  (1883),  a  series  of  Biogra- 
phies of  famous  American  Indians,  and  a 
Sunday-School  Manual ;  a  Guide  to  Sunday- 
School  Work. 

PATTY'S  CONVERSION. 

It  happened  that  upon  the  very  next  Sunday  Rus- 
sell Bigelow  was  to  preach.  Far  and  wide  over 
the  West  had  traveled  the  fame  of  this  great 
preacher,  who,  though  born  in  Vermont,  was 
wholly  Western  in  his  imjjassioned  manner.  .  .  . 
Even  Patty  declared  her  intention  of  going,  much 
to  the  Captiiin's  regret.  The  meeting  was  not  to 
be  held  at  Wheeler's,  but  in  the  woods,  and  she 
could  go  (or  this  time  without  entering  the  house 
of  lier  father's  foe.  She  luul  no  other  motive  than 
a  vague  hope  of  hearing  sometliing  that  would 
divert  her ;  life  Jiad  grown  so  heavy  that  she 
craved  excitement  of  any  kind.  She  would  take 
a  back  seat  and  liear  the  famous  Metliodist  for 
herself.  But  Patty  put  on  all  of  her  gold  and  costly 
apparel.  She  was  determined  that  nobody  should 
suspect  her  of  any  intention  of  "joining  the 
church."  Her  mood  was  one  of  curiosity  on  the 
surface,  and  of  proud  hatred  and  quiet  defiance 
below. 

No  religious  meeting  is  ever  so  delightful  as  a 
meeting  helcj  in  tlie  forest ;  no  forest  is  so  satisfy- 
ing ns  a  fr;rest  of  Ix-ech  ;  the  wide-sjireading  l)ough8 
— drooping  wlien  they  start  from  the  trunk,  but 
well  sustained  at  the  l.'tst— stretch  out  regularly 
and  willi  a  steady  horizontal ness  ;  the  last  year's 


no  EDWAKD  EGGLESTON. 

leaves  form  a  carpet  like  a  cushion,  while  the 
dense  foliage  shuts  out  the  sun.     To  tliis  meeting 
in  the  beecli-woods  Patty  chose  to  walk,  since  it 
was  less  than  a  mile  away.    As  slie  passed  through 
a  little  cove,  she  saw  a  man  lying  flat  on  his  face 
in  prayer.     It  was  the  preacher.      Awe-stricken, 
Patty  hurried  on  to  the  meeting.     She  ha'd  fully 
intended  to  take  a  seat  in  the  rear  of  the  congre- 
gation, but  being  a  little  confused  and  absent- 
minded  she  did  not  observe  at  first  where  the 
stand  had  been  erected,  and  that  she  was  entering 
the  congregation  at  the  side  nearest  to  the  pulpit. 
When  she  discovered  her  mistake  it  was  too  late 
to  withdraw,  the  aisle  beyond  her  was  already  full 
of  standing  people  ;  there  was  nothing  for  her  but 
to  take  the  only  vacant  seat  in  sight.      This  put 
her  in  the  very  midst  of  tlie  members,  and  in  this 
position  she  was  quite  conspicuous  ;  even  strangers 
from  other  settlements  saw  with  astonishment  a 
woman  elegantly  dressed,  for  that  time,  sitting  in 
the  very  midst  of  the  devout  sisters— for  the  men 
and  women  sat  apart.      All  around  Patty  there 
was  not  a  single  "  artificial,"  or  piece  of  jewelry. 
Indeed,  most  of  the  women  wore  calico  sun-bon- 
nets. The  Hissawachee  people  who  knew  her  were 
astounded  to  see  Patty  at  meeting  at  all.    They 
remembered  her  treatment  of   Morton,  and  they 
looked  upon  Captain  Lumsden  as  Gog  and  Magog 
incarnated  in  one.    This  sense  of  the  conspicuous- 
ness  of  her  position  was  painful  to  Patty,  but  she 
presently  forgot  herself  in  listening  to  the  singing. 
There  never  was  such  a  chorus  as  a  backwoods 
Methodist  congregation,  and  here  among  the  trees 
they  sang  hymn  after  hymn,   now  with  the  ten- 
derest  pathos,  now  with   triumphant  joy,   now 
with  solemn  earnestness.     They  sang  "  Children 
of  the  Heavenly  King,"  and  "  Come  let  us  anew," 
and   "  Blow  ye  the  trumpet,   blow,"  and   "Arise 
my  soul,  arise,"  and  "How  happy  every  child  of 
grace  ! "      While  they  were  singing  this  last,  the 
celebrated  preacher  entered  the  pulpit,  and  there 
ran  through  the  audience  a  movement  of  wonder, 
almost  of  disappointment.     His  clothes  were  of 
that  sort  of  cheap  cotton  cloth  known  as  "  blue 


EDWARD  EGGLESTON.  177 

drilling."'  and  did  not  fit  him.  He  was  rather 
short,  and  iuexpre.ssibly  awkward.  His  hair  hung 
unkeiupt  over  the  best  portion  of  liis  face — the 
broad,  projecting  foreliead.  His  eyebrows  were 
overhanging ;  his  nose,  cheek-bones,  and  chin 
large.  His  mouth  was  wide  and  with  a  sorrowful 
depression  at  the  corners,  his  nostrils  thin,  his 
eyes  keen,  and  his  face  perfectly  mobile.  He  took 
for  his  text  the  words  of  Eleazer  to  Laban — 
"Seeking  a  bride  for  his  master,"'  and  according 
to  the  custom  of  the  time,  he  first  expounded  the 
incident,  and  then  proceeded  to  "  spiritualize"  it, 
by  applying  it  to  the  soul's  marriage  to  Christ. 
Notwithstanding  the  ungainliness  of  his  frame, 
and  the  awkwardness  of  his  postures,  there  was  a 
gentlemanliness  about  liis  address  that  indicated  a 
man  not  unaccustomed  to  good  society.  His 
words  were  well  chosen  ;  his  pronunciation  al- 
ways correct ;  his  speech  grammatical.  In  all  of 
these  regards  Patty  was  disappointed. 

But  the  sermon.  Who  shall  describe  "  the  in- 
de.scribable?"  As  a  servant  he  proceeded  to  set 
forth  the  character  of  the  Master.  What  struck 
Patty  was  not  the  nobleness  of  his  speech,  nor 
the  force  of  his  argument ;  she  seemed  to  see  in 
the  countenance  that  every  divine  trait  which  he 
described  had  reflected  itself  in  the  life  of  the 
preacher  himself.  For  none  but  the  manliest  of 
men  can  ever  speak  worthily  of  Jesus  Christ. 
As  Bigelow  proceeded,  he  won  her  famished 
heart  to  Christ.  For  such  a  Miister  she  could  live 
or  die  ;  in  such  a  life  there  was  what  Patty  needed 
most — a  purpose  ;  in  such  a  life  there  was  a  friend  ; 
in  such  a  life  she  would  escape  that  sen.se  of  the 
ignoblenes.s  of  her  own  pursuits,  and  the  unworthi- 
ness  of  her  own  pride.  All  that  he  said  of  Christ's 
love  and  condescension  filled  her  with  a  sense  of 
sinfulness  and  meanness,  and  she  wept  bitterly. 
There  were  a  hundn'd  otliers  as  mucli  affected, 
l)Ut  tlie  eyes  of  ail  her  neighbors  were  upon  her.  If 
Patty  should  be  converted,  what  a  victory  I  And 
aH  the  preacher  proceeded  to  describe  th(!  joy  of  a 
Roul  wed(h-d  forevjtr  to  Christ — living  nobly  after 
the  pntt^'rn  of  Ilis  life — Patty  resolved  that  she 


178  GEOR(JE  i;ARV  K(  JdT.ESTON. 

would  devote  lierself  to  this  life  and  this  Saviour, 
and  rejoiced  in  sympathy  with  the  rising  note  of 
triumph  in  the  sermon.  Then  Bigelow,  last  of 
all.  appealed  to  courage  and  to  pride — to  pride  in 
its  best  sense.  Who  would  be  asiiamed  of  such  a 
Bridegroom  ?  And  as  he  depicted  the  trials  that 
some  nuist  pass  through  in  accepting  Him,  Patty 
saw  her  own  situation,  and  mentally  nuide  the 
sacrifice.  As  he  described  the  glory  of  renouncing 
the  world,  she  thought  of  her  jewelry  and  the 
spirit  of  defiance  in  which  she  had  put  it  on. 
There,  in  the  midst  of  tluit  congregation,  she  took 
out  her  ear-rings,  and  stripped  the  flowers  from 
the  bonnet.  We  may  smile  at  the  unnecessary 
sacrifice  to  an  overstrained  literalism,  but  to  Patty 
it  was  the  solemn  renunciation  of  the  world — the 
whole-hearted  espousal  of  herself,  for  all  eternity, 
to  Him  who  stands  for  all  that  is  noblest  in  life. 
Of  course  this  action  was  visible  to  most  of  the 
congregation— most  of  all  to  the  preacher  himself. 
To  the  Methodists  it  was  the  greatest  of  triumphs, 
this  public  conversion  of  Captain  Lumsden's 
daughter,  and  they  showed  their  joy  in  many 
pious  ejaculations,  Patty  did  not  seek  conceal- 
ment. She  scorned  to  creep  into  the  kingdom  of 
heaven.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  owed  this  pub- 
licity. For  a  moment  all  eyes  were  turned  away 
from  the  orator.  He  paused  in  his  discourse  until 
Patty  had  removed  the  emblems  of  her  pride  and 
antagonism.  Then,  turning  with  tearful  eyes  to 
the  audience,  the  preacher,  with  simple-hearted 
sincerity  and  inconceivable  effect,  burst  out  with, 
"Hallelujah!  I  have  found  a  bride  for  my 
Master  ! " — Tlie  Circuit  Rider. 

EGGLESTON,  George  Gary,  an  American 
author,  brother  of  Edward  Eggleston,  born 
at  Vevay,  Indiana,  in  18,39.  He  was  educated 
at  the  Indiana  Asbury  University,  and  at 
Richmond  College,  Virginia,  studied  law  in 
Lexington,  Va.,  and  became  a  journalist  in 
New  York.  Among  his  publications  are  Hoiv 
to  Educate  Yourself  (1872),  A  ReheVs  Recol- 
lections (1874),   How  to  Make  a  Living,  and 


GEORGE  GARY  EGGLESTON.     179 

The  Big  Brothei^  (1875),  Captain  Sain,  or  the 
Boy  Scout,  (1876),  TJie  Signal  Boys  (1877), 
Red  Eagle,  (1879),  A  Man  of  Honor  (ISSO),  TJie 
Wreck  of  the  Red  Bird  (1882),  and  Strange 
Stories  from  History  (1886). 

A  DEED  OF  DARING. 

When  the  news  of  the  massacre  at  Kimball's 
reached  Fort  Glass,  a  detachment  of  ten  men  was 
sent  out  to  recover  tlie  bodies,  which  they  lirought 
toF»rt  Sinquefield  for  burial.  The  graves  were  dug 
in  a  little  valley  three  or  four  hundred  yards  from 
the  fort,  and  all  the  people  went  out  to  attend  the 
funeral.  The  services  had  just  come  to  au  end 
when  the  cry  of  "  Indians  !  Indians  !"  was  raised, 
and  a  lx)dy  of  warriors  under  tlie  prophet  Francis, 
dashed  down  from  behind  a  hill  upon  the  defence- 
less people,  wliose  guns  were  inside  the  fort.  The 
first  impulse  of  every  one  was  to  catchup  the  little 
children  and  hasten  inside  the  gates,  but  it  was 
manifestly  too  late.  The  Indians  were  already 
nearer  the  fort  than  they,  and  were  running  with 
all  their  might,  brandishing  their  knives  and  tom- 
ahawks, and  yelling  like  demons.  There  seemed 
no  way  of  escape.  Sam  Hardwicke  took  little 
Judie  up  in  his  arms,  and  quick  as  thought  calcu- 
lated the  chances  of  reaching  the  fort.  Clearly 
the  only  way  in  which  he  could  get  there,  was  by 
leaving  his  little  sister  to  her  fate  and  running  for 
his  life.  But  Sam  Hardwicke  wjis  not  the  sort  of 
boy  to  do  anything  so  cowardly  as  that.  Aban- 
doning tlie  thought  of  getting  to  the  fort,  he  call- 
ed to  Tom  to  follow  him,  and  with  Judie  in  his 
arms,  he  ran  into  a  neigIil)oring  thicket,  where 
the  three,  with  Joe,  a  black  boy  of  twelve  or  thir- 
teen years  who  had  followed  tlu-m,  conceale<l 
themselves  in  tlie  bushes.  Whether  they  hail  been 
seen  by  tin;  Indians  or  not,  they  had  no  way  of 
knowing,  but  their  fmly  hope  of  safety  now  lay  in 
absolute  stillne.ss.  They  crouched  down  together 
and  kept  hiifiicc.  .  .  .  M<'antime  the  situation  of 
the  fort  jM-oplc  was  terrible.  Cut  off  from  the 
gates  and  unarmed,  there  seemed  to  be  nothing 
for  them  l<i  do  except  to  nie»-t    (l<;i(li  ;i<  br:i\<ly 


180         GEORGE  GARY  EGGLESTON. 

and  calmly  as  thny  could.  A  young  man  named 
Is.'uic  ]  Tardcn  liappened  to  be  near  the  gates,  how- 
ever, on  horseback,  and  accompanied  by  a  pack 
of  about  sixty  hounds.  And  this  young  man, 
whose  name  has  barely  crept  into  a  corner  of  his- 
tory, was  both  a  hero  and  a  military  genius,  and 
he  did,  right  then  and  there,  a  deed  as  brilliant  and 
as  heroic  as  any  other  in  history.  Seeing  the 
perilous  position  of  tlie  fort  people,  he  raised  him- 
self in  his  stirrups  and  waving  his  hat,  charged 
the  savages  witla  his  pack  of  dogs,  whooping  and 
yelling  after  the  manner  of  a  huntsman,  and  lead- 
ing the  fierce  bloodhounds  right  into  the  ranks  of 
the  infuriated  Indians.  The  dogs  being  trained  to 
chase  and  sieze  any  living  thing  upon  which  their 
master  might  set  them,  attacked  the  Indians  furi- 
ously, Harden  encouraging  them  and  riding  down 
group  after  group  of  the  bewildered  savages. 
Charging  right  and  left  with  his  dogs,  he  succeed- 
ed in  putting  the  Indians  for  a  time  upon  the  de- 
fensive, thus  giving  the  white  people  time  to  es- 
cape into  the  fort.  When  all  were  in  except  Sam's 
party  and  a  Mrs.  Phillips  who  was  killed,  Harden 
began  looking  about  him  for  a  chance  to  secure 
his  own  safet}'.  His  impetuosity  had  carried  him 
clear  through  the  Indian  ranks,  and  the  savages, 
having  beaten  the  dogs  otf,  turned  their  attention 
to  the  young  cavalier  who  had  balked  them  in  the 
very  moment  of  their  victoiy.  They  were  between 
him  and  the  gates,  hundreds  against  one.  His 
dogs  were  killed  or  scattered,  and  he  saw  at  a 
glance  that  there  was  little  hope  for  him.  The 
woods  behind  him  were  full  of  Indians,  and  so  re- 
treat was  impossible.  Turning  his  horse's  head 
towards  the  gates,  he  plunged  spurs  into  his  side, 
and  with  a  pistol  in  each  hand,  dashed  through 
the  savage  ranks,  firing  as  he  went.  Blowing  a 
blast  upon  his  horn  to  recall  those  of  his  dogs 
which  were  still  alive,  he  escaped  on  foot  into  the 
fort,  just  in  time  to  let  the  gate  shut  in  the  face  of 
the  foremost  Indian.  His  horse,  history  tells  us. 
was  killed  under  him,  and  he  had  five  bullet  holes 
through  his  clothes,  but  his  skin  yras  unbroken. — 
Tlic  Big  Brother, 


EGINHARD.  181 

EGINHARD,  or  EINHARD,  a  Frankish 
chroniclei',  born  at  Maingau.  on  the  river 
Main,  in  770,  died  in  844.  He  was  educated 
at  the  monastery  of  Fulda,  and  was  a  pupil  of 
Alcuin,  who  introduced  him  at  the  court  of 
Charlemagne,  by  whom  he  was  placed  in 
charge  of  the  pubhc  buildings.  He  married 
Imma,  a  noble  lady,  who  afterwards  figured 
in  legend  as  Charlemagne's  daughter.  In  815, 
Louis,  the  successor  of  Charlemagne, bestowed 
upon  Eginhard  and  his  wife  the  estates  of 
Michelstadt  and  Miihlheim.  He  was  after- 
wards abbot  of  several  monasteries.  In  830 
he  withdrew  to  Miihlheim,  which  he  named 
Seligeiistacit  ("  the  city  of  the  Saints  "),  and 
erected  a  church  to  which  he  conveyed  the 
relics  of  St.  MarceUinus  and  St.  Peter.  His 
most  famous  work  is  the  Life  of  Charle- 
magne, written  after  the  emperor's  death. 
He  also  wrote  the  An7ials  of  the  Franks  from 
741  to  829,  Epiatolo',  and  an  Account  of  the 
Transfer  of  the  Relics  of  St.  MarceUinus  and 
St.  Peter. 

CHARLEMAGNE. 

Charles  was  large  and  strong,  and  of  lofty  stat- 
ure, tliough  not  disproportionately  tall  (his  height 
is  well  known  to  have  been  seven  times  the  length 
of  his  foot) ;  the  upper  part  of  his  head  was  round, 
his  eyes  very  large  and  animated,  nose  a  little  long, 
hair  fair,  and  face  laughing  and  merry.  Thus  his 
api>earance  was  always  stately  and  dignified, 
wliether  he  was  standing  or  sitting  ;  although  his 
neck  wati  thick  and  .somewliat  short,  and  his  belly 
rather  prominent  ;  but  the  symmetry  of  the  rest  of 
his  lK>dy  concealed  these  defects.  His  gait  was 
firm,  his  whole  carriage  manly,  and  his  voice 
clear,  but  nr)t  ho  strong  an  his  size  led  one  to  ex- 
pect. ...  He  used  to  wear  the  national,  that  is  to 
say.  the  PVank  dress  ;  next  his  skin  a  linen  shirt 
and  linen  breeches,  and  above  these  a  tunic  fring- 
ed with  silk  ;  wliile  hose  fastened  by  bands  cov- 
ered kis  lower   limbs,   and  shoes  his  feet,   and  he 


182  EGINHARD. 

protected  his  shoulders  and  chest  in  winter  by  a 
close-fitting  coat  of  otter  or  marten  skins.  Over 
all  he  flung  a  blue  cloak,  and  he  always  had  a 
sword  girt  about  liim,  usually  one  with  a  gold  or 
silver  hilt  and  belt ;  he  sometimes  carried  a  jewel- 
ed sword,  but  only  on  great  feast-days  or  at  the 
reception  of  ambassadors  from  foreign  nations. 
He  despised  foreign  costumes,  however  handsome, 
and  never  allowed  himself  to  be  robed  in  them, 
except  twice  in  Rome,  when  he  donned  the  Ro- 
man tunic,  chlamys,  and  shoes  ;  the  first  time  at 
the  request  of  Pope  Hadrian  II. ,  to  gratify  Leo, 
Hadrian's  successor.  On  great  feast-daj's  he  made 
use  of  embroidered  clothes,  and  shoes  bedecked 
with  precious  stones  ;  his  cloak  was  fastened  by 
a  golden  buckle,  and  he  appeared  crowned  with  a 
diadem  of  gold  and  gems  :  but  on  otlier  days  his 
dress  varied  little  from  the  common  dress  of  the 
-people. 

Charles  had  the  gift  of  ready  and  fluent  speech, 
and  could  express  what  he  had  to  say  with  the  ut- 
most clearness.  He  was  not  satisfied  with  the 
command  of  his  native  language  merely,  but  gave 
attention  to  the  study  of  foreign  ones,  and  in  par- 
ticular was  such  a  master  of  Latin  that  he  could 
speak  it  as  well  as  his  native  tongue  ;  but  he  could 
understand  Greek  better  than  he  could  speak  it. 
He  was  so  eloquent,  indeed,  that  he  might  have 
passed  for  a  teacher  of  eloquence.  He  most  zeal- 
ously cultivated  the  liberal  arts,  held  those  who 
taught  them  in  great  esteem,  and  conferred  great 
honors  upon  them.  He  took  lessons  in  grammar 
of  the  deacon  Peter  of  Pisa,  at  that  time  an  aged 
man.  Another  deacon,  Albin  of  Britain,  surnam- 
ed  Alcuin,  a  man  of  Saxon  extraction,  who  was 
the  greatest  scholar  of  the  day,  was  his  teacher  in 
other  branches  of  learning.  The  King  spent  much 
time  and  labor  with  him  studying  rhetoric,  dia- 
lectics, and  especially  astronomy.  He  learned  to 
reckon,  and  used  to  investigate  the  motions  of  the 
heavenly  bodies  most  curiously,  with  an  intelli- 
gent scrutiny.  He  also  tried  to  write,  and  used  to 
keep  tablets  in  blanks  in  bed  under  his  pillow, 
that  at  leisure  hours  he  might  accustom  his  hand 


JOHN  ELIOT.  183 

to  form  the  letters  ;  however,  as  he  did  not  begin 
his  efforts  in  due  season,  but  late  in  life,  they  met 
with  ill  success. 

He  cherished  with  rhe  greatest  fervor  and  devo- 
tion the  principles  of  the  Christian  religion,  which 
had  been  instilled  into  him  from  infancy.  Hence 
it  was  that  he  built  the  beautiful  basilica  at  Aix- 
la-Chapelle,  which  he  adorned  with  gold  and  sil- 
ver and  lamps,  and  with  rails  and  doors  of  solid 
brass.  He  had  the  columns  and  marbles  for  this 
structure  brought  from  Rome  and  Ravenna.,  for 
he  could  not  find  such  as  were  suitable  elsewhere. 
He  was  a  constant  worshiper  at  this  church  as 
long  as  his  health  permitted,  going  morning  and 
evening,  even  after  nightfall,  besides  attending 
mass  ;  and  he  took  care  that  all  the  services  there 
conducted  should  be  ad  ministered  with  the  utmost 
possible  propriety,  very  often  warning  the  sextons 
not  to  let  any  improper  or  unclean  thing  be 
brought  into  the  building,  or  remain  in  it.  He 
provided  it  with  a  great  number  of  sacred  vessels 
of  gold  and  silver,  and  with  such  a  quantity  of 
clerical  robes  that  not  even  the  door-keepers  who 
fill  the  humblest  office  in  the  church,  were  obliged 
to  wear  their  every -day  clothes  when  in  the  exer- 
cise of  their  duties.  He  was  at  great  pains  to  im- 
prove tlie  church  reading  and  psalmody,  for  he 
was  well  skilled  in  both,  although  he  neither  read 
in  public  nor  sang,  except  in  a  low  tone  and  with 
others. — Life  of  Charlemagne,  Transl.  of  Turner. 

ELIOT,  George.    See  Evans,  Marian. 

ELIOT,  John,  styled  "the  Apostle  to  the 
Indians,"  an  American  clergyman,  born  in 
England  in  1004,  died  at  Roxbury,  Mass.,  in 
1690.  He  was  educated  at  the  University  of 
Cambridge,  came  to  New  England  in  1G31, 
and  in  the  follcjwing  year  became  "teacher" 
of  the  cliurch  at  Roxbury.  lie  believed  tlie 
North  American  Indians  to  be  descended  from 
the  lost  trib(;H  of  Israel  ;  learned  their  lan- 
guage, in  which  he  began  preaching  to  them 
in   1(j1»;,  and  in   IGCO  organized  a  church  of 


1^  JOHN  ELIOT. 

"praying  Indians/'  which  flourished  for 
several  years.  He  wrote  a  number  of  works, 
one  of  whicli,  The  Christian  Commomcealth, 
printed  in  England  in  1G(50,  was  denounced  by 
the  Government  of  the  colony  as  "sedi- 
tious," on  the  ground  that  it  was  opposed  to 
the  monarchy  of  England.  In  1664  he  pub- 
lished an  Indian  Grrammar  and  a  translation 
of  the  Psalms  into  Indian  metre.  His  great 
work  was  the  translation  into  Indian  of  the 
entire  Bible,  the  New  Testament  being  printed 
at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  in  1661,  and  the  Old  Tes- 
tament in  1663.    Its  full  title  is  : 

Mamusse  Wunneetupamatamwe  Up-Biblum 
God  naneeswe  Nukkone  Testament  kah  wonk 
Wusku  Testament. 

Indian  words  are  usually  very  long,  a  word 
being  not  unfrequently  a  compound  which  in 
most  languages  would  be  represented  by  sev- 
eral words.  One  long  word  in  Eliot's  transla- 
tion is  Wutappesittukqussunnookwehtunkquoh 
which  occurs  in  Mark  i.  40,  and  means 
"kneeling  down  to  him."  The  following  is 
Eliot's  version  of  one  of  the  shorter  verses 
of  the  New  Testament : 

Nummeetsuongash  asekesukokish  assmaunean 
yeuyeu  kesukod. 

A  second  edition  of  this  Indian  Bible,  re- 
vised by  Rev.  John  Cotton,  was  printed  in 
quarto  at  Cambridge  in  1685.  Copies  are 
very  rare.  In  1868  a  copy  was  sold  in  New 
York  for  $1,130.  The  Indian  tribe  for  whom 
it  was  made  have  long  been  extinct,  their 
language  has  utterly  perished,  and  there 
have  not  probably  lived  during  the  present 
century  half  a  dozen  persons  who  could  un- 
derstand a  single  verse  of  it. 


SAMUEL  ELIOT.  185 

ELIOT.  Sajitei..  an  American  philosophic 
historian,  born  at  Boston  in  1S21.  He  gradu- 
ated at  Hai-vard  in  1839,  was  engaged  in 
mercantile  business  in  Boston  for  two  years, 
and  afterwards  traveled  in  Europe.  From 
1856  to  1864  he  was  Professor  of  History  and 
Political  Science  in  Trinity  College,  Hartford ; 
being  also  President  of  the  College  from  1860 
to  1866,  and  subsequently  Professor  of  Politi- 
cal Science  and  Constitutional  Law.  In  1872 
he  became  Head  Master  of  the  Girls'  High 
School  in  Boston,  and  in  1878  Superintendent 
of  the  Boston  Public  Schools.  He  has  written 
A  Manual  of  the  United  States  History  (1856), 
and  in  1880  prepared  a  selection  of  Poetry  for 
Children.  His  great  work  is  The  History  of 
Liberty,  which  was  planned  in  1845,  while  he 
was  a  resident  at  Rome.  An  instalment  of 
this  was  published  in  1847,  under  the  title 
Passages  from  the  History  of  Liberty  treating 
mainly  of  the  early  Italian  reformers.  Two 
years  afterwards  appeared  Tlie  Liberty  of 
Rome.  This  was  revised  and  re-written  in 
1853,  and  appeared  as  Part  I.  of  The  History 
of  Liberty.  In  the  Preface  he  says  :  "  I  have 
taken  for  my  subject  a  principle  in  which  all 
men  are  concerned,  and  to  which  all  the 
events  of  human  history  are  related.  It  has 
seemed  to  me  that  in  tracing  the  course  of 
this  history,  we  might  gain  some  new  convic- 
tions respecting  liberty.  Such  an  aim  is  far 
too  high  to  be  attained  by  composing  a  work 
for  the  use  merely  of  what  is  called  the  liter- 
ary class.  I  write  for  my  fellow-men  as  well 
as  for  my  fellow-scholars." 

UnERTY    AMON<*  THE  ANCIKKTS   IN   (JEN'ERAL. 

Liberty  ih  the  ability  of  an  individual  or  of  a 
roniimmity  to  pxerrine  the  powers  with  which 
••itluT  may  Ik-  ondowed.  As  a  right,  it  depends 
uiK)n  the  character  of  the  i)ower8  to  wjiich  itsup- 
plieH  thu  uiean.s  of  exercise.     Tliey  who  have  only 


186  SAMUEL  ELIOT. 

the  lowest  powers  have  the  right  only  to  the  low- 
est liberty.  They  wlio  have  the  liighest  powers— 
and  they  alone— have  the  right  to  the  highest 
liberty.  In  other  words,  liberty  is  the  right  to 
use,  an'1  to  increase  by  using,  the  powers  which 
constitute  the  endowments  of  humanity. 

As  a  possession,  actually  in  the  hands  of  men 
or  of  nations,  liberty  depends  upon  laws  as  well 
as  upon  powers.  One  may  have  the  noblest 
powers  of  which  his  nature  is  capable ;  but  he  may 
be  incapable  of  exercising  them  on  account  of  op- 
pressive laws.  Or  he  may  have  but  imperfect 
powers  ;  yet  they  may  be  developed  until  they 
seem  to  human  vision  almost  perfect,  in  conse- 
(juence  of  the  laws  encouraging  their  exercise. 
No  man  can  possess  liberty — whether  personal  or 
political,  whether  physical,  intellectual,  or  spirit- 
ual— except  the  laws  above  him  allow  the  em- 
ployment of  the  powers  with  which  he  has  been 
created. 

Now  the  laws  under  which  men  live  are  of  two 
codes  :  One  of  these  is  derived  directly  from  God, 
whose  will  it  expresses,  whose  omnipotence  it  de- 
clares. The  Divine  law,  wherever  revealed,  calls 
forth  the  highest  powers  of  which  mankind  are 
susceptible.  It  kindles  their  holiest  aspiration  in 
the  service  of  their  Creator.  It  braces  their  most 
generous  energies  in  the  service  of  their  fellow- 
creatures.  Consequently,  it  gives  them  the  right 
to  perfect  liberty.  That  which  is  made  their  right 
is  by  the  same  law,  if  it  be  obeyed,  made  their 
possession  likewise.  The  other  code  contains  hu- 
man laws.  So  far  as  these  support  the  Divine 
law,  they  support  the  liberty  wliich  that  proclaims. 
So  far,  on  tlie  other  hand,  as  they  uphold  the 
authority  or  the  pleasure  of  men  in  contradiction 
to  the  will  and  the  omnipotence  of  God,  they  are 
fatal  to  all  liberty  worthy  of  the  name.  If  neither 
opposing  nor  maintaining  the  Divine  law,  they 
stand  by  themselves,  unable  to  create  the  powers 
which  entitle  men  to  be  truly  free.  The  right  to 
liberty  declines  under  merely  human  laws.  Under 
them,  the  possession  also  of  liberty  is  insecure,  if 
it  be  not  wholly  lost.  . 


SAMUEL  ELIOT.  187 

Over  the  ages  of  old  there  broods  from  first  to 
last  a  giant  shape,  conjured  up  by  human  laws. 
Wherever  men  came  together,  upon  the  Eastern 
plains  or  around  the  Western  citadels,  they  dwell 
in  the  shadow  of  centralization.  This  is  one  of 
the  two  systems  by  which  society  is  constituted  : 
the  otlier  is  Union.  Centralization  binds  men  to- 
gether ;  but  it  binds  them  together  to  the  benefit 
of  the  minority ;  the  majority  is  oppressed.  Laws 
are  in  force  not  necessarily  subverting,  though 
necessarily  not  upholding,  the  Divine  law.  Lib- 
erty, as  a  right,  is  transformed  from  the  right  of 
developing  one's  own  powers  into  that  of  controll- 
ing the  powers  of  others.  As  a  possession,  it 
passes  from  the  hands  of  the  most  powerful  spirit- 
ually or  intellectually,  into  those  of  the  most 
powerful  physically  or  politically.  The  laws  on 
which  it  depends  are  merely  human.  As  such, 
they  recognize  only  the  possessions  or  the  rights 
of  their  framers.  These  are  the  freemen  of  the 
nation  united  by  centralization  ;  the  remainder  of 
the  nation  consists  of  subjects  or  of  actual  bond- 
men. Centralization  prevailed  throughout  anti- 
quity. The  ancient  nations  knew  no  other  laws 
but  what  were  human,  no  other  freemen  but  what 
were  rulers.  Amongst  the  masses  there  was  no 
\i\)eTty.— History  of  Liberty,  Vol.  I.,  Book  i,, 
Chap.  1. 

THE  UBERTY  OF  THE  HEBREWS. 

The  source  of  the  Hebrew  law  was  Divine.  Its 
course  was  so  shaped  by  men  as  to  be  merely  hu- 
man. As  such,  it  made  the  Hebrews  rulers. 
Those  wliom  it  made  rulers — and  those  only — did 
it  make  freemen.  Tlu^  law  was  earnest  in  secur- 
ing the  liberty  of  the  HeljrewH.  Not  only  did  it 
divide  the  Promised  Land  eciuali}'  amongst  them 
all  ;  but  it  provided  for  the  recovery  of  every  es- 
tate that  might  l>e  lost  by  the  indigence  or  the 
wilfulness  of  its  possessor.  Were  lie  indilfen-nt 
a)K)Ut  regaining  it,  his  children  had  tlie  opj)or- 
tunity  of  reinstating  themselves  at  eacli  returning 
celebration  of  the  national  jubilee.  Tin-  more  fre- 
quent recurrence  of  the  Ivord's  Release  witnessed 


1H8  SAMUEL  ELIOT. 

the  liberation  of  every  debtor  from  the  confine- 
ment in  wliich  the  law  had  been  watching  over 
him.  Guarded  against  private,  the  Hebrews  were 
also  protected  against  public  oppression.  The 
first  to  be  called  by  Moses  to  authority  were  "able 
men  out  of  all  Israel."  Distinctions  of  families 
and  tribe  were  lost  in  the  common  Congregation. 
To  this  body,  the  chiefs,  whose  titles  are  variously 
recorded  as  Heads  of  Families,  Elders,  and  Princes, 
appear  to  have  been  accountable.  The  only  im- 
mediate exception  to  this  general  equality  was  the 
elevation  of  a  single  tribe  to  the  functions  of  the 
priesthood.  But  the  privileges  of  this  order  were 
not  so  numerous  as  its  obligations.  A  king  was 
anointed  prospectively  ;  but  he  vras  to  be  one 
"  whom  the  Lord  shall  choose." 

Above  all  other  authority  was  recognized  that  of 
the  Deity  :  He  ruled  on  earth  as  in  heaven  ;  obedi- 
ence to  Him  was  the  safeguard  of  liberty.  It  was 
likewise  the  security  of  dominion.  "Take  heed 
to  thyself,"  forewarned  the  Hebrew  law,  "lest 
thou  make  a  covenant  with  the  inhabitants  of  the 
land  whither  thou  goest,  lest  it  be  for  a  snare  in 
the  midst  of  thee.  But  ye  shall  destroy  their 
images,  and  cut  down  their  groves  ;  for  thou  shalt 
worship  no  other  god."  Again  it  was  declared  : 
"Of  the  cities  which  the  Lord  thy  God  doth  give 
thee  for  an  inheritance,  thou  shalt  save  alive 
nothing  that  breatheth ;  but  thou  shalt  utterly 
destroy  them."  Yet  the  conquest  was  not  to  be 
so  destructive  as  to  leave  none  of  whom  subjects 
could  not  be  made  by  the  conquerors  :  "  Both 
thy  bondmen  and  thy  bondmaids  which  thou  shalt 
have,"  continued  the  law,  "  shall  be  of  the  hea- 
thens that  are  round  you.  .  .  .  and  ye  shall  take 
them  as  an  inheritance  for  your  children  after 
you.  .  .  .  they  shall  be  your  bondmen  forever." 

Dominion  over  the  Promised  Land  and  its  in- 
habitants proved  insufficient  for  the  Hebrews. 
Through  the  long  conflicts  in  which  they  were  in- 
volved under  their  Judges  and  their  Kings,  they 
strove  to  increase  more  frequently  than  to  pre- 
serve their  realms.  The  expectation,  dimly  em- 
braced by    Abraham,  but  clearly  enunciated  by 


SAMUEL  ELIOT.  189 

Moses,  concerning  the  appearance  of  a  future 
Prophet,  swelled  into  the  anticipation  of  univer- 
sal empire.  "  And  he  shall  smite  the  earth,"  ex- 
claimed Isaiah,  '•  with  the  rod  of  his  mouth,  and 
with  the  breath  of  his  life  shall  he  slay  the  wick- 
ed. .  .  .  Fear  not.  thou  worm  Jacob,  and  ye  men 
of  Israel !  I  will  help  thee,  saith  the  Lord  and  thy 
Redeemer,  the  Holy  One  of  Israel.  And  I  will 
make  thee  a  new  sharp  instrument,  having  teeth. 
Thou  shalt  thresh  the  mountains  and  beat  them 
wnall,  and  shalt  make  the  hills  as  chaff." 

Of  all  nations  in  ancient  times,  the  Hebrews  ap- 
proached the  nearest  to  the  possession  of  the 
eternal  principle  upon  which  liberty  rests.  They 
were  made  acquainted  with  the  existence  and  the 
omnipotence  of  their  Creator.  Fiom  Him  they  re- 
ceived the  law  to  be  holy  and  perfect.  They  rose 
with  David  to  the  heights  of  penitence  and  prayer. 
They  lifted  their  voices  with  Isaiah  in  preparing 
the  glory  of  the  Lord  ;  with  Daniel  in  foretelling 
the  endless  majesty  of  His  kingdom.  Yet  theirs 
was  the  shade,  rather  than  the  light,  of  the  Divine 
law.  Laws  of  their  own,  supporting  the  lowest 
forms  of  liberty,  stood  side  by  side  with  laws  sup- 
porting its  highest  forms.  Instead  of  resisting  the 
centralization  that  prevailed  of  old,  the  Hebrews 
were  amongst  its  most  unsparing  champions. — 
History  of  Liberty,  Vol.  I.,  Book  i.,  Chap.  10. 

TUE  LIBERTY  OF  THE  ROMANS. 

The  moment  Curias  Dentatus  disappears  (290 
B.C.),  the  questions  of  relief  to  the  lower  classes, 
and  of  union  between  them  and  the  higher,  sink 
into  the  background.  Four  years  afterwards 
there  occurred  a  general  outburst  of  the  difficul- 
ties which  all  the  wiser  men  of  the  popular  party 
had  Huccessively  striven  to  repress.  Debt  wa.s  the 
mainspring  of  tho  inKurn-clion  in  whicli  the  lower 
clasw's,  disa|>p()iritfd  in  their  hopes  of  relief  from 
thfir  suptriors,  K<;em  to  have  seceded  to  the  Ja- 
iiif'ulaii  Hill.  There,  iH'rhai)s,  they  would  have  re- 
mained unheedeil,  but  for  the  approach  of  a  hostile 
army,  wbosi?  ravages  may  have  made  it  nefcssary 
for  the  iippf-r  claswH  to  conriliate  thciii.      It   looks 


190  SAMUEL  ELIOT. 

as  though  the  popular  party  made  the  first  ad- 
vances. Indeed,  it  is  not  certain  but  tliat  a  portion 
of  the  party  had  gone  out  with  tlie  seceders  to 
the  Janiculan.  At  all  events,  tlie  popular  leaders 
stand  out  in  the  final  movements  of  the  insurrec- 
tion. One  of  their  chiefs,  Quintius  Hortensius,  is 
raised  to  the  dictatorship.  At  his  call  the  people 
come  together  to  pass  a  law  investing  the  decrees 
of  the  Tribes  with  plenary  independence.  This 
goes,  of  course,  against  the  Senate,  hitherto  ac- 
cepting or  rejecting  the  legislative  proceedings  of 
the  Tribes.  Then  Hortensius  dies.  It  may  liave 
been  his  successor,  it  may  have  been  a  Tribune  of 
the  Plebeians,  Majnius  by  name,  who  procured 
the  passage  of  a  bill  directed  against  the  Curias. 
To  that  ancient  assembly  little  of  a  political 
character  remained  besides  the  right  to  sanction 
or  annul  the  elections  made  in  the  Centurias  to 
the  higher  magistracies.  This  right  appears  to  have 
been  abrogated  by  the  Mfenian  law.  A  change  ha 
the  organization  of  the  Centurias,  apparently  ren- 
dering that  body  more  popular,  may  have  taken 
place  at  the  same  time. 

With  all  its  laws,  Majnian  and  Hortensian,  the 
popular  party  could  not  have  been  completely 
satisfied.  Disguise  it  as  they  would,  many  must 
have  felt  a  sensitiveness  to  the  personal  superiority 
still  asserted  by  their  antagonists.  But  a  few 
years  before  the  secession  to  the  Janiculan,  a 
time  had  been  set  apart  by  the  Senate  for  solemn 
devotions  in  consequence  of  many  strange  pre- 
sages that  had  been  observed  and  feared.  In  the 
season  of  supplication,  the  wife  of  Lucius  Volum- 
nius,  by  name  Virginia,  a  woman  of  Patrician 
birth,  came  to  the  temple  of  Patrician  Chastity  to 
offer  up  her  vows.  The  Patrician  ladies  gathered 
at  the  shrine  denied  her  the  right  to  worship  Chere, 
because,  said  they,  she  was  married  bo  a  Plebeian. 
"I  thought,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  had  as  good  a 
right  here  as  any.  But  if  it  be  on  my  husband's 
account  that  I  am  thus  affronted,  I  say  I  am 
neither  ashamed  of  him,  nor  of  his  exploits  nor  of 
liis  honors."  She  then  withdrew,  and,  for  her 
sole  revenge  set  up  an  altar  in   her   house  to  Pie- 


ELIZABETH  F.  L.  ELLET.  191 

beian  Chastity,  to  wliose  worship  she  invited  her 
Plebeian  countrywomen.  If  a  Patrician  wife  of  a 
Plebeian  could  be  so  excluded  from  a  temple,  the 
Plebeians  must  have  found  it  still  difficult  to 
reach  the  privileges  to  which  they  aspired. 

Where,  meanwhile,  were  the  lower  classes  who 
had  seceded  to  the  Janiculan  ?  How  were  the 
debtors  saved  from  lx)ndage,  the  starving  from 
death  ?  Tliere  is  no  answer  to  be  found  in  the 
ancient  historians.  Yet  it  was  the  popular  party 
of  Curius  Dentatus  and  of  Valerius  Corvus  that 
had  so  far  triumphed.  Did  they  do  nothmg  for 
the  inferior  Plebeians — nothing  for  the  still  in- 
ferior aliens  and  slaves?  Again  there  is  no  an- 
swer in  the  ancient  histories.  The  popular  party 
8i>ent  its  liberality  in  contests  with  its  superiors. 
It  had  little  besides  illiberality  to  show  towards 
its  inferiors.  Instead  of  encouraging  continual 
growili  in  freedom  amongst  the  lower  orders,  it 
seems  as  if  the  popular  party  had  stood  like  full- 
grown  trees  that  divert  the  sunshine  from  the 
lowlier  plants,  incapable,  indeed,  of  pushing  up 
their  branches  all  at  once,  but  designed  to  lift 
their  breathing  leaves  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
height  of  the  older  foliage. 

This  settled  the  question  as  to  the  extent  of 
Roman  liberty.  It  was  to  remain  in  a  few  hands. 
Its  freemen  were  they  who  had  risen  :  they  who 
had  yet  to  rise  were  bondmen.  The  mind  reverts 
to  the  city  as  it  stood  upon  its  seven  hills.  The 
temple  with  its  comjjany  of  columns  holds  the 
foremost  place.  Beneath,  the  square,  decked  with 
monuments  and  trophies,  lies  open  for  the  assem- 
blies of  the  nation.  On  the  right  and  on  the  left, 
Bcaling  every  hill,  and  covering  nearly  every  level 
space,  are  the  dwellings,  the  gardens,  the  fields, 
and  the  wo<xls  of  the  richer  citizens.  To  find  the 
IKK)rer  classes  we  must  thread  the  crooked  streets 
wliere  the  dampness  of  day  and  the  darkness  of 
night  maintain  <ontitmal  gloom. — History  of 
Liberty,  Vol.  I.,  IVwk  iii.,  Chap.  15. 

ELLET,  Ki,i/-AF?ETH  Fries  (Lummis),  an 
American  author,  born  at  Sodus  Point,  N.  Y., 


192  CHARLES  JOHN  ELLICOTT. 

in  1818,  died  in  1877.  She  published  a  volume 
of  Poems,  Original  and  Selected  in  1835,  wrote 
scvei'ol  books,  mostly  of  a  historical  or  bio- 
graphical character,  and  was  a  frequent  con- 
tributor to  periodicals.  Her  principal  works 
are  :  Characters  of  Schiller  (1841),  Women 
of  the  American  Revolution  (1848),  Domestic 
History  of  the  American  Revolution  (1850), 
Watching  Spirits  (1851),  Pioneer  Women  of 
the  West  (1852),  Summer  Rambles  in  the  West 
(1853),  Women  Artists  in  all  Ages  and  Coun- 
tries (1861),  Queens  of  American  Society  (1867), 
Court  Circles  of  the  Republic  (1860),  Cycle- 
pcedia  of  Domestic  Economy  (1872). 

REST  FOR  THE  WEARY. 

O  weary  heart,  there  is  a  rest  for  tliee  1 

O  truant  heart,  there  is  a  blessed  home, 
An  isle  of  gladness  in  life's  wayward  sea, 

Where  storms  that  vex  the  waters  never  come  ! 
There  trees  perennial  yield  their  balmy  shade  ; 

There  flower-wreathed  hills  in  sunlit    beauty 

sleep ;  [glade  ; 

There  meek  streams  murmur  through  the  verdant 

There  heaven    bends  smiling    o'er  the  plaoid 
deep ; 
Winnowed  by  wings  immortal  that  fair  isle  ; 

Vocal  its  air  with  music  from  above  ! 
There  meets  the  exile  eye  a  welcoming  smile  ; 

There  ever  speaks  a  summoning  voice  of  love 
Unto  the  heavy-laden  and  distrest — 
"  Come  unto  Me,  and  I  will  give  you  rest  I  " 

ELLICOTT,  Charles  John,  an  English  cler- 
gyman and  author,  born  in  1819.  He  was  edu- 
cated at  Cambridge,  where  he  graduated 
with  honors  in  1841,  and  was  elected  a  Fel- 
low of  St.  John's  College.  In  1848  he  was  col- 
lated to  the  rector.shipof  Pilton,  which  he  held 
for  ten  years,  when  he  resigned  it,  in  order  to 
become  Professor  of  Divinity  in  King's  Col 
lege,  London.    In  1859  he  was  appointed  Hub 


CHAELES  JOHN  ELLICOTT.  193 

scan  Lecturer,  and  in  1860  was  elected  Hul- 
sean  Professor  of  Divinity  at  Cambridge.    His 
Hulsean  Lectures  for  that  year  on  the  "  Life 
of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  "  attracted  great  at- 
tention by  their  eloquence  and  rare  scholar- 
ship.     In  1861   he  was  nominated    by    the 
Crown  to  the  Deanery  of  Elxeter,  and  in  1863 
to  the  united  sees  of  Gloucester  and  Bristol, 
which  had  become  vacant  by  the  promotion 
of  Bishop  William  Thomson    to  the    Arch- 
bishopric of  York.     Bishop  Ellicott's  publica- 
tions are  numerous.     His  Hulsean  Lectures 
have  been  republished  in  several  editions. 
He  has  written  Commentaries  on  several  of 
the  Pauline  Epistles,  and  an  elaborate  Essay 
on  the  Apocryphal  Gospels  (1856) ;    The  Des- 
tiny   of   the    Creature    and  other    Sermons 
preached  before  the  University  of  Cambi-Jdge 
(1858) ;  Considerations  on  the  Revision  of  tlie 
English  Version  of  the  Neiv  Testament  {1870 ; 
republished  in  1884  with  other  essay  s  by  Canon 
Lightfoot  and  Archbishop  Trench,  and  an  In- 
troduction  by   Dr.   Philip   SchafI) ;   Six  Ad- 
dresses on  Modern  Skepticism  (1877);  Six  Ad- 
dresses on  the  Brinij  of  God  (J 879) ;  numerous 
papers  in  the  publications  of  "The  Christian 
Evidence  Society,"  and  Diocesan  Progress, 
being  annual  addresses  to  the  clergy  of  his 
<Iiocuse,  beginning  in  1879.    He  has  also  edited 
a  Commentary  on  the  Old  and  New   Testa- 
ments, by  vaiiuus  wi-itcrs.     He  was  for  eleven 
years  the  Chairman  of  the  "  Company  of  the 
Revisers  of   tlie   Aulliorized    Version  of  the 
New  Testament,"  published  in  1881. 

DIFFICULTIES  I.N  THE  OOSPEL  HISTORY. 
I  ricitlicr  ft-t-l  nor  afrcf.t  to  fed  the  slightest 
sympatliy  witli  the  kg  ralU-d  popular  tlieology  of 
the  prewnt<lay  ;  hut  I  Mtill  trust  lliat,  in  the  many 
|ihif;eH  in  wliicli  it  liriH  In-cn  ahnost  iiecessarily 
f.illcrl  fortli  in  tiie  present  pages,  no  nxpre.ssion 
h;is  been  used  towards  skeptical  writings  stronger 


194  CHARLES  JOHN  ELLICOTT. 

than  may  have  been  positively  required  by  allegi- 
ance to  catholic  truth.  Towards  the  honest  and 
serious  thinker  who  may  feel  doubts  or  difficul- 
ties in  some  of  the  (juestions  connected  with  our 
Lord's  life,  nil  tenderness  may  justly  be  shown, — 
Preface  to  Lectures. 

THE  TRIUMPHANT  ENTRY   INTO  JERUSALEM. 

In  the  retirement  of  that  mountain-hamlet  of 
Bethany — a  retirement  soon  to  be  broken  in  upon 
— the  Redeemer  of  tlie  world  may  witli  reason  be 
supposed  to  have  spent  Ills  last  earthly  Sabbath. 
There  too,  either  in  their  own  house  or,  as  seems 
more  probable,  in  the  house  of  one  wlio  jirobably 
owed  to  our  Lord  his  return  to  the  society  of  his 
fellow-men,  did  that  loving  household  "make  a 
supper "  for  their  Divine  Guest.  Joyfully  and 
thankfully  did  each  one  of  that  loving  family  in- 
stinctively do  that  which  might  seem  most  to  tend 
to  the  honor  and  glorification  of  Him  whom  one 
of  them  had  declared  to  be,  and  whom  tliey  all 
knew  to  be,  the  Son  of  God  that  was  to  come  into 
the  world.  So  Martha  serves  ;  Lazarus,  it  is  speci- 
ally noticed,  takes  his  place  at  the  table,  the  visible 
living  proof  of  the  onmipotence  of  his  Lord  ;  Mary 
performs  the  tender  office  of  a  mournfully  foresee- 
ing love,  that  thought  nought  too  pure  or  too 
costly  for  its  God— that  tender  office,  which, 
though  grudgingly  rebuked  by  Judas  and,  alas  ! 
others  than  Judas,  who  could  not  appreciate  the 
depths  of  such  a  devotion,  nevertheless  received  a 
praise  Avhich  it  has  been  declared  shall  evermore 
hold  its  place  on  the  pages  of  the  Book  of  Life. 

But  that  Sabbath  soon  passed  away.  Ere  night 
came  on,  numbers  even  of  those  who  were  seldom 
favorabl}^  disposed  to  our  Lord,  now  came  to  see 
both  him  and  the  living  monument  of  His  merci- 
ful omnipotence.  The  morrow  probably  brought 
more  of  these  half-curious,  half-awed,  yet,  as  it 
would  now  seem,  in  a  great  measure  believing  vis- 
itants. The  deep  heart  of  the  people  was  stirred, 
and  the  time  was  fully  come  when  ancient  prophe- 
cy was  to  receive  its  fulfilment,  and  the  daugliter 
of  Zion  was  to  welcome  her  King.  Yea,  and  in 
kingly  state  shall   lie  come.     Begirt   not  only   by 


CHARLES  JOHN  ELLICOTT.  195 

the  smaller  band  of  His  own  disciples  but  by  the 
great  and  now  hourly  increasing  multitude,  our 
Lord  leaves  the  little  wooded  vale  that  had  minis- 
tered to  Him  its  Sabbath-day  of  seclusion  and  re- 
pose, and  diiects  his  waj^  onward  to  Jerusalem. 
As  yet,  however,  in  but  humble  guise  and  as  a 
pilgrim  among  pilgrims  He  traverses  the  rough 
mountain-track  which  the  modern  traveler  can 
even  now  somewhat  hopefully  identify  ;  every 
step  bringing  him  nearer  to  the  ridge  of  Olivet, 
and  to  that  hamlet  or  district  of  Bethphage,  the 
exact  site  of  which  it  is  so  hard  to  fix,  but  which 
was  separated  perhaps  only  by  some  narrow  valley 
from  the  road  along  which  the  procession  was  now 
wending  its  way. 

But  ti»e  Son  of  David  must  not  solemnly  enter 
the  city  of  David  as  a  scarcely  distinguishable 
wayfarer  amid  a  mixed  and  wayfaring  throng. 
Prophecy  umst  have  its  full  and  exact  fulfilment ; 
the  King  must  approach  the  city  of  the  King  with 
some  meek  symbols  of  kingly  majesty.  With 
haste,  it  would  seem,  two  disciples  are  despatched 
to  the  village  over  against  them,  to  bring  to  Him 
"  who  had  need  of  it "  the  colt  '"  whereon  yet  never 
man  sat:"  with  ha.ste  the  zealous  followers  cast 
iij)on  it  their  garments,  and  all-unconscious  of  the 
significant  nature  of  their  act,  place  thereon  their 
Ma-sU-r— the  coming  King.  Strange  it  would  have 
Ijcen  if  feelings  sucli  as  now  were  eagerly  stirring 
in  every  heart  had  not  found  vent  in  words. 
Strange  indeed  if,  with  tbellill  of  Zion  now  break- 
ing upon  tlieir  view,  the  l<jng  proplieiic  past  had 
not  seemed  to  mingle  witli  the  present,  and  «;voke 
those  shouts  of  mysterious  welcome  and  praise, 
vvhidi,  first  lK.'ginning  with  tiie  discijiles  and  those 
itiimediately  roiiml  our  I^)rd,  soon  were  heard 
from  every  mouth  of  that  glorifying  multitude. 
And  not  from  them  alone.  Numijerless  otiiers 
there  were  fa-st  streaming  up  Olivet,  a  pahu- 
branch  in  every  hand,  to/^eet  the  raiser  of  Laza- 
rus and  the  conqueror  of  Deatli  :  and  now  all  join. 
One  common  feeling  of  holy  enthusiasiu  now  jxir- 
vades  that  mighty  multitud(;,  and  disj)lays  itself 
in  Ijefitting  acts.     Oarments  an*  torn  olf  and   cast 


196  Siu  (JILDEKT  ELLIOT. 

down  before  the  Holy  One  ;  green  boughs  bestrew 
the  way  ;  Zion's  King  rides  onward  in  meek 
majesty,  a  thousand  voices  before,  and  a  thousand 
voices  behind,  rising  up  to  lieaven  with  Hosannas 
and  witli  mingled  words  of  magnifying  accla 
nuition,  some  of  which  once  had  been  sung  to  the 
Psalmist's  harp,  and  some  heard  even  from  an- 
gelic tongues. 

But  the  hour  of  triumph  was  the  hour  of  deep- 
est and  most  touching  compassion.  If,  as  we 
have  ventured  to  believe,  the  suddenly  opening 
view  of  Zion  may  have  caused  the  excited  fcidings 
of  that  thronging  multitude  to  pour  themselves 
forth  in  words  of  exalted  and  triumphant  praise, 
full  surely  we  know  from  the  inspired  narrative, 
that  on  our  Redeemer's  nearer  approach  to  the 
city,  as  it  rose  up,  perhaps  suddenly,  in  all  its 
extent  and  magnificence  before  Him  who  even 
now  beheld  the  trenches  cast  about  it,  and  Roman 
legions  mustering  round  its  fated  walls,  tears  fell 
from  those  Divine  eyes — yea,  the  Saviour  of  the 
world  wept  over  the  city  wherein  He  had  come 
to  suffer  and  die.  The  lengthening  procession 
again  moves  onward,  slowly  descending  into  the 
deep  valley  of  the  Kedron,  and  slowly  wind- 
ing up  tlie  opposite  slope,  until  at  length  by  one 
of  the  eastern  gates  it  passes  into  one  of  the  now 
crowded  thoroughfares  of  the  Holy  City.  Such 
was  the  Triumphal  Entry  into  Jerusalem. — Lec- 
tures on  the  Life  of  Our  Lord. 

ELLIOT,  Sir  Gilbert,  a  Scottish  lawyer 
and  poet,  born  in  1722,  died  in  1777.  lie 
filled  several  important  political  positions, 
and  is  said  to  have  first  introduced  the  Ger- 
man flute  into  Scotland.  The  following  piece 
was  characterized  by  Sir  Walter  Scott  as  "  a 
beautiful  pastoral  song  :  " 

MY  SHEEP  I  NEGLECTED. 

My  sheep  I  neglected,  I  broke  my  sheep-hook. 
And  all  the  gay  haunts  of  my  youth  I  forsook  ; 
No  more  for  Amynta  fresh  garlands  I  wove  ; 
For  Ambition,  I  said,  would  soon  cure  me  of  love. 


JANE  ELLIOT.  197 

Oh,  what  had  my  youth  with  ambition  to  do? 
Why  left  I  Amyntu  'i    Why  broke  I  my  vow? 
Oh,  give  me  mj-  sheep,  and  my  sheep-hook  restore, 
And  I  '11  wander  from  love  and  Amynta  no  more. 

Through  regions  remote  in  vain  do  I  rove. 
And  bid  the  wide  ocean  secure  mefi'om  love. 
O,  fool !  to  imagine  that  aught  could  subdue 
A  love  so  weU  founded,  a  passion  so  true ! 

Alas  !  'tis  too  late  at  my  fate  to  repine  ; 
Poor  shepherd,  Amynta  can  never  be  thine  ; 
Thy  tears  are  all  fruitless,  thy  wishes  are  vain, 
The  moments  neglected  return  not  again. 

ELLIOT,  Jane,  a  Scottish  poet,  born  in 
1727,  died  in  1S(J5.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a 
Sir  Gilbert  Elliot,  but  sister  of  the  one  men- 
tioned above.  Her  admired  poem,  The  Flow- 
ers of  the  Forest,  written  in  the  manner  of 
the  ancient  minstrels,  is  a  lament  for  the 
Scotchmen  who  fell  at  the  battle  of  Floddeu, 
in  1502. 

THE  FLOWERS  OF  THE  FOREST. 

1  've  heard  tlie  lilting  at  our  yowe-milking, 
Lasses  a-lilling  liefore  the  dawn  of  day  ; 

But  now  they  are  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

At   liuchts,   in   the  morning,  nac  blithe  lads  are 
scorning, 

The  lasses  are  loneh',  and  dowie,  and  wae  ; 
N.ie  daflfin',  nae  gal^bin',  l)ut  sighing  and  sabbing, 

Ilk  ane  lifts  her  leglin  and  liies  her  away. 

In  hairst,  at  the  shearing,  nae  youths  now  are 
jeering. 
The  banflsters  arc  lyart,  and  runkled,  and  gray  ; 
At  fair,  or  :it  jircarhiiig,  nae  wooing,   nae  flcech- 
irig- 
The  Flowers  <jf  tin-  Forest  arr;  a'  wede  away. 


198        CHARLES  WYLLYS  ELLIOTT. 

At    e'en,   at    the    gloaming,   nae    svvankies    are 
roaming, 

'Bont  stacks  \vi'  tlie  lasses  at  bogle  to  play, 
But  ilk  aiie  sits  clreario,  lamenting  lier  dearie-  - 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

Dule  and  wae  for  the  order,  sent  our  lads  to  the 
Border  ! 
The  English,  for  ance,  by  guile  wan  the  day  ; 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  that  foucht  aye  the 
foremost. 
The  prime  o'  our  land,  are  cauld  in  the  clay. 

We  hear  nae  mair  lilting  at  our  yowe-milking. 
Women  and  bairns  are  heartless  and  wae  ; 

Sighing  and  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

ELLIOTT,  Charles  Wyllys,  an  American 
author,  a  lineal  descendant  of  John  Eliot,  the 
"Apostle  to  the  Indians,"  born  at  Guilford, 
Conn.,  in  1817.  After  engaging  in  mercantile 
business  in  New  York,  he  became  a  i:>upil  in 
landscape  gardening  of  A.  J.  Downing,  and  in 
1853  was  appointed  one  of  the  Commissioners 
for  laying  out  the  Central  Park  in  New  York. 
About  1872  he  took  up  his  residence  at  Cam- 
bridge, Mass.,  as  manager  of  the  Household 
Art  Company  of  Boston.  Besides  being  a 
frequent  contributor  to  periodicals,  he  has 
written  books  on  a  great  variety  of  subjects, 
some  of  them  having  been  published  anony- 
mously. Among  his  acknowledged  works 
are  :  Cottages  and  Cottage  Life  (1848),  Mys- 
teries, or  Glimpses  of  the  Supernatural  (18.52), 
St.  Domingo,  its  Revolution  and  Hero  (185,5), 
The  Neiu  England  History  (1857),  Wind  and 
Whirhmnd  (1868),  American  Interiors  (1875), 
Pottery  and  Porcelain  (1878). 

THE  FIRST  SPRING   AT  PLYMOUTH. 

With  the  return  of  Spring  came  the  sailing  of 
the  Mayflmver.    Tliey  had  struggled  through  the 


CHARLEb  WYLLYS  ELLlUTT.  199 

Winter,  and  the  ship  had  always  been  in  sight,  a 
place  of  refuge  and  relief  in  any  desperate  emer- 
gency. While  she  lay  in  the  bay,  the  pilgrims 
had  a  hold  ui)on  friends,  civilization,  and  Chris- 
tianity ;  but  let  the  ship  once  depart,  and  on  the 
one  hand  there  would  be  the  broad,  deep,  tem- 
pestuous sea.  and  on  the  other,  wide  unknown 
forests,  peopled  by  savages  and  wild  beasts.  Port 
Royal  was  the  nearest  point  where  they  could 
find  white  men,  and  that  was  away  some  five 
hundred  miles.  The  future  was  before  them  with 
all  its  uncertainties,  which  they  must  march  for- 
ward to  meet  :  yet  not  one  of  the  numljcr  returned 
to  the  ship.  The  sailing  of  the  Mayfloicer  sur- 
passes in  dignity,  though  not  in  desperation,  the 
burning  of  his  ships  by  Cortes.  This  small  band 
of  men,  women,  and  children  were  grouped  on 
the  shore,  watching  her  as  she  slowly  set  her  sails 
and  crept  out  of  the  bay  and  from  their  sight. 
When  the  sun  set  in  the  western  forest,  she  disap- 
peared in  the  distant  blue.  A  few  Indians  might 
have  been  hovering  on  the  neighboring  heights, 
watching  the  departure  of  the  great  sea-bird  ;  but 
the  labt  eyes  that  bade  farewell  to  the  Mayflower 
were  those  of  women. 

But  the  sky  was  not  inky,  nor  was  their  future 
desperate.  The  sun  still  shone  gloriously,  the 
moon  still  bathed  the  earth  with  light,  and  the 
stars  kept  their  ceaseless  vigils.  Spring  here,  as 
of  old,  followed  Winter  :  the  murmurings  of  the 
streams  was  heard,  and  the  song  of  the  turtle  ; 
birds  builded  their  nests,  the  tender  grass  spnmg 
up  under  their  feet,  and  the  trees  budded  and 
burst  forth  into  wondrous  l>eauty.  God  was  over 
all — their  God,  their  friend,  their  protector  liere as 
in  the  Old  World  :  why  should  he  not  bo  more 
their  frien<l  than  ever  Ijefore?  Life  had  not  been 
altogether  lovely  to  them  in  the  pa.st  ;  it  had  not 
l)een  pU'.isant  in  P^ngiand  to  Ix'  put  into  dungeons. 
or  to  have  one's  tars  dug  out,  or  to  be  pltnidered 
by  low-bred  |K)licemen,  or  to  l)e  hunted  like  wild 
beasts  into  mounlains  and  holes  of  the  earth. 
Here  there  was  freedom,  room.  He  can  only 
value  this  wljo  lias  lost  it ;  yet  no  man  lives,  how- 


200         CHARLES  WYLLYS  ELLIOTT. 

ever  low  in  the  scale  of  civilization,  wlio  docs  not 
long  for  it,  and  will  not  suffer  to  get  it :  will  suffer 
danger,  pain  and  starvation  rather  than  not  be 
free.  "Here,"  said  one,  "all  are  freeholders; 
rent-day  does  not  trouble  us."  Here,  if  anywhere, 
might  not  every  one  sit  under  his  own  vine? 
Earth  and  sea  had  fruits,  and  they  were  free.  No 
monopi)list,  with  subtle  alchemy,  gathered  the 
earnings  of  men  ;  no  Church  collected  the  unwill- 
ing tithes  ;  no  tax-gatherer  waited  on  them  with 
hungry  coffers ;  no  king,  no  pope,  no  soldier, 
challenged  their  gratitude  for  having  taken  their 
money  to  govern  them.  They  could  govern  them- 
selves. Social,  religious,  and  political  anomalies 
and  technicalities  had  not  yet  become  grievous 
burdens,  bearing  down  soul  and  body  to  the 
earth.  "  Here,"  said  Cushman,  "  we  have  great 
peace,  plentie  of  the  Gospel,  and  many  sweet  de- 
lights and  varietie  of  comforts."— T/te  New  Eng- 
land History,  Vol.  I.,  Chap.  IX. 

NEW  ENGLAND  MEN,   WOMEN,  AND    CHILDREN. 

New  England  seems  to  have  suffered  for  the 
want  of  two  things  :  Amusement  and  Art.  Why 
was  this?  Necessity  forced  men  to  work— for  the 
fertile  lands  were  scarce,  and  the  long  winters  re- 
quired much  food  and  shelter  for  man  and  beast. 
In  a  tropical  land  constant  fruits  seduce  the  body 
to  repose  ;  but  in  a  colder  region  the  first  warm 
sunshine  of  Spring  umst  be  watched,  and  seized, 
and  planted  along  with  the  sprouting  seed  ;  the 
early  hours  and  the  eventide  must  be  devoted  to 
hasten  the  crops,  which  in  the  short  Summer  must 
grow  and  blossom,  and  bear  their  fruit.  Natm-e 
does  much,  but  man  nmst  do  much  ;  he  is  the 
gnome  whose  cunning  hand  is  to  work  up  her 
black  earths  and  rocks  into  golden  grains.  God 
helps  those  who  help  themselves  was  a  doctrine 
practiced  in  New  England  ;  and  however  they 
prayed,  they  always  worked.  Through  eight 
months  in  the  year,  no  man  or  women  had  time 
for  anmsement.  Habits  were  thus  fixed  ;  and 
when  the  Winter  came,  those  who  had  passed  the 
hey-day  of  life,  were  content  with  rest. 


CHARLES  WYLLYS  ELLIOTT.  201 

The  young  nuw  and  tlien  indulged  in  outbursts 
of  amusement,  and  ran  into  excesses  whicli  they 
might  have  escaped,  liad  fathers  and  mothers 
taken  part  in  tlie  dance  and  the  song.  Another 
element  had  a  marked  influence  upon  manners  : 
Not  only  must  tlie  body  be  sustained,  though  de- 
spised ;  but  the  soul  must  be  saved.  Serious  men 
and  women  passed,  into  serious  years,  feared  the 
wrath  of  God.  Ignorant  as  all  were  of  the  laws 
of  liealth,  they  feared  to  be  cut  down  in  a  moment, 
and  they  sat  with  Death  at  their  board.  To  such, 
mere  forgetfulness  seemed  sinful,  and  a  song 
savored  of  evil,  while  a  light  word  or  a  laugli 
miglit  be  an  insult  to  that  God  wlio  shook  the 
heavens  and  the  earth  with  his  thunders,  and  said 
unto  them,  "  Repent,  repent,  for  the  day  of  the 
Lord  is  at  hand  ! "  It  is  plain  that  they  could  not 
indulge  in  trifling  amusements,  and  must  dis- 
countenan  e  it  in  their  children.  .  .  . 

Art  was  neglected  for  much  the  same  reasons 
that  A?uusement  was  discouraged.  The  necessi- 
ties of  a  new  country  forbade  one  to  make  paint- 
ing, or  sculpture,  or  music,  or  poetry,  the  occupa- 
tion of  his  life.  Such  a  person  would  have  failed 
to  receive  respect  or  support.  Neither  would 
those  occupations  liave  seemed  consistent  with 
the  idea  that  a  man  was  standing  in  tlie  presence 
of  an  awful  God,  and  liable  at  any  moment  to  be 
called  to  judgment.  Of  the  fine  arts,  music  only 
received  a  brief  attention  as  an  accessory  to  the 
Sunday  service.  Art,  therefore,  failed  to  imjjart 
that  grace  and  delicacy  and  ornament  to  life  in 
New  England,  which  is  its  province  if  pro|)erly 
used.  .  .  . 

The  women  of  New  England  wore  truly  helps- 
meet  for  men.  They  bore  fully  their  share  of  la- 
lM)rs  and  trials.  They  were  the  liousewives,  spin- 
ners and  weavers,  tailors,  nurses,  an<l  doctors  of 
New  England  ;  they  were  dairy-maiils  and  cooks, 
as  well  as  friends  and  sweethearts.  They  kejtt  tlie 
gardens,  wliere  Ih'(1h  of  herbs  ripened  "for  sick- 
ness," wiiere  roses  ami  hollyhocks  <jpened  for 
Ix-auty.  They  studied  the  weather  and  the  alma- 
nac, and  were  wise  to  predict  that  if  the  nuMurii 


202  EBENEZER  ELLIOTT. 

horns  dipped  we  should  liave  rain  ;  if  the  moon 
changed  on  Friday  it  would  rain  on  Sunday.  In 
New  Enghmd  women  were  never  made  tlie  slaves 
or  inferiors  of  men  ;  they  were  co-equal  in  social 
life,  an(t  held  a  position  superior  to  that  held  by 
them  in  England.  Society  did  not,  however,  re- 
cognize their  political  rights.  •  .  . 

The  children  probably  had  as  poor  a  time  as  any 
portion  of  the  people,  for  the  prevailing  principles 
did  not  favor  too  much  gaiety.  Besides  the  Cate- 
chisms, which  were  apt  to  prove  indigestible  to 
children,  there  was  an  infinite  quantity  of  work 
to  be  done,  and  both  women  and  children  were  re- 
quired to  do  their  share.  To  the  latter  fell  a  class 
of  work  known  as  "chores;"  and  these  chores 
they  were  deputed  to  do,  morning  and  night,  be- 
sides their  school  duty.  They  consisted  of  bring- 
ing in  the  wood,  feeding  and  milking  the  cow, 
taking  her  to  and  from  pasture,  picking  up  cliipa, 
making  snow-paths,  going  of  innumerable  errands, 
carrying  cold  victuals  to  the  poor,  and  so  on — the 
odds  and  ends  of  daily  life.  This  early  inured 
children  to  the  responsibility  of  life  ;  and  although 
it  made  them  old  before  their  time,  it  guarded 
them  from  that  levity  and  recklessness  which  has 
ruined  many  a  fine  promise  and  wrecked  many  a 
high  hope.  So  that  the  child-life  of  New  England 
had  its  good  side  ;  and  many  a  hearty  and  genial 
and  generous  man  has  grown  out  of  these  "chore- 
boys."  —  27ie  New  England  History,  Vol.  IL, 
Chap.  I. 

ELLIOTT,  Ebenezer,  an  English  poet, bom 
in  Yorkshire  hi  1781,  died  in  1849.  His  father 
was  an  iron-founder,  and  the  son  worked  in 
the  foundery  until  he  was  twenty-three.  He 
then  set  up  in  business  for  himself,  but  was 
not  successful.  At  thirty  he  made  another 
and  successful  attempt,  Avith  a  borrowed  cap- 
ital of  £100.  At  sixty  he  retired  from  busi- 
ness, with  a  competent  fortune,  and  passed 
the  remainder  of  his  life  in  his  villa  at  Barns- 
ley,  near  Sheffield.    He  began  to  write  poetry 


EBENEZEE  ELLIOTT.  203 

as  early  as  his  seventeenth  year,  and  some  of 
his  early  productions  attracted  the  favorable 
notice  of  Southey.  His  Corn  Laic  Rhymes 
began  to  appear  about  1830,  and  from  these 
he  derived  the  appellation  of  "The  Corn  Law 
Rhymer."  A  complete  edition  of  his  works 
up  to  that  date  was  brought  out  in  1833-1835. 
He,  however,  added  to  them  at  intervals,  and 
soon  after  his  death  was  published,  in  two 
volumes,  More  Prose  and  Verse  by  the  Corn 
Laio  Rhymer,  and  also  a  brief  Autobiog- 
raphy. Only  a  small  part  of  Elliott's  poems 
arc  of  a  political  chai-acter.  The  greater  por- 
tion of  them  are  of  a  domestic  nature,  marked 
by  a  tender  sentiment  for  nature,  and  the 
warmest  feelings  for  humanity. 

THE  EXCURSION. 

Bone-weary,  many-chided,  trouble-tried  ! 

Wife  of  my  bosom,  wedded  to  my  soul  ! 
Motlar  (tf  nine  tliat  live,  and  two  that  died, 

Tliis  <lay  drink  liealth  from  Nature's  mountain- 
bowl  ; 

Nay,  wby  lament  the  doom  that  mocks  control  ? 
Thf  Imried  are  not  lost,  but  gone  before. 

Tlien  dry  thy  tears,  and  see  the  river  roil 
O'er  rocks,  that  crowned  yon  time-dark  lieightsof 
yore ;  [more. 

Now,  tyrant-like,  dethroned  to  crush  tlie  weak  no 

Tlie  young  are  with  us  yet.  and  we  with  them. 

Oil.  tiiank  the  Lord  for  ail  \\c  gives  or  taiies  : 
The  withered  Imd,  tlie  living  flower  or  gem  ! 

And  he  will  bless  us  when  the  world  forsakes  ! 

Iai  !  where  thy  fisher-lKjrn  abstracted  takes 
With  his  fixefl  eyes  the  trout  he  cannot  see. 

\a)  I  starting  fron>  his  earnest  dream  lie  wakes  I 
While  our  p;la<l  F'aiif-y.  with  raise<l  foot  and  knee, 
Bears  down  at  Noe's  side  th<.'  bloom-itoweil  haw- 
thorn-tree. 

Dear  childnn  I  when  thf;  flowers  :ire  full  of  bees  ; 
When  sun-touched  blossoms  shed  their  frap^r.mi 
snow  ; 


204  EBENEZER  ELLIOTT. 

When  song  speaks  like  a  spirit  from  the  trees, 
Wliose  kindled  greenness  hath  a  golden  glow  ; 
When  clear  as  music,  rill  and  river  flow, 

With  trembling  hues,  all  changeful,  tinted  o'er 
By  that  bright  pencil  which  good  spirits  know. 

Alike  in  eartli  and  heaven — 'tis  sweet  once  more 

Above  the  sky-tinged  hills  to  see  the  storm-bird 
soar.  .  .  . 

Bright  Eyebright !    loveliest   flower  of  all   that 
grow  [side  gaze 

In  flower-loved  England!    Flower  whose  hedge- 
Is  like  an  infant's  !     What  heart  doth  not  know 
Thee,   clustered    smiler    of    the  bank  !    where 

plays 
The  sunbeam  with  the  emerald  snake,  and  strays 
The  dazzling  rill,  companion  of  the  road 

Which  the  lone  bard  most  loveth  in  the  days 
When  hope  and  love  are  young  ?    Oli,  come  abroad, 
Blue  Eyebright !  and  this  rill  shall  woo  thee  with 
an  ode. 

Awake,  blue  Eyebright,  while  the  singing  wave 
Its   cold,    bright,   beauteous,   soothing  tribute 
drops 
From  many  a  gray  rock's  foot  and  dripping  cave; 
While  yonder,  lo,  the  starting  stone-chat  liops  ; 
While  here  the  cotter's  cow  its  sweet  food  crops; 
While  black-faced  ewes  and  lambs  are  bleating 
there  ;  [stops. 

And,  bursting  through  the  briers,  the  wild  ass 
Kicks  at  the  strangers,  then  turns  round  to  stare. 
Then  lowers  his  large  red  ears,  and  shakes  his  long 
dark  hair. 

HYMN  TO  BRITAIN. 

Nurse  of  the  Pilgrim  Sires,  who  sought, 

Beyond  the  Atlantic  foam. 
For  fearless  truth  and  lionest  thought, 

A  refuge  and  a  home  ! 
Who  would  not  be  of  them  or  thee 

A  not  unworthy  son  ? 
That  hears,  amid  the  chained  or  free. 

The  name  of  Washington  ? 


EBENEZER  ELLIOTT.  205 

Cradle  of  Shakespeare,  Milton.  Knox  ! 

King-shaming  Cromweirs  throne  ! 
Home  of  the  Russells,  Watts,  and  Lockes  ! 

Earth's  greatest  are  thine  own  : — 
And  shall  thy  children  forge  base  chains 

For  men  that  would  be  free  ? 
No  !  by  thy  Elliots,  Hampdens,  Vanes, 

Pyms,  Sydneys,  yet  to  be  ! 

No  ! — for  the  blood  which  kings  have  gorged 

Hath  made  their  victims  wise  ; 
While  every  lie  that  fraud  hath  forged 

Veils  wisdom  from  his  eyes  : — 
But  Time  shall  change  the  despot's  mood  ; 

And  Mind  is  mightiest  then, 
When  turning  evil  into  good 

And  monsters  into  men. 

If  round  the  soul  the  chains  are  bound 

That  hold  the  world  in  thrall— 
If  tyrants  laugh  when  men  are  found 

In  brutal  fray  to  fall — 
Lord  !  let  not  Britain  arm  her  hands 

Her  sister  states  to  ban  ; 
But  bless  through  her  all  other  lands, 

Thy  family  of  man. 

For  freedom  if  thy  Hampden  ff)ught. 

For  peace  if  Falkland  fell, 
For  iKjace  and  love  if  Bentham  wrote, 

And  Burns  .'^ang  wildly  well — 
Let  Knowledge,  strongest  of  the  strong. 

Bid  hate  and  discord  cease  ; 
Be  this  the  burden  of  her  song — 
"  Love,  liberty,  and  peace ! " 

Then,  Father,  will  tlie  nations  all, 

Ah  with  the  sound  of  seas. 
In  universal  festival. 

Sing  words  of  joy,  like  these  : — 
Let  i;ach  l<»ve  all,  and  all  be  free, 

Receiving  as  they  give. 
Ix)rd  1 — Jesus  died  for  love  and  Thee  ! 

So  let  thy  children  live  1 


206  EBENEZER  ELLIOTT. 

THANKS  AND  BLESSINGS. 

For  Spring  and  flowers  of  Spring, 
Blossoms,  and  what  tliey  bring, 

Be  our  tlianks  given  ; 
Thanks  for  the  maiden's  bloom. 
For  tlie  sad  prison's  gloom, 
And  for  the  sadder  tomb, 

Even  as  for  Heaven  ! 

Great  God,  thy  will  is  done 
When  tlie  soul's  rivers  run 

Down  the  worn  cheeks  I 
Done  when  the  rigliteous  bleed, 
When  the  wronged  vainly  plead  ; 
Done  in  tlie  uncnded  deed, 

AVhen  the  heart  breaks ! 

Lo,  how  the  dutiful 
Snows  clothe  in  beautiful 

Life  the  dead  earth  I 
Lo,  how  the  clouds  distil 
Riches  o'er  vale  and  hill. 
While  the  storm's  evil  Avill 

Dies  in  its  birth. 

Blessed  is  the  unpeopled  down, 
Blessed  is  the  crowded  town, 

Where  the  tired  groan : 
Pain  but  appears  to  be  ; 
Wliat  are  man's  fears  to  Thee, 
God,  if  all  tears  shall  be 

Gems  on  thy  throne  ? 

NOT  FOR  NAUGHT. 

Do  and  suffer  nauglit  in  vain  ; 

Let  no  trifle  trifling  be  : 
If  the  salt  of  life  is  pain. 

Let  even  wrongs  bring  good  to  thee  ; 
Good  to  others — few  or  many  ; 
Good  to  all,  or  good  to  any. 

If  men  curse  thee,  plant  their  lies 
Where  for  truth  they  best  may  grow  ; 

Let  the  railers  make  thee  wise. 
Preaching  peace  where'er  thou  go  : 


EBENEZER  EI>LIOTT.  207 

Grod  no  useless  plant  liath  planted  ; 
Evil — wisely  used — is  wanted. 

If  the  nation-feeding  com 

Thrivetli  under  iced  snow  ; 
If  the  small  bud  on  the  thorn 

Useth  well  its  guarded  sloe — 
Bid  thy  cares  thy  comforts  double, 
Gather  fruit  from  thorns  of  trouble. 

See  the  rivers  !  how  they  run, 
Strong  in  gloom,  and  strong  in  light ! 

Like  the  never- wearied  sun, 
Through  tlie  du}'  and  through  the  night  ; 

Each  along  his  path  of  duty, 

Turning  coldness  into  beauty  ! 

SONNET  ON  SPRING. 

Again  the  violet  of  our  early  days 

Drinks  beauteous  azure  from  the  golden  sun, 
And  kindles  into  fragrance  at  his  blaze  ; 

The  streams,  rejoiced  that  Winter's  work  is  done, 

Talk  of  to-morrow's  cowslips  as  they  run. 
Wild  Apple  I  thou  art  bursting  into  Ijloom  ; 

Thy  leaves  are  coming,  snowy-blossomed  Thorn! 
Wake,  buried  Lily  !     Spirit,  quit  tin-  tomb ; 

And  thou,  shade-loving  Hyacinth,  be  born  ! 

Then   haste,   sweet  Rose  !      Sweet    Woodbine 
hymn  the  morn. 
Whose  dew-drops  shall  illume  with  pearly  light 

Each  grassy  blade  that  thick  embattled  stands 
From  sea  to  sea  ;  wliile  daisies  infinite 

Uplift  in  praise  their  little  glowing  hands, 

O'er  every  hill  that  under  heaven  expands. 

A  poet's  epitaph. 
Stop,  Mortal  !    Here  thy  brutlier  lies, 

Tlie  Poet  of  the  poor  : 
His  IxMiks  were  rivers,  woods,  .and  skies, 

The  meadow  and  the  moor  : 
His  teachers  were  tlu'  torn  lieart's  wail, 

TIk'  tvrant  and  the  sl.ivo. 
The  Htreet,  the  {at;Utry,  the  jail, 

Tbf  [)alace — and  tin*  grave. 
Sin  met  thy  brof  Iter  «'viTyu  here  1 


20^  SiK  IIENIIY  ELLIS. 

And  is  thy  brotlier  blamed  ? — 
Fiom  passion,  danger,  doubt,  and  care, 

He  no  oxoinption  ciainied. 
The  in(>anest  thing,  earth's  feeblest  worm, 

He  feared  to  scorn  or  liate  ; 
But  honoring  in  a  peasant's  form 

The  equal  of  the  great 
He  blessed  tlie  steward  whose  wealth  makes 

The  poor  man's  little  more  ; 
Yet  loathed  the  haughty  wretch  that  takes 

From  plundered  labor's  store. 
A  hand  to  do,  a  heatl  to  plan, 

A  heart  to  feel  and  dare  : — 
Tell  man's  worst  foes,  here  lies  the  man, 

Who  drew  them  as  tliey  are. 

ELLIS,  Sir  Henry,  an  English  diplomat 
and  author,  born  about  1775,  died  in  1855. 
He  was  Third  Commissioner  in  Lord  Am- 
herst's embassy  to  China,  in  1816,  of  which  he 
wrote  a  narrative  in  1817.  This  work  is  of 
special  value  as  giving  an  account  of  the 
second  formal  attempt  to  open  diplomatic  re- 
lations between  Great  Britain  and  China. 

LORD  AMHERST  AT  THE  CHINESE  COURT. 

Mandarins  of  all  buttons  were  in  waiting  ;  sev- 
eral princes  of  the  blood,  distinguished  by  clear 
ruby  buttons  and  round  flowered  badges,  were 
among  them  ;  the  silence,  and  a  certain  air  of 
regularitj',  marked  the  immediate  presence  of  the 
sovereign.  The  small  apartment  into  which  we 
were  huddled,  now  witnessed  a  scene  unparallel- 
ed in  tlie  history  of  even  oriental  diplomacy. 
Lord  Amherst  had  scarcely  taken  his  seat,  wlien 
Chang  delivered  a  message  from  Ho  (Koong-yay), 
stating  that  the  emperor  wislied  to  see  the  ambas- 
sador, and  the  commissioners  immediately.  Much 
surprise  was  naturally  expressed ;  the  previous  ar- 
rangement for  the  eighth  of  the  Chinese  month,  a 
period  certainly  much  too  early  for  comfort,  was 
adverted  to,  and  the  utter  impossibility  of  His  Ex- 
cellency appe.'iring  in  his  jjresent  state  of  fatigue, 


Sir  IIEXr.Y  ELLIS.  209 

and  deficiency  of  every  necessary  equipment,  was 
strongly  urged.  During  this  tiuie  tlie  room  liad 
tilled  with  spectators,  who  rudely  pressed  upon  us 
to  gratify  their  curiosity.  Some  other  messages 
were  interchanged  between  the  Koong-yay  and 
Lord  Amherst,  who,  in  addition  to  the  reasons 
already  given,  stated  the  indecoruui  and  irregular- 
ity of  his  appearing  without  his  credentials.  In 
his  reply  to  this  it  was  said,  that  in  the  proposed 
audience  the  emperor  merely  wished  to  see  the 
ambassador,  and  had  no  intention  of  entering 
ui>on  business.  Lord  Amherst  having  persisted  in 
expressing  tlie  inadmissibility  of  the  proposition, 
and  in  transmitting  through  the  Koong-yay  a 
liumble  request  to  his  imperial  majesty  that  he 
would  be  graciously  pleased  to  wait  till  to-morrow, 
Chang  and  another  mandarin  finally  proposed 
that  His  Excellency  should  go  over  to  the  Koong- 
yay's  apartments,  from  whence  a  reference  might 
be  made  to  the  emperor.  Lord  Amherst,  having 
alleged  bodily  illness  as  one  of  the  reasons  for  de- 
clining the  audience,  readily  saw  that  if  he  went 
to  the  Koong-yay,  this  plea  would  cease  to  avail 
him,  positively  declined  compliance.  This  pro- 
duced a  visit  from  the  Koong-yay,  who  used  every 
argument  to  induce  him  to  obey  the  emperor's 
commands.  All  i)roving  inelFectual,  with  some 
rougimess,  but  under  pretext  of  friendly  violence, 
he  laid  liands  upon  Ixjrd  Amherst,  to  take  him 
from  the  room  :  another  mandarin  followed  his 
example.  He  shook  them  otf,  declaring  that  noth- 
ing but  the  extremest  violence  should  induce  him 
to  fpiit  tliat  room  for  any  other  place  but  the  resi- 
dence assigned  to  him  ;  he  further  pointed  out  the 
gross  insult  he  had  already  received,  in  having 
Ix-en  exposed  to  the  intrusion  and  indecent  curios- 
ity of  crowdh,  who  ap{)eared  to  view  him  rather 
as  a  wild  bea-st  than  the  representative  of  a  fK)wer- 
ful  sovereign.  At  all  events,  he  entreated  the 
Koong-yay  to  submil  his  refjuest  to  liis  imperial 
majesty,  who,  he  felt  confident,  would,  in  <'on.sid- 
eration  of  his  illnesH  and  fatigue,  dis|)<.>nse  witli  liis 
immediate  a[)pe;iran«'e,  Tiie  Kf»ong-yay  then 
preu.sed  Lord  Amiierst  to  come  to  his  apartinentti, 


210         SAkAir  stu;kney  ellis. 

alleging  that  they  were  cooler,  more  convenient, 
and  more  jirivate.  This  Lord  Amherst  dt>(Iined. 
The  Koong-yay,  having  failed  in  his  attempt  to 
persuade  him,  left  the  room  for  the  purpose  of 
taking  the  emperor's  pleasure  upon  the  subject. 
A  message  arrived  soon  after  the  Koong-yay 's 
quitting  the  room,  to  say  that  the  emj)eror  dis- 
pensed with  the  ambassador's  attendance  ;  that  he 
had  further  been  pleased  to  direct  his  physician 
to  afford  to  His  Excellency  every  medical  assist- 
ance that  his  illness  niight  require.  The  Koong- 
yay  himself  soon  followed,  and  His  Excellency 
proceeded  to  the  carriage.  The  Koong-yay  not 
disdaining  to  clear  away  the  crowd,  the  whip  was 
used  by  him  to  all  persons  indiscriminately  ;  but- 
tons were  no  pi'otection  ;  and  however  indecorous, 
according  to  our  notions,  the  employment  might 
be  for  a  man  of  his  rank,  it  could  not  have  been 
in  better  hands, 

ELLIS,  Sarah  (Stickney),  an  English  au- 
thor, born  in  1812,  died  in  1872.  For  many 
years  she  conducted  a  school  for  girls  in 
Hertfordshire.  In  1837  she  became  the  wife 
of  the  Rev.  William  Ellis,  mentioned  below. 
She  was  the  author  of  numerous  works, 
among  them.  The  Poetry  of  Life,  Home,  or 
the  Iron  Rule,  Women  of  England  (1838), 
Summer  and  Winter  in  the  Pyrenees  (1841), 
The  Daughters  of  England  (1842) ,  The  Wives 
of  England,  and  The  Mothers  of  England 
(1843),  Family  Secrets  (1841-43),  Pictures  of 
Private  Life  (1844),  Look  to  the  End  (1845), 
The  Island  Queen,  a  poem,  and  Social  Dis- 
tinctiovs,  or  Hearts  and  Homes  (1848-49),  Mo- 
thers of  Great  Men  (1860),  Education  of  the 
Heart  (1869),  and  Melville  Farm  (1871), 

THE  CIRCLE  OF  GAVARNIE, 

The  Circle  of  Gavarnie  is  so  named  from  its 
being  a  sort  of  basin,  enclosed  on  all  sides  but  one  ; 
and  at  the  time  we  saw  it,  the  depth  of  the  hollow 
was  covered  with  a  thick  bed  of  snow.   Of  its  per- 


SARAH  STICKNEY  ELLIS.  211 

pendicular  lieight  an  idea  may  be  formed  by  the 
great  cascade,  whicli  falls  over  a  surface  of  rock 
of  fourteen  hundred  feet,  thus  forming  theliighest 
waterfall  in  Europe.  On  the  first  melting  of  the 
snows,  and  at  the  season  when  we  beheld  it,  it  is 
as  magnificent  in  the  volume  of  water  which  de- 
scends as  in  its  height.  At  the  summit  where  it 
rolls  over  the  lofty  precipices,  two  gigantic  masses 
of  rock  stand  forth,  as  if  to  guard  its  fall,  wliich 
is  not  interrupted  until  the  last  quarter  of  the  dis- 
tance, where  a  bolder  and  darker  mass  separates 
the  column  of  water,  without  the  majestic  line  of 
the  whole  cascade  being  broken.  In  order  to  form 
a  correct  idea  of  the  beauty  of  the  whole  scene,  it 
is  neces.sary  to  imagine  the  rocks  of  the  finest 
marlile,  streaked  and  variegated  with  every  tint, 
from  the  deepest  brown  and  purple,  to  the  bright- 
est yellow,  sometimes  varying  even  to  rose-color. 
A  perpendicular  wall  of  this  structure  rises  be- 
yond the  great  waterfall ;  and  down  its  side  were 
pn'cij)itated  twelve  other  watei-falls,  while  over  its 
summit  lay  a  vast  field  of  snow  :  again  another 
wall  of  marble,  diversified  with  cascades,  more 
faint  and  blue  in  the  distance  ;  and  above  all,  the 
more  majestic  wall  on  which  stand  the  two 
migljty  rocks,  called  the  Towers  of  Marbore, 
crowncfl  with  ettrnal  snows,  and  all  formed  of  the 
most  Iwautiful  marble,  fluted  like  the  columns  of 
a  CJn<ian  temple.  The  highest  of  the.se  walls  of 
marl>le  ri.ses  at  a  perpendicular  height  of  about 
onethousaml  feet  above  the  amj)hitheatre.  winch  is 
formed  by  the  receding  of  the  dilferent  beds  of 
snow,  in  the  form  of  a  .semicircle.  To  the  right, 
the  snows  and  the  jiinnacles  of  rock  seem  to  min- 
gle into  a  mere  chaotic  ma.ss  :  while,  rising  imme- 
diat<'ly  from  the  bed  of  the  hollow  basin,  are  bold 
l)Uttres.sesof  the  adjoining  mountain,  stamling  out 
like  barriers  to  protect  the  whole  ;  and  over  their 
perp*'ndicular  sides  the  most  beautiful  cascades 
were  pouring,  some  of  them  like  silver  threads, 
making  in  all  Hixt<'<'n  within  the  circle. 

It  is  over  tliis  portion  of  tlie  circle  that  the  celc- 
bratid  Hrrrlic.  ilc  Jiolinide  a[)|M'ars,  a  giant  cleft  in 
asoii'l  w.ill   <»f  rock,  about  six    hundred   feet  in 


213  WILLIAM  ELLIS. 

lioiglit,  said  to  have  been  made  by  the  warrior 
from  whom  it  derives  its  name,  when  lie  opened 
for  himself  a  passage  for  his  conquests  over  the 
Moors.  Amongst  the  many  wonders  told  of  this 
more  than  mortal  hero,  he  is  said,  after  effecting 
this  passage  into  Spain,  to  have  reached  with  one 
leap  of  his  horse,  the  centre  of  the  rocky  defile, 
now  called  Chaos  ;  and  our  guide  actually  stopped 
as  we  passed  through  it,  to  show  us  the  mark  of 
his  horse's  foot-print  on  the  stone  where  he 
alighted. 

The  ajipearanceof  the  Circle  of  Gavarnic  is  very 
deceptive  as  to  its  actual  extent.  It  seemed  but  a 
trille  to  walk  from  where  we  stood  at  the  en- 
trance, to  the  base  of  the  great  watfrrfali  ;  yet  the 
guide  told  us  it  would  take  an  hour  to  reach  it  : 
and  I  could  the  more  readily  believe  him,  when  I 
reflected  that  we  could  but  just  hear,  from  where 
we  stood,  the  hissing  fall  of  that  immense  body  of 
water.  Later  in  the  season,  when  the  heats  of 
summer  have  prevailed  with  lengthened  jiower, 
this  waterfall  works  for  itself  an  archway,  which 
leaves  a  bridge  of  snow  ;  and  the  waters  then  form 
a  sort  of  lake  in  the  hollow  of  the  circle,  the  whole 
circumference  of  which  is  said  to  be  about  ten 
miles.— Summer  and  Winter  in  the  Pyrenees. 

ELLIS,  William,  an  English  missionary 
and  author,  born  in  1794,  died  in  1872.  In 
1816  he  went  as  a  missionary  to  Polynesia, 
where  he  remained  for  eight  years.  After 
his  i-cturn  to  England,  he  published  a  Narra- 
tive of  a  Tour  through  Hmvaii  (1826),  Poly- 
nesian Researches  (1828),  a  History  of  Mada- 
gascar (1838),  and  a  History  of  the  London 
Missionary  Society  (18-44J.  Between  1853-56 
he  went  thrice  to  Madagascar  for  the  London 
Missionary  Society,  and  in  1858  published 
Three  Visits  to  Madagascar.  He  gave  an  ac- 
count of  a  fourth  visit  to  the  island  in  Mada- 
gascar Revisited  (1867),  and  A  Vindication  of 
the  South  Sea  Missions  from  the  Misreiwesen- 
tation  of  Otto  von  Kotzebue. 


WILLIAM  ELLIS.  313 

MALAGASY  TOMBS. 

Few  of  the  general  indications  of  the  peculiar 
customs  of  the  Malagasy  are  more  remarkable 
than  their  places  of  sepulture.  Most  of  their 
graves  are  family  tombs  or  vaults.  In  their  con- 
struction, mucli  time  and  labor,  and  sometimes 
considerable  property  are  expended.  The  latter  is 
regulated  by  the  wealth  of  the  proprietor.  In 
erecting  a  tomb,  the  first  consideration  is  the 
selection  of  an  eligible  spot.  Publicity  and  eleva- 
tion are  their  two  principal  requisites.  Sometimes 
a  tomb  is  placed  immediately  in  front  of  the  house 
of  the  person  by  whom  it  is  built,  or  it  occupies  a 
conspicuous  place  by  the  road-side.  At  other 
times,  tombs  are  built  on  an  elevation  in  the  midst 
of  the  capital,  or  village,  or  where  two  or  more 
roads  meet,  and  very  frcquentlj-  they  are  built  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  towns  and  villages.  The  site 
having  l)cen  chosen,  a  large  excavation  is  made  in 
the  earth,  and  the  sides  and  roof  of  the  vault  are 
formed  of  immense  slabs  of  stone.  Incredible 
labor  is  often  employed  in  bringing  these  slabs 
from  a  distance  to  the  spot  where  the  grave  is  to 
be  constructed.  When  tiiey  are  fixed  in  their 
appointed  positions,  each  side  or  wall  of  a  vault 
or  tomb,  six  or  seven  feet  high,  and  ten  or  twelve 
feet  sfjuare,  is  often  formed  of  a  single  stone  of 
the  alxive  dimensions.  A  sort  of  subterranean 
room  is  tlms  built  ;  which,  in  some  parts  of  the 
country,  i-i  lined  with  rough  pieces  of  '.imber.  The 
Btoncs  are  covered  with  earth  to  the  height  of 
from  fifteen  to  eighteen  inches.  This  mound  of 
earth  is  surrounded  by  a  curb  of  stone- work,  and 
a  second  and  third  i)arapet  of  earth  is  formed 
within  the  lower  curl)  or  coping,  gtMierally  from 
twelve  to  eighteen  inches  in  height,  each  dimin- 
ishing in  cxtciil  as  they  rise  one  above  another, 
forming  a  Hat  pyramidal  mound  of  earth,  com- 
p«jsed  of  Bucicshive  terraces  witli  stone-facing  and 
border,  and  rfsembjing,  in  aj)peanince,  the  former 
heathen  templt  s  of  the  Soiilh  Sea  islanders,  or  the 
pyramidal  structures  of  the  aborigines  of  South 
Amt;rica  :  the  summit  <jf  the  grave  is  ornamented 
with  large  pieces  of  ro.st,'  <)V  wiiite  <iuartK.      The 


211  THOMAS  ELL  WOOD. 

stoiie-work  exhibits,  in  many 'in  stances,  very  good 
worknianHliip,  and  reflects  groat  credit  on  the  skill 
of  tlie  native  masons.  Some  of  tliese  rude  struc- 
tures are  stated  to  be  twenty  feet  in  width,  and 
(ift}'  feet  long.  The  large  slabs  used  in  forming 
the  tombs,  as  described  already,  are  usually  of 
granite  or  syenite.  The  natives  have  long  known 
how  to  detacli  blocks  of  stone  from  the  mountain 
mass  by  means  of  burning  cow-dung  on  the  part 
they  wish  to  remove  and  dashing  cold  water 
along  the  line  on  the  stone  tliey  have  heated. 
Having  been  thus  treated,  the  stone  easily  sepa- 
rates in  thick  layers,  and  is  forced  up  by  means  of 
levers.  "  Odies,"  charms,  are  employed  in  mark- 
ing out  the  desired  dimensions  of  the  .slab,  and  to 
their  virtue  is  foolislily  attributed  the  splitting  of 
the  stone,  tliough  they  well  know  that  not  all  the 
"  odies  "  in  the  kingdom  would  split  one  stone,  if 
the  usual  heat  were  not  applied.  When  the  slab  is 
detached,  bands  of  straw  are  fastened  round  it,  to 
prevent  breakage  in  the  removal.  Strong  ropes 
are  attached  to  the  shib,  and,  amidst  the  boister- 
ous vociferations  of  the  workmen,  it  is  dragged 
away  from  the  (juarry.  .  .  .  Sometimes  five  or  six 
hundred  men  arc  employed  in  dragging  a  single 
stone.  A  man  usually  stands  on  the  stone,  acting 
as  director  or  pioneer.  He  holds  a  cloth  in  his 
hand,  and  waves  it,  with  loud  incessant  shouts,  to 
animate  those  who  are  dragging  the  ponderous 
block.  At  his  shout  they  pull  in  concert.  .  .  . 
Holy  water  is  also  sprinkled  on  the  stone  as  a 
means  of  facilitating  its  progress,  till  at  length, 
after  immense  shouting,  sprinkling,  and  pulling,  it 
reaches  its  destination.  When  tlie  tomb  is  erected 
for  a  person  deceased,  but  not  j^et  buried,  no  noise 
is  made  in  dragging  the  stones  for  its  construc- 
tion. Profound  silence  is  regarded  as  indicating 
the  respect  of  the  parties  employed.  .  .  .  The  en- 
trance to  the  tomb  is  covered  by  a  large  upright 
block  of  stone. — History  of  Madagascar. 

ELLWOOD,  Thomas,  an  English  author, 
born  in  16.'51),  died  in  1713.  He  was  of  a 
wealthy  family  in  Oxfordshire,    but  having 


THOMAS  ELLWOOD.  215 

while  quite  young  become  a  member  of  the 
Society  of  Friends  he  was  disowned  by  his 
father,  and  was  several  times  imprisoned. 
He  wrote  several  controversial  works,  a  Di- 
gest of  the  historical  portions  of  the  Old  and 
New  Testaments,  a  poem  entitled  Davideis, 
and  an  Autobiogvaphy,  published  after  his 
death.  He  was  one  of  the  persons  who  acted 
as  readers  to  the  blind  Milton;  and  in  his 
Autobiography  he  gives  several  incidents 
of  his  intercourse  with  the  poet : 

MILTON   AND   "PARADISE  REGAINED." 

Mr.  Milton  received  me  courteously,  as  well  for 
the  sake  of  Dr.  Paget  who  introduced  me,  as  of 
Isaac  Pennington  who  recommended  me,  to  both 
of  whom  he  bore  a  good  respect ;  and,  having  in- 
quired divers  things  of  me,  with  respect  to  my 
former  progressions  in  learning,  he  dismissed  me 
to  provide  myself  with  such  accommodations  as 
might  be  most  suitable  to  my  future  studies.  I 
went  therefore  and  took  a  lodging  near  to  his 
house,  as  conveniently  as  I  could ;  and,  from  thence- 
forward, went  every  day  in  the  afternoon,  except 
on  the  first  day  of  the  week  ;  and  sitting  by  him 
in  his  dining-room,  read  to  him  such  books  in  the 
Latin  tongue  as  he  pleased  to  liear  me  read.  At 
my  first  sitting  to  read  to  him,  observing  that  I 
used  the  English  pronunciation,  he  told  me  if  I 
would  have  the  benefit  of  the  Latin  tongue— not 
only  to  read  and  understand  Latin  authors,  but 
to  converse  with  foreigners,  either  abroad  or  at 
home— I  nmst  learn  the  foreign  i)ronunciation. 
The  Latin  thus  spoken  seemed  as  difTcrent  from 
that  which  was  tlelivered  as  the  English  generally 
Bpeak  it,  as  if  it  was  another  tongue.  My  master, 
perceiving  with  what  earnest  desire  I  pursued 
learning,  gave  me  not  only  all  the  encourage- 
ment, but  all  the  help  he  could  ;  for.  having  a  cu- 
rious ear,  he  understood,  by  my  tone,  when  I  un- 
derHt<)o<l  what  I  read,  and  accordingly  would  stop 
me,  examine  nie,  and  ojmju  the  most  diflituit  pua- 
sageB  to  me.  .  .  . 


210         EMMA  tJATlIElilNE  EMIUTRY. 

Some  little  tinio  before  I  went  to  Aylesbury 
prison,  I  was  desired  by  my  quondam  master, 
Milton,  to  take  a  liouse  for  bim  in  the  neighbor- 
hood where  I  dwelt,  that  he  might  get  out  of  the 
city,  for  the  safety  of  liimself  and  his  family,  the 
pestilence  then  growing  iiot  in  London  (1665).  I 
took  a  pretty  box  for  him  in  Giles  Chalfont,  a  mile 
from  me,  of  which  I  gave  him  notice,  and  intend- 
ed to  have  waited  upon  him,  and  seen  him  well 
settled  in  it ;  but  was  prevented  by  that  imprison- 
ment. But  now  being  released  and  returned 
home,  I  soon  made  a  visit  to  welcome  him  into 
the  country.  After  some  common  discourses  had 
passed  between  us,  he  called  for  a  manuscript  of 
his,  which,  being  brought,  he  delivered  it  to  me, 
bidding  me  to  take  it  home  with  me,  and  read  it 
at  my  leisure,  and  when  I  had  so  done,  return  it 
to  him  with  my  judgment  thereon. 

When  I  came  home,  and  liad  set  myself  to  read 
it,  I  foimd  it  was  that  excellent  poem  which  he 
entitled  Panidlse  Lost.  After  I  had,  with  the  ut- 
most attention,  reiul  it  through,  I  paid  him  another 
visit,  and  returned  liim  his  book,  with  due  acknowl- 
edgment for  the  favor  he  had  done  me,  in  com- 
municating it  to  me.  He  asked  me  how  I  liked 
it,  and  what  I  tliought  of  it,  which  I  modestly, 
but  freely  told  him  ;  and  after  some  further  dis- 
course I  pleasantly  said  to  him  :  "  Thou  hast  said 
much  here  of  Paradise  lost ;  but  what  hast  thou 
to  say  of  Paradise  found  ?  "  He  made  me  no  an- 
swer, but  sat  some  time  in  a  muse  ;  then  broke  off 
that  discourse,  and  fell  upon  anotlier  subject. 

After  the  sickness  was  over,  and  the  city  well 
cleansed,  and  become  safely  habitable  again,  he 
returned  thither  ;  and  when  afterwards  I  went  to 
wait  on  him  there — which  I  seldom  failed  of  doing 
whenever  my  occasions  drew  me  to  London — he 
shewed  me  his  second  poem,  called  Paradise  Re- 
gained, and,  in  a  pleasant  tone  said  to  me  :  "  This 
is  owing  to  you,  for  you  put  it  into  my  head 
at  Chalfont ;  which  before  I  had  not  thought  of," 

EMBURY,  Emma  Catherine  (MA^LEY),  an 
American  author  born  in  1806,  died  in  1863. 


EmiA  CATHERINE  EMBURY.  217 

She  contributed  to  periodicals  mauy  poems 
and  tales  which  were  afterwards  collected 
and  published  in  book  form.  Among  these 
volumes  are  Tlw  Blind  Girl  and  Other  Tales, 
Glimpses  of  Home  Life,  Pictures  of  Early 
Life,  Nature's  Gems,  or  American  Wild  Flow- 
ers (ISAo),  and  The  Waldorf  Family,  a  fairy 
tale  of  Brittany,  partly  a  translation  and 
partly  original,  (1848.) 

LIVING  BEYOND  THEIR  MEANS. 
The  commencement  of  the  second  year  found 
the  young  couple  busily  engaged  iu  preparing  for 
housekeeping.  A  stalely  house,  newly  built  and 
situated  in  a  fashionable  part  of  the  city,  was  se- 
ected  by  Mrs.  Waterton,  and  purchased  by  her 
obsequious  husband  in  obedience  to  her  wishes, 
though  he  did  not  tliink  it  necessary  to  inform 
her  that  two  thirds  of  the  jiurchase  money  was  to 
remain  on  mortgage.  They  now  only  awaited  the 
arrival  of  the  rich  furniture  which  Mrs.  Waterton 
had  directed  her  sister  to  select  in  Paris.  This 
came  at  length,  and  with  all  tbe  glee  of  a  child 
she  beheld  her  hou.se  fitted  with  carpets  of  such 
turf-like  softness  that  the  foot  was  almost  buried 
in  their  bright  flowers  ;  mirrors  that  might  have 
served  for  walls  to  tbe  Palace  of  Truth  ;  couches, 
divans  and  fauteuils.  iidai<l  with  gold,  and  cover- 
ed with  velvet  most  ex(iuisitely  ])aiiited;  curtains 
whose  costly  texture  had  beencjuadruplcd  in  value 
by  the  skill  of  tbe  embroiderers;  tables  of  the 
finest  nuj.saic  ;  lustres  and  girand(^les  of  every  va- 
riety, glittering  with  their  wealth  of  gold  and 
crystal  :  and  all  the  thousand  expensive  toys 
wluch  serve  to  minister  to  tlie  frivolous  tastes  of 
fashion.  .  .  .  With  all  his  good  sense,  Edward 
Waterton  was  yet  weak  enough  to  indulge  a  feel- 
ing f)f  exultation  as  he  looked  round  his  magnifi- 
cent house,  and  felt  himself  "  master  of  all  he  sur- 
veyed." His  thoughts  went  back  to  the  time 
wh«-n  the  rleatli  r)f  his  fatlicr  li.-id  plungcil  the 
family  almost  inlf)  destitution — wlien  liis  mother 
ha<l  bccn;iid(<l  to<i|Mii;i  little  shoj)  of  which   he 


218  KAl.lMI  WALDO  EMERSON. 

was  chief  clerk,  until  the  kindness  of  his  old  uncle 
had  procured  for  him  a  situation  in  a  wholesale 
store,  which  had  finally  (>nab]ed  him  to  reach  his 
present  eminence.  ...  In  spite  of  his  better 
reason,  he  felt  proud  and  triumphant.  His  self- 
satisfaction  was  somewhat  diminislied,  however, 
by  the  sight  of  a  bill  drawn  upon  him  by  his 
brother-in-law  in  Paris,  for  the  sums  due  on  this 
f^reat  display  of  elegance.  Ten  thousand  dollars — 
one-third  of  his  wife's  fortune— just  sufTiced  to 
furnish  that  i)art  of  their  new  house  which  was 
intended  for  display.  Thus  seven  hundred  dollars 
was  cut  off  from  their  annual  income,  to  be  con- 
sumed in  the  wear  and  tear  of  their  costly  gew- 
gaws ;  another  thousand  was  devoted  to  the  pay- 
ment of  interest  on  the  mortgage  which  re- 
mained on  his  house  ;  so  that,  at  the  very  outset 
of  his  career,  Edward  found  himself,  notwith- 
standing his  wife's  estate,  reduced  to  the  "paltry 
two  thousand  a  year  "  which  be  derived  from  his 
business.— GZimpses  of  Home  Life. 

EMERSON,  Ralph  Waldo,  an  American 
philosopher  and  poet,  born  at  Boston,  May  25, 
1803,  died  at  Concord,  Mass,  April  27,  1882. 
His  father,  grandfather,  and  great-grand- 
father were  New  England  clergymen.  His 
father  died  at  forty-two,  leaving  a  widow,  a 
daughter,  and  four  sons,  of  whom  Ralph  was 
the  second.  He  entered  Harvard  College  at 
thirteen.  He  was  deficient  in  mathematics, 
but  his  renderings  from  Latin  and  Greek 
authors  were  better  than  those  of  his  class- 
mates who  excelled  him  in  grammatical 
knowledge.  He  made  much  use  of  the  col- 
lege library,  which  was  then  the  largest  in 
the  country,  although  it  contained  barely 
25,000  volumes.  "He  read  and  re-read  the 
early  English  dramatists,  and  knew  Shake- 
speare almost  by  heart."'  This  proficiency  in 
English  literature,  however,  did  not  count  in 
college  records.  Measured  by  these,  his 
standing  was  a  little  above  the  middle  in  a 


Ralph  waldo  e:merson.        sio 

class  of  sixty.  In  the  estimation  of  his  class- 
mates he  ranked  much  higher  ;  for  he  was 
chosen  by  them  as  their  poet  for  "  class-day." 

His  elder  brother,  William,  also  a  Harvard 
graduate,  had  established  in  Boston  a  school 
for  girls,  in  which  Ralph  was  a  teacher  for 
several  years,  during  which  he  also  studied  in 
theology.  In  1826  he  was  "  approbated  to 
preach  "  by  the  Middlesex  Association  (Uni- 
tarian), and  in  1S29  he  became  colleague  to 
Henry  "Ware  in  the  pastorate  of  the  Second 
Church  (Unitarian)  in  Boston.  In  the  follow- 
ing year  Mr.  Ware  resigned  in  order  to  be- 
come a  Professor  at  Harvard,  and  Emerson 
became  sole  pastor  of  the  Boston  church.  In 
1830  he  married  Ellen  Louisa  Tucker  ;  but 
she  died  in  the  following  year.  Emerson's 
career  as  a  clergyman  lasted  about  four 
years.  He  came  to  the  conviction  that  the 
ordinance  of  the  "Lord's  Supper,"  was  not 
established  bj^  Jesus  as  one  of  perpetual  ob- 
servance by  his  followers,  and  that  the  formal 
consecration  of  the  sacramental  bread  and 
wine  was  something  which  he  could  not  con- 
scientiously do.  The  congregation  held  that 
the  rite  should  be  observed  as  it  has  always 
been,  and  Emerson  resigned  the  pastorate. 
His  farewell  discourse  is  the  only  one  of  his 
sennons  which  has  been  printed  ;  and  that 
not  till  1S77  by  Mr.  Frothingham,  in  his  vol- 
imic,  Transcfndcntalifim  hi  New  England. 

Emerson's  resignation  of  the  pastorate  was 
af;cept«'d  by  the  '' propi-ietfjrs  ;"  but  they 
voted  that  his  salary  should  be  continued, 
evidently  hoping  that  he  would  rescind  his 
resolution.  H(;  seems  to  have  taken  a  few 
weeks  to  consider  the  matter  ;  but  near  the 
close  of  Deeomber,  18^2,  ho  addressed  a  tender 
farewell  Iftter  to  Uui  jx'oplc  of  liis  former 
charge  ;  aiifl  immediately  set  out  upr^n  his 
first  visit  to   Europe.      His   spirits  were  de- 


1>2()  RALPH  WALDO  EilERSON. 

p!-ossed  by  tlic  recent  loss  of  his  young  wife, 
and  his  liealth  was  seriously  impaired.  This 
visit  to  Europe  lasted  nearly  a  year.  Most  of 
the  time  was  passed  in  Italy.  But  near  the 
close  he  took  a  run  to  England  ;  his  main 
pin'pose  being  to  see  some  half-dozen  men — 
such  as  Coleridge,  Wordsworth,  De  (^uincey, 
and  Carlyle,  the  last  named  of  whom  he  had 
come  to  regard  as  "  the  latest  and  strongest 
contributor  to  the  critical  journals."  His 
meeting  with  Thomas  Carlyle  was  in  many 
ways  an  important  epoch  in  the  lives  of  the 
two  men.  Emerson  was  barely  thirty  ;  Car- 
lyle, eight  years  older,  had  for  some  years 
been  living  at  the  lonely  farm-house  of 
Craigenputtoch,  whither  Emerson  went  to 
see  him.  This  interview  lasted  only  a  few 
hours  ;  but  it  resulted  in  a  friendship  which 
continued  until  both  were  old  men.  The  two 
men  never  met  again  for  some  twenty  years, 
when  Emerson  went  to  England  upon  a  Lect- 
uring tour. 

Emerson,  in  withdrawing  from  the  pulpit 
had  abandoned  the  career  upon  which  he  had 
entered  with  brilliant  prospects ;  but  another 
was  opened  to  him.  The  system  of  popular 
lecturing,  which  has  come  to  be  known  as 
the  "Lyceum,"  had  begun  to  develop  itself. 
It  gave  scope  for  any  man  who  had  anything 
to  say  upon  any  subject  which  cinybody  wish- 
ed to  hear  about.  Emerson  availed  himself 
of  the  opening.  His  first  lecture  upon 
"Water,"  was  delivered  before  the  Boston 
Mechanics'  Association  ;  this  was  followed 
by  others  upon  his  visit  to  Italy,  upon  "Man's 
Relations  to  the  Globe  ; "  then  in  1834  by  a 
series  of  five  upon  Michel  Angelo,  Milton, 
Luther,  George  Fox,  and  Edmund  Burke; 
the  first  two  of  which,  soon  after  published  in 
the  North  American  Revieiv,  were  his  first  ap- 
pearances in  print.     In  1835  he  married  Lid- 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON.  2il 

ian  Jackson,  and  took  up  his  residence  at 
Concord.  Mass.,  which  was  his  home  during 
the  remainder  of  his  hfe.  From  this  time  his 
profession  was  that  of  dehvering  lectures  in 
all  parts  of  the  United  States.  For  forty  suc- 
cessive years  he  lectured  before  the  Lyceum 
of  Salem,  Mass.  His  principal  "courses" 
were  ten  upon  "English  History;"  twelve 
upon  ' '  The  Philosophy  of  History  ; "  ten  upon 
"  Human  Culture; "  ten  upon  Human  Life; " 
ten  upon  "The  Present  Age:"  and  seven 
upon  "The  Times."  These  lectures,  as  such, 
have  never  been  printed  ;  but  much  of  the 
substance  of  them  is  reproduced  in  his  Essays 
and  subsequent  works. 

Emerson's  first  book,  entitled  Nature,  was 
published  in  1836.  It  is  a  Uttle  book  contain- 
ing matter  equal  to  about  50  pages  of  this  Cy- 
clopedia. It  found  very  few  readers  at  first. 
It  was  some  twelve  years  before  the  first  edi- 
tion of  500  copies  was  disposed  of.  Consider- 
ing tliat  there  were  forty  years  between  the 
date  of  Nature,  his  fir.stbook,  and  Letters  and 
Social  Aims,  his  last,  Emerson  was  by  no 
means  a  voluminous  writer.  All  his  books 
would  be  comprised  in  half  a  dozen  volumes 
of  this  Cyclopedia.  The  following  is  a  list  of 
them,  arranged  in  the  order  of  their  dates  of 
publication  ;  but  this  is  no  certain  indication 
of  the  time  of  their  actual  composition.  In- 
ternal evidence  indicates  that  some  of  the 
later  ones  were  substantially  composed  long 
Ix'fore  the  issue  of  some  of  those  earlier 
published  : 

Nature  (1830);  Essays  (first  scries,  1841; 
second  series,  1847);  Poems  (1846);  Miscella- 
nies, con.sisting  mainly  of  collegiate  and  other 
addres-ses,  most  of  which  had  already  becni 
print^'d  in  Tlie  Dial  (1849);  Representative 
Mm  (IK.W);  several  chapters  in  Jamrs  Free- 
naau    Clarke's  Memoirs  of  Margaret  Fuller 


222  RALPH  WALDO  EMKRSON. 

Ossoli,  not  included  in  Emerson's  collected 
works  (1852) ;  English  Traits  (185C) ;  Conduct 
of  Life  (18G0) ;  May-day  and  Other  Poems 
(1867);  Society  and  Solitude  (1870)-,  Letters 
and  Social  Aims  (1875).  All  of  the  prose 
works  after  1847,  with  the  exception  of  Eng- 
lish Traits,  are  properly  so  many  new  series 
of  the  Essays.  To  these  should  be  added  the 
Letters  to  Thomas  Carlyle,  extending  through 
many  years,  and  first  published  some  years 
after  the  death  of  Emerson. 

To  complete  the  personal  history  of  Emer- 
son it  is  necessary  only  to  add  that  in  1847  he 
again  went  to  England  in  order  to  deliver 
lectures  in  the  principal  towns  ;  and  the  re- 
sults of  his  observations  are  embodied  in  the 
English  Traits.  He  went  to  England  again 
in  1868  ;  but  does  not  appear  to  have  written 
anything  in  regard  to  this  visit.  In  the  later 
years  of  his  life  a  singular  change  took  place 
in  his  mental  condition.  The  faculty  of  mem- 
ory was  almost  wholly  lost.  He  could  not  call 
to  mind  the  woid  by  which  the  most  common 
object  was  designated.  When  he  stood  by 
the  coffin  of  Longfellow,  whom  he  had  known 
and  loved  for  many  years,  he  look(;d  upon 
the  face  of  the  dead,  and  said  that  it  must  be 
that  of  a  most  noble  and  loveable  man  ;  but 
he  had  no  apparent  recollection  that  he  had 
ever  seen  it  before. 

THE  TEACHINGS  OF  NATURE. 

Our  age  is  retrospective.  It  builds  the  sepul- 
chres of  the  fathers.  It  writes  biographies,  his- 
tories, and  criticisms.  The  foregoing  generations 
beheld  God  face  to  face.  Why  slioiild  n<jt  we  also 
enjoy  an  original  relation  to  the  universe?  Why 
should  not  we  have  a  poetry  and  philosophy  of 
insight  and  not  of  tradition,  and  a  religion  by  rev- 
elation to  us,  and  uotof  tra<lition,  and  a  revelation 
to  us,  and  not  tiio  liistory  of  tlieirs  ?  Embosomed 
for  a  season  in  Nature,  v.-hose  floods  of  life  stream 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON.  233 

around  ami  lliroii;;h  us.  and  invite  us,  by  the  pow- 
ers they  supply,  to  action  proportioned  to  Nature, 
why  should  ^\•e  grope  among  the  dry  bones  of  the 
past,  or  put  the  li\  log  generation  into  masquerade 
out  of  its  faded  wanlrobe  ?  .  .  .  . 

Undoubtedly  we  have  no  questions  to  ask  whicli 
are  unanswerable.  We  must  trust  the  perfection 
of  the  creation  so  far  as  to  believe  that  whatever 
curiosity  tlie  order  of  things  has  awakened  in  our 
minds,  the  order  of  things  can  satisfy.  Every 
man's  condition  is  a  solution  in  liieroglypliic  to 
those  inquiries  he  would  i>ut.  He  acts  it  as  life  be- 
fore he  appreliends  it  as  a  truth.  In  like  manner 
Nature  is  already,  in  its  forms  and  tendencies,  de- 
scribing its  own  design.  Let  us  interrogate  uhe 
great  apparition  that  sliines  so  peacefully  around 
us.  Let  us  inquire  to  what  end  is  Nature. — 
Nature,  Introduction. 

WHAT  IS   NATURE. 

Philosophically  considered,  the  universe  is  com- 
pf-ised  of  Nature  and  the  Soul.  Strictly  speaking, 
tiierefore,  all  that  is  separate  from  us,  all  which 
I)hilo.sophy  distinguishes  as  the  Not  Me-that  is, 
both  Nature  and  Art,  all  otlier  men,  and  my  own 
lx»dy^must  be  ranked  under  this  name.  Nature. 
In  enumerating  the  values  of  Nature,  and  casting 
up  tlieir  Bum,  I  shall  use  the  word  in  both  senses: 
in  its  common  and  in  its  philosophical  import.  In 
inriuiries  so  general  lus  our  present  one  the  inaccu- 
racy is  not  material  ;  no  confusion  of  thought  will 
occur.  Nature,  in  the  common  sense,  refers  to 
essences  unchanged  by  man — space,  the  air,  the 
river,  the  h-af.  Art  is  applied  to  the  mixture  of 
his  will  with  the  same  things;  as  in  a  house,  a 
canal,  a  statue,  a  picture  But  his  operations, 
taken  together,  are  so  insignificant — a  little  chip- 
ping, baking,  patching,  and  wjishing — that  in  an 
impression  so  grand  as  that  of  the  world  on  the 
Inini.in  mind,  thej-  do  iu>t  varv  the  result. — 
Nature,  Intnxhiclioii. 

SKEI.NU   NATIKK. 
Few  adult  persons  (••■in  see  Nature.    Most  persons 


224  KALTll  WALDO  EMERSON. 

do  not  sec  tlic  sun  ;  at  least,  tliey  liave  a  very  su- 
perficial seeing.  The  sun  illuminates  onl}'  the  eye 
of  the  man,  but  shines  into  the  eye  and  the  heart 
of  the  child.  The  lover  of  Nature  is  he  whose  in- 
ward and  outward  senses  are  still  truly  adjusted 
to  each  other  ;  who  has  retained  the  spirit  of  in- 
fancy even  into  the  era  of  manhood.  His  intei-- 
course  with  Nature  becomes  part  of  his  daily  food. 
In  the  presence  of  Nature,  .1  wild  delight  runs 
through  the  man,  in  spite  of  real  sorrows.  .  .  . 
Nature  is  a  setting  that  fits  equally  well  with  a 
comic  or  a  mourning  piece.  In  good  health  the  air 
is  a  cordial  of  inestimaljle  value.  Crossing  a  bare 
common  in  snow-puddles,  at  twilight,  under  a 
cloudy  sky,  without  having  in  my  thoughts  any 
occurrence  of  special  good  I'ortune,  I  liave  enjoyed 
a  perfect  exhilaration.  In  the  woods,  too,  a  man 
casts  off  his  years,  as  the  snake  his  slough,  and  at 
what  period  soever  of  life  is  always  a  child. 
In  the  woods  is  perpetual  youth.  Within  these 
plantations  of  God  a  decorum  and  a  sanctity 
reign,  a  perennial  festival  is  dressed,  and  the  guest 
sees  not  how  he  should  tire  of  them  in  a  thousand 
years.  In  the  woods  we  return  to  reason  and 
faith.  .  ,  .  Tlie  greatest  delight  which  the  fields 
and  the  woods  minister,  is  the  suggestion  of  an 
occult  relation  between  man  and  the  vegetable. 
I  am  not  alone  and  unacknowledged.  They  nod 
to  me  and  I  to  them.  The  waving  of  the  boughs 
in  the  storm  is  new  to  me  and  old  ;  it  takes  me  by 
surprise,  and  yet  is  not  unknown.  Its  effect  is 
like  that  of  a  higher  thought  or  a  better  emotion 
coming  over  me,  wlien  I  deemed  I  was  thinking 
justly  or  doing  right.— Nature,  Chap.  I. 

THE  USE  OF  BEAUTY. 
In  certain  hours  Nature  satisfies  the  soul  purely 
by  its  lovelitiess,  and  without  any  mixture  of 
corporeal  benefit.  I  have  seen  the  spectacle  of 
morning  from  the  hilltop  over  against  my  house, 
from  daybreak  to  sunrise,  with  emotions  which 
an  angel  might  share.  The  long  slender  bars  of 
cloud  float  like  fishes  in  the  sea  of  crimson  light. 
From  the  earth,  as  a  shore,  I  look  out  into  that 


RALPH  WALDO  E31ERS0N.  225 

silent  sea.  I  seem  to  partake  its  rapid  transform- 
ations ;  the  active  encliaiitment  reaches  my  dust, 
and  I  dilate  and  conspire  with  the  morning 
wind.  How  does  Nature  deify  us  with  a  few  and 
cheap  elements !  Give  me  health  and  a  day,  and 
I  will  make  the  pomp  of  emperors  ridiculous.  The 
dawn  is  my  Assyria  ;  the  sunset  and  moon-rise  my 
Paphos,  and  unimaginable  realms  of  Faerie ; 
broad  noon  shall  be  my  England  of  the  senses  and 
the  imderstanding  :  the  niglit  shall  be  my  Ger- 
many of  mystic  philosophy  and  dreams.— iVafurc, 
Chap.  in. 

NATURE  AND  THE  ORATOR. 

We  know  more  from  Nature  than  we  can  at 
will  communicate.  Its  light  flows  into  the  mind 
forevermore,  and  we  forget  its  presence.  The 
poet,  the  orator,  bred  in  the  woods,  whose  senses 
have  been  nourished  by  tlieir  fair  and  appetusing 
changes  year  after  year,  without  design  and  with- 
out heed,  shall  not  lose  their  lesson  altogether  in 
the  roar  of  cities  or  the  broil  of  politics.  Long 
hereafter— amidst  agitation  and  terror  in  national 
councils— the  solemn  images  shall  reappear  in 
their  morning  lustre  :is  fit  symbols  and  words  of 
the  thoughts  which  the  passing  event  shall 
awaken.  At  the  call  of  a  noble  sentiment,  again 
tlie  woods  wave,  the  pines  murmur,  the  river 
rolls  and  shines,  and  the  cattle  low  upon  tlie 
mountains  as  lie  saw  and  heard  them  in  his  in- 
fancy. And  with  these  forms  and  spells  of  per- 
suasion, tlie  keys  of  power  are  put  into  his  hands, 
—Nature,  Ciiap.  IV. 

OENULN'E  HEROISM. 

The  characteristic  of  genuine  heroism  is  its  per- 
sistency. All  men  have  wandering  impulses,  fits 
and  starts  of  gr-nerosity.  But  wlien  you  have  re- 
8f)lved  to  be  great,  abide  by  yourself,  and  do  not 
weaklv  try  to  re'-onciic  yourself  with  tlie  world. 
The  heroic  cannot  Ik;  the  common,  nor  the  com- 
iiKm  the  heroic.  Yet  wo  have  the  weakness  to 
«-.\|H'Ct  the  Hympalhy  of  i)eople  in  those  actions 
whose  excellence  is  that  they  outrun  sympathy, 


226  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

and  nppral  to  a  tardy  justice.  If  j'ou  would  serve 
your  hrotlicr.  because  it  is  fit  for  you  to  servo  him, 
do  not  take  back  your  words  when  you  find  that 
prudent  people  do  not  commend  you.  Be  true  to 
your  own  act,  and  congratulate  yourself  if  you 
liave  done  soraetliing  strange  and  extravagant, 
and  broken  the  monotony  of  a  decorous  age.  It 
was  a  high  counsel  that  I  once  heard  given  to 
a  young  person:  "Always  do  Avhat  you  are 
afraid  to  do."  A  simple  manlj'  character  need 
never  make  an  apology,  V)ut  should  regard  its  past 
action  with  the  calmness  of  Phocion,  when  he  ad- 
mitted that  the  event  of  the  battle  was  happy,  yet 
did  not  regret  his  dissuasion  from  the  battle. — 
Essay  on  Heroism. 

CONSISTENCY. 
A  foolish  consistency  is  the  hobgoblin  of  little 
minds,  adored  by  little  statesmen  and  philosophers 
and  divines.  With  consistencj'  a  great  soul  has 
simply  nothing  to  do.  He  may  as  well  concern 
himself  with  his  shadow  on  the  wall.  Out  upon 
your  guarded  lips  !  Sew  them  up  with  pack- 
thread. Else,  if  you  would  be  a  man,  speak  what 
you  think  to-day,  in  words  as  hard  as  cannon- 
balls,  and  to-morrow  speak  what  to-morrow  thinks, 
in  hard  words  again,  though  it  contradict  every- 
thing you  said  to-day.  Ah,  then,  exclaim  the 
aged  ladies,  you  will  be  sure  to  be  misundex-stood  ! 
Misunderstood  !  It  is  a  right  fool's  word  !  Is  it 
so  bad,  then,  to  be  misunderstood?  Pythagoras 
was  misunderstood,  and  Socrates,  and  Jesus,  and 
Luther,  and  Copernicus,  and  Galileo,  and  New- 
ton, and  every  pure  and  wise  spirit  that  ever  took 
flesh.  To  be  great  is  to  be  misunderstood.— E'ssa?/ 
on  Self-Reliance. 

HAVING  IT  MADE  UP. 

Ever  since  I  was  a  boy  I  have  wished  to  write  a 
discourse  on  Compensation.  I  was  lately  con- 
firmed in  these  desires  by  hearing  a  sermon  at 
church.  The  preacher — a  man  esteemed  for  his 
orthodoxy — unfolded  in  the  ordinarj'  manner  the 
doctrine  of  tlie  L:ist  .Juilgment.     He  assumed  that 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON.  327 

judgment  is  not  executed  in  this  world  ;  that  tlie 
wicked  are  successful  ;  that  the  good  are  misera- 
ble ;  and  then  urged,  from  reason  and  from  Scrip- 
ture, a  compensation  to  be  made  to  both  parties 
in  the  next  life.  No  offense  appeared  to  be  taken 
by  the  congregation  at  this  doctrine.  As  far  as  I 
could  observe,  when  the  meeting  broke  up  they 
separated  without  remark  on  the  sermon.  Yet 
what  was  the  import  of  this  teaching  ?  What  did 
the  preacher  mean  by  saying  that  the  good  are 
miserable  in  the  present  life?  Was  it  that  houses 
and  lands,  offices,  wine,  horses,  dress,  luxury,  are 
had  by  unprincipled  men,  wliilst  the  saints  are 
poor  and  despised ;  and  that  a  compensation  is  to 
be  made  to  these  last  hereafter,  by  giving  them 
tlie  like  gratifications  another  day — bank-stock 
and  doubloons,  venison  and  champagne  ?  This 
must  be  the  compensation  intended  ;  for  wliat 
else  ?  Is  it  that  they  are  to  have  leave  to  pray 
and  praise?  to  love  and  serve  men?  Why,  that 
they  can  do  now.  The  legitimate  inference  the 
disciple  would  draw  was,  "  We  are  to  have  such 
a  good  time  as  the  sinners  have  now  ; "  or,  to  push 
it  to  its  extreme  import,  "  You  sin  now  ;  we  shall 
sin  by-and-by.  We  would  sin  now,  if  we  could  ; 
not  being  successful,  we  expect  our  revenge  to- 
morrow." The  fallacy  lay  in  the  inuuense  con- 
cession that  the  bad  are  successful ;  that  justice  is 
not  done  now.  The  blindness  of  the  preacher 
consisted  in  deferring  to  the  base  estimate  of  the 
market  value  of  what  constitutes  a  n)anly  success, 
instead  of  confronting  and  convicting  the  world 
from  the  truth  ;  announcing  the  presence  of  the 
fynil,  the  omnii)otence  of  tJio  Will  ;  and  so  estab- 
lishing the  standard  of  good  and  ill,  of  success 
and  falsehood,  and  summoning  the  dead  to  its 
present  tribunal. — Essay  on  Compensation. 

HUMANITY    IN   ART. 

I  rpmPxn])CT  when  in  my  younger  days  I  had 
heard  of  the  wondtrs  of  Italian  painting,  I  fancii-d 
that  great  pi'tun-s  would  be  great  strangers; 
B<^)in<^  surprising  combination  of  color  ami  form  ;  a 
foreign  wonder,  barbaric  i)earl  and   gol<l,  likf  the 


228  RALrii  WALDO  EMEliSUN. 

spontoons  and  standards  of  the  militia,  whicli 
play  such  pranks  in  the  eyes  and  imaginations  of 
schoolljoys.  I  was  to  see  and  acquire  I  knew  not 
what.  When  I  came  at  last  to  Rome,  and  saw 
with  eyes  the  pictures,  I  found  that  genius  left  to 
novices  the  gay  and  fantastic  and  ostentations, 
and  itself  pierced  directly  to  the  simple  and  true ; 
that  it  was  the  familiar  and  sincere  ;  that  it  was 
the  old,  eternal  fact  I  had  met  already  in  so  many 
forms,  unto  which  I  had  lived  ;  that  it  was  the 
plain  you  and  me  I  knew  so  well,  had  left  at  home 
in  so  many  conversations.  I  had  the  same  experi- 
ence already  in  a  church  at  Naples.  There  I 
saw  that  nothing  was  changed  with  me  but  the 
place;  and  said  to  myself,  "Thou  foolish  child, 
hast  thou  come  out  hither,  over  four  thousand 
miles  of  salt  water,  to  find  that  which  was  perfect 
to  thee  there  at  home  ? "  That  fact  I  saw  again 
in  the  Academeia  at  Naples,  in  the  chambers  of 
sculpture,  and  yet  again  when  I  came  to  Rome  and 
to  the  paintings  of  Raphael,  Angelo,  Sacchi. 
Titian,  and  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  "What,  old 
mole  !  workest  thou  in  the  earth  so  fast  ?  "  It  had 
traveled  by  my  side.  That  which  I  fancied  I  had 
left  in  Boston  was  here  in  the  Vatican,  and  again 
at  Milan  and  at  Paris,  and  made  all  traveling 
ridiculous  as  a  tread-mill.  I  now  require  this  of 
all  pictures,  that  they  domesticate  me,  not  that 
they  dazzle  me.  Pictures  must  not  be  too  pictur- 
esque. Nothing  astonishes  men  so  much  as  com- 
mon sense  and  plain  dealing.  All  great  actions 
have  been  simple,  and  all  great  pictures  are.  The 
Transfiguration,  by  Raphael,  is  an  eminent  ex- 
ample of  this  peculiar  merit.  A  calm  benignant 
beauty  shines  over  all  this  picture,  and  goes  di- 
rectly to  the  heart.  It  seems  almost  to  call  you 
by  name.  The  sweet  and  sublime  face  of  Jesus  is 
beyond  praise  ;  yet  how  it  disappoints  all  fond 
expectations  !  This  familiar,  simple,  home-speak- 
ing countenance  is  as  if  one  should  meet  a  friend. 
The  knowledge  of  picture-dealers  has  its  value, 
but  listen  not  to  their  criticism  when  your  heart 
is  touched  by  genius.  It  was  not  painted  for 
them  ;    it  was  painted  for  you  ;   for  such  as  had 


RALPH  AVALDU  EMERSON.  229 

eyes  capable  of  being  touched  by  simplicity  and 
lofty  emotions. — Essay  on  Art. 

ALL  IX  EACH. 

Inevitably  does  the  universe  wear  our  color,  and 
every  object  fall  successively  into  the  subject  it- 
self. The  subject  exists,  the  subject  enlarges  ;  all 
things  sooner  or  later  fall  into  peace.  As  I  am, 
so  I  see.  Use  what  language  we  will,  we  can 
never  say  anything  but  what  we  are.  Hermes, 
Cadmus,  Columbus,  Newton,  Bonaparte,  are  the 
mind's  ministers.  Instead  of  feeling  a  poverty 
when  we  encounter  a  great  man,  let  us  treat  the 
new  comer  like  a  traveling  geologist,  who  passes 
through  our  estate,  and  shows  us  good  slate,  or 
limestone,  or  aiitliracite,  in  our  brush  pasture. 
The  partial  action  in  each  strong  mind  in  one  di- 
rection is  a  telescope  for  the  objects  on  which  it 
is  pointed.  But  every  other  part  of  knowledge 
is  to  be  pushed  to  the  same  extravagance,  ere 
the  soul  attains  her  due  sphericity.  Do  you  see 
that  kitten  chasing  so  prettily  her  own  tail  ?  If 
you  could  look  with  her  eyes,  you  might  see  her 
surrounded  with  Imiulreds  of  figures  performing 
complex  dramas,  with  tragic  and  comic  issues, 
long  conversations  and  many  characters,  many 
up8  and  downs  of  fate :  and  meantime  it  is  only 
puss  with  her  tail.  How  long  before  our  mas- 
querade will  end  its  noise  of  tambourines,  laugh- 
ter, and  performance  V  A  subject  and  an  object — 
it  takes  .so  much  to  make  the  galvanic  circuit 
complete  :  Ijut  magnitude  adds  nothing.  What 
imiKjrts  it  whether  it  is  Kepler  and  tiie  spliere  ; 
Columbus  and  America  ;  a  reader  and  his  book  ; 
or  puss  with  her  tail  ? — Kssay  on  Exjjericnce. 

KECOO.MZINU   liEAh  WOKTIL 

In  society  high  advantages  are  set  down  to  tlio 
po«Hes.sor  as  disadvantages.  It  retjuires  tlie  more 
weariness  in  our  privat<M'stiniates.  I  donotforgive 
in  my  friends  the  failure  to  know  a  nn<;  character, 
and  to  entertain  it  witli  tliankful  liospitality. 
When  at  last  tii.il  wliich  we  have  always  longed 
for  is  arrived,  and  shines  on  us  with  gl.'nl  rays 


230  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

out  of  tliat  fur  celestial  land,  then  to  be  coarse, 
then  to  be  critical,  and  treat  such  a  visitant 
with  the  jabber  and  suspicion  of  the  streets, 
argues  a  vulgarity  that  seems  to  shut  tiie  doors 
of  heaven.  This  is  confusion,  this  the  right  in- 
sanity, when  the  soul  no  longer  knows  its  own, 
nor  where  its  allegiance,  its  religion,  are  due.  Is 
there  any  religion  but  this  :  to  know  that  wher- 
ever in  the  wide  desert  of  being  the  holy  senti- 
ment we  cherish  has  opened  into  a  flower,  it 
blooms  for  me?  If  none  sees  it,  I  see  it;  I  am 
aware — if  I  alone — of  the  greatness  of  the  fact. 
Whilst  it  blooms,  I  will  keep  sabbath  or  holy  time, 
and  suspend  my  gloom  and  my  folly  and  jokes. 
There  are  many  eyes  that  can  detect  and  honor 
the  prudent  and  household  virtues  ;  there  are 
many  that  can  discern  Genius  on  his  starry  track, 
though  the  mob  is  incapable.  But  when  that 
love  which  is  all-suffering,  all-abstaining,  all- 
aspiring,  wliich  has  vowed  to  itself  that  it  will 
be  a  wretch  and  also  a  fool  in  this  world,  sooner 
than  soil  its  white  hands  by  any  compliances, 
comes  into  our  houses,  only  the  pure  and  aspiring 
can  know  its  face,  and  the  only  compliment  they 
can  pay  it,  is  to  own  it. — Essay  on  Character. 

RKCErVING    AND  GIVINO. 

He  is  a  good  man  who  can  receive  a  gift  well. 
We  are  either  glad  or  sorry  at  a  gift ;  and  both 
emotions  are  unbecoming.  Some  violence  I  think 
is  done,  some  degradation  borne,  wlien  I  rejoice  or 
grieve  at  a  gift.  I  am  sorry  when  my  independ- 
ence is  invaded,  or  when  a  gift  comes  from  such 
as  do  not  know  my  spirit,  and  so  the  act  is  not 
supported  ;  and  if  the  gift  pleases  me  overmuch, 
then  I  should  be  ashamed  that  the  donor  should 
read  my  heart,  and  see  that  I  love  his  commodity 
and  not  him.  The  gift,  to  be  true,  must  be  the 
flowing  of  the  giver  unto  me,  correspondent  to 
my  flowing  unto  him.  When  the  waters  are  at  a 
level,  then  my  goods  pass  to  liim,  and  liis  to  me. 
All  his  are  mine,  and  all  mine  his.  Hence  the 
fitness  of  beautiful,  not  useful  things  for  gifts. 
The  expectation  of  gratitude  is  mean,  and  is  con- 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON.  331 

tinually  punished  by  the  total  insensibility  of  the 
obliged  person.  It  is  a  great  happiness  to  get  off 
without  injury  and  heart-burning  from  one  who 
has  had  the  ill  luck  to  be  served  by  you.  It  is  a 
very  onerous  business  this  of  being  served,  and  the 
debtor  naturally  wishes  to  give  jou  a  slap.  A 
golden  text  for  these  gentlemen  is  that  which  I  so 
admire  in  the  Buddhist,  who  never  thanks,  and  who 
says,  "  Do  not  flatter  your  benefactors. — Essay  on 
Gifts. 


CELTS,   GERMANS,   NORSEMEN,   AND  NORMANS. 

The  sources  from  which  tradition  derives  the 
English  stock  are  three.  First,  tlie  Celts  or  Sidoni- 
ans,  of  whose  beginning  there  is  no  memory,  and 
their  end  is  likely  to  be  still  more  remote  in  the 
future,  for  they  have  endurance.  Thej'  planted 
Britain,  and  gave  to  the  seas  and  mountains  names 
which  are  poems,  and  imitate  the  pure  voices  of 
Nature.  They  had  no  violent  feudal  tenure,  but 
the  husbandman  owned  the  land.  They  had  an 
alphabet,  astronomy,  priestly  culture,  and  a  sub- 
lime ritual.  Tliey  made  the  best  popular  litera- 
ture of  the  Middle  Ages,  in  the  songs  of  Merlin 
and  the  tender  and  delicious  mythology  of  Arthur. 
But  the  English  come  mainly  from  the  Germans, 
whom  the  Romans  found  it  hard  to  conquer — say 
impossible  to  conquer,  when  one  rememliors  the 
long  sequel ;  a  people  about  whom,  in  the  old 
empire,  the  nunor  ran,  "There  was  never  any 
that  meddled  with  them  that  repented  it  not." 
The  Norsemen  are  excellent  persons  in  the  main, 
with  good  sense,  steadiness,  wise  speech  and 
prompt  action.  But  they  have  a  singular  turn  for 
homicide.  Their  chief  end  of  man  is  to  murder 
or  be  murdered.  Oars,  scytlies,  harpoons,  crow- 
bars, jjeat-knives,  hay-forks  are  valued  by  them 
the  more  for  their  charming  aptitude  f or  as-sassin- 
ation.  Never  was  poor  gentleman  so  surfeited 
with  life,  HO  furious  to  qai  rid  of  it,  .'is  the  Norse- 
man. It  was  a  proverb  of  ill  condition  to  die 
the  dc.'itli  of  old  nge.  The  Normans  came  out  of 
iFnuHf  intc  Kn^'l.ind  woi-se  men  than  tiu-y   we'H 


262  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

inU)  it  (ino  Imndrcd  and  sixty  years  l)ef()re.  They 
had  lost  their  own  language,  and  learned  the 
Romance,  or  barl)arous  Latin  of  the  Gauls,  and 
liad  ac(juired  with  the  language  all  the  vices  it 
had  names  for.  The  (Conquest  has  obtained  in  the 
tlnonicles  the  name  of  the  "  memory  of  sorrow." 
Twenty  tliousand  thieves  landed  at  Hastings. 
These  founders  of  the  House  of  Lords  were  greedy 
and  ferocious  dragoons,  sons  of  greedy  and  fero- 
cious pirates.  They  were  all  alike.  Tliej-  took 
everything  thej-  could  carry  ;  they  burned,  liarried, 
violated,  tortured,  and  killed,  until  everything 
English  was  brought  to  the  verge  of  ruin.  Such, 
however,  is  the  illusion  of  antiquity  and  wealth, 
that  decent  .and  dignified  men  now  existing  boast 
their  descent  from  these  filthy  tliieves,  who 
showed  a  far  juster  conviction  of  their  own  merits 
by  assuming  for  types  the  swine,  goat,  jackal, 
leopard,  wolf,  and  snake,  which  they  severally  re- 
sembled.— English  Traits. 

ENGLISH   DOMESTICITY. 

Bom  in  a  harsh  and  wet  climate,  which  keeps 
him  indoors  whenever  he  is  at  rest,  and  being  of 
an  affectionate  and  loyal  temper,  the  Englishman 
dearly  loves  his  home.  If  he  is  rich,  he  bujs  a 
demesne  and  builds  a  hall ;  if  he  is  in  middle  con- 
dition he  spares  no  expense  on  his  house.  An 
English  family  consists  of  a  very  few  persons, 
who  from  youth  to  age  are  found  revolving  within 
a  few  feet  of  each  other,  as  if  tied  by  some  tie 
tense  as  that  cartilage  which  wc  have  seen  uniting 
the  two  Siamese.  England  produces,  under  favor- 
able conditions  of  ease  and  culture,  the  finest 
women  in  tlie  world.  And  as  the  men  arc  affec- 
tionate and  true-hearted,  the  women  inspire  and 
refine  them.  Notliing  can  be  more  delicate  with- 
out being  fantastical,  nothing  more  firm  and  based 
in  nature  and  sentiment,  than  the  courtship  and 
mutual  character  of  the  sexes. — Encjlish  Traits. 

THE  ANGUCAN  CHURCH  AND  THE  PEOPLE. 

The  English  C^linrcli  has  many  certificates  to 
show  of  humble,  effective  service  in  humanizing 


RALPH  WALDO  E5IERS0N.  233 

the  people,  in  clieering  and  refining  men,  feeding, 
healing,  and  educating.  It  lias  the  seal  of  martyrs 
and  confessors;  the  noblest  Book;  a  sublime  archi- 
tecture; a  ritual  marked  b\-  the  same  secular 
merits— nothing  cheap  or  purchasable.  From  the 
slow-grown  Church  important  reactions  proceed ; 
much  for  culture,  much  for  giving  a  direction  to 
the  nation's  affection  and  will  to-day.  The  carved 
and  pictured  chapel— its  entire  surface  animated 
with  image  and  emblem— made  the  parish  church 
a  sort  of  book  and  Bible  to  the  people's  eyes.  Then 
when  the  Saxon  instinct  had  secured  a  service  in 
the  vernacular  tongue,  it  was  the  tutor  and  uni- 
versity of  the  people.  The  reverence  for  the  Scrip- 
tures is  an  element  of  civilization;  for  thus  has  the 
history  of  the  world  been  preserved,  and  is  pre- 
served. Here  in  England  every  day  a  chapter  of 
Ge7iesis  and  a  leader  in  The  Times,  This  is  a  bind- 
ing of  the  old  and  the  new  to  some  purpose.— Eng- 
lish Traits. 

UPON  GREAT  MEN. 

The  search  after  great  men  is  the  dream  of  youtli, 
and  the  f>ccupation  of  manhood.  We  travel  into 
foreign  ])arts  to  find  their  works — if  possible,  to 

get  a    glimpse    of    them I  count    him 

a  great  man  wlio  inhabits  a  higher  sphere  of 
thought,  into  wliich  other  men  rise  with  labor  and 
witli  ditiiculty.  He  has  but  to  open  his  eyes  to  see 
things  in  a  trueliglit,  and  in  large  relations  ;  while 
tliey  must  make  painful  corrections,  and  keep  a 
vigilant  eye  on  many  sources  of  error.  But  the 
great  man  must  be  related  to  us.  I  cannot  tell 
what  I  would  know;  but  I  have  observed  tliat 
there  are  persons  who,  in  tlieir  character  and 
actions,  answer  questions  which  I  have  notskill  to 
put.  One  man  answers  some  questions  whicli 
none  of  his  contemporaries  ^jut,  and  is  isolated. — 
Representative  Men. 

PLATO. 

Among  l)ook8,  Plato  is  entitled  to  Omar's  fanati- 
cal roiiipliinciit  1(1  tilt'  Koran, when  lie  said,  "Burn 
the   libraries;    for  tlieir  value    is    in    this    book."' 


2M  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

These  sentences  contain  the  culture  of  nations; 
these  are  corner-stones  of  schools;  these  ai'e  the 
fountain-head    of    literatures.     A    discipline     in 
logic,    arithmetic,  ontology,  morals  or  practical 
wisdom.     There  never  was  such  range  of  specula- 
tion.    Out  of  Plato  come  all  things  that  are  still 
written  and    debated   among    men    of   thought. 
Great  havoc  makes  he  among  our  originalities. 
We  have  reached  the  mountain  from  which  all 
these  drift-boulders  were  detached.     For  it  is  fair 
to  credit  the  broadest  general izer  with  all  the  par- 
ticulars deducible  from  his  genius.     Plato  is  phil- 
osophy, and  philosopliy  Plato — at  once  the  glory 
and  the  shame  of  mankind;  thus  neither  Saxon  nor 
Roman  have  availed  to  add  any  idea  to  his  cate- 
gories.    No  wife,  no  children  has  he;    and  the 
thinkers  of  all  civilized  nations  ai-e  his  posterity 
and  are  tinged  with  his  mind.     How  many  great 
men  Nature  is  incessantly  sending  up  out  of  night 
to  be  his  men — Platonists  !    The  Alexandrians,  a 
constellation  of  genius;  the  Elizabethans,  not  less. 
Sir  Thomas  Moi-e,  Henry  More,  John  Hales,  John 
Smith,     Francis    Bacon.    Jeremy    Taylor,   Ralph 
Cudworth,   Sydenham,  Thomas  Taylor,  Marcilius 
Ficinus,  and  Picus  Mirandola.     Calvinism  is  in  his 
Phceclo  ;   Christianity  is  in  it.     Moliammedanism 
draws  all  its  philosophy,  in  its  hand-book  of  morals 
— the     AkhlaJc-y-Jalaly — from    him.     Mysticism 
finds  in  Plato  all  its  texts.     The  citizen  of  a  town 
in  Greece  is  no  villager  or  patriot.     An  English- 
man reads,  and  says,   "  How  English  ! "    A  Ger- 
man "  How  Teutonic  !  "  an  Italian,  "  How  Roman 
and  how  Greek  ! "    As  they  say  that  Helen  of 
Argos  had  that  universal  beauty  that  everybody' 
felt  related  to  her,  so  Plato  seeniH,  to  a  reader  in 
New  England,  an  American  genius.     His  broad 
humanity  transcends  all  sectional  lines. — Rejjre- 
sentative  Men. 

SWKDENBORa. 

His  books  have  no  melody,  no  emotion,  no 
humor,  no  relief  to  tlie  dead  prosaic  level.  The 
entire  want  of  poetry  in  so  transcendent  a  mind 
betokens  the  disease;  and,  like  a  hoarse  voice  in  a 


RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON.  235 

beautiful  person,  is  a  kind  of  warning.  I  think 
sometimes  lie  will  not  be  read  longer.  His  great 
name  will  turn  a  sentence.  His  books  have  be- 
come a  monument.  His  laurel  is  so  largely  mixed 
with  cypress,  a  charnel-breath  so  mingles  with 
the  temple-incense,  that  bo^s  and  maidens  will 
shun  the  spot.  Yet  in  this  immolation  of  genius 
and  fame  at  the  shrine  of  conscience  is  a  merit  sub- 
lime beyond  praise.  He  lived  to  purpose,  he  gave 
a  verdict.  He  elected  Goodness  as  the  clew  to 
which  the  soul  nuist  cling  in  all  tliis  labyrinth  of 
Nature.  I  think  of  him  as  of  some  tx-ansmigrating 
votary  of  Indian  legend,  who  sajs,  "  Though  I  be 
dog,  or  jackal,  or  pismire  in  the  last  rudiments  of 
nature,  under  wliat  integument  or  ferocity,  I 
cleave  to  the  right  as  a  sure  ladder  that  leads  up 
to  man  and  to  God Swedenborg  has  ren- 
dered a  double  service  to  mankind,  which  is  now 
only  beginning  to  be  known.  By  the  science  of 
experiment  and  use  he  made  his  first  steps.  He 
observed  and  published  tlie  laws  of  nature,  and, 
ascending  by  just  degrees  from  events  to  their 
summits  and  causes,  he  was  fired  with  piety  at  the 
harmonies  he  felt,  and  abandoned  himself  to  their 
joys  and  worship.  This  was  his  first  service.  If 
tlie  glory  was  too  briglit  for  his  eyes  to  bear,  if  he 
staggered  under  tlie  trance  of  delight,  the  more 
excellent  is  the  spectacle  he  saw — the  realities  of 
Being  which  beam  and  blaze  through  liim,  and 
which  no  infirmities  of  the  prophet  are  suffered  to 
olwcure;  and  he  renders  a  second  passive  service 
to  men  not  less  than  the  first — perhaps  in  the  great 
circle  of  being,  and  in  the  retribution  of  spiritual 
Nature,  not  less  glorious  or  less  beautiful  to  him- 
self.— Representative  Men. 

Tho  volumes  entitled  Conduct  of  Life, 
Society  and  Solitude,  Letters  and  Social 
Aims  are  made  up  of  separate  papers,  with  no 
special  relation  to  each  other ;  any  one  of  them 
might  uH  well  liavo  been  placed  in  any  other 
of  tlie  voluuK's.  They  may  be  properly  con- 
sidered  as  so  many  now  series  of  the  Essays. 


C:]G  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

IMMORTALITY. 

.  Of  Immortality,  the  soul  when  well  employed, 
is  incurious.  It  is  so  well,  that  it  is  sure  it  ivill  be 
well.  It  asks  no  questions  of  the  Supreme  Power. 
The  Son  of  Antiochus  asked  his  father  when  he 
would  join  battle:  "  Dost  thou  fear,"  replied  the 
King,  "  that  thou  only  in  all  the  army  wilt  not 
hear  the  trumpet  ?  "  It  is  a  high  thing  to  confide 
that,  if  it  is  best  that  we  should  live,  we  shall  live. 
It  is  a  higher  thing  to  have  this  conviction  than  to 
have  the  lease  of  indefinite  centuries  and  millen- 
niums and  a>ons.  Higher  than  the  question  of 
our  duration  is  the  question  of  our  deserving. 
Immortality  will  come  to  such  as  are  fit  for  it; 
and  he  who  would  be  a  great  soul  in  the  future 
must  be  a  gi'eat  soul  now.  It  is  a  doctrine  too 
grand  to  rest  on  any  legend — that  is,  on  any  man's 
experience  but  our  own.  It  must  be  proved,  if  at 
all,  from  our  own  activity  and  designs,  which 
imply  an  interminable  future  for  their  display. — 
Tlie  Conduct  of  Life. 

ILLUSIONS  THEMSELVES    ILLUSIONARY. 

There  is  no  chance  and  no  anarchy  in  the  uni- 
verse. Every  god  is  there  sitting  in  his  sphere. 
The  j'oung  morlal  enters  the  hall  of  the  firma- 
ment ;  there  he  is  alone  with  them  alone;  they 
pouring  on  him  benedictions  and  gifts,  and 
beckoning  up  to  their  thrones.  On  the  instant, 
and  incessantly,  fall  snow-storms  of  illusions.  He 
fancies  himself  in  a  vast  crowd,  wliich  sways  this 
way  and  that,  and  whose  movements  and  doings 
he  must  obey;  he  fancies  himself  poor,  orphaned, 
insignificant.  The  mad  crowd  drives  him  hither 
and  thither,  now  furiously  commanding  this 
thing  to  be  done,  now  tliat.  What  is  he  that  he 
should  resist  their  will,  and  think  on  himself? 
Every  moment  new  changes  and  new  showers  of 
deceptions  to  baffle  and  distract  him.  And  when, 
,  b}'-and-by,  for  an  instant,  the  air  clears  and  the 
cloud  lifts  a  little,  there  are  the  gods  still  sitting 
aroimd  liim  on  their  thrones — they  alone  with  liim 
alone. — The  Conduct  of  Life. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON.  237 

A  SERENE  OLD  AGE. 

When  life  has  been  well-spent,  age  is  a  loss 
which  it  can  well  spare — muscular  strength,  or- 
ganic instincts,  gross  bulk  and  works  that  belong 
to  these.  But  the  central  wisdom,  wliich  was 
old  in  infancy,  is  young  in  fourscore  years  ;  and 
dropping  off  obstructions,  leaves,  in  happy  sub- 
jects, the  mind  purified  and  wise.  I  liave  heard 
that  whenever  the  name  of  man  is  mentioned,  the 
doctrine  of  immortality  is  announced;  it  cleaves 
to  the  constitution.  The  mode  of  it  baffles  our 
wit,  and  the  whisper  comes  to  us  from  the  other 
side.  But  the  inference  from  the  intellect,  hiving 
knowledge,  hiving  skill — at  the  end  of  life  just 
ready  to  be  born — affirms  the  inspirations  of 
affection  and  of  the  moral  sentiments. — Society 
and  Solitude. 

THE  ULTIMATE  GREATNESS. 

Men  are  ennobled  by  morals  and  by  intellect ; 
but  these  two  elements  know  each  other,  and 
always  beckon  to  eacli  other,  until  at  last  they 
meet  in  the  man,  if  he  is  to  be  truly  great.  The 
man  who  sells  you  a  lamp  shows  you  that  the 
flame  of  oil,  which  contented  you  before,  casts 
a  strong  shade  in  the  path  of  the  petroleum  which 
he  lights  behind  it ;  and  this  again  casts  a  shadow 
in  the  path  of  the  electric  light.  So  does  intellect 
when  brought  into  the  presence  of  character. 
Character  puts  out  that  light.  We  are  thus  forced 
to  express  our  instinct  of  the  trutli  by  expressing 
the  failure  of  experiences.  The  man  whom  we  have 
notseen.  in  wliom  no  regard  of  self  degraded  tlio 
explorer  of  the  laws  ;  who  by  governing  himself 
governed  others  ;  sportive  in  manner,  but  inexor- 
able in  act  ;  who  sees  longevity  in  his  cause:  whose 
aim  is  always  distinct  to  him  ;  who  carries  fate  in 
his  eye  —  he  it  is  whom  we  seek,  encouraged  in 
every  good  hour  that  here  or  hereafter  he  shall  be 
found. — Letters  and  Social  Aims. 

Consitlcriiig  that  Emerson  wrote  verse  at 
intervals  from  boyhood  up  to  near  the  close 
of  his  life,  his  poetical  x>roductions  are  of  no 


238  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

considerable  bulk.  The  longest  of  these  does 
not  exceed  six  hundred  lines,  and  few  of  them 
have  more  than  fifty.  The  little  poem  Brah- 
ma, presents  a  Buddhist  view  of  universal 
existence. 

BRAHMA. 

If  the  red  slaj'er  think  he  slaj's, 
Or  if  the  slain  think  he  is  slain 

They  know  not  well  the  winding  ways 
I  keep,  and  pass  and  turn  again. 

Far  or  forgot  to  nie  is  near  : 
Shadow  and  sunlight  are  the  same  ; 

The  vanished  gods  to  nie  appear  ; 
And  one  to  me  are  shame  and  fame. 

They  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out ; 

When  me  they  fly,  I  am  the  wings  ; 
I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt, 

And  I  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings. 
The  strong  gods  pine  for  my  abode, 

And  pine  in  vain  the  sacred  seven, 
But  thou,  meek  lover  of  the  good. 

Find  me,  and  turn  thy  back  on  heaven. 

Some  of  Emerson's  most  characteristic 
poems  are  prefixed  by  way  of  mottoes  to  one 
or  another  of  his  Essays : 

MOTTO  TO    "EXPERIENCE." 

The  Lords  of  Life,  the  Lords  of  Life, 

I  saw  them  pass 

In  their  own  guise. 

Like  and  unlike. 

Portly  and  grim, 

Use  and  Surprise, 

Surface  and  Dream, 

Succession  swift  and  spectral  Wrong, 

Temperament  without  a  tongue, 

And  the  Inventor  of  the  game, 

Omnipresent  without  a  name. 

Some  to  see,  some  to  be  guessed. 

They  marched  from  East  to  West, 


RALPH  WALDO  E:\[ERS0N.  239 

Little  Man,  least  of  all, 
Among  the  legs  of  his  guardians  tall. 
Walked  about  with  puzzled  look  ; 
Him  by  the  hand  kind  Nature  took  : 
Dearest  Nature,  strong  and  mild. 
Whispered,  "Darling,  never  mind  ! 
To-morrow  they  will  wear  another  face  : 
The  Founder  thou  !  these  are  thy  race." 
— Essays. 

MOTTO  TO  "WORSHIP." 

This  is  he  who  felled  by  foes. 

Sprung  harmless  up,  refreshed  by  blows  : 

He  to  captivity  was  sold, 

But  hiru  no  prison  bars  would  hold  : 

Though  they  sealed  liim  on  a  rock, 

Mountain  chains  he  can  unlock. 

Thrown  to  lions  for  their  meat, 

The  crouching  lion  kissed  his  feet : 

Bound  to  the  stake,  no  fears  apjialled, 

But  arched  o'er  him  an  honoring  vaultj 

This  is  he  men  miscall  Fate, 
Threading  dark  ways,  arriving  late, 
But  ever  coming  in  time  to  ci'own 
The  truth,  and  hurl  wrong-doers  down. 
He  is  the  oldest  and  best  known. 
More  near  than  aught  thou  call'st  thine  own. 
Yet,  greeted  in  another's  eye. 
Disconcerts  with  glad  surprise. 
Tliis  is  Jove,  who,  deaf  to  prayers, 
Floods  with  blessings  unawares. 

Draw,  if  thou  canst  the  mystic  line     • 
Severing  rightly  his  froni  thine  : 
Which  is  Human,  which  Divine? 
— T7ie  Conduct  of  Life. 

Two  of  Emerson's  poems  are  Elegiacs.  One 
is  in  memory  of  his  brother  Edward  Bliss 
Emerson,  a  young  man  of  rare  promise,  who 
went  for  his  health  to  Porto  Rico,  and  died 
there  in  1832.  The  other  is  a  ThreMody  for 
his  own  boy.  We  give  only  portions  of  these 
poems  : 


340  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

IN  MEMORIAM  E.    B.    E. 

There  is  no  record  left  on  earth, 

Save  in  the  tablets  of  the  heart, 
Of  the  rich  inherent  wortli, 

Of  the  grace  that  on  him  shone 
Of  eloquent  lips  and  joyful  wit. 
He  could  not  frame  a  word  unfit, 

An  act  unworthy  to  be  done. 
Honor  prompted  every  glance. 
Honor  came  and  sat  beside  him, 
In  lowly  cot  or  painful  road  ; 
And  evermore  the  cruel  god 
Cried  "  Onward  !''  and  the  palm-branch  showed. 
Born  for  success  he  seemed 
With  grace  to  win,  with  heart  to  hold ; 
With  shining  gifts  that  took  all  eyes  ; 
With  budding  power  in  college  halls. 
As  pledged  in  coming  days  to  forge 
Weapons  to  guard  the  State,  or  scourge 
Tyrants  despite  their  guards  or  walls. 
On  his  young  promise  Beauty  smiled. 
Drew  his  free  homage  unbeguilerl  ; 
And  prosperous  Age  held  out  the  hand, 
And  richly  his  large  future  planned  ; 
And  troops  of  friends  enjoyed  the  tide  : — 
All,  all,  was  given,  and  only  health  denied,  .  .  . 
O'er  thy  rich  dust  the  endless  smile 
Of  Natm-e  in  thy  Spanish  isle 
Hints  never  loss  or  cruel  break, 
And  sacrifice  for  love's  dear  sake  ; 
^Nor  mourn  the  unalterable  days 
Tliat  Genius  goes  and  Folly  stays. 
What  matters  liow  or  on  what  ground 
The  freed  soul  its  Creator  found  ? 
Alike  thy  memory  embalms 
That  orange-grove,  that  isle  of  palms. 
And  tliose  loved  banks  wliose  (jak-boughs  bold 
Root  in  the  blood  of  heroes  old. 

THRENODY. 

I  see  my  empty  house  ; 

I  see  my  trees  repair  their  boughs  ; 

And  lie,  the  wonderous  child, 


■ 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON.  241 

Whose  silver  warble  wild 
Outvalued  every  passing  sound 
Within  the  aii-'s  cerulean  round — 
The  hyacinthine  boy,  for  whom 
Morn  might  break  and  April  bloom 
The  gracious  boy,  who  did  adorn 
The  world  whereinto  he  was  born. 
And  by  his  countenance  repay 
The  favor  of  the  living  Day — 

Has  disappeared  from  the  Day's  eyes. 
Far  and  wide  she  cannot  find  him  ; 
My  hopes  pursue,  they  cannot  bind  him. 
Returned  this  day,  the  South- wind  searches, 
And  finds  young  pines  and  budding  birches, 
But  finds  not  the  budding  man. 
Nature,  who  lost  him,  cannot  remake  him  ; 
Fate  let  him  fall.  Fate  can't  retake  him, 
Nature,  Fate,  Man,  him  seek  in  vain. 

0  child  of  Paradise  ! 

Boy  who  made  dear  his  father's  home, 

In  whose  deep  eyes 

Men  read  the  welfare  of  the  times  to  come ! 

1  am  too  much  bereft, 

The  world  dishonored  thou  last  left. 

Oh,  Truth  and  Nature's  costly  lie  ! 

Oh,  richest  fortune  sourly  crossed  ! 

Born  to  the  future,  to  the  future  lost  !  .  .  . 

The  deep  Heart  answered  :  Weepest  thou  ? 
Worthier  cause  for  passion  wild 
If  I  had  not  taken  the  child. 
And  deemest  thou  as  those  who  pore, 
With  aged  eyes,  short  way  before — 
Think'st  Beauty  vanished  from  the  coast 
Of  matter,  and  thy  darling  lost?  .  .  . 
Wilt  thou  not  ope  thy  heart  to  know 
What  rainbows  teach,  and  sunsets  show  ? 
Verdict  which  accumulates. 
From  lengthening  scroll  of  human  fates  ; 
Voic;e  of  earth  to  earth  returned  ; 
Prayers  of  Saints  that  only  burned- 
Saying  :  What  is  excellent, 
As  God  lives,  is  permanent ; 


243  RALPH    WALDO  EMERSON. 

Hearts  are  dust,  liearts'  loves  remain  ; 
Heart's  love  will  meet  with  thee  again. 
Silent  rushes  tlie  swift  Lord 
Through  ruined  systems  still  restored  ; 
Broad-sowing,  bleak  and  void  to  bless, 
Plants  with  worlds  the  wilderness  ; 
Waters  with  tears  of  ancient  sorrow 
Apples  of  Eden,  ripe  to-morrow 
House  and  tenant  go  to  ground, 
Lost  in  God,  in  Godhead  drowned. 

THE  SONG  OF  NATURE. 

Mine  are  the  night  and  morning, 
The  pits  of  air,  the  gidf  of  space, 

The  sportive  sun,  the  gibbous  moon, 
The  innumerable  days. 

I  wrote  the  past  in  characters, 
Of  rock  and  fire  the  scroll ; 

The  building  of  the  coral  sea. 
The  planting  of  the  soul.  .  .  . 

But  he,  the  Man-child  glorious — 
Whei'e  tarries  he  the  while  ? 

The  rainbow  shines  his  harbinger. 
The  sunset  gleams  his  smile. 

I  travail  in  pain  for  him. 
My  creatures  travail  and  wait ; 

His  couriers  come  by  squadrons. 
He  comes  not  to  the  gate. 

Twice  have  I  moulded  an  image, 
And  thrice  outstretched  my  hand  : 

Made  one  of  day,  and  one  of  night, 
And  one  of  the  salt  sea-sand. 

One  in  a  Judgean  manger, 
And  one  by  Avon  stream. 

One  over  against  the  mouths  of  Nile, 
And  one  in  Academe. 

I  moulded  kings  and  saviours. 
And  bards  o'er  kings  to  rule  ; 

But  fell  the  starry  influence  short, 
The  cup  was  never  full. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON.  243 

Yet  whirl  the  glowing  wheels  once  more, 

And  mix  the  bowl  again  ; 
Seethe,  Fate  !  the  ancient  elements, 

Heat,  Cold,  Wet,  Dry,  and  Peace  and 
Pain. 

Let  War  and  Trade,  and  Creeds  and  Song 

Blend,  ripen  race  on  race — 
The  sunburnt  world  a  Man  shall  breed 

Of  all  the  zones,  and  countless  days. 

MAY-DAY. 

Daughter  of  heaven  and  earth,  coy  Spring, 
With  sudden  passion  languishing, 
Maketh  all  things  coyly  smile, 
Painteth  pictures  mile  on  mile  ; 
Holds  a  cup  with  cowslip  wreaths, 
Whence  a  smokeless  incense  breathes.  .  . 

Hither  rolls  the  storm  of  heat ; 
I  feel  its  fiery  billows  beat ; 
Like  a  sea  which  me  infolds. 
Heat,  with  viewless  fingers  moulds, 
Swells,  and  mellows,  and  matures, 
Paints  and  flavors,  and  allures  ; 
Bud  and  briar  inlj-  warms. 
Still  enriches  and  transforms  ; 
Gives  the  reed  and  lily  length  ; 
Adds  to  oak  and  oxen  strength  ; 
Burns  tlie  world  in  tejjid  lakes, 
Burns  the  world,  yet  burnt  remakes. 
Enveloping  Heat,  enchanted  robe. 
Makes  the  daisy  and  the  globe. 
Transforming  what  it  doth  infold — 
Life  out  of  death,  new  out  of  old  ; 
Painting  fawns'  and  leopards'  fells. 
Seethes  the  gulf-encroaching  sliells  ; 
Fires  gardens  with  a  joyful  blaze 
Of  tulips  in  the  morning  rays. 
The  (load  log  touched  bursts  into  leaf. 
The  wlieat-blado  whispers  of  the  sheaf. 
What  god  is  this  imperial  Heat, 
Earth'.s  juime  secret,  sculpture's  seat? 


244  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

Doth  it  bear  hidden  in  its  heart 

Watei'-line  patterns  of  all  art? 

Is  it  Da'dalus  ?  is  it  Love  ? 

Or  walks  in  mask  almighty  Jove, 

And  drops  from  Power's  redundant  horn 

All  seeds  of  beauty  to  be  born  ?  .  ,  . 

Under  gentle  types,  my  Spring 

Marks  the  might  of  Nature's  king  ; 

An  energy  that  roaches  thorough, 

From  Chaos  to  the  dawning  morrow  ; 

Into  all  our  human  plight — 

The  soul's  pilgrimage  and  flight. 

In  city  or  in  solitude, 

Step  by  step  lifts  bad  to  good. 

Without  halting,  without  i'est. 

Lifting  better  up  to  best  ; 

Planting  seeds  of  knowledge  pure, 

Through  earth  to  ripen,  through  heaven  endure. 

SURSUM  CORD  A. 

Seek  not  the  spirit  if  it  hide 

Inexorable  to  thy  zeal  : 

Baby  do  not  whine  and  chide  : 
Art  thou  not  also  real  ? 
Why  shouldst  thou  stoop  to  poor  excuse  ? 

Turn  on  the  accuser  ;  roundly  say, 
"  Here  am  I,  here  I  will  remain 

Forever  to  myself  soothfast ; 
Go  thou  sweet  Heaven,  or  at  thy  pleasure  stay! 

Already  Heaven  with  thee  its  lot  has  cast, 
For  only  it  can  absolutely  deal. 

THE  soul's  prophecy. 

All  before  us  lies  the  way  ; 

Give  the  past  unto  the  wind, 
All  before  us  is  the  Day, 

Night  and  Darkness  are  behind. 

Eden  with  its  angels  bold. 

Love  and  flowers  and  coolest  sea. 

Is  less  an  ancient  story  told. 
Than  a  glowing  prophecy. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON.  245 

In  the  Spirit's  perfect  air, 

In  the  Passions  lame  and  kind, 
Innocence  from  selfish  care. 
The  real  Eden  we  shall  find. 

When  the  soul  to  sin  hath  died, 

True  and  beautiful  and  sound, 
Then  all  earth  is  sanctified, 

Up  springs  Paradise  around. 

From  the  Spirit-land  afar 

All  disturbing  force  shall  flee  ; 

Stir  nor  Toil,  nor  Hope  shall  mar 
Its  immortal  unity. 

THE  PAST. 

The  debt  is  paid, 

The  verdict  said. 

The  Furies  laid, 

The  plague  is  stayed. 

All  fortunes  made. 
Turn  the  key  and  bolt  the  door. 
Sweet  is  Death  forevermore. 
Nor  haughty  Hope,  nor  swart  Chagrin, 
Nor  murdering  Hate  can  enter  in. 
All  is  now  secure  and  fast, 
Not  the  gods  can  shake  the  past, 
Flies-to  the  adamantine  door, 
Bolted  down  forevermore. 

None  can  enter  there; 
No  thief  so  politic. 
No  Satan  with  his  royal  trick, 

Steal  in  by  window,  chink,  or  hole, 
To  Innd  or  unliind,  add  what  lacked. 

Insert  a  leaf  or  forge  a  name, 
New-face  or  finish  what  is  packed 
Alter  or  mend  eternal  Fact. 

THE  SNOW-STORM. 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky. 
Arrives  the  Snow,  and  driving  o'er  the  field, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight;  the  whitened  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river  and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
TiicHtecd  and  traveller  stojipcd,  tlie  courier's  feet 


146  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  house-mates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fire-place,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacj^  of  storm. 

Come  see  the  North-wind's  masonry, 
Out  of  unseen  quarry  evermore. 
Furnished  with  file,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  roof 
Round  every  windward  stake,  or  tree,  or  door, 
Speeding — the  myriad-handed — his  wild  work. 
So  fanciful,  so  savage,  naught  cares  ho 
For  number  or  proportion.    Mockingly, 
On  coop  or  kennel  he  hangs  Parian  wreaths; 
A  swan-like  form  invests  the  hidden  thorn; 
Fills  up  the  farmer's  lane  from  wall  to  wall, 
Maugre  the  farmer's  sighs;  and  at  the  gate, 
A  tapering  turret  over  tops  the  work. 
And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and  the 

world 
Is  all  his  own,  retiring,  as  he  were  not. 
Leaves,  when  the  sun  appears,  astonished  Art, 
To  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  by  stone, 
Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  Wind's  night- work, 
The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 

THE  MOUNTAIN  AND  THE  SQUIRREL. 

The  Mountain  and  the  Squirrel; 
Had  a  quarrel: 
And  the  former  called  the  latter  "Little  Prig." 
Bun  replied: 
"You  are  doubtless  very  big; 
But  all  sorts  of  things  and  weather 
Must  be  taken  in  together 
To  make  up  a  year 
And  a  sphere  : 
And  I  think  it  no  disgrace 
To  occupy  my  place. 
If  I'm  not  so  large  as  you. 
You  are  not  so  small  as  I, 
And  not  half  so  spry. 
I'll  not  deny  you  make 
A  very  pretty  squirrel-track; 
Talents  differ;  all  is  well  and  wisely  put; 
If  I  c^annot  carry  forests  on  my  back, 
Neither  can  you  crack  a  nut. 


NATHANAEL  EMMONS.  247 

THE  COXCORD    HYMN. 

(Suny  at  the  completion  <if  the  Concord  Monument,  April 
19,  1836.) 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 

Here  once  the  embattled  farmers'  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone. 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 
"When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone, 
Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 

To  die,  or  leave  their  children  free, 
Bid  time  and  nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 

EMMONS,  Nathanael,  an  American  theo- 
logian, born  at  East  Haddam,  Conn.,  in  1745, 
died  at  Franklin,  Mass.,  in  1840.  He  gradu- 
ated at  Yale  in  1767 ;  was  licensed  to  preach 
in  1769,  and  was  ordained  pastor  at  Franklin, 
in  1773.  His  ministry  here  lasted  until  1827 — 
a  period  of  fifty-four  years,  during  which  he 
directed  the  studies  of  nearly  100  theological 
students.  Numerous  writings  of  his  were 
published  during  his  lifetime;  and  a  complete 
coi>y  of  his  Works,  with  a  Memoir  by  Rev. 
.Jacob  Ide,  appeared  in  1842.  Another  Memoir 
of  him  by  Prof.  Edwards  A.  Park  was  pub- 
lished in  1861.  Dr.  Emmons  exerted  a  decided 
influence  upon  the  New  England  theology  of 
his  day,  although  upon  many  metaphysical 
and  speculative  points  he  differed  widely  from 
the  current  "  Calvinistic"  ojjinion  of  the  time. 
He  held  that  sinfulness  or  holiness  exists 
solely  in  the  exercise  of  the  voluntary  affec- 


348  NATHANAEL  EMMONS. 

tions,  so  that  there  is  no  depravity  except  in 
voluntary  disobedience  of  the  divine  law; 
and  that  God  is  the  producing  cause  of  every 
act  of  the  human  mind,  although  man  himself 
is  perfectly  free  in  the  performance  of  his 
voluntaiy  acts.  This,  in  the  view  of  his  oppo- 
nents, was  making  God  the  source  of  all 
sinfulness  as  well  as  of  all  holiness. 

UNIVERSALITY  OP  THE  DIVINE  AGENCY. 

If  God  be  a  universal  agent,  then  to  deny  his 
universal  agency  is  virtually  to  deny  his  existence, 
which  amounts  to  perfect  infidelity.  God 
founds  his  claim  to  divinity  upon  his  universal 
agency;  and  implicitly  says  that  he  should  not  be 
God,  if  he  did  not  form  tlie  light  and  create  dark- 
ness, make  peace  and  create  evil.  This  is  strictly 
true.  For  if  he  be  God,  he  is  the  Creator  of  all 
things;  and  if  he  be  the  Creator  of  all  things,  he 
must  be  the  Upholder,  Preserver,  and  Disposer  of 
all  things.  If  he  be  the  free  moral  agent,  who 
brouglit  all  things  into  existence,  he  is  morally 
obliged  to  exercise  an  universal  agency  in  support- 
ing and  governing  all  things.  If  he  be  God,  he 
must  be  perfectly  wise  and  good;  and  if  he  is  per- 
fectly wise  and  good,  he  must  exercise  an  univer- 
sal and  powerful  agency  over  all  his  creatures  and 
all  his  works,  and  dispose  of  them  in  the  wisest 
and  best  manner  possible.  To  deny  his  universal 
agency  is  to  impeach  both  his  wisdom  and  good- 
ness, which  is  virtually  denying  his  divinity,  or 
his  eternal  power  and  Godhead.  To  deny  his 
universal  agency  implies  one  of  these  two  things  : 
either  that  he  cannot  exercise  an  universal 
agency,  or  that  he  neglects  to  do  it  ;  but  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other  is  consistent  with  his  being 
what  he  claims  to  be — the  only  Living  and  True 
God ;  and  therefore  the  denial  is  eitlier  open  in- 
fidelity or  impious  blasphemy.  ...  It  is  dif- 
ficult to  mention  a  more  important  truth  than 
the  universal  agency  of  God.  It  lies  at  the  founda- 
tion of  all  religion,  and  deeply  affects  the  whole 
intelligent  universe.    For  if  he  did  not  exercise 


NATHANAEL  EMMONS.  349 

an  univtisal  agency  OA'er  all  his  creatures  and 
works,  lie  would  not  be  worthy  of  the  supreme 
love  and  entire  confidence  of  any  of  his  creatures. 
It  argues  profound  ignorance,  or  bold  presump- 
tion, to  charge  any  one  with  blasphemy  for  main- 
taining or  teaching  the  universal  agency  of  God, 
which  reflects  the  highest  honor  upon  him. — 
Sertnoii  on  the  Divine  Agency. 

god's  agency  in  evil. 

If  God  exercises  an  universal  agency  upon  the 
hearts  of  men,  then  he  can  form  as  many  vessels 
of  mercy  and  vessels  of  wrath  as  he  decreed  to 
form,  in  perfect  consistency  with  their  free  agency. 
Divine  agency  and  human  agency  are  perfectly 
consistent.  Divine  agency  consists  in  free,  volun- 
tary exercises;  and  human  agency  consists  in  free, 
voluntary  exercises.  God  can  act  right  freely, 
and  sinners  act  wrong  freely.  He  can  make  them 
love  and  hate,  choose  and  refuse;  and  con- 
sequently can  mould  and  fashion  their  hearts 
just  as  he  jileases,  consistently  with  their  perfect 
free  agency.  He  has  always  been  forming  vessels 
of  mercy  and  vessels  of  wrath  from  the  beginning 
of  the  world  to  this  day:  and  he  is  now  exercising 
his  powerful  and  irresistible  agency  upon  the 
heart  of  every  one  of  the  human  race,  and  pro- 
ducing either  holy  or  unholy  exercises  in  it.  The 
vessels  of  mercy  act  freely  in  embracing  the 
gospel ;  and  the  vessels  of  wrath  act  freely  in  re- 
jecting it.  He  can  make  as  many  as  he  pleases 
embrace  the  gospel  in  the  da}^  of  his  power,  in  one 
place  and  another.  All  sinners  are  in  his  hand, 
as  the  clay  is  in  the  hand  of  the  jwtter  ;  and  he 
can  turn  the  heart  of  the  one  as  easily  as  the  heart 
of  another  from  sin  to  holiness,  from  enmity  to 
love,  and  from  opposition  to  entire  submission. 
Though  God  is  creating  darkness  rather  than 
light,  and  evil  ratlior  than  good,  here  and  in  ten 
thousand  other  places  in  the  world,  j-et  the  time 
may  not  be  far  distant  when  he  will  form  light 
anfl  not  darkness,  make  peace  and  not  evil,  here 
and  all  over  the  world.     His  hand  is  not  shortened 


250  THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH. 

that  it  cannot  save  as  well  as  destroy,  lim  pur- 
poses liavc  not  (;hanged,  nor  will  his  promises 
fail.  He  will  work,  and  none  shall  let  it.  He 
will  display  the  riches  of  his  grace,  here  and 
everywhere  else,  as  fully  and  as  fast  as  possible. 
He  created  darkness  to  jjrepare  the  way  for  light; 
and  evil  to  prepare  the  way  for  good. — Sermon  on 
the  Divine  Agency. 

THE  DESIGNS  OF  GOD  WILL  PREVAIL. 
If  God  be  an  universal  agent,  and  operates  upon 
the  hearts  of  all  his  intelligent  creatures,  then  he 
will  infallibly  countei'act  the  designs  and  dis- 
appoint the  hope  of  all  his  enemies  in  every  part 
of  the  universe.  Though  his  agency  always  con- 
trols their  agency,  yet  it  never  destroys  it.  They 
ai'e  free,  and  they  ai'e  conscious  that  they  are  per- 
fectly free,  notwithstanding  his  agency  upon  their 
hearts.  Though  his  enemies  freely  and  voluntarily 
form  a  thousand  designs  to  frustrate  His  designs, 
yet  he  always  can  and  does  fulfill  his  own  designs 

and  disappoints  theirs However  numerous 

and  powerful  and  confident  the  enemies  of  God 
may  be,  he  will  defeat  all  their  designs  and  exer- 
tions ;  and  he  will  cause  their  folly  and  wicked- 
ness to  manifest  his  wisdom  and  goodness.  Their 
hands  and  their  tongues  and  their  hearts  are 
constantly  and  entirely  under  the  holy  and  sover- 
eign agency  of  God,  who  works  all  things  after 
the  counsel  of  His  own  will,  "For  of  Him  and 
tiuough  Him  and  to  Him  are  all  things,  to  whom 
be  glory  forever.  Amen." — Sermon  on  the  Divine 
Agency. 

ENGLISH,  Thomas  Dunn,  an  American 
physician,  prose-writer,  and  poet,  born  at 
Philadeli^hia  in  1819.  He  took  his  degree  of 
M.D.  from  i\\e  University  of  Pennsylvania  in 
1S.30 ;  studied  law,  and  w-as  admitted  to  the  bar 
in  1842,  and  became  connected,  as  contributor 
or  editor,  with  various  periodicals.  In  1856 
h{>,  established  himself  as  a  physician  in  New 
Jersey,  near  the  city  of  New  York ;  and  has 


THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH.  251 

from  time  to  time  represented  his  district  in 
the  Legislature  of  New  Jersey.  He  has  writ- 
ten several  novels  under  pseudonyms,  and 
three  under  his  own  name :  Waltei' 
Woolfe  (1844),  MDCCCXLIV.,  and  Am- 
brose Fecit  (1867).  He  has  brought  out 
upon  the  stage  twenty  or  more  dramatic 
pieces,  of  which  only  The  Mormons  has  been 
printed.  His  numerous  poems  appeared 
originally  in  periodicals.  Of  these  he 
published  a  volume  in  1855,  and  American 
Ballads  in  1880. 

BEN  BOLT, 

Don't  you  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt — 

Sweet  Alice,  whose  hair  was  so  brown, 
Who  wept  witli  delight  when  you  gave  her  a  smile, 

And  trembled  with  fear  at  your  frown  ? 
In  tlie  old  church-yard  in  the  valley,  Ben  Bolt, 

In  a  corner  obscure  and  alone, 
Tliey  have  fitted  a  slab  of  the  granite  so  gray, 

And  Alice  lies  under  the  stone. 

Under  the  hickory-tree,  Ben  Bolt, 

Which  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
Together  -we've  lain  in  the  noonday  shade. 

And  listened  to  Appleton's  mill. 
The  mill-wlieel  has  fallen  to  pieces,  Ben  Bolt, 

The  rafters  have  tumbled  in. 
And  a  quiet  which  crawls  round  the  walls  as  you 
gaze, 

Has  followed  the  olden  din. 

Do  you  mind  the  cabin  of  logs,  Ben  Bolt, 

At  the  edge  of  tlie  patliless  wood. 
And  the  button-ball  tree,  witli  its  motley  limbs, 

Wliich  nigli  bj'  tlie  door-step  stood? 
The  cabin  to  ruin  has  gone,  Ben  Bolt, 

Tlie  tree  you  would  seek  for  in  vain  ; 
And  where  once  the  lords  of  the  forest  waved 

Are  grass  and  golden  grain. 

And  don't  you  remember  tlic^  s<hooI.  Ben  Bolt, 
With  the  master  so  (-ruel  and  grim, 


252  THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH. 

And  the  shaded  iioolc  in  tlie  running  brook 

Where  the  children  went  to  swim  ? 
Gi-ass  grows  on  the  master's  gi'ave,  Ben  Bolt, 

The  spring  of  the  broolv  is  dry, 
And  of  all  the  boys  who  went  to  school, 

There  are  only  you  and  I. 

There  is  a  change  in  the  things  I  loved,  Ben  Bolt, 

They  have  changed  from  the  old  to  the  new; 
But  I  feel  in  the  depths  of  my  spirit  the  truth. 

There  never  was  change  in  you. 
Twelvemonths  twenty  have  past,  Ben  Bolt, 

Since  first  we  were  friends — yet  I  hail 
Your  presence  a  blessing,  your  friendship  a  truth, 

Ben  Bolt  of  the  salt-sea  gale. 

THE  FIGHT  AT  LEXINGTON. 

Tugged  the  patient,  panting  horses,  as  the  coulter 
keen  and  thoiough. 

By  tlie  careful  farmer  guided,  cut  the  deep  and 
even  furrow  ; 

Soon  the  mellow  mould  in  ridges,  straightly  point- 
ing as  an  arrow — 

Lay  to  wait  the  bitter  vexing  of  the  fierce,  re- 
morseless harro^^•, 

Lay  impatient  for  the  seeding,  for  the  growing 
and  the  reaping, 

All  the  richer  and  the  readier  for  the  quiet  winter 
sleeping. 

At  his  loom  the  pallid  weaver,  with  his  feet  upon 

the  treddles 
Watched  the   threads   alternate   rising,  with  the 

lifting  of  the  heddles — 
Not  admiring  that,  so  swiftly,  at  his  eager  fingers 

urging, 
Flew  the  bobbin-loaded  shuttle  'twixt  the  filaments 

diverging 
Only  labor  dull  and  cheerless  in  the  work  before 

him  seeing, 
As  the  warp  and  woop  uniting  brought  the  figures 

into  being. 

Roared  the  fire  before  the  bellows  ;   glowed   the 

forge's  dazzling  crater ; 
Rang  the  hammer  on  the  anvil,    both   the  lesser 

and  the  greater  ; 
Fell    the    sparks    around    the    smithy,     keeping 

rhythm  to  the  clamor, 


THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH.  253 

To    the   ponderous   blows   and    clanging  of   each 

unrelenting  hammer  ; 
While  the  diamonds  of  labor,    from  the  curse  of 

Adam  borrowed, 
Glittered  in  a  crown  of  honor  on  each  iron-beater's 

forehead. 

Through  the  air  there  came  a  whisper,  deepening 

quickly  into  thunder, 
How  the  deed  was  done  that  morning  that  would 

rend  the  realm  asunder; 
How^  at  Lexington  the  Briton  mingled  causeless 

crime  with  folly. 
And  a  king  endangered  emiiire  by  an  ill-considered 

volley. 
Then  each  heart,  beat  quick  for  vengeance,  as  the 

anger-stirring  story 
Told  of  brethren  and   of   neighbors   lying  corses 

stiff  and  gory. 

Stops  the  plough  and  sleeps  the  shuttle,  stills  the 

blacksmith's  noisy  hammer. 
Come  the  farmer,  smith,  and  Aveaver,with  a  wrath 

too  deep  for  clamor; 
But  their  fiercely   purposed  doing   every  glance 

they  give  avouches, 
As  they  handle  rusty  firelocks,  powder-horns  and 

bullet-pouches; 
As  they  hurry  from  the  workshops,  from  the  fields, 

and  from  the  forges. 
Venting  curses  deep  and  bitter  on  the  latest  of  the 

Georges.  .... 

I  was  but  a  beardless  stripling  on  that  chilly  April 
morning, 

When  the  church-bells  backward  ringing,  to  the 
minute-men  gave  w^arning; 

But  I  seized  my  father's  weapons — he  was  dead 
who  one  time  bore  them — 

And  I  swore  to  use  them  stoutly,  or  to  nevermore 
restore  them; 

Bade  farewell  to  sister,  mother,  and  to  one  than 
either  dearer, 

Tlien  departed  as  the  firing  told  of  red-coats  draw- 
ing nearer. 

On  the  Britons  came  from  Concord — 'twas  a  name 

of  mcjcking  omen; 
Concord  never  more  existed  'twixt  our  people  and 

the  focmeii— 
On  they  came  in  haste  from  Concord,  where  a  few 

had  stood  to  fight  them; 


2r)4  THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH. 

Where  they  failed  to  conquer  Buttrick,  wiio  had 

stormed  tlie  bridge  <lespite  them; 
On  they  came,  the  tools  of  tyrants,  'mid  a  people 

wlio  abhorred  them; 
TJiey  had  done   their   master's  bidding,    and   we 

purposed  to  reward  thein 

'Twas  a  goodly  sight  to  see  them;  but  we  heeded 
not  its  splendor. 

For  we  felt  their  martial  bearing  hate  within  our 
hearts  engender, 

Kindling  fire  within  our  spirits,  thougli  our  eyes 
a  moment  watered. 

As  we  thought  on  Moore  and  Hadley,  and  their 
brave  companions  slaughtered; 

And  we  swore  to  deadly  vengeance  for  tlie  fallen 
to  devote  them, 

And  our  rage  grew  hotter,  hotter,  as  our  well- 
aimed  bullets  smote  them 

When  to  Hardy's  Hill  their  weary,  waxing-fainter 

footsteps  brought  them. 
There  again  the  stout  Provincials    brought  the 

wolves  to  bay  and  fought  them; 
And  though  often  backward  beaten,  still  returned 

the  foe  to  follow, 
Making  forts    of  every  hill-top  and    redouts  of 

every  hollow. 
Hunters  came  from    every   farm-house,    joining 

eagerly  to  chase  them — 
They  had  boasted  far  too  often    that  we    ne'er 

would  dare  to  face  them 

With  nine  hundred  came  Lord  Percy,   sent  by 

startled  Gage  to  meet  them. 
And  he  scotfed  at  those  who  suffered  such  a  horde 

of  boors  to  beat  tliem. 
But  his  scorn   was  clianged  to  anger,  when  on 

front  and  flank  were  falling. 
From  the  fences,   walls,   and  roadsides  drifts  of 

leaden  hail  appalling; 
And  his  picked  and  chosen  soldiers,  who  had  never 

shrunk  in  battle. 
Hurried  quicker  in  their  panic  when  they  heard 

the  firelocks  rattle. 

Tell  it  not  in  Gath,  Lord  Percy,  never  Ascalon  let 

hear  it. 
That  you  fled  from   those  you  taunted  as  devoid 

of  foi'ce  and  spirit ; 
That  the    blacksmith,    weaver,     farmer,  leaving 

forging,  weaving,  tillage, 


THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH.  355 

Fully  pair!  with  coin  of  bullets  base  maurauders 
for  their  jiillage  :  . 

They;  you  said,  would  fly  in  tenor,  Britons  and 
their  bayonets  shunning ; 

The  loudest  of  the  boasters  proved  the  foremost  in 
the  running 

Into  Boston  marched  their  forces,  musket-barrels 
brightly  gleaming. 

Colors  flying,  sabres  flashmg,  drums  were  beatmg, 
fifes  were  screaming. 

Not  a  word  about  their  journey  ;  from  the  Gen- 
eral to  the  Drummer, 

Did  you  ask  about  their  doings,  than  a  statue  each 
was  dumber : 

But  the  wounded  in  their  litters,  lymg  pallid,  weak 
and  gorv. 

With  a  language  clear  and  certain,  told  the 
sanguinary  story 

On  the  day  the  fight  that  followed,  neighbor  met 
and  talked  with  neighbor  ; 

First  the  few  who  fell  they  buried,  then  returned 
to  daily  labor. 

Glowed  tiie  fire  within  the  forges,  ran  the  plough- 
share down  the  furrow, 

Clicked  the  bobbin-shuttle— both  our  fight  and 
toil  was  thorough  ; 

If  we  labored  in  the  battle,  or  the  shop,  or  forge, 
or  fallow, 

Still  came  an  honest  purpose,  casting  round  our 
deeds  a  halo. 

Though  they  strove  again,  these  minions  of  Ger- 

maine  and  North  and  Gower, 
They  could  never  make  the  weakest  of  our  band 

l>efore  them  cower  ; 
Neither   England's  bribes  nor    soldiers,    force   of 

arms,  nor  titles  splendid. 
Could  deprive  of  what  our  fathers  left  as  rights  to 

be  defended. 
And  the  flame  from  Concord   spreading,  kindled 

kindred  conflagrations, 
Till  the  Colonies  United  took  their  place  ameng 

the  nations. 

MOMMA   PH<T.BE, 
Ef  my  liah  is  de  colo'  o  silbah, 

I  ain't  mo'  d'n  fifty  yea'  ole; 
It  tuck  all  dat  whiteness  fom  mo'ning'. 

An'  weepin'  an'  tawtah  o'  soul. 
Faw  I  lo*'  bofe  my  dahlin'  men-child'en— 


256  THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH. 

De  two  liev  done  gone  to  deh  res' — 

My  Jim,  an'  my  mist'ess'  Malis'  William, 

De  i)ah  dat  liev  nussed  at  my  breas'. 

Miss'  Lucy  she  mawied  in  Ap'il, 

An'  I  done  got  mawied  in  May; 
An'  bofe  o'  our  beautiful  ciiild'en 

Wall  bo'n  de  same  time  to  a  day. 
But  while  I  got  bcttah  an'  strongah. 

Miss'  Lucy  got  weakah  an'  vvuss; 
Den  she  died,  an'  dey  guv  nie  de  baby, 

De  lee  tie  Mahs'  William,  to  nuss. 

De  two  boys  weh  fotch  up  togeddah, 

Miss'  Lucy's  alongside  o'  mine; 
Ef  one  got  hisse'f  into  mischief, 

De  uddah  wer  not  f  uh  behinc. 
When  Mahs'  William,  he  Ment  to  de  college, 

Why,  nuffin  on  ahf  den  won'  do, 
But  Jeemes,  his  milk-bruddah,  faw  sahbent, 

Mus'  git  an'  mus'  go  wid  him  too. 

Dey  come  back  in  fo'  jea'  faw  to  stay  yeh — 

I  allow  'twas  the  makin'  o'  Jim  ; 
Setch  a  gem})lum,  the  young  colo'd  weemen 

Got  puilin'  dch  caps  dah  faw  him. 
But  he  wasn't  a  patcli  to  Mahs'  William, 

Who'd  grown  up  so  gran'  an'  so  tall  ; 
An'  he  hadn't  fo'got  his  ole  momma, 

Faw  he  hugged  me,  he  did,  fo'  dem  all. 

Den  Mahs'  Dudley  was  tuck  wid  de  fevah, 

An'  I  nussed  him,  po'  man,  to  de  las'; 
An'  my  husban',  Ben  Prossah,  he  cotch  it, 

An'  bofe  f'om  dis  life  dey  dode  pas'. 
Mahs'  W^illiam,  he  run  de  plantation. 

But  de  niggahs  could  easy  fool  him; 
An'  de  place  would  have  all  come  to  nuffin', 

Ef   twant  faw  old  momma  an'  Jim. 

Well  at  las' — 1  dunno  how  how  dej'  done  it, 
An'  jes'  what  the  fightin'  was  faw — 

But  the  No'f  an'  de  Souf  got  a  quai'lin', 
An'  Mahs'  William  'd  go  to  de  waw. 

De  folks  roun'  'bout  raised  a  squad'on, 
An'  faw  capen  de  men  'lected  him. 


THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH.  357 

I  prayed  he'd  stay  home  wid  his  people  ; 
But  he  went,  an'  o'  co'se  he  tuck  Jim.    .  ,  . 

We  hea'  'bout  dem  two  sets  a-fightin', 

I  reckon  faw  mo'  d'n  fo'  jea.'; 
An'  bimeby  we  lahnt  dat  de  Yankees 

Wid  deh  ahmy  was  a  coniin'  quite  neah. 
An'  den  deh  was  fit  a  great  battle, 

Jes'  ovah  dat  hill  dat  you  sees; 
We  could  hea'  all  de  cannon  a-roa'in', 

An'  see  de  smoke  obah  dem  trees. 

I  sot  in  my  cabin  a-prayin' — 

I  fought  o'  my  two  boys  dat  day — 
An'  de  noise  it  went  fudda  an'  fudda, 

Till  all  o'  it  melted  away. 
An'  de  sun  it  sot  awfully  an'  bloody 

An'  a  great  pile  of  fi'  in  de  sky; 
An'  beyon'  was  de  dead  men  a-lyin', 

An'  the  wounded  a-gwine  for  to  die 

Den  I  riz  an'  I  call  for  ole  Lem'el, 

An'  a  couple  o"  mo'  o'  de  boys; 
An'  s'  I:  "  Now  you  saddle  de  bosses. 

An'  be  kehful  an'  don't  make  no  noise 
An'  we'll  go  to  de  fiel'  o'  de  battle 

Afo'  de  las'  bit  o'  de  beams 
O'  daylight  is  gone,  an'  we'll  look  dah 

Faw  our  young  Mahs'  William  an'  Jeemes," 

An',  oil!  what  a  sight  deh  wah,  honey ; 

A  sight  you  could  nevvah  fo'git  ; 
De  piles  o"  de  dead  an'  de  dyin' — 

I  see  uni  afo'  my  eyes  yit. 
An'  de  blood  an'  de  gashes  was  ghas'ly. 

An'  shihbe'd  de  soul  to  see, 
Like  de  fiel'  o'  de  big  Ahmageddon, 

Which  yit  is  a-gwine  for  to  be. 
Den  I  head  a  voice  cry  in'  faw  "  wahtah  !" 

An'  I  toted  de  gode  to  de  place, 
An'  den,  as  I  guv  him  de  drink  dah, 

My  teahs  dcy  fell  oljer  his  face. 
Faw  he  was  sliot  liglit  froo  de  middle. 

An'  his  mahstah  lay  dead  dah  by  him; 
An'  he  ne(l,  s'e,  "  Is  dat  you  dah,  momma?" 

An'  1  sed,  h'  I,  "  Is  dat  you  dah.  Jim?" 


258  EPICTETUS. 

"It's  what  (loll  is  lof  o'  mo,  momma; 

An'younp;  Mahs'  William's  done  gone; 
But  I  foun'  do  chap  dat  done  kill  him, 

An'  ho  lios  dah  all  clove  to  de  bone. 
An'  po'  3'ounf^  Malis'  William,  in  dyin', 

Dese  wall  do  woMs  dat  he  sed — 
'  Jes'  you  tell  you'  Momma,  Mom'  Phoebe — ' " 

Den  I  scream,  faw  de  dahlin'  fall — dead  !  .  . 

Den  on  to  de  ole  plantation 

AVo  toted  de  cawpses  dat  night, 
An'  wo  guv  um  a  beautiful  boli'yum, 

De  colo'd  as  well  as  de  white. 
An'  I  shall  be  jined  to  dem  child'n 

When  de  Jegmen'  Day  comes  on; 
For  God  '11  be  good  to  Mom'  Phoebe 

When  Gab' el  is  blowin'  his  ho'n. 

EPICTETUS,  a  Roman  philosopher  horn  in 
Phrygia  about  50,  a.  d.,  died  at  Nicopolis  at 
the  age  of  nearly  one  hundred  years.  He  was 
in  youth  a  slave  of  Epaphroditus,  one  of  the 
favorites  of  Nero,  by  whom  he  was  emanci- 
pated. It  appears  that  while  still  a  slave  he 
attended  the  "  classes"  of  Musonius  Rufus,  a 
famous  teacher  of  the  Stoic  philosophy. 
About  the  year  90  he  became  obnoxious  to 
the  Emperor  Domitian,  by  whom  he  was 
banished  from  Rome.  He  took  up  his  resi- 
dence at  Nicopolis,  in  what  is  now  Albania, 
where  he  established  a  school  for  the  study 
of  philosophy,  and  acquired  a  high  repu- 
tation. He  does  not  appear  to  have  commit- 
ted any  of  his  teachings  to  writing.  The 
works  entitled  the  Z)iain&a^  ("  Discourses") 
and  the  Encheiridion  ("Hand-book")  of 
Epictetus  were  written  down,  probably  from 
memory,  by  Flavins  Arrianus  (about  100-170 
A.  D.)  hs  favorite  pupil.  Perhaps  the  best 
idea  of  the  teachings  of  Epictetus  may  be 
gathered  from  the  following  abstract  1)y  W. 
Wallace,  in  the  Encyclopa'dia  Britanica: 


EPICTETUS.  259 

THE  FUNCTION  OF  THE  WILL. 

The  philosophy  of  Epictetus  is  stamped  with  an 
intensely  practical  character.  The  problem  of 
how  life  is  to  be  carried  out  well  is  the  one  ques- 
tion which  throws  all  other  inquiries  into  the  shade. 
"When  ye  enter  the  school  of  the  philosopher, 
ye  enter  the  room  of  a  surgeon,  and  as  ye  aie  not 
whole  when  ye  come  in,  you  cannot  leave  it  with 
a  smile,  but  with  pain."  True  education  lies  in 
learning  to  wish  things  to  be  as  they  actually  are  ; 
it  lies  in  learning  to  distinguish  what  is  our  own 
from  what  does  not  belong  to  us.  But  there  is 
only  one  thing  which  is  fully  our  own — that  is 
our  will  or  purpose.  God,  acting  as  a  good  king 
and  a  true  father,  has  given  us  a  will  which  can- 
not be  restrained,  compelled,  or  thwarted  ;  he  has 
put  it  wholly  in  our  power,  so  that  even  he  him- 
self has  no  power  to  check  or  control  it.  Nothing 
can  ever  force  us  to  act  against  our  will.  If  we 
are  conquered,  it  is  Ixicause  we  have  willed  to  be 
conquered.  And  thus,  although  we  are  not  re- 
sponsible for  the  ideas  that  present  themselves  to 
our  consciousness,  we  are,  absolutely  and  without 
any  modification,  responsible  for  the  way  in  which 
we  use  them.  Nothing  is  ours  besides  our  will. 
And  the  Divine  law  which  bids  us  keep  fast  what 
is  our  own,  forbids  us  to  make  any  claim  to  wliat 
is  not  ours  ;  and  while  empowering  us  to  make 
use  of  what  is  given  to  us,  it  bids  us  not  to  long 
after  what  has  not  been  given.  "Two  maxims," 
lie  says,  "  we  must  bear  in  mind;  That  apart 
from  the  will  there  is  nothing  either  good  or  bad  ; 
and  that  we  must  not  try  to  anticipate  or  direct 
eventa,  but  merely  accept  tiieiii  with  intelligence.'' 
"We  must,  in  short,  resign  ourselves  to  whatever 
fate  fortune  brings  to  us,  bdifving  as  the  first 
article  of  our  cree<l,  that  there  is  a  (iod,  whose 
thought  directs  the  universe,  and  that  not  merely 
in  our  acts,  but  even  in  our  thoughts  and  plans, 
we  cannot  escape  His  eyes. 

POSITION  OF  MAN    IN   THE    UNIVEItSE. 
In  th'!  world,   according  to  Epictetus,   the  true 
position  of  a  man  is  that  of  a  member  of  a  great 


260  EPICTETUS. 

system,  which  comprehends  God  and  man.  Each 
human  being  is  thus  a  denizen  of  two  cities.  He 
is,  in  tiie  first  instance,  a  citizen  of  his  own  nation 
or  commonwealth  in  a  corner  of  the  world  ;  but 
he  is  also  a  member  of  the  great  city  of  gods  and 
men,  whereof  the  city  political  is  only  a  copy  in 
miniature.  All  men  are  the  sons  of  God,  and 
kindred  in  nature  with  the  divinity.  For  man, 
though  a  citizen  of  the  world,  is  more  than  a 
merely  subservient  or  instrument  or  part.  He 
has  also  within  him  a  reason  which  can  guide  and 
understand  the  movement  of  all  the  members  ; 
he  can  enter  into  the  method  of  divine  administra- 
tion, and  thus  can  learn — and  this  is  the  summit  of 
his  learning — the  will  of  God,  which  is  the  will  of 
Nature.  Man  is  a  rational  animal ;  and  in  virtue 
of  that  rationality  he  is  neither  less  nor  worse 
than  the  gods :  for  the  magnitude  of  Reason  is 
estimated,  not  by  length  nor  by  height,  but  by  its 
judgments.  Each  man  has  a  guardian  spirit — a 
god  within  him — who  never  sleeps  ;  so  that  even 
in  darkness  and  solitude  we  are  never  alone,  be- 
cause God  is  within,  and  our  guardian  spirit.  The 
body  which  accompanies  us  is  not  strictly  ours  ; 
it  is  a  poor  dead  thing,  which  belongs  to  the  things 
outside  us.  But  by  reason  we  are  masters  of  those 
ideas  and  appearances  which  present  themselves 
from  without.  We  can  combine  them,  and 
systematize,  and  can  set  up  in  ourselves  an  order 
of  ideas  corresponding  with  the  order  of  Nature. 

THE  INDIVIDUAL  AND  THE  UNIVERSAL. 

The  natural  instinct  of  animated  life,  to  which 
man  also  is  originally  subject,  is  self-preservation 
and  self-interest.  But  men  are  so  ordered  and 
constituted  that  the  individual  cannot  secure  his 
own  interests  unless  he  contributes  to  the  common 
welfare.  We  are  bound  up  by  the  law  of  Nature 
with  the  whole  fabric  of  the  world.  The  aim  of 
the  philosopher,  therefore,  is  to  reach  the  position 
of  a  mind  which  embraces  the  whole  world  in  its 
view  ;  to  grow  into  the  mind  of  God,  and  to  make 
the  will  of  Nature  our  own.  Such  a  sage  agrees 
in  this  thought  with  God ;  he  no  longer  blames 


EPICURUS.  2f.l 

either  God  or  man  ;  he  fails  of  nothing  which  he 
purposes,  and  falls  in  witli  no  misfortune  unpre- 
pared ;  he  indulges  neither  in  anger  nor  envy  nor 
jealousy;  he  is  leaving  manhood  for  godhead,  and 
in  his  dead  body  his  thoughts  are  concerned  about 
his  fellowship  with  God. 

THE  IDEAL  STOIC  OR   "CYNIC"  PHILOSOPHER. 

'"The  Cynic,"  says  Epictetus,  "is  a  messenger 
sent  from  God  to  men  to  show  them  the  error  of 
their  ways  about  good  and  evil,  and  how  they 
seek  good  and  evil  where  they  cannot  be  found." 
This  messenger  has  neither  country  nor  home,  nor 
land  nor  slave  ;  his  bed  is  the  ground  ;  he  is  with- 
out wife  or  child  ;  his  only  mansion  is  the  earth 
and  sky,  and  a  shabby  cloak.  It  must  be  that  he 
suffer  stripes ;  and,  being  beaten,  he  must  love 
those  who  beat  him  as  if  he  were  a  father  or  a 
brother.  He  must  be  perfectly  unembarrassed  in 
the  service  of  God,  not  bound  by  the  common  ties 
of  life,  nor  entangled  by  relationships,  which,  if 
he  transgresses  he  will  lose  the  character  of  a  man 
of  honor  ;  while  if  he  upholds  them  he  will  cease 
to  be  the  messenger,  watchman,  and  herald  of  the 
gods.  The  perfect  man  thus  described  will  not  be 
angry  with  the  wrong-doer  ;  he  will  only  pity  his 
erring  brother ;  for  anger  in  such  a  case  would 
only  betray  that  he  too  thought  the  wrong-doer 
gained  a  substantial  blessing  by  his  wrongful  act, 
instead  of  being,  as  he  is,  utterly  ruined. 

EPICURUS,  a  Greek  philosopher,  born  on 
the  Island  of  Samos,  in  342,  died  at  Athens  in 
■  270  B.  c.  In  his  eighteenth  year  he  went  to 
that  city,  where  he  began  the  study  of  the 
philosophy  of  Deniocritus ;  but  in  the  follow- 
ing year  he  was  one  of  the  12,000  residents  of 
Athens,  who  were  banished  by  Antipater,  who 
succeeded  Alexander  the  Great  in  the  rule  of 
Macedonia  and  Greece.  He  went  to  Mitylene, 
and  Lampsacus  in  Asia  Minor,  where  he 
began  to  formulate  his  system,  and  gathered 
around  him  a  circle  of  disciples.  At  the  age 
of  thirty-four  he  returned  to  Athens,  which 
was  his  home  for  the  remaining  thirty-six 


263  EPICURUSr 

years  of  his  life.     During  his  absence  he  must 
have    accumulated    some    means,    since    he 
bought  a  garden  at  Athens,  for  which  he  paid 
80  minae  (equivalent  to  about  $8,000  in  our 
day),   and  we  find  him  possessed  of    other 
property    at    the    time    of   his  death.     This 
garden  was  the  scene  of  his  teachings,  and  he 
gathered  around  him  a  body  of  enthusiastic 
disciples  and  personal  friends,  by  whom  the 
school  was  carried  on  there  after  his  death. 
The  term  ' '  Epicurean, "  has  come  popularly  to 
denote  a  person  given  up  to  luxury,  or  even  to 
voluptuous    pleasure,    but    nothing  can   be 
further  from  this  than  the  personal  character 
of  Epicurus.     He  and  his   associates   led    a 
simple  and  frugal  life.     Their  food  consisted 
mainly  of  the    common  barley -bread  of  the 
country ;  their  usual  drink  was  water — a  half- 
pint  of   the   light  wine  of  Greece  being  es- 
teemed an  ample  day's  allowance.    In  one  of 
his  extant  letters  Epicurus  asks  his  friend, 
"  Send    me  some  Cynthian  cheese,  so    that, 
should  I  choose,  I  may  fare  sumptuously." 
He  died  at  seventy-two  from  the  stone.     In 
one  of  his  last  letters  he  speaks  of  the  pleasure 
afforded  to  him  in  his  sufferings  by  the  re- 
membrance of  the  time  spent  in  reasoning  on 
questions  of  philosophy.     He  left  his  garden 
for  his  school ;  another  house,  in  the  suburbs 
of  Athens  became  the  home  of  several  of  his 
associates  while  they  lived.     The  remainder 
of  his  estate  was  to  be  applied  to  maintaining 
an  annual  celebration  in  memory  of  his  de- 
ceased parents  and  brothers ;  in  commemora- 
tion of  his  own  birthday;  and  in  a  regular 
monthly  gathering  of  his  surviving  friends 
and    associates.     His   four  slaves  were  also 
emancipated  by  his  last  will. 

Epicurus  was  a  voluminous  writer.  He  is 
said  to  have  been  the  author  of  about  300 
separate  works,  the  purely  literary  merit  of 
which  seems  to    have   been   inconsiderable. 


EPICUEUS.  263 

Most  of  these  now  exist  only  in  fragments ; 
but  their  substance  has  been  preserved  in  the 
abstract  of  his  follower,  Diogenes  Laertius 
(about  200  A.  D.),  and  by  the  great  Latin 
poet  Lucretius  (340-420  a.  d.)  His  largest 
work,  a  Treatise  on  Nature  is  said  to  have 
consisted  of  37  books.  Fragments  of  nine  of 
these  books  wei'e  discovered,  about  1740  in  the 
overwhelmed  city  of  Herculaneum,  where 
they  had  been  buried  for  nearly  seventeen 
centuries.  These  charred  manuscripts  have 
been  unrolled  and  transcribed,  and  the  publi- 
cation of  them  was  commenced  in  1793  in  the 
Volumina  Herculanensia,  of  which  11  folio 
volumes  had  appeared  in  1855 ;  the  publica- 
tion was  resumed  in  1861,  and  is  still  going 
on.  For  the  following  abstract  of  the  philo- 
sophical system  of  Epicurus  we  are  indebted 
mainly  to  an  article  in  the  Encyclopaedia 
Britannica,  by  W.Wallace,  LL.  D.,  Librarian 
of  Merton  College,  Oxford : 

THE   PHYSICAL   PHILOSOPHY   OF  EPICURUS. 

Everything  that  exists  is  material  ;  the  intan- 
gible is  non-existent  or  is  empty  space.  If  a  thing 
exists  it  must  be  felt,  and  to  be  felt  it  must  exert 
resistance.  But  everj'thing  is  not  intangible 
which  our  senses  are  not  subtle  enough  to  i>er- 
ceive.  We  must  indeed  accept  our  senses  ;  hut 
we  must  also  believe  much  which  is  not  directly 
testified  by  sensation,  if  only  it  does  not  contra- 
vene our  sensations,  and  serves  to  explain 
phenomena.  We  must  beUeve  that  space  is  infin- 
ite, and  that  there  is  an  infinite  number  of  indivis- 
ible indestructible  atoms  in  perpetual  motion  in 
this  illimitable  space.  These  atoms,  differing  in 
size,  figure,  and  weight,  move  with  equal  and  in- 
conceivable velocities,  and  are  forever  giving  rise 
to  new  worlds,  which  are  perpetually  tending 
towards  di.ss()lution,  and  towards  a  fresli  series  of 
creations.  This  universe  of  ours  is  only  one 
section  outoftlie  innumerable  worlds  in  infinite 
space.  Tiie  soul  of  man  is  only  a  mon;  subtile 
species  of  body  diffused  throughout  every  part  of 


364  EPICURUS. 

his  frame.  It  pervades  the  human  structure,  and 
works  with  it  ;  but  it  could  not  act  as  it  does  un- 
less it  were  corporeal.  The  phenomena  of  vision 
for  instance,  are  explained  on  the  principle  of 
materialism.  From  the  surfaces  of  all  objects  are 
constantly  flowing  filmy  images  exactly  copying 
the  solid  body  from  which  they  originate  ;  and 
these  images,  by  direct  impact  on  the  organism, 
produce  the  phenomena  of  vision. 

THE  THEOSOPHY  OF  EPICURUS. 

The  gods  do  indeed  exist :  but  they  are  them- 
selves the  products  of  the  Order  of  Nature  ;  a 
higher  species  than  humanity,  but  not  the  rulers  of 
man,    neither    the   makers  or  upholders  of    the 
world.     Men  should  worship  them  ;  but  this  wor- 
ship is  the  reverence  due  to  the  ideals  of  perfect 
blessedness  ;  and  ought  not  to  be  inspired  by  either 
hope  or  fear.     To  exclude  all  possible  reference  of 
the  great  phenomena  of  nature  to  the  action  of  a 
divine    power,    Epicurus    proceeds    to    set  forth 
numerous  hypotheses  by  which  they  might  have 
been  produced.     Thus    after  having    enunciated 
several  possible  theories  for    the    production    of 
thunder,  he  adds  :  "  Thunder  may  be  explained  in 
many  other  ways  ;  only  let  us  have  no  myths  of 
divine  action.      To  assign  only  a  single  cause  for 
phenomena,  when  the  facts  familiar  to  us  suggest 
several,  is  insane,  and  is  just  the  absurd  conduct  to 
be  expected  from  people  who  dabble  in  the  vani- 
ties of  astronomy.     We  need  not  be  too  curious  to 
inquire  how  these  celestial  phenomena  actually  do 
come  about;  we  can  learn  how  they  7night  have 
been  produced,  and  to  go  further  is  to  trench  on 
ground  beyond  the  limits  of  human  knowledge," 
He  equally  rejects  the  notion  of  an  inevitable 
Fate,  a  necessary  Order  of  Things,  unchangeable 
and  supreme.     "  Better  were  it,"  he  says,    "  to  ac- 
cept all  the  legends  of  the  gods  than  to  make  our- 
selves slaves  to  the  Fate  of  the  natural  philoso- 
phers."    In  the  sphere  of  human  action,  he  affirms 
that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  an  absolutely  con- 
trolling Necessity  ;  there  is  much  in  our  circum- 
stances that  springs  from  mere  chance,  but  it  does 
not  overmaster  man.     And  though  there  are  evils 
in   the   world,   still  their  domination  is  brief  in 


EPICURUS.  265 

any  case ;  this  present  life  is  the  only  one ;  the 
death  of  the  body  is  the  end  of  everything  for 
man ;  and  hence  the  other  world  has  lost  all  its 
terrors  as  well  as  all  its  hopes. 

THE  MORAL  PHILOSOPHY   OF  EPICURUS. 

Epicurus  certainly  makes  Pleasure  the  end  and 
aim  of  human  life ;  but  we  must  carefully  note 
the  sense  in  which  he  uses  the  term.  He  does  not 
mean  by  it  sensual  pleasure  of  any  kind.  "  Hap- 
piness"' would  better  express  his  idea.  His  test  of 
true  pleasure  is  the  removal  and  absorption  from 
all  that  gives  pain,  whether  of  body  or  mind.  Hia 
wise  man  is  the  rational  and  reflective  seeker  for 
happiness,  who  balances  the  claims  of  each  pleas- 
ure against  the  evils  which  may  possibly  ensue,  and 
tieads  the  patii  of  enjoyment  cautiously,  as  befits 
"a  sober  reason  which  inquires  diligently  into 
the  grounds  of  acting  or  refraining  from  action, 
and  which  banishes  those  prejudices  from  which 
spring  the  chief  perturbations  of  soul."  Pruden- 
tial wisdom  is  therefore  the  only  means  by  which 
a  truly  happy  life  may  be  attained  ;  it  is  thus  the 
chief  excellence  and  the  foundation  of  all  the 
virtues.  Pleasure  still  remains  the  chief  end  ;  but 
the  natural  instinct  which  prompts  to  any  oppor- 
tunity of  enjoj'ment  is  held  in  check  by  the  reflec- 
tion on  consequences.  The  Reason  or  Intellect 
measures  pleasures,  balances  possible  pleasures  and 
pains,  and  constructs  a  scheme  in  which  pleasures 
are  the  materials  of  a  happy  life.  Feeling  is  the 
means  of  determining  what  is  good  ;  but  it  is  sub- 
ordinated to  a  Reason  which  adjudicates  between 
competing  pleasures  with  a  view  of  securing  tran- 
quillity of  mind  and  body.  There  is  a  necessary 
interdependency  of  virtue  and  happiness.  "We 
cannot,"  he  says,  "  live  pleasantly  without  living 
wisely  and  nobly  and  righteously."  Virtue  is  a 
means  of  liappiness,  though  otherwise  it  is  no 
good  in  itself,  any  more  than  are  mere  sensual  en- 
joyments, which  are  good  only  because  they  may 
sometimes  serve  to  secure  health  of  body  and 
tran(iuillity  of  mind. 

THE  KOCIAI,  )'nnX)SOPHY   OF    EPICURUS. 

The  whole  aim  of  the  social  philosophy  of  Epi- 


266  ERASMUS. 

curus  is  to  secure  the  happiness  of  the  individual. 
The  onl}^  (Uities  whicli  he  recognizes  are  those 
which  have  been  accepted  vokmtarily  and  upon 
reasonable  grounds,  not  from  the  urgency  of  appe- 
tite or  the  compulsion  of  circumstances.  Friend- 
ship is  one  of  these  obligations.  His  ideal  was  the 
friendly  circle.  The  domestic  Family  and  the 
State  he  held  to  impose  obligations  which  impaired 
the  independence  of  a  man,  and  subjected  him  to 
external  things.  "  The  wise  man,"  he  says,  "  will 
not  marry  and  beget  children,  nor  will  he  take 
part  in  state  affairs.  Though  holding  but  little  by 
many  conventionalities,  he  will  not  assume  a  cyni- 
cal or  storical  indifference  to  others  ;  he  will  not 
form  hard  and  fast  judgments  ;  he  will  not  believe 
all  sinners  to  be  equally  depraved,  nor  all  sages 
equally  wise."  Friendship — like  the  State  in  its 
first  origin — is  based  upon  utility  ;  but  in  it  our  re- 
lations are  less  forced  ;  and  though  its  motive  be 
utility,  still  one  must  begin  the  good  work  of  well- 
doing, even  as  the  husbandman  first  bestows  his 
labor  and  wealth  upon  the  soil  from  which  lie 
hopes  one  day  to  receive  fruit  in  return.  There 
being  for  man  no  future  state  of  existence,  the 
system  of  Epicurus  takes  thought  only  for  well- 
doing and  well-being  in  the  present  lifCc 

ERASMUS,  Desiderius,  a  Dutch  scholar, 
born  at  Rotterdam  about  1467,  died  at  Basel, 
Switzerland  in  1536.  His  father  was  Gerhard 
de  Praet;  his  mother  was  Margaret,  the 
daughter  of  a  physician.  For  some  canonical 
reason  they  could  not  formally  marry ;  but 
they  regax-ded  themselves  as  husband  and 
wife,  and  bestowed  the  tenderest  care  upon 
their  son.  He  originally  bore  his  father's 
name  of  Gerhard;  this  was  afterwards 
changed  to  its  Latin  equivalent,  Desiderius; 
this  he  subsequently  rendered  into  its  Greek 
equivalent  Erasmios,  which,  Latinized  into 
Ei-asmus,  he  assumed  as  his  surname.  His 
parents  died  when  he  was  about  fourteen, 
leaving  him  to  the  charge  of  three  guardians, 
with  a  moderate  estate,  which  they  embezzled 


ERASIVIUS.  267 

or  squandered.  He  was  sent  to  various 
school,  and  finally  he  went  to  an  Augustine 
convent  near  Gouda,  where  at  the  age  of  nine- 
teen he  entered  upon  his  novitiate.  He  had 
no  liking  for  a  monastic  life;  but  devoted 
himself  to  the  study  of  the  Schoolmen  and  of 
the  Latin  classics.  In  1492  he  became  Secre- 
tary to  the  Bishop  of  Cambray,  with  whom 
he  remained  five  years,  and  was  ordained  to 
the  priesthood.  He  then  went  to  the  College 
of  Montaigu,  at  Paris,  when  he  supported 
himself  by  taking  pupils.  Among  these  was 
Lord  Montjoy,  a  Avealthy  Englishman,  who 
invited  him  to  England,  with  a  pension  of  one 
hundred  crowns.  Erasmus  was  noAv  thirty, 
and  had  come  to  be  recognized  as  one  of  the 
foremost  scholars  in  Europe.  His  first  resi- 
dence in  England  lasted  two  years.  He  made 
the  friendship  of  the  foremost  English  schol- 
ars, among  whom  was  the  Lord  Chancellor, 
Sir  Thomas  More. 

For  the  ensuing  twenty  years  Erasmus  led 
the  life  of  an  itinerant  scholar,  going  from 
country  to  country,  wherever  great  libraries 
were  to  be  found ;  and  being  everywhere  re- 
ceived with  distinguished  honors.  At  Tiu-in 
the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Divinity  was  conferred 
upon  hini  by  the  University;  at  Venice  he 
was  the  guest  of  the  famous  printer  Aldus 
Manutius,  for  whom  he  superintended  the 
printing  of  some  of  the  celebrated  "Aldine" 
editions  of  the  classics ;  at  Rome  he  was  the 
intimate  of  Cardinals,  and  was  absolved  by 
the  Pope  from  the  monastic  vows  which  he 
had  taken.  In  1509  he  was  invited  back  to 
England  by  Henry  VIII.,  who  had  just 
ascended  the  throne.  Here  he  was  presented 
by  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  with  a  living 
which  he  afterwards  exchanged  for  a  pension 
of  twenty  pounds,  and  was  made  Professor 
of  Theology  and  of  Greek  at  Cambridge.  In 
1514  he  was  invited  by  the  Archduke  Charles 


06S  ERASMUS. 

of  Austria  (afterwards  the  Emperor  Charles 
V.)  to  Germany,  with  the  sinecure  appoint- 
ment of  Councillor,  and  a  moderate  salary. 
This  position  allowed  him  to  reside  where  he 
chose,  and  to  husy  himself  as  he  liked.  For 
the  remaining  twenty  years  of  his  life,  Eras- 
mus was  occupied  in  literary  work  of  various 
kinds.  In  1521  he  took  up  his  residence  at 
Basel,  where  he  endeavored  unsuccessfully 
to  mediate  between  the  Catholic  magistrates 
and  the  growing  Protestant  party.  In  1529 
the  magistrates  were  overthrown,  the  Catho- 
lic religion  was  prohibited,  and  Erasmus  was 
obliged  to  leave  Basel.  He  went  to  Freiburg 
where  he  remained  until  1535.  He  then  went 
back  to  Basel,  proposing  to  make  only  a  short 
visit.  But  he  was  attacked  by  the  gout,  and 
died  there. 

When  the  Lutheran  movement  broke  out 
in  Germany,  Erasmus  at  first  favored  it ;  and 
was  counted  upon  by  the  Reformers  as  one  of 
their  adherents.  But  their  violent  proceed- 
ings were  distasteful  to  him ;  and  a  vehement 
controversy  sprang  up  between  Luther  and 
Erasmus.  Near  the  close  of  his  life  he  thus 
described  the  position  in  which  he  had  found 
himself. 

ERASMUS  BETWEEN  TWO  FIRES. 

Hercules  could  not  fight  two  monsters  at  once; 
while  I,  poor  wretch,  have  lions,  cerbenises,  can- 
cers, scorpions,  every  day  at  my  sword's  point; 
not  to  mention  smaller  vermin — rats,  mosquitoes, 
bugs,  and  fleas.  My  troops  of  friends  are  turned 
to  enemies.  At  dinner-table  or  social  gatherings 
in  churches  and  kings'  courts,  in  public  carriage 
or  public  fl3'boat,  scandal  pursues  me,  and  calum- 
ny defiles  Hiy  name.  Every  goose  now  hissses  at 
Erasmus  ;  and  it  is  worse  than  being  stoned,  once 
for  all,  like  Stephen,  or  shot  with  arrows  like  Se- 
bastian. They  attack  me  even  now  for  my  Latin 
stj'le,  and  spatter  me  with  epigrams.  Fame  I 
would  have  parted  with  ;   but  to  be  the  sport  of 


ERASMUS.  269 

blackguards — to  be  pelted  with  potsherds  and  dirt 
and  ordure — is  not  this  worse  than  death  ?  There 
is  no  rest  for  me  in  my  age,  unless  I  join  Luther; 
and  I  cannot  accept  his  doctrines.  Sometimes  I 
am  stung  with  a  desire  to  avenge  my  wrongs;  but 
I  say  to  myself:  "Will  jou,  to  gratify  your  spleen, 
raise  your  hand  against  your  mother,  the  Church, 
who  begot  you  at  the  font  and  fed  you  with  the 
word  of  God  ?"  I  cannot  do  it.  Yet  I  understand 
now  how,  Arius,  andTertullian,  and  Wickliff  were 
driven  into  schism.  The  theologians  say  I  am 
their  enemy.  Why?  Because  I  bade  monks  re- 
member their  vows ;  because  I  told  parsons  to 
leave  their  wranglings  and  read  the  Bible;  because 
I  told  Popes  and  Cardinals  to  look  at  the  Apostles, 
and  make  themselves  more  like  to  them.  If  this 
is  to  be  their  enemy,  then  indeed  I  have  injured 
them. 

Erasmus  gives  a  satirical  account  of  one  of 
the  fierce  theological  discussions  characteristic 
of  those  days.  A  Dominican  monk  had  in- 
veighed against  Erasmus  in  the  University 
pulpit  of  Louvain.  Erasmus  complained  to 
the  Rector  of  the  University ;  the  Rector  in- 
vited the  two  to  have  an  amicable  talk  in 
his  presence.  Erasmus  thus  describes  the 
colloquy : 

ERASMUS  AND  THE  DOMINICAN. 

I  sat  on  the  one  side  and  the  monk  on  the  other, 
the  Rector  between  us  to  prevent  our  scratching. 
The  monk  asked  me  what  the  matter  was,  and 
said  he  had  done  no  harm.  It  was  after  dinner. 
The  holy  man  was  flushed;  he  turned  purple. 

"  Why  do  you  abuse  monks  in  your  books?"  he 
said.  "I  spoke  of  your  Order,  "  I  answered;  "I 
did  not  mention  you.  You  denounced  me  by 
name  as  a  friend  of  Luther.  "  He  raged  like  a 
madman.  "You  are  the  cause  of  all  this  trouble," 
he  said,  "you  are  a  chameleon;  you  can  twist 
everything."  You  see  what  he  is,"  said  I,  turning 
to  the  Rector.  "If  it  comes  to  calling  names, 
why,  I  can  do  that  too  ;  but  let  us  be  reasonable." 
lie  .-jtill  roared  and  cursed ;  he  vowed  he  would 


270  ERASMUS. 

never  rest  until  he  had  destroyed  Luther,  I  said 
he  might  curse  Luther  till  he  burst  himself  if  he 
pleased.  I  complained  of  his  cursing  me.  He 
answered,  that  if  I  did  not  agree  with  Luther,  I 
ought  to  S!iy  so,  and  write  against  him,  "Why 
slioukl  I?"  urged  I;  "the  quarrel  is  none  of  mine. 
Why  should  I  irritate  Luther  against  me,  when  he 
has  horns,  and  knows  how  to  use  them?"  "Well, 
then,"  said  he,  "  if  you  will  not  write,  at  least  you 
can  saj'  that  we  Dominicans  have  had  the  best  of 
the  argument."  "  How  can  I  do  that?"  replied  I. 
"You  have  burnt  Ids  books,  but  I  never  heard  that 
you  had  answered  them."  He  almost  spat  upon 
me,  I  understand  that  there  is  to  be  a  form  of 
prayer  for  the  conversion  of  Erasmus  and  Luther. 
Adrian  VI.,  who  succeeded  Leo  X.,  as  Pope 
in  1522,  had  been  a  schoolmate  of  Erasmus. 
He  now  urged  Erasmus  to  come  to  Eome  and 
take  up  his  pen  against  Luther  and  Lutlier- 
anism.  Erasmus  wrote  to  the  Pope's  Secre- 
tary: "If  his  Hohness  will  set  about  reform 
in  good  earnest,  and  if  he  will  not  be  too 
hard  upon  Luther,  I  may  perhaps  do  good. 
But  what  Luther  writes  of  the  tyranny,  the 
corruption,  the  covetousness  of  the  Roman 
Court — would,  my  friend,  it  was  not  true." 
To  Adrian  himself  Erasmus  wrote  from 
Switzerland : 

ERASMUS  TO   POPE  ADRIAN  VI, 

I  cannot  go  to  j'our  Holiness.  King  Calculus 
will  not  let  me.  I  have  dreadful  health,  which 
this  tornado  has  not  improved,  I,  who  was  the 
favorite  of  everybody,  am  now  cursed  by  every- 
body :  at  Louvain  by  the  Catholics ;  in  Ger- 
many by  the  Lutherans,  I  have  fallen  into 
trouble  in  my  old  age,  like  a  mouse  into  a  pot 
of  pitch.  You  say,  "  Come  to  Rome." — 
You  might  as  well  say  to  the  crab,  "  Fly  ! "  The 
crab  says,  "Give  me  wings;"  I  saj',  "Give  me 
back  my  health  and  youth. "  If  I  write 
calmly  against  Luther,  I  shall  be  called  lukewarm; 
if  I  write  as  he  does,  I  shall  stir  a  hornet's  nest. 
People  tliink  he  can  be  put  down  by  force.     The 


ERASMUS.  271 

more  force  you  try,  the  stronger  he  will  grow. 
Such  disorders  cannot  be  cured  in  that  way.  The 
Wickliffites  in  England  were  put  down,  but  the 
fire  smouldered.  If  you  mean  to  use  violence,  you 
have  no  need  of  me.  But  mark  this — if  monks 
and  theologians  think  only  of  themselves,  no  good 
will  come  out  of  it.  Look  rather  into  the  causes 
of  all  this  confusion,  and  apply  your  remedies 
there.  Send  for  the  best  men  of  Christendom,  and 
take  their  advice. 

About  the  same  time  —  perhaps  a  little 
earlier — Erasmus  wrote  to  a  friend  upon  what 
was  going  on  in  Christendom,  and  what  he 
could  or  would  do  under  existing  circum- 
stances : 

ERASMUS  UPON  THE  TIMES. 

I  remember  Uzzah,  and  am  afraid,  it  is  not 
everyone  who  is  allowed  to  uphold  the  ark.  Many 
a  wise  man  has  attacked  Luther,  and  what  has 
been  effected  ?  The  Pope  curses,  the  Emperor 
threatens  ;  there  are  prisons,  confiscations,  fag- 
gots, and  all  in  vain.     What  can  a   poor  pigmy 

like  me  do  ? The  world  has  been  besotted 

with  ceremonies.  Miserable  monks  have  ruled  all, 
entangling  men's  consciences  for  their  own  benefit. 
Dogma  has  been  heaped  on  dogma.  Tlie  bishops 
have  teen  tyrants  ;  the  Pope's  commissaries  have 
been  rascals.  Luther  has  been  an  instrument  of 
God's  displea.sure,  like  Pharaoh,  or  Nebuchadnez- 
zar, or  the  Ciesars,  and  I  shall  not  attack  him  on 
such  gnjunds  as  these. 

Erasmus  clearly  wished  to  carry  water  on 
both  shoulders — to  please  the  Pope  and  not  to 
offend  Luther;  he  succeeded  in  neither.  Lu- 
thfT,  being  the  man  that  he  was,  could  not 
help  looking  upon  Erasmus  as  a  man  who  was 
false  to  his  wn  convictions;  and  he  told  his 
opini<jii  of  him  in  language  which  no  man 
could  fail  to- understand. 

I.(  THER  UPON  ERASMUS. 
All   you   who  honor  ('hri.st,   I   pray    you  hate 
Eru.smuH.     He   is   a  scofft-r  and  a  mocker.      He 


27S  ERASMUS. 

speaks  in  riddles,  and  jests  at  Popery  and  Gospel, 
and  C'hrist  and  (Jod,  with  Ids  unceilain  speeches. 
He  nuj^lit  have  served  tiie  (Jospel  if  he  would  ; 
but,  like  Judas,  he  has  betrayad  the  Son  of  Man, 
with  a  kiss.  He  is  not  with  us,  ami  he  is  not  with 
our  foes  ;  and  I  sJiy  with  Joshua,  '*  Choose  whom 
ye  will  serve."  He  thinks  we  should  trim  to  the 
times,  and  hang  our  cloaks  to  the  wind.  He  is 
himself  his  own  first  object;  and  as  he  lived  he 
died.  ...  I  take  Erasmus  to  be  the  wox'st  enemy 
that  Christ  has  had  for  a  thousand  years.  In- 
tellect does  not  understand  religion,  and  when  it 
comes  to  the  things  of  God,  it  laughs  at  them.  He 
scoffs  like  Lucian,  and  by-and-bye  he  will  say, 
"Behold  how  these  are  among  the  saints  wdiose 
life  we  counted  for  folly  ! "  I  bid  you,  therefore, 
take  heed  of  Erasmus.  He  treats  theology  as  a  fool's 
jest,  and  the  Gospel  as  a  fable,  good  for  the  ignor- 
ant to  believe. 

The  writings  of  Erasmus  (nearly  all  in  Latin) 
are  vei-y  voluminous.  An  edition  of  them 
was  published  at  Basel  soon  after  his  death 
(9  vols,  folio,  1540-41),  a  still  more  complete 
edition  was  brought  out  at  Leyden  (10  vols, 
folio,  1703-1706.)  Many  of  his  works  have 
been  translated  into  English,  either  in  whole 
or  in  part.  The  most  important  of  these  are 
the  Colloquia,  the  Morm  Encomium,  the 
Copia  Vei'borum,  the  Epigramata,  the  Eccle- 
siastw,  the  Adagiorum  Collectanea,  and  the 
Paraclesis.  Besides  these  are  an  immense 
number  of  Episfohe  quite  as  valuable  as  any 
of  the  others.  He  also  edited  many  of  the 
most  important  Latin  and  Greek  classics,  and 
translated  several  Greek  authors  into  Latin. 
The  first  printed  edition  of  the  Greek  New 
Testament  was  edited  by  Erasmus  (1513 ;  third 
edition,  much  improved,  1522).  This  edition, 
however,  being  drawn  up  from  few  manu- 
scripts, none  of  the  first  rank,  has  long  been 
superseded.  The  Life  of  Erasmus  has  Ix^ii 
many  times  written    in  various  languages. 


ERCILLA  Y  ZUNIGA.  373 

The  latest,  and  probably  the  best  in  English, 
is  that  by  R.  B.  Drummond  (2  vols.,  1873). 


ERCILLA  Y  ZUNIGA.  Alonso,  a  Spanish 
poet,  born  at  Madrid  in  1533,  died  there  in 
1595.  He  was  of  a  distinguished  family,  his 
father  holding  an  eminent  position  at  the 
Court  of  Charles  V. ;  the  boy  was  bx"OUght 
up  as  a  page  to  Philip,  the  heir  to  the  Span- 
ish crown  (afterward  Philip  II.),  whom  he 
accompanied  to  England  upon  occasion  of 
his  marriage,  in  1554,  to  Queen  Mary  Tudor. 
While  in  London,  Ercilla  obtained  per- 
mission to  join  a  Spanish  expedition  against 
the  revolted  Araucanians  of  Chili.  He  bore 
a  prominent  part  in  the  contest  which  en- 
sued ;  but  having  become  involved  in  a  quar- 
rel with  a  comrade,  he  was  charged  with 
mutiny,  and  was  sentenced  to  death;  but 
the  sentence  was  commuted  to  imprison- 
ment. He  returned  to  Spain  in  1563,  and 
was  received  with  great  favor  by  Philip,  now 
King  of  Spain,  by  whom  he  was  employed 
in  several  important  capacities.  About  1580 
he  fell  into  disgrace  at  Court,  and  the  clos- 
ing years  of  his  life  were  passed  in  neglect 
and  poverty.  Ercilla  is  known  by  his  poem 
La  Araucana,  which  is  regarded  as  the  best 
of  the  Spanish  epics.  A  portion  of  it  was 
actually  composed  in  the  field,  while  the 
events  which  he  narrates  were  going  on. 
The  entire  ixjem  is  in  three  parts,  contain- 
ing in  all  37  cantos.  The  fir.st  15  cantos 
app«*ar<*(l  in  1509  ;  the  second,  and  much 
inferior- jjurt,  in  157H  ;  th(i  third  and  stil! 
more  inferior  part,  in  1590.  A  continuation 
in  37  rimtos,  written  by  Osorio,  app(!an'd 
in  1597,  tliree  years  aftor  the  deatb  of  En-illa. 
The  latest,  and  probably  tbe  best  cditicjn  of 
Im.  Ardwnna  was  brouglit,  out  at  Madrid 
in  1851. 


271  ERCILLA  Y  ZUNIGA. 

AN    AKAUCANIAN   HERO. 

Without  more  luguiufnt,  his  gallant  steed 
He  spurred,  and  o'er  the  border  led  the  waj'; 

His  troops,  their  limbs  by  one  strong  effort  freed 
From  terror's  chill,  followed  in  dose  array. 

Onward  they  press.      Tlie  opening  hills  recede, 
Spain's  chief  Araucan  foitress  to  display; 

Over  tlie  plain,  in  scattered  ruins,  lie 

Those  walls  that  seemed  destruction  to  defy 

Valdivia,  checking  his  impetuous  course, 
Cried,  "  Spaniards  !  Constancy's  our  favorite 
race ! 

Fallen  is  tlie  castle,  in  whose  massive  force 
My  hopes  had  found  their  dearest  resting-place; 

The  foe,  whoso  treachery  of  this  chief  I'esource 
Has  robbed  us,  on  the  desolated  space 

Before  us  lies  ;   more  wherefore  sliould  I  say? 

Battle  alone  to  safety  points  the  way  !  " 

Danger  and  present  death's  convulsive  rage 
Breed  in  our  soldiers  strength  of  such  high 
strain, 

That  fear  begins  the  fury  to  assuage 
Of  Araucanian  bosoms  ;  from  the  plain 

With  shame  they  fly,  nor  longer  battle  wage  ; 
Whilst  shouts  arise  of  "  Victory!  Spain!  Spain  !" 

When,  checking  Spanish  joy,  stern  destiny 

By  wondrous  means  fulfills  her  stern  decree. 

The  son  of  a  cacique,  whom  friendship's  bands 
Allied  to  Spain,  had  long  in  page's  post 

Attended  on  Valdivia,  at  his  hands 

Receiving  kindness  ;  in  the  Spanish  host 

He  came.       Strong  passion  suddenly  expands 
His  heart,  beholding  troops,  his  country's  boast, 

Forsake  the  field.     With  voice  and  port  elate. 

Their  valor  thus  he  strives  to  animate  : — 

"  Unhappy  nation,  whom  blind  terrors  guide  ! 

O  ,  whither  turn  ye  your  bewildered  breasts  ? 
How  many  centuries'  honor  and  just  pride 

Perish  upon  this  field  with  all  yourgests  ! 
Forfeiting— what  inviolate  abide — 

Laws,  ciistoins,  rights,  your  ancestors'  bequests  : 
From  free-lxnn  men,  from  sovereigns  feared  by  all. 
Ye  into  vassalage  aud  slavery  fall ! 


ERCILLA  Y  ZUNIGA.  375 

"Ancestors  and  posterity  ye  stain, 
Inflicting  on  the  generous  stock  a  wound 

Incurable,  an  everlasting  pain, 
A  shame  whose  perpetuity  knows  no  bound. 

Observe  your  adversaries"  prowess  wane  ; 
Mark  how  their  horses,  late  that  spurned  the 
ground,  [o'er. 

Now  drooping,  pant  for  breath,  whilst  bathed  all 

Are   their  tiiick  heaving   flanks  with  sweat   and 
gore "   .  .   .   . 

On  memory  imprint  the  words  I  breathe, 
Howe'er  by  loathsome  terror  ye" re  distraught; 

A  deathless  story  to  the  world  bequeath: 
Enslaved  Arauco's  liberation  wrought ! — 

Return  !  reject  not  victory's  offered  wreath, 
When  fate  propitious  calls,  and  prompts  high 
thought ! 

Or  in  your  rapid  flight  an  instant  pause. 

To  see  me  singly  perish  in  your  cause  !  "  .... 

With  that  the  youth  a  strong  and  mighty  lance 
Against  Valdivia  brandishes  on  high  ; 

And,  yet  more  from  bewildering  terror's  trance 
To  rouse  Arauco,  ruslies  furiously 

Uix)n  the  Spaniards'  conquering  advance. 
So  o.-igerly  the  heated  stag  will  fly 

To  plunge  his  body  in  the  coolest  stream, 

Attempering  thus  the  sun's  meridian  beam. 

One  Spaniard  his  first  stroke  pierces  right  through  ; 

Then  at  another's  middle  rib  he  aims  ; 
And  heavy  tbougli  the  weapon,  aims  so  true. 

The  point  on  the  far  side  his  force  proclaims, 
lie  springs  at  all  with  fury  ever  new  : 

A  soldier's  thigh  witli  sueh  fierce  blow  lie  maiuis. 
The  huge  spear  breaks  ;  his  hand  still  grasps  the 

heft. 
Whilst  quivering  in  the   wound  one  half  is  left. 

The  fragment  east  away,  he  from  tlie  ground 
Snatehesa  ponderous  and  dreadful  mace  ; 

He  wounds, he  slaughters, strikes  down  all  around. 
Suddenly  <;learing  tlie  ene»nul»ered  si)a(H'. 

In  him  alone  the  l^atlle's  rage  is  found. 


376  ERCILLA  Y  ZUNIGA. 

Turned  all  'gainst  him  tlio  Spaniards  leave  the 
chase  ; 
But  he  so  lightly  moves — now  hero  now  there — 
That  in  his  stead  they  wound  the  empty  air. 

Of  whom  was  ever  such  stupendous  deed 
Or  heard,  or  read  in  ancient  history, 

As  from  the  victor's  party  to  set-ede, 
Joining  the  viin(iuisliod  even  as  they  fly  ! 

Or  that  l)arl)arian  boy,  at  utmost  need, 
By  liis  unaided  valor's  energj-. 

Should  from  tin?  Christian  army  rend  away 

A  victory,  guerdon  of  a  hard-fought  day  ! 
— La  Araucana,  Canto  III. 

A   STORM   AT  SEA. 

Now  bursts  with  sudden  violence  the  gale, 
Eartli  sudden  rocks  convulsively  and  fast ; 

Labors  our  ship,  caught  under  jn-ess  of  sail. 
And  menaces  to  break  lier  solid  mast. 

The  pilot  when  he  sees  the  storm  prevail, 
Springs   forward,    shouting   loud    witli    looks 
aghast; 

"  Slacken  the  ropes  there  !     Slack  away  ! — Alack, 

The  gale  blows  heavily  !    Slack  quickly  !  Slack  ! " 

The  roaring  of  the  sea,  the  boisterous   wind, 
The  clamor,  uproar,  grows  confused  and  rash. 

Untimely  night,  closing  in  darkness  blind 

Of  black  and  sultry  clouds,  tlie  lightning's  flash. 

The  thunder's  awful  rolling,  all  combined 
Willi  pilot's  shouts,  and  many  a  frightful  crash, 

Produced  a  sound,  a  harmony,  so  dire. 

It  seemed  the  world  itself  should  now  expire .... 

Roars  the  tormented  sea,  open  the  skies. 
The  haughty  wind  groans  while  it  fiercer  raves  ; 

Sudden  the  waters  in  a  mountain  rise 

Above  the  clouds,  and  on  the  ship  that  braves 

Their  wrath  pour  thundering  ^own :  submerged 
she  lies 
A  fearful  minute's  space,  beneath  the   waves, 

The  crew,  amidst  tlieir  fears,  with  gasping  breath, 

Deemed   in    salt   water's  stead  they    swallowed 
death. 


ERCILLA  Y  ZUNIGA.  277 

But  by  the  clemency  of  Providence, 

As,  rising  through  the  sea,  some  mighty  whale 
Masters  the  angry  surges'  violence, 

Spouts  then  in  showers  against  the  vexing  gale, 
And  lifts  to  sight  liis  back's  broad  eminence, 

Whilst  in  wide  circles  round  tlie  waters  quail, 
So  from  beneath  the  ocean  rose  once  more 
Our  vessel,  from  whose  side  two  torrents  pour.  .  .  . 

Now,  ^olus — by  chance  if  it  befell, 
Or  through  compassion  for  Castilian  woes — 

Recalle<l  fierce  Boreas,  and,  lest  he  rebel, 
Would  safely  in  his  prison  cave  inclose, 

Tlie  door  he  opened.     In  the  selfsame  cell 
Lay  Zephyr  unobserved,  who  instant  rose, 

Marked  his  advantage  as  the  bolts  withdrew, 

And  through  the  opening  portal  sudden  flew. 

Then  with  unlessening  rapidity 
Seizing  on  lurid  cloud  and  fleecy  rack. 

He  bursts  on  the  already  troubled  seas,        [black: 
Spreads  o'er  the  midnight  gloom  a  shade  more 

The  billows  from  the  northern  blast  that  flee, 
Assaults  with  irresistible  attack. 

Whirls  them  in  boiling  eddies  from  their  course, 

And  angry  ocean  stirs  with  doubled  force.  .  .  . 

The  vessel,  beaten  bj'  the  sea  and  gale, 
Now  on  a  mountain-ridge  of  water  rides, 

With  keel  exposed.     Now  her  top-gallant  sail 
Dips  in  the  threatening  waves,  against  her  sides 

Over  her  deck,  that  break.     Of  what  avail. 
The  beating  of  such  storm  whilst  one  abides, 

Is  pilot's  skill?    Now  a  yet  fiercer  squall 

Half  opens  to  the  sea  her  strongest  wall. 

Tlie  crew  and  i)a.ssengers  wild  clamors  raise, 

Deeming  inevitable  ruin  near  ; 
Upon  tlie  i)ilot  anxiously  all  gaze. 

Who  know  s  not  what  to  order — stunned  by  fear. 
Then  'midst  the  terror  that  all  bosoms  craze, 

Sound  opposite  commands:  "  The  ship  to  veer  !" 
Some  shout  ;  some,  "Make  for  land  I"    some 

"  Stand  to  sea  !  " 
Some  ■•  Starlioani!  "    some  "  I'ort  the  helm!" 
some  '  ■  ilelm  a-lee  !  " 


278  THOMAS  OF  ERCILDOUN. 

The  danger  grows;  the  terror,  loud  uproar, 

And  wild  confusion,  with  the  terror  grow  ; 
All  rusli  in  frenzy— these  the  sails  to  lower, 

Those  seek  the  boat,  whilst  overboard  some  throw 
Cask,  plank,  or  spar,  as  other  hope  were  o'er. 
Here  rings  the    hammer's    there    the    hatchet's 

blow ; 
Whilst  dash  the  surges  'gainst  a  neighboring  rock. 
Flinging  white  foam  to  heaven  from  every  shock. 

— La  Araucana,  Canto  XV. 

ERCILDOUN,  Thomas  of,  usually  desig- 
nated as  Thomas  the  "Rhymer,"  a  Scottish 
minstrel,  died  about  1299.  He  was  the  owner 
of  a  considerable  estate,  which  he  transmitted 
to  his  son.  He  had  a  traditional  fame  as  a 
seer,  and  is  supposed  to  have  been  the  author 
of  the  first  English  metrical  romance.  One 
of  these  romances, *?«•  Tristrem,was  of  special 
repute.  It  was  supposed  to  have  perished,  or 
at  least  the  portion  of  it  which  was  handed 
down  orally  Avas  thought  to  have  been  greatly 
modified  by  generations  of  reciters.  But  in 
1804  Sir  Walter  Scott  discovered  in  the  Advo- 
cates' Library  of  Edinburgh  an  ancient  manu- 
script which  he  believed  to  be  a  correct  copy 
of  this  poem  of  Thomas  the  Rhymer.  The 
best  critics,  however,  do  not  in  this  agree 
with  SirWalter,  Mr.  Garnet,  a  high  authority 
upon  early  English  dialects,  holds  that  this 
/SVr  Tristrem  is  probably  a  modernized  copy 
of  an  old  Northumbrian  romance,  written 
about  1275,  and  derived  from  a  Noi-man  or 
Anglo-Norman  source.  The  poem  consists  of 
three  "fyttes"  or  cantos.  The  following 
stanza  may  stand  for  a  specimen  of  the 
English  language  as  written  about  1300. 

SIR  tristrem's  triumpu. 

Glad  a  man  was  he 
The  turnament  dede  crie, 

That  maidens  might  him  se 
And  over  the  walles  to  lye; 


ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN.  279 

Thai  asked  who  was  fre 

To  win  the  maistre  ; 
Thai  seyd  that  best  was  he 

The  child  of  Ermonie 
In  Tour : 
Forthi  chosen  was  he 

To  maiden  Blaunche  Flour. 

ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN,  the  joint  name 
of  two  French  novehsts,  Emile  Erckmann  and 
Alex.\ndre  Chatrian,  the  members  of  a 
hterary  partnership  as  close  as  that  of  the 
Enghsh  dramatists,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 
Erckmann,  the  son  of  a  bookseller,  was  born  in 
Pfalzburg,  Lorraine,  in  1822;  Chatrian,  the 
son  of  a  glass-blower,  in  Soldatenthal, Lorraine, 
in  1826.  Erckmann  was  sent  first  to  the  Com- 
munal College  of  Pfalzburg.  and  thence  to 
Paris  in  18-12,  to  study  law.  Chatrian,  for  a 
short  time  a  student  in  the  Communal  College, 
was  afterwards  sent  by  his  parents  to  the 
glass-works  at  Belgium.  His  love  of  letters 
drew  him  back  to  Pfalzburg,  where  he  be- 
came an  usher  in  the  Communal  College.  In 
1847  he  formed  the  acquaintance  of  Erckmann, 
then  in  Pfalzburg  to  recruit  his  health.  To- 
gether the  young  men  went  to  Paris,  Erck- 
mann resuming  his  studies,  and  Chatrian 
entering  a  railway  office.  Here  they  began 
their  literary  partnei-ship,  contributing  short 
stories  to  provincial  journals  and  writing 
dramatic  pieces.  One  of  their  plays,  TJ Alsace 
en  1814,  brought  out  at  the  Strasburg  theatre, 
was  suppressed  by  the  prefect  after  one  rep- 
resentation. For  several  years  they  con- 
tinued to  write,  without  encouraging  success, 
until  the  publication  of  L'illustre  Docteur 
MdthcuH  (1859),  attracted  attention  to  the 
name  of  Erckmann-Chatrian.  From  that 
time  their  graj>liic  and  loving  delineations  of 
village  and  provincial  life  have  steadily 
gained    favor.      Most  of  their    works    liave 


280  ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN. 

been  translated  into  English.  They  are  Contes 
l^^antastiques  and  Contes  de  la  Montague  (1860), 
Maitre  Daniel  Rock  (1861),  Contes  dii  Bords 
diiRhin  and  Le  Foil  Yegof  (1862),  Le  Joueur 
de  Clarinette  and  La  Taverne  du  Jambon  de 
Mayence  and  Madame  Therise,  ou  les  Volon- 
taires  de  92  (1863),  L'Aoii  Fritz  and  Histoire 
d'nn  Conscrit  de  1813  (1864),  U Invasion, 
Waterloo,and  Histoire d' an  Homme  du  Peuple 
(1865),  La  Maison  Forestiere  and  La  Guerre 
1866,  ie  Blocus  (1867),ti-anslatt;d  under  the  title 
of  The  Blockade  of  Phalsburg ;  an  Ej)isode 
of  the  Fall  of  the  First  French  Empire,  His- 
toire d''un  Pay  sail  (1868),  Le  Juif  Polonais,  a 
play  (1869),  Le  Plebiscite  (1872),  translated  in 
this  country  under  the  title  of  A  Miller^s 
Story  of  the  War,  Les  deux  Frtres  (1873), 
Brigadier  Frederic  (1875),  Maitre  Gaspard 
Fix,  Histoire  dhm  Conservateur,  Ulsthme  de 
Suez,Sind  Souvenirs  d\m  ancien  Chef  de  Chan- 
tier;  suivi  de  V Exile  (1876),  and  Les  Vieux  de 
la  Vielle  (1882). 

FRENCH  AND  AUSTRIAN. 

In  the  ranks  of  tlie  Republicans  there  were  also 
vacant  places,  bodies  stretched  on  their  faces,  and 
some  wounded,  their  heads  and  faces  covered  with 
blood.  They  bandaged  their  heads,  placing  their 
guns  at  their  feet  without  leaving  the  ranks. 
Their  comrades  helped  them  to  bind  on  a  handker- 
chief, and  put  the  hat  above  it.  The  Colonel,  on 
horseback  near  tlie  fountain,  his  large  plumed  liat 
pushed  back,  and  his  sabre  clinched  in  his  hand, 
closed  up  the  ranks;  near  him  were  some  drum- 
mers in  line,  and  a  little  further  on,  near  the 
trough,  was  the  cant ini^re  with  her  cask.  We  could 
hear  the  trumpets  of  the  Croats  sounding  the  re- 
treat. They  had  halted  at  the  turn  of  the  street. 
One  of  their  sentinels  was  posted  thei'e,  behind  the 
corner  of  the  Town  Hall.  Only  his  liorse's  head 
was  to  be  seen.  Some  guns  were  still  being  fired. 
"Cease  firing!"  cried  the  Colonel,  and  all  was 
silent.  We  heard  only  tlie  trumpet  in  the  distance. 


ERCKAL\NN-CHATRIAN.  281 

The  cantinitre  then  went  inside  the  ranks  to  pour 
out  braud}'  for  the  men,  "wliile  seven  or  ciglit 
sturdy  fellows  drew  w  ater  from  the  fountain  in 
their  bowls,  for  the  wounded,  who  begged  for 
drink  in  pitiable  voices.  I  leaned  from  the  window, 
looking  down  the  deserted  street,  and  asking  mj'- 
self  if  the  red  cloaks  would  dare  to  return.  T}ie 
Colonel  also  looked  in  that  direction,  and  talked 
with  a  captain  who  was  leaning  against  his  saddle. 
Suddenly  the  captain  crossed  the  square,  left  the 
ranks,  and  rushed  into  our  house,  crying:  "The 
master  of  tlie  house  I "' 

"  He  has  gone  out."' 

"  Well — you— lead  me  to  your  garret— quick  !" 

I  left  my  shoes  there,  and  tegan  to  climb  the 
steps  at  the  end  of  tlie  hall  like  a  s(|uirrel;  the  cap- 
tain followed  me.  At  the  top  he  saw  at  a  single 
glance  the  ladder  of  the  pigeon-house,  and  mounted 
before  me.  When  we  had  entered,  he  placed  his 
elbows  on  the  edge  of  the  somewhat  low  window, 
and  leaned  forward  so  as  to  see.  I  looked  over  his 
shoulder.  The  entire  road  as  far  as  one  could  see, 
was  lined  with  men,  cavalry,  infantry,  cannon, 
army-wagons,  red  cloaks,  gix-en  pelisses,  white 
coats,  helmets,  cuirasses,  files  of  lances  and  bay- 
onets, ranks  of  horses,  and  all  were  coming  toward 
the  village.  "It  is  an  army!"  exclaimed  the 
captain  in  a  low  voice.  He  turned  suddenly  to  go 
down,  then,  seized  with  an  idea,  pointed  out  to 
me  along  the  village,  within  two  gunshots,  a  file  of 
red  cloaks  who  were  turning  the  curve  of  the  road 
just  Ixihind  the  orchards. 

"You  see  those  red  cloaks  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Yes." 

"  Does  a  carriage  road  pass  there?" 

"  No,  it  is  a  footpath."' 

"  And  this  large  hollow  which  cuts  it  in  the 
middle,  din-ctly  before  us — is  it  deep?" 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"  ('arriagr-H  and  carts  never  pass  that  way?" 

"  No,  tJiey  could  n(jt." 

Then,  without  asking  anything  more,  lie  de- 
WM-nded  the  ladder  b,'ickwards,;israj)idly  ;isiK)ssil)le, 
and  lia.stened  down  the  stairs.  I  folirnved  liiin; 
vfV  were  soon  at  the   foot,    but  lx;fore  wo    had 


283  ERCKMANN-CHATRiAN. 

reached  the  end  of  the  hall,  the  approach  of  a 
body  of  cavalry  caused  the  hous«'s  to  shake.  De- 
si)itc  this,  the  cajitain  went  out,  took  two  men 
from  the  ranks,  and  disappeared.  Thousands  of 
(piick.  stranji^e  cries,  like  those  of  a  flock  of  crows, 
"  Hurrah  !  hurrah  !"  filled  the  street  from  one  end 
to  the  other,  and  nearly  drowned  the  dull  thud  of 
the  horses'  galloping,  I,  feeling  very  proud  of 
having  conducted  the  captain  to  the  pigeon-house, 
was  so  imprudent  as  to  go  to  the  door.  The  lancers, 
for  this  time  they  were  lancers,  came  like  the  wind, 
their  spears  in  rest,  their  ears  covered  by  large 
hair  caps,  eyes  staring,  noses  almost  concealed  by 
their  moustaches,  and  large  pistols,  with  butt  ends 
of  brass,  in  their  belts.  It  was  like  a  vision.  I 
had  only  time  to  jump  back  from  the  door.  My 
blood  froze  in  my  veins.  And  it  was  only  when 
the  firing  recommenced  that  I  awoke,  as  if  from  a 
dream,  and  found  myself  in  the  back  part  of  our 
room  opposite  the  broken  windows.  The  air  was 
thick,  the  square  all  white  with  smoke.  The 
Colonel  alone  was  visible,  seated  immovable  on 
his  horse  near  the  fountain.  He  might  have  been 
taken  for  a  bronze  statue  in  this  blue  sea,  from 
which  hundreds  of  red  flames  spouted.  The 
lancers  leaped  about  like  immense  grasshoppers, 
thrust  their  spears  and  withdrew  them;  others 
fired  their  pistols  into  the  ranks  at  four  paces.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  the  square  was  breaking.  It 
was  true.  "Close  the  ranks  !  stand  firm  !  "  cried 
the  Colonel  in  his  calm  voice.  "  Close  the  ranks  ! 
Close ! "  repeated  the  officers  all  along  the  line. 
But  the  square  gave  way,  and  became  a  semi- 
circle. The  centre  nearly  touched  the  fountain.  At 
each  stroke  of  the  lance,  the  parry  of  the  bayonet 
came  like  a  flash  of  light,  but  sometimes  the  man 
fell.  The  Republicans  no  longer  had  time  to  re- 
load. They  ceased  firing,  and  the  lancers  were  con- 
stantly coming,  bolder,  more  numerous,  envelop- 
ing the  square  in  a  whirlwind,  and  already  uttering 
cries  of  triumph,  for  they  believed  themselves  con- 
querors. For  myself,  I  thought  the  Republicans 
were  lost,  when,  in  the  height  of  the  combat,  the 
Colonel,  raising  his  baton  the  end  of  his  sabre,  Ik.'- 
gan  to  sing  a  song  which  made  one's  fiesh  creep, 


ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN.  283 

and  all  the  battalion,  as  one  man,  sang  witli  him. 
In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  the  whole  front  of  the 
square  straightened  itself,  and  forced  into  the 
street  all  the  mass  of  horsemen,  pressed  one 
against  another,  with  their  long  lances,  like  corn 
in  the  fields.  This  song  seemed  to  render  the  Re- 
publicans furious.  It  was  terrible  to  see  them. 
And  I  have  thought  many  times  since  that  men 
arrayed  in  battle  are  more  ferocious  than  wild 
beasts.  But  there  was  something  still  more  horrible: 
the  last  ranks  of  the  Austrian  column,  at  the  end 
of  the  street,  not  seeing  what  was  passing  at  the 
entrance  of  the  square,  rushed  forward,  crying, 
"  Hurrah  !  hurrah  !"  so  that  those  in  the  first  ranks, 
repuLsed  by  the  bayonets  of  the  Republicans,  and 
not  al)ie  to  go  further  back,  were  thrown  into  un- 
fil>eakable  confusion,  and  uttered  distressing  cries; 
their  large  horses,  pricked  in  tlie  nostrils,  were  so 
friglitened  that  their  manes  stood  up  straiglit,  their 
eyes  started  from  their  heads,  and  they  uttered 
shrill  cries,  and  kicked  wildly.  From  a  distance  I 
saw  these  unfortunate  lancers,  mad  with  fear,  turn 
round,  strike  their  couu'ades  with  the  handles  of 
their  lances  to  force  a  passage  for  themselves,  and 
fly  like  hares  past  tlie  houses.  A  few  minutes 
afterward  the  street  was  empty. — Madame 
Thertise. 

AN   AWAKING  IN  SPRING. 

By  dint  of  dreaming  in  this  half-waking  state, 
Kobus  had  ended  by  falling  fast  asleep  again, 
when  the  tones  of  a  violin,  sweet  and  penetrating 
as  the  voice  of  a  friend  wlio  greets  you  after  a 
long  absence,  roused  liim  from  liis  slumbers,  and, 
a«  he  listened,  brought  tlie  tears  into  his  eyes.  He 
s<'arcely  ventured  to  breathe,  no  eager  was  he  to 
catdi  the  sounds.  It  was  the  violin  (jf  tlie  Bo- 
hemian Josej>}i,  whif.'li  was  surging  to  tlie  accom- 
panimt-nt  of  another  violin  and  a  d<juble  i)a.ss  in 
his  lK<l(lianil«T,  beliind  the  blue  curtains,  and  waa 
saying,  "It  is  I,  Kobus,  I,  your  old  friend!  I  return 
with  tlie  Spring  aJid  the  glorious  sunsliine.  Hearken, 
KobuH  :  the  Ix-es  are  liumming  around  tlie  earliest 
tlowers,  the  young,  t«'nder  leaves  are  bursting  forth, 
the  first  swallows  are  wheeling  through  the  blue 
ether,   the  first   (]uails    cncj)    down    the    newly- 


284  ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN. 

turned  furrows,  and  here  I  am,  come  once  more  to 
embrace  you!"  .... 

At  last,  very  gently,  he  drew  aside  the  curtains 
of  his  bed,  the  music  still  playing  on  more  gravely 
and  touchitigly  than  ever,  and  saw  the  three  Bo- 
liemians  standing  near  the  entrance  of  the  apart- 
ment, and  old  Katel  behind  in  the  doorway  .... 
And  now  I  must  tell  you.  why  Joseph  came  thus 
to  serenade  Fritz  every  Spring,  and  why  this 
touched  Fritz  so  deeply.  A  long  time  before  this, 
one  Christmas  eve,  Kobus  happened  to  be  at  the 
liostelry  of  the  Stag.  The  snow  was  lying  three 
feet  deep  outside.  In  the  great  public  room,  which 
was  half  filled  with  tobacco-smoke,  the  smokers 
stood  around  the  huge  metal  stove,  whilst  from 
time  to  lime  one  or  another  would  move  away  for 
a  moment  to  the  table  to  empty  his  glass,  and  then 
return  to  warm  him.self  in  silence.  They  were 
standing  thus,  thinking  of  nothing  at  all,  when  a 
Bohemian  entered.  His  bare  feet  were  peeping  out 
of  his  ragged  shoes;  he  was  shivering  with  cold, 
and  began  to  play  with  an  air  of  deep  de- 
jection^ Fritz  thought  this  music  beautiful ;  it  was 
a  ray  of  sunshine  breaking  through  the  gray  mists 
of  Winter.  But  behind  the  Bohemian,  near  the 
door,  half-concealed  in  shadow,  stood  the  watch- 
man Foux,  with  the  air  of  a  wolf  on  the  look-out 
for  its  prey,  with  its  ears  cocked,  its  pointed  muzzle, 
and  glistening  eyes.  Kobus  at  once  guessed  that 
the  Bohemian's  papers  were  not  en  rhgle,  and  that 
Foux  was  watching  to  pounce  upon  him  on  his 
leaving  the  room,  and  conduct  him  to  the  watch- 
house.  It  was  for  this  reason  that,  feeling  indig- 
nant at  such  conduct,  he  went  up  to  the  Bohemian^ 
put  a  thaler  in  his  band,  and  slipping  his  arm  in 
his,  said  to  him — "  I  hire  you  for  this  evening. 
Come  along  with  me."  And  thus,  arm  in  arm, 
they  left  the  room  together  in  the  midst  of  general 
astonishment,  and  more  than  one  thought  to  him- 
self— "That  Kobus  must  be  mad  to  go  about  with  a 
Bohemian  leaning  on  his  arm;  he  is  certainly  a 
great  original." 

Meantime  Foux  followed  them  at  some  distance, 
slinking  against  the  wall  to  avoid  observation.  The 
Bohemian  seemed  in  great  terror,  fearing  he  would 


ERCKiL\NN-CHATRIAN.  285 

arrest  him,  but  Fritz  said  to  him — "Don't  be  afraid, 
Le  will  not  dare  to  lay  a  finger  on  you."  He 
accompanied  Lini  in  this  way  to  his  own  house, 
where  the  table  was  laid  for  the  feast  of  the  Clirist- 
Cliild,  with  the  Christuias-tree  in  the  centre,  on  a 
snow-white  table-cloth,  whilst  all  around  the 
Kuclien,  powdered  over  with  white  sugar,  and  the 
Kougelhof,  thick  with  large  raisins,  were  arranged 
in  suitable  order.  Three  bottles  of  old  Bordeaux, 
wrapped  in  napkins,  were  heating  on  the  marble 
slab  of  the  white  porcelain  stove. 

'•  Katel,  look  for  another  plate,  knife,  and  fork," 
said  Kobus,  sliaking  the  snow  off  his  feet.  •'! 
mean  to  celebrate  the  birth  of  the  Saviour  this 
evening  with  this  brave  fellow;  and  if  any  one 
comes  to  take  him,  let  him  look  out,  that's  all." 
The  servant  hastened  to  obey,  and  the  poor  Bo- 
hemian took  Ids  seat  at  the  table,  full  of  wonder 
at  tliese  things.  The  glasses  were  filled  to  the 
brim,  and  then  Fritz  stood  up  and  said — '-In 
lionor  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  the  friend  of  the 
friendless  !" 

At  tlie  same  moment  Foux  entered.  His  sur- 
prise was  extreme  to  see  the  Ziegeuner  seated  by  the 
side  of  the  master  of  the  liouse,  so,  in  place  of 
taking  a  high  tone,  he  merely  said — "  I  wish  you  a 
merry  Christmas,  Mr.  Kobus." 

"  Many  thanks.  Will  you  take  a  glass  of  wine 
with  us?" 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  never  drink  wine  when  on 
duty.  But  this  man— do  you  know  him,  Mr. 
Kobus  r" 

"  I  know  him,  and  will  answer  for  liim." 

"  Then  his  papers  are  in  order  ?  " 

Fritz  could  liear  no  more:  his  round  cheeks  grew 
pale  with  anger;  lie  rose;  and  seizing  the  watch- 
jnan  by  tlie  collar,  thrust  liim  out  of  the  room,  ex- 
claiming—•'That  wi.l  teach  you  to  enter  an  honest 
man's  house  on  ( ■hristmas  Eve."  Tlien  he  resumed 
his  seat,  an<l  i\»  tlie  liohemian  trernlded  with  fear, 
he  said— "Don't  \k'  afraid,  you  are  in  Fritz  Kf>bus'- 
housp.  Eat  your  food  in  peace,  if  you  wish  to 
gratify  me."  He  made  him  drink  a  good  draught 
of  tlie  liordeaux;  and  knowing  that  Foux  wjih  still 
watching  in  the  street,  noiwithutanding  the  h<io«', 


286  THOMAS    ERSKINE. 

be  ordered  Katel  to  get  ready  a  comfortable  bed 
for  tlie  j)i)or  fellow  that  nigbt,  and  the  following 
morning  to  provide  bim  with  a  stout  pair  of  shoes, 
and  some  oM  clothes,  and  not  to  let  him  leave 
wiiliout  taking  care  to  put  some  cold  meat  and 
bread  in  his  pockeis. 

Foux  waited  till  the  last  note  of  the  Mass  was 
over,  and  then  went  off;  and  as  the  Bohemian, 
who  was  no  other  than  Joseph,  started  early  in  the 
morning,  there  was  nothing  more  of  the  affair. 
Kobus  himself  had  forgotten  all  about  it,  Avhen 
just  at  the  commencement  of  Spring  in  the  follow- 
ing year,  being  in  bed  one  fine  morning,  he  heard 
soft  music  at  the  door  of  his  room.  It  was  the  poor 
swallow,  whom  he  had  saved  from  the  winter 
snows,  and  who  hud  come  to  thank  him  with  the 
earliest  rays  of  the  returning  sun.  Since  then 
Joseph  had  made  his  appearance  every  year  at  the 
same  jjeriod,  sometimes  alone,  sometimes  with  one 
or  two  of  his  comrades,  and  Fritz  alwaj^s  received 
him  like  a  brother.  So  it  was  that  Kobus  saw  his 
old  friend  the  Bohemian  on  the  morning,  in  the 
way  I  have  told  you,  and  when  the  double-bass 
ceased  its  deep  thrum-thrum,  and  Joseph,  having 
given  his  las  long-drawn  s'roke  with  the  bow, 
raised  his  eyes,  Fritz  stretched  out  his  arms  to  him 
from  behind  the  curtains,  crying,  "  Joseph  !" 

Then  the  Bohemian  came  forward  and  embraced 
him,  laughing  and  showing  his  white  teeth,  and 
said: — "  You  see  I  don't  forget  you.  The  swallow's 
fii-st  song  is  for  you  ! " 

"  Yes,  yes,  and  yet  this  is  the  tenth  year !"  cried 
Kohns.— Friend  Fritz. 


EESKESTE,  Baron  Thomas,  a  British  jurist 
and  statesman,  born  at  Edinburgh  in  1750, 
died  near  that  city  in  1823.  He  was  the  third 
son  of  the  Earl  of  Buchan,  and  entered  the 
navy  as  midshipman  at  the  age  of  f  ourteen,but 
resigned  after  four  years,  and  received  a  com- 
mission in  the  army.  He  married  at  twenty, 
and  was  soon  sent  with  his  regnnent  to 
Minorca,   where  he  served    two    years,  and 


THOMAS    ERSKINE.  287 

for  three  yeavs  more  was  stationed  in  various 
parts  of    England.     He  was  then  entered  at 
Lincoln's  Inn,  and  was  called  to  the  bar  in 
1778.    Three  months  after,  he  made  an  able 
plea  in  behalf  of  a  person  indicted  for  a  libel; 
the  effect  of    which   was    that   he   received 
thirty  retainers  before  leaving  the  court  room. 
He  rose  so  rapidly  in  his  profession  that  in 
1783,  on  the  suggestion  of  Lord  Mansfield, 
the  presiding  Judge  in  the  Court  of  King's 
Bench,   a  patent  was  issued  givmg  him  the 
precedence  at  the  bar,  and  in  the  same  year 
he  was  returned  to  Parliament  for  the  borough 
of  Portsmouth.     His  ablest  forensic  speeches 
were  in  defense  of  the  freedom  of  the  press, 
the  riglits  of  juries,   and   against    the    doc- 
trine of  constructive  treason.  In  1806  William 
Pitt  died,  and  a  coalition  Ministry  was  formed 
under  Lord  Grenville,  in  Avhich  Erskine  was 
made  Lord  High  Chancellor,  and  raised  to  the 
peerage  under  the  title  of  Baron  Erskine  of 
Restonnel  Castle,  in  Cornwall.    The  Grenville 
Ministry  was  dissolved  within  less  than    a 
year,  and  Erskine  passed  the  remainder  of 
his    life    in    retirement,  and    in    straitened 
pecuniary  circumstances.      His  last  appear- 
ance in  the  House  of  Lords  was  at  the  trial 
of  Queen  Caroline  in  1820.     He  wrote  a  po- 
litical pamphlet,   A  Vieiu  of  the  Causes  and 
Coiuieqicences     of     the    jjrcseut     War    with 
France   (1797),  which  passed  through  forty- 
eight  editions  in  a  few  months;  and  a  few 
brief  poems,  among  which  was  a  parody  upon 
Gray's  Bard.  Collections  of  his  Speechesat  the 
Bar  and  in  Parliament  have  been  published  at 
several  times.  Tlie  b(!st  is  that  with  a  Memoir 
by  Lord  Brougliain   (i  vols.,   1817),  there  is  a 
Selection,  with  a  Memoir,  by  Edward  Walford 
(2  vols.,  1H70).     One  ai  the  greatest  (jf  these 
speeches  was  that  delivered  in  178'.t  in  defense 
of  John  Sto<-kdale,  who  had  printed  a  pam- 
phlet written  by   the  Rev.   John  Logan,  in 


288  THOMAS    ERSKINE. 

favor  of  Warren  Hastings,  who  was  then  upon 
trial  before  tlie  House  of  Lords.  This  pam- 
phlet was  regarded  as  a  libel  against  the  House 
of  Commons,  and  Stockdale  was  arraigned 
therefor.  Erskine's  plea  upon  this  occasion, 
the  principles  of  which  were  sanctioned  by 
the  verdict  of  the  Court,  became  the  foun- 
dation of  the  liberty  of  the  press  in  England. 

ON  THE  LAW   OF  LIBEL. 

Oentlomon,  the  question  you  have  therefore  to 
try  upon  all  this  matter  is  extremely  simple.  It  is 
neither  more  nor  less  than  this  :  At  a  time  when 
the  charges  against  Mr.  Hastings  were,  by  the  im- 
plied consent  of  the  Commons,  in  every  hand 
and  on  every  table — when,  by  their  managers,  the 
lightning  of  eloquence  was  incessantly  consuming 
him,  and  flashing  in  the  ej'es  of  the  public — when 
ever}'  man  was  with  perfect  impunity  saying, 
and  writing,  and  publishing  just  what  he  pleased 
of  the  supposed  plunderer  and  devastator  of 
nations — would  it  have  been  criminal  in  Mr. 
Hastings  himself  to  remind  the  public  that  he  was 
a  native  of  this  free  land,  entitled  to  the  common 
protection  of  her  justice,  and  that  he  had  a  de- 
fense in  his  turn  to  offer  to  them,  the  outlines  of 
which  he  implored  them  in  the  meantime  to  re- 
ceive, as  an  antidote  to  the  unlimited  and  un- 
punished poison  in  circulation  against  him  ?  This 
is,  without  color  or  exaggeration,  the  true  ques- 
tion you  are  to  decide.  Because  1  assert,  without 
the  hazard  of  contradiction,  that  if  Mr.  Hastings 
himself  could  have  stood  justified  or  excused  in 
your  eyes  for  publishing  this  volume  in  his  own 
defense,  the  author,  if  he  wrote  it  bona  fide  to  de- 
fend him,  must  stand  equally  excused  and  justified; 
and  if  the  author  be  justified,  the  publisher  can- 
not be  criminal,  unless  you  had  evidence  that 
it  was  published  by  him  with  a  different  spirit 
and  intention  from  those  in  wliicli  it  was  written. 
The  question,  therefore,  is  correctly  what  I  just 
now  stated  it  to  be — Could  Mr.  Hastings  have  been 
condemned  to  infamy  for  writing  this  book? 


THOMAS    ERSKINE.  289 

Grentlemen,  I  tremble  with  indignation  to  be 
driven  to  put  such  a  question  in  England.  Shall 
it  be  endured  that  a  subject  of  this  countrj"  may 
be  impeached  by  the  Commons  for  the  transactions 
of  twenty  years — that  the  acL'usation  shall  spread 
as  wide  as  the  region  of  letters — tliat  the  accused 
shall  stand,  day  after  day  and  year  after  year,  as  a 
spectacle  before  the  public,  which  shall  be  kept  in 
a  perpetual  state  of  inflammation  against  him:  yet 
that  he  shall  not,  without  the  severest  penalties, 
be  ijermitted  to  submit  anything  to  the  judgmejit 
of  mankind  in  his  defense  ?  If  this  be  law  (which 
it  is  for  j'ou  to-day  to  decide),  such  a  man  has  no 
trial.  That  great  hall,  built  by  our  fathers  for 
English  justice,  is  no  longer  a  court,  but  an 
altar:  and  an  Englishman,  instead  of  being  judged 
in  it  by  God  and  his  country,  is  a  victim  and  a 
Bacrifice. 

ON  THE  GOVERKMENT  OF  INDIA. 

The  unhappy  people  of  India,  feeble  and  effemi- 
nate a.s  they  are  from  the  softness  of  their  climate, 
and  subdued  anrl  broken  as  they  have  been  by  the 
knavery  and  strength  of  civilization,  still  occasion- 
ally start  up  in  all  the  vigor  and  intelligence  of 
insulted  nature.  To  be  governed  at  all,  they  juust 
lie  govenu-d  b}' a  rod  of  iron;  and  our  Empire  in 
the  East  would  long  since  liave  been  lost  to  Great 
Britain,  if  skill  and  military  prowess  had  not 
united  their  efforts  to  support  an  authority,  which 
Heaven  never  gave,  by  means  which  it  never  can 
sanction. 

Gentlemen,  I  think  I  can  observe  that  j'ou  are 
touched  with  this  way  of  considering  the  subject: 
and  I  can  account  for  it.  I  liave  not  been  consider- 
ing it  through  tlie  cold  medium  of  lx)oks,  but  liave 
lieen  sp<'aking  of  man  and  his  nature,  and  of 
human  dominion,  from  what  I  have  seen  of  tliem 
myself,  amongst  reluctant  nati(jns  sul)mitting  to 
our  authority.  I  know  wliat  tln-y  feci,  and  liow 
Kuch  feelings  can  alone  be  suppres.sed.  I  have 
lieard  them  in  my  youth,  from  a  naked  savage  in 
the  inrli^^nant  cliaractir  of  a  jtrincc  surroundcfl  by 
Ins  sui>ji'ctH.  adflressin^  thi>  governor  of  a  Hritisli 
colony,  holiling  a  l.uiidl<'  of  slicks  in  his  hand,  as 


200  THOMAS    EKSKINE. 

tho  notes  of  liis  unlettered  eloquence.  "Who  is  it  ?" 
said  the  jealou.s  ruler  over  the  desert,  encroached 
upon  by  the  i-estless  foot  of  English  adventure. 
"  Who  is  it  that  causes  this  river  to  rise  in  the  high 
mountains  and  empty  itself  into  the  ocean?  Who 
is  it  that  causes  to  blow  the  loud  winds  of  winter, 
and  that  calms  them  again  in  the  summer?  Who 
is  it  that  rears  up  the  shade  of  those  lofty  forests, 
and  blasts  them  with  the  quick  lightning  at  his 
pleasure  ?  The  same  Being  who  gave  to  you  a 
country  on  the  other  side  of  the  waters,  and  gave 
ours  to  us;  and  by  this  title  we  will  defend  it,"  said 
the  warrior,  throwing  down  his  tomahawk  upon 
the  ground,  and  raising  the  w^ar-sound  of  his 
nation.  These  are  the  feelings  of  subjugated  man 
all  round  the  globe;  and,  depend  upon  it,  nothing 
but  fear  will  control  where  it  is  vain  to  look  for 
affection. 

It  is  the  nature  of  everything  that  is  great  and 
useful,  both  in  the  animate  and  inanimate  world, 
to  be  wild  and  irregular, and  we  must  be  contented 
to  take  them  with  the  alloys  which  belong  to 
them,  or  live  without  them.  Genius  breaks  from 
the  fetters  of  criticism,  but  its  wanderings  are 
sanctioned  by  its  majesty  and  wisdom  when  it  ad- 
vances in  its  path:  subject  it  to  the  critic,  and 
you  tame  it  into  dullness.  Nightly  rivers  break 
down  their  banks  in  the  winter,  sweeping  away 
to  death  the  flocks  which  are  fattened  on  the  soil 
that  they  fertilize  in  the  summer;  the  few  may  be 
saved  by  embankments  from  drowning,  but  the 
flock  must  perish  from  hunger.  Tempests  occasion- 
ally shake  our  dwellings  and  dissipate  our  com- 
merce; but  they  scourge  before  them  the  lazy 
elements,  which  without  them  would  stagnate  into 
pestilence.  In  like  manner.  Liberty  herself,  the 
last  and  best  gift  of  God  to  his  creatures,  must 
be  taken  just  as  she  is.  .  You  might  pare  her  down 
into  bashful  regularity,  and  shape  her  into  a  per- 
fect model  of  severe  scrupulous  law,  but  she 
w-ould  then  be  Liberty  no  longer;  and  you  must  be 
content  to  die  under  the  lash  of  this  inexorable 
justice  wliich  you  had  exchanged  for  the  banners 
of  Freedom. 


LEONHARD    EULER.  291 

JTSTICE  AND  MERCY. 

Every  human  tribunal  ought  to  take  care  to  ad- 
minister justice.as  we  look,hereafter,to  have  justice 
administered  to  ourselves.  Upon  the  principle  on 
which  the  Attorney-General  prays  sentence  on 
my  client — God  have  mercy  upon  us  !  Instead  of 
standing  before  him  in  judgment  with  the  hopes 
and  consolations  of  Clxristians,  we  must  call  upon 
the  mountains  to  cover  us;  for  which  of  us  can 
present,  for  omniscient  examination,  a  pure,  un- 
spotted and  faultless  course  ?  But  I  liumbly  ex- 
pect that  the  benevolent  Author  of  our  being  will 
judge  us  as  I  have  been  pointing  out  for  your  ex- 
ample. Holding  up  the  great  volume  of  our  lives  in 
his  hands,  and  regarding  the  general  scope  of  them, 
if  he  discovers  benevolence,  charity,  and  good- will 
to  man  beating  in  the  heart,  where  he  alone  can 
look — if  he  finds  that  our  conduct,  though  often 
forced  out  of  the  path  by  our  infirmities,  has  been 
in  general  well-directed — his  all-searching  eye 
will  assuredly  never  pursue  us  into  tliose  little 
corners  of  our  lives,  much  less  will  his  justice 
select  them  for  punishment,  without  the  general 
context  of  our  existence,  by  which  faults  may  be 
sometimes  found  to  have  grown  out  of  virtues,  and 
very  many  of  our  heaviest  offences  to  liave  been 
grafted  by  human  iinj>erfecti(jn  upon  the  best  and 
kindest  of  our  affections.  No,  gentlemen;  believe 
me,  this  is  not  the  course  of  divine  justice,  or 
there  is  no  truth  in  the  Gospel  of  Heaven.  If  the 
general  tenor  of  a  man's  conduct  be  such  as  I 
have  represented  it,  he  may  walk  through  the 
shadow  of  death,  with  all  his  faults  al)out  him, 
with  as  muchcheerfullnt'ssas  in  the  conunon  patlis 
of  life;  because  he  knows  that  instead  of  a  stem 
accuser  to  expose  before  the  Author  of  his  nature 
those  frail  passages  wliicli,  liUt-  tiie  scored  matter 
in  the  IxMjk  l)ef(jre  you,  checjuers  the  volume  of  tlie 
bright^-st  and  lx.'st-si>ent  life,  liis  merry  will  oiwcure 
them  from  the  eye  of  his  purity,  and  our  repent- 
ance blot  them  out  forever. 

EUT.EK,  I.Kr>NHARl).  <i  Swiss  savfint,  born  at 
hiiHi'\  ill  1707,  died  at  St.  IVtersburg,  Russia, 
in   llH'.i.     Jl<,' waa  intendt'd   for  tlie  (Jluirch; 


I 


•39:2  LEONHARD    EULER. 

I 
but  his  thoughts  were  mainly  directed  tow-  .^ 

ards  philosophical  subjects.  He  graduated 
from  the  University  of  Basel  at  nineteen ;  but 
he  had  already  attracted  attention  by  a  memoir 
upon  naval  architecture,  and  in  1737  went  to 
St.  Petersburg,  where  in  1733  he  was  appointed 
to  the  chair  of  mathematics.  His  reputation 
came  to  be  so  high  that  in  1741  he  was  invited 
by  Frederick  the  Great  to  come  to  Berlin, 
which  was  his  home  during  the  ensuing  twenty- 
five  years,  still  retaining  his  Russian  ap- 
pointments. In  1766  he  went  back  to  Rus- 
sia, upon  the  invitation  of  the  Empress 
Catharine  II.  Just  before  this  he  had 
become  nearly  blind;  but  notwithstanding 
this  infirmity  he  produced  numerous  works 
in  the  higher  mathematics,  which  in- 
volved a  perfect  recollection  of  the  most 
intricate  mathematical  formula.  He  possessed 
also  the  faculty  of  presenting  scientific  subjects 
in  a  manner  fitted  for  popular  comprehension. 
His  works,  produced  during  a  period  of  more 
than  half  a  century,  would  fill  some  fifty 
large  folio  volumes.  Among  these  is  his  An- 
leitung  zur  Algebra  (translated  into  English 
by  Prof.  Farrar  of  Harvard  College),  which 
is  characterized  as  having  "never  been  sur- 
passed for  its  lucid  and  attractive  mode  of 
presenting  the  elements  of  that  science. "  In 
literature,  as  connected  with  science,  Euler 
is  best  represented  by  his  Lettres  d  une  Prin- 
cesse  d'  Allemagne,  etc.  (1768-72),  and  trans- 
lated into  English  by  Hunter,  under  the  title, 
Letters  on  Natural  Philosophy,  which,  "al- 
though in  some  degree  superseded  by  the  pro- 
gress of  modern  discoveries  will  always  be 
esteemed  as  a  model  of  perspicuous  statement 
and  felicitous  illustration." 

NEWTON'S  DISCOVERY  OF  UNIVERSAL  GRAVITATION. 

Gravity,  or  Weight,  is  a  property  of  all  terrestrial 
bodies,  and  it  extends  likewise  to  the  moon.    It  is 


LEONHARD    EULER.  293 

in  virtue  of  gravity  that  the  moon  presses  towards 
the  earth  ;  and  gravity  regulates  her  motioDS,  just 
as  it  directs  that  of  a  stone  thrown  or  of  a  cannon- 
ball  fired  off. 

To  Newton  we  are  indebted  for  this  important 
discovery.  This  great  English  philosopher  and 
geometrician  happening  one  day  to  be  lying  under 
an  apple-tree,  an  apple  fell  upon  his  head,  and 
suggested  to  him  a  multitude  of  reflections.  He 
readily  conceived  that  gi-avity  was  the  cause 
of  the  apple's  falling,  by  overcoming  the  force 
which  attached  it  to  the  branch.  Any  person 
whatever  might  have  made  the  same  reflections; 
but  the  English  philosopher  pursued  it  much 
further.  Would  this  force  have  always  acted  upon 
the  apple,  bad  the  tree  been  a  great  deal  higher? 
He  could  entertain  no  doubt  of  it. 

But  had  the  height  been  equal  to  that  of  the 
moon?  Here  he  found  himself  at  a  loss  to  de- 
termine whether  the  apple  would  fall  or  not.  In 
case  it  should  fall,  which  appeared  to  him, 
however,  liighly  probable — since  it  is  impossible  to 
conceive  a  bound  to  the  height  of  the  tree  at  which 
it  would  cease  to  fall — it  must  still  have  a  certain 
degree  of  gravity  forcing  it  toward  the  earth, 
therefore,  if  the  moon  were  at  the  same  place,  she 
must  be  pressed  toward  the  earth  by  a  power 
similar  to  that  which  would  act  upon  the  apple. 
Nevertheless,  as  the  moon  did  not  fall  on  his  head 
he  conjectured  that  motion  might  be  the  cause  of 
this;  just  as  a  bomb  frequently  flies  over  us,  with- 
out falling  vertically.  This  comparison  of  the 
motion  of  the  moon  to  that  of  a  bomb  determined 
him  attentively  to  examine  this  question;  and 
aided  by  the  m  st  sublime  geometry,  he  discovered 
that  the  moon  in  her  motion  was  subject  to  the 
same  laws  which  regulate  that  of  a  bomb; 
and  that  if  it  were  possible  to  hurl  a  bomb  to  the 
height  of  the  moon,  and  with  the  same  velocity, 
the  bomb  would  have  the  same  motion  as  the 
moon,  with  this  difference  only,  that  the  gravity  of 
the  bomb  at  such  a  distance  from  the  earth  would 
be  much  less  than  at  its  surface. 


294  LEONHARD    EULER. 

You  will  see,  from  this  detail,  that  the  fir^^t 
reasonings  of  the  philosopher  on  this  subject  were 
very  simple,  and  scarcely  differed  from  those  of 
the  clown;  but  he  soon  pushed  them  far  beyond  the 
level  of  the  clown.  It  is,  then,  a  very  remarkable 
property  of  the  earth,  that  not  only  all  bodies  near 
it,  but  those  also  which  are  remote,  even  as  far  as 
the  distance  of  the  moon,  have  a  tendency  toward 
the  centime  of  the  earth,  in  virtue  of  a  power  which 
is  called  gravity,  and  which  diminishes  in  pro- 
portion as  bodies  remove  from  the  earth. 

The  English  philosopher  did  not  stop  here.  As 
he  knew  that  the  other  planets  are  perfectly 
similar  to  the  earth,  he  concluded  that  bodies 
adjacent  to  each  planet  possess  gravity,  and  that 
the  direction  of  this  gravity  is  toward  the  centre 
of  such  planet.  This  gravity  might  be  greater  or 
less  there  than  on  the  earth;  in  other  words, 
that  a  body  of  a  certain  weight  with  us,  transported 
to  the  surface  of  any  other  planet,  might  there 
weigh  more  or  less. 

Finally,  this  power  of  gravity  of  each  planet  ex- 
tends likewise  to  great  distances  around  them;  and 
as  we  see  that  Jupiter  has  four  satellites,  and  Saturn 
five,  which  move  around  them  just  as  the  moon  does 
round  the  earth,  it  could  not  be  doubted  that  the 
motion  of  the  satellites  of  Jupiter  was  regulated 
by  their  gravity  toward  the  centre  of  that  planet ; 
and  that  of  the  satellites  of  Saturn  by  their 
gravitation  toward  the  centre  of  Saturn.  Thus,  in 
the  same  manner  as  the  moon  moves  round  the 
earth,  and  their  respective  satellites  move  round 
Jupiter  and  Saturn,  all  the  planets  themselves 
move  round  the  Sun.  Hence  Newton  drew  this 
illustrious  and  important  conclusion:  That  the  Sun 
is  endowed  with  a  similar  property  of  attracting 
all  bodies  towards  its  centre,  by  a  power  which 
may  be  called  "solar  gravity."  This  power  ex- 
tends to  a  prodigous  distance  around  him,  and  far 
beyond  all  the  planets;  for  it  is  this  power  which 
modifies  all  their  motions. 

The  same  great  philosopher  discovered  the  means 
of  determining  the  motion  of  bodies  from  the  know- 
ledge of  the  power  by  which  they  are  attracted 


EURIPIDES.  295 

to  a  centre;  and  as  he  had  discovered  the  powers 
which  act  upon  the  planets,  he  was  enabled  to  give 
an  accurate  description  of  their  motion. '  In  truth, 
before  he  arose  the  world  was  in  a  state  of  profound 
ignorance  respecting  the  motions  of  the  heavenly 
bodies;  and  to  him  alone  we  a-e  indebted  for  all  the 
light  which  we  now  enjoy  in  the  science  of 
astronomy.  It  is  astonishing  to  think  how  much  of 
their  progress  all  the  sciences  owe  to  an  original 
idea  so  very  simple.  Had  not  Newton  accidentally 
been  lying  in  an  orchard,  and  had  not  that  apple 
by  chance  fallen  on  his  head,  we  might,  perhaps, 
still  have  been  in  the  same  state  of  ignorance  re- 
specting the  motions  of  the  heavenly  bodies,  and 
multitudes  of  other  phenomena  depending  upon 
them. — Letter  LIT. 

EURIPIDES,  a  Greek  dramatic  poet,  born 
in 480,  died  in  406  B.C.  His  father,  Mnesarchus, 
was  a  citizen,  apparently  in  good  circum- 
stances, since  his  son  received  the  best  phy- 
sical and  intellectual  training  of  the  time. 
Euripides,  while  a  mere  lad,  came  to  be  a 
clever  athlete,  although  he  was  not  allowed 
to  enter  himself  among  the  contestants  at  the 
Olympic  games.  He  practiced  painting  for  a 
while,  but  soon  devoted  himself  wholly  to 
dramatic  composition.  He  is  said  to  have 
written  a  drama  at  the  age  of  eighteen ;  but 
his  first  acted  play,  now  lost,  was  brought 
out  at  twenty-five.  Fourteen  years  later  we 
find  him  contending  unsuccessfully  for  the 
tragic  prize.  In  441  b.  c,  at  the  age  of  forty- 
nine,  he  again  contended  for  the  prize,  bring- 
ing out  a  "tetralogy,"  or  series  of  four 
dramas,  one  of  which  was  the  Medea.  He 
gained  only  the  third  prize,  the  first  being 
awarded  to  Euphorion,  an  otherwise  almost 
unknown  son  of  ^schylus,  and  the  second 
to  Sophocles.  From  this  time  for  a  quarter 
of  a  century  Euripides  and  Sophocles  were 
eager  but  friendly  competitors  for  dramatic 


m  EURIPIDES. 

honors,  the  latter  gaining  a  majority  of  the 
prizes.  Among  the  contemporaries  of  Euri- 
pides were  some  of  the  foremost  names  in 
Greek  hterature.  He  was  fifty-four  years  old 
when  ^schylus  died,  and  Sophocles  was 
fifteen  when  Euripides  was  born.  Euripides 
was  twelve  years  older  than  Socrates,  and 
thirty-four  years  older  than  Aristophanes,  his 
keen  satirist. 

Euripides  never  held  office,  and  took  no 
active  part  in  public  affairs,  living  the  life  of 
a  man  of  letters.  The  entire  number  of  his 
dramas  is  variously  stated  at  from  75  to  92 ; 
of  which  18  are  extant,  the  authenticity  of 
which  is  admitted  by  scholars.  Besides  these 
are  more  than  1000  fragments  from  other 
dramas,  preserved  by  being  quoted  by  later 
writers.  The  following  are  the  titles  of  the 
extant  dramas,  arranged  in  the  probable  order 
of  their  composition:  Alcestis,  Medea,  Hip- 
polytus,  Hecuba,  Ion,  The  Supplicants,  The 
Heraclidce,  The  Mad  Hercules,  The  Troades, 
Electra,  Helena,  The  Phoenissoi,  Iphigenia  in 
Tauris,  Andromache,  Orestes,  The  Bacchoe, 
Cyclops,  Iphigenia  at  Aidis. 

In  408  B.  c.  Euripides,  then  seventy -two 
years  of  age,  brought  out  at  Athens  his  tra- 
gedy of  Orestes.  Directly  afterwards  he  went 
to  the  then  rude  kingdom  of  Macedon, 
whither  he  had  been  invited  by  King  Arche- 
laus,  who  was  desirous  that  Greeks  of  culture 
should  take  up  their  residence  in  his  domin- 
ions. Here  Euripides  wrote,  or  at  least  com- 
pleted, several  of  his  extant  dramas.  But  he 
died  two  years  after  going  to  Macedon.  By 
none  was  he  mourned  more  than  by  his  great 
rival,  Sophocles,  who  was  then  bringing  out 
at  Athens  the  last  of  his  tragedies.  He  put 
on  mourning,  and  ordered  that  the  actors 
should  present  themselves  in  funeral  attire. 
The  Athenians,  not  being  able  to  have  the  re- 


EURIPIDES.  297 

mains  of  Euripides  bi-ought  back  to  their 
city,  set  up  a  bust  of  him  in  the  pubhc  place, 
and  built  a  cenotaph  in  his  honor,  upon  which 
was  placed  an  inscription,  said  to  have  been 
composed  by  Thucydides. 

Alcestis,  the  earliest  of  the  extant  dramas 
of  Euripides,  and  one  of  the  best,  is  founded 
upon  an  ancient  Greek  legend  to  the  effect 
that  the  Fates  had  decreed  that  the  thread  of 
the  life  of  Admetus,  King  of  Pherse,  in  Thes- 
saly,  should  be  cut  off ;  but,  at  the  interces- 
sion of  Apollo,  they  granted  that  his  life 
should  be  prolonged  to  old  age  if  any  one  of 
his  near  kindred  would  consent  to  die  in  his 
stead.  His  father  and  mother  refused  thus 
to  give  up  their  own  lives  to  prolong  that  of 
their  son.  Alcestis,  the  young  wife  of  Adme- 
tus, volunteered  to  make  the  sacrifice.  Ad- 
metus was  restored  to  health,  and  at  the 
opening  of  the  drama  Alcestis  lay  at  the 
point  of  death. 

THE  DEATH  OP  ALCESTIS. 

Alcestis  and  Admetus  with  their  Children.— Chorus. 

Ale. — O  sun!  and  light,  and  clouds  of  heaven, 
In  fleecy  rolls  revolved  and  driven  ! 

Adm. — The  sun  beholds  two  wretched  creatures 
here, 
Who  have  done  nothing  wherefore  thou  shouldsr 
die. 

Ale. — O  earth,  and  palace,  and  thou  bed, 
For  my  e.spousals  whilom  spread  ! 

Adm.— Cheer  up,  unhappy  consort;  leavemenot, 
But  pray  the  sovereign  gods  to  pity  us. 

-4/c. — I  see  the  two-oared  boat !  I  see 
The  ferryman  of  all  the  dead. 
With  pole  in  hand,  he  calls  for  me — 
'Tis  Charon  calls,  with  accent  dread. 
And  vehemently  chides  my  delay  I 
"  Come  (juickly,  come  !  Why  this  delay?" 

.^cZj/i.— Wretch  that  I  am  !   Oh  crudest  voyage 
to  me ! 
My  dearest  doomed  wife  !  what  woe  is  ourg  ! 


298  EURIPIDES. 

Ale. — Some  winged  Hades  pulls  me  now 
Unto  the  dead  !     Do  you  not  see  ? 
From  underneath  his  sable  brow 
The  King  of  Terrors  glares  at  me  ! 
What  wilt  thou  do  ?    Unhand  me  !  Oh  ! 
Loose  me  !   On  what  a  path  I  go  ! 

^dm.— Path  dismal  to  my  friends,  and  most  to 
me, 
And  to  these  children,  sharers  of  my  grief. 

Ale. — Lay  me  down!    I  can  not  stand, 
Hades  now  is  near  at  hand  ; 
O'er  mine  eyes  the  last  of  sleeps, 
The  long  night  of  darkness  creeps. 
Children  !    Now  my  life  is  o'er, 
And  your  mother  is  no  more  ; 
May  your  lives  with  joy  be  bright. 
May  ye  long  behold  the  light ! 

Adm.— Ah,  woeful  speech  for  me  to  hear, 
Harder  than  any  death  to  bear  ! 
Oh,  by  the  gods,  and  by  these  ties, 
Motherless,  when  their  mother  dies. 
Forsake  me  notl  Arise  dear  wife  ! 
While  I  have  thee  I  still  have  life  ; 
Without  thy  being  mine  is  o'er. 
So  much  I  love  thee  and  adore. 

Ale. — Admetus,  you  perceive  how  'tis  with  me, 
But  I  would  tell  my  wishes  ere  I  die. 
How  I've  loved,  honored  thee,  appears  in  this  : 
I  die,  when  not  to  die  was  in  my  power, 
Giving  my  life  that  thou  mayst  see  the  light. 
I  might  have  lived,  and  wedded  with  some  chief 
Of  Thessaly,  and  dwelt  in  princely  state  : 
But  without  thee,  my  children  fatherless, 
I  was  not  willing  to  drag  on  my  life  ; 
Nor  spared  myself,  still  in  the  bloom  of  youth. 
Life's  freshness,  in  whose  sweets  I  took  delight. 
Yet  both  thy  parents — both  near  life's  last  goal — 
Betrayed  thee,  when  they  might  have  nobly  died. 
And  so  have  saved  their  son,  their  only  child. 
With  no  hope  left  of  other  progeny. 
We  twain  had  lived,  nor  thou,  disconsolate. 
Been  left  to  rear  the  children  whom  I  leave. 
But  some  God  brought  about  it  should  be  so. 
Well,  be  it  so  !    Then  make  me  a  return  : 


EURIPIDES.  299 

One  equal  to  my  claim  I  cannot  ask, 
For  nothing  is  more  precious  than  one's  life. 
However,  "tis  a  just  one,  thou  wilt  own. — 
Thou  lovest  these  little  ones  no  less  than  I ; 
And  bring  them  up  as  princes  in  my  house, 
Nor  introduce  an  envious  stepmother, 
Less  kind  in  her  affections  than  myself, 
To  lord  it  o'er  them  with  a  heavy  hand  ; 
Remember  my  request.     A  stepdame  hates 
The  children  of  a  former  marriage  born  ; 
To  them  no  milder  than  an  adder  is. 
My  boy  will  in  his  father  find  a  tower; 
But  how,  my  girl,  shalt  thou  fit  training  have? 
How  will  thy  father's  consort  act  to  thee  ? 
Oh,  may  she  not  by  slanderous  rumor  spoil 
Thy  hope  of  marriage  in  thy  bloom  of  youth  ! 
Thy  mother  ne'er  shall  deck  thee  as  a  bride  ; 
Nor,  where  a  mother  kinder  is  than  all 
Amidst  thy  groans  of  childbirth  comfort  thee. 
For  I  must  die— not  when  the  morrow  comes, 
Nor  on  the  third  day  of  the  month;  but  now. 
E'en  now,  must  I  be  numbered  with  the  dead. 
My  husband  and  my  childi-en !  fare  ye  well 
And  prosper  !  Ye  can  say,  no  man  ever  had 
A  better  wife,  no  children  better  mother. 

Adm.—lt  shall  Ije  so  ;  it  shall  be,  doubt  it  not. 
Since  I  had  thee  when  living,  still  when  dead 
Shalt  thou  be  my  sole  wife.     None  after  thee 
Sliall  call  me  husband;  nor  Thessalian  bride. 
Nor  one  of  any  land  though  most  complete 
In  beauty,  daughter  of  the  noblest  sire. 
The  number  of  my  children  is  enough; 
I  pray  the  gods  I  may  have  joy  of  them. 
For  I  liave  none  of  thee.     But  I  shall  feel 
Grief  for  thy  loss,  not  only  for  a  year. 
But  while  I  live  ;  and  botli  my  parents  hate, 
Who  were  my  friends  in  word  but  not  in  deed. 
To  save  mine  thou  hast  given  thy  dearest  life  ; 
Must  I  not  groan,  then,  losing  such  a  spouse? 
Henceforth  no  feasts  for  me,  no  revellers. 
No  garlands,  and  no  music  in  my  house. 
As  heretofore  ;  nor  will  I  touch  the  lyre. 
Nor  breathe  again  upon  the  Libyan  flute. 
Oh  never,  never,  shall  I  have  the  heart, 


80a  EUEIPIDES. . 

For  thou  hast  ta^en  away  my  joy  of  life. 
But  modeled  by  a  skilful  artist's  hand, 
Thine  image  shall  be  laid  upon  my  bed. 
And  I  will  fall  on't  and  repeat  thy  name, 
And  think  I  have— alas  !  not  having  thee. 
Cold  comfort— but  some  little  ease  of  mind; 
And  in  my  dreams  the  vision  of  thy  love 
Shall  give  me  joy;  'tis  pleasant  to  behold 
A  friend  at  all  times,  even  in  the  night. 
But  if  I  had  the  tongue  and  melody 
Of  Orpheus,  as  to  appease  with  ravishment 
Of  holy  hymns,  Proserpine  or  her  lord. 
And  from  their  gloomy  realms  recover  thee, 
I  would  go  down  ;  then  neither  Pluto's  hound, 
Nor  Charon  at  his  oar — the  ferryman 
Of  the  Departed — should  inhibit  me; 
But  I  would  bring  thee  back  to  life  and  light. 
Expect  me  there,  however,  when  I  die, 
And  have  a  mansion  ready  for  us  both  ; 
For  I  will  give  these  children  charge  to  enclose 
My  bones  with  thine,  and  lay  me  by  thy  side. 
May  I  be  joined  with  thee,  sole  faithful  friend. 
To  be  no  more  divided,  when  I'm  dead. 

Ale. — My  children,  ye  have  heard  your  father's 
pledge. 
That  he  will  not  so  much  dishonor  me 
As  to  take  other  wife  to  rule  o'er  you. 

Adm. — Again  I  give  it,  and  will  keep  it  too. 

Ale. — So  pledged,  receive  these  children  from 
my  hand. 

Ad7n.  —A  precious  gift  from  dear  hand  I  receive. 

Ale. — Be  thou  a  mother  to  them  in  my  stead. 

Adm.— My  loss  compels  me  to  this  added  charge. 

.<4Zc.— My  children,  I  depart  when  I  should  live. 

Adm.— Ah  !  What  shall  I  do,  widowed  and  for- 
lorn? 

Ale. — Time  will  console  thee,  for  the  dead  are 
nothing. 

Adm. — Oh,  take  me  with  thee— take  me.  by  the 
gods  ! 

Ale. — I  die  for  thee — one  victim  is  enough. 

Adm. — Oh  Fate!  of  what  a  wife  thou  spoilest  me  ! 

Ale. — Darkness  lies  heavy  on  my  drooping  eyes. 

Adm. — I  am  undone,  if  thou  forsakest  me. 


EURIPIDES.  301 

Ale. — Speak  of  me  as  no  more,  as  nothing  now. 

Adm. — Lift  up  thy  face  ;  abandon  not  thy  chil- 
dren. 

Ale. — Not  willingly  ;  my  children,  oh  farewell ! 

Adin. — Look  on  them — look — oh  look  ! 

Ale. — 1  am  no  more. 

Adm. — Ah  !  do  you  leave  us  and  depart? 

Ale. — Farewell !  [Dies.] 

Adm. — I'm  lost ! 

Chorus. — Admetus,   you    must  bear  this  heavy 
stroke  : 
You're  neither  first  nor  last  to  have  such  loss  : 
Think  death  a  debt  which  we  have  all  to  pay. 

Adm. — I  know  it ;  nor  this  ill  came  unawares 
With  fear  of  it  I  have  been  long  afflicted  ; 
But  I  will  now  appoint  the  buna! ; 
Chant  ye,  meanwhile,  a  hymn  to  gloomy  Dis, 
The  implacable  god  of  the  Subterraue. 
Let  the  Thessalians  over  whom  I  rule, 
With  their  locks  shorn,  and  in  black  robes  appear. 
Your  chariots  yoke,  and  shear  the  coursers'  manes  ! 
And  for  twelve  moons  let  neither  flute  nor  lyre 
Sound  in  the  city  ;  for  I  shall  ne'er  inter 
A  dearer  or  a  more  deserving  one. 
Oh,  worthiest  of  all  honor  I  can  pay 
Is  she  that  only  dared  to  die  for  me. 

—Transl.  of  Chapman. 

[While  Admetus  and  the  Children  go  out  with  Attendants 
bearing  the  dead  body  the  Chorus  sing  in  responsive 
Strophe  and  Antistrophe.] 

I. 

Immortal  bliss  be  thine. 
Daughter  of  Pelias,  in  the  realm  below  ; 
Immortal  pleasures  round  thee  flow, 
Though  never  there  the  sun's  bright  beams  shall 
shine. 

Be  the  black-browed  Pluto  told, 
And  the  Stygian  boatman  old, 
Whose  rude  hands  grasp  the  oar,  the  rudder  guide, 
The  dead  conveying  o'er  the  tide, 
Let  him  \>e  told,  so  rich  a  freight  before 
His  light  skifT  never  Iwre. 
Tell  him  that  o'er  the  joyless  lakes 
The  noblest  of  her  sex  her  dreary  passage  takes. 


802  EURIPIDES. 

II. 
Thy  praise  the  bards  shall  tell, 
When  to  their  liymning  voice  the  echo  rings, 
Or  wlien  they  sweep  the  solemn  strings, 
And  walce  to  rapture  tlie  seven-chorded  shell ; 
Or  in  Sparta's  jocund  towers. 
Circling  wlien  the  vernal  hours 
Bring  the  Carnean  feast ;  while  through  the  night 
Full-orbed  the  high  moon  rolls  her  light, 
Or  where  rich  Athens,  proudly  elevate. 
Shows  her  magnific  state  ; 
Their  voice  thy  glorious  death  shall  raise. 
And  swell  the  raptured  strain  to  celebrate  thy 
praise. 

III. 
Oh  that  I  had  the  power, 
Could  I  but  bring  thee  from  the  shades  of  night 

Again  to  view  this  golden  light. 
To  leave  that  boat,  to  leave  that  dreary  shore 
Where  Cocytus,  deep  and  wide, 
Rolls  along  his  sullen  tide  ! 
For  thou,  O  best  of  women,  thou  alone 
For  thy  lord's  life  daredstgive  thine  own. 
Light  lie  the  earth  upon  that  gentle  breast. 
And  be  thou  ever  blest  I 
But  should  he  choose  to  wed  again. 
Mine  and  thy  childrens'  hearts  would  hold  him  in 
disdain. 

IV. 

When  to  avert  his  doom, 
His  mother  in  the  earth  refused  to  lie  ; 

Nor  would  his  ancient  father  die 

To  save  his  son  from  an  untimely  tomb ; 

Though  the  hand  of  time  had  spread 

Hoar  hairs  o'er  each  aged  head  : 

In  youth's  fresh  bloom,  in  beauty's  radiant  glow, 

The  darksome  way  thou  daredst  to  go, 
And  for  thy  youthful  lord's  to  give  thy  life. 
Be  mine  so  true  a  wife, 
Though  rare  the  lot  ;  then  should  I  prove 
The  indisoluble  bond  of  faithfulness  and  love. 
— Transl.  of  Potter. 

But  the  drama  does  not  end  here.     Hercules 
happeixing  to  be  present,  bound  upon  one  of  his 


EURIPIDES.  303 

hazardous  adventures,  volunteers  to  descend 
to  the  Underworld,  and  bring  back  the  lost 
Alcestis.    He 

"  By  force. 
Wrests  from  the  guardian  monster  of  the  tomb 

Alcestis,  a  re-animated  corse. 
Given  back  to  dwell  on  earth  in  vernal  bloom." 

Alcestis  has  a  glad  ending.  But  Medea  is 
tragic  from  first  to  last.  Medea  is  deserted 
by  the  ingrate  Jason,  who  takes  another 
spouse.  Medea,  stung  to  madness,  resolves  at 
first  to  kill  Jason,  but  changes  her  purpose  in 
order  to  inflict  upon  him  a  punishment  woi'se 
than  death  :  She  will  kill  their  two  children. 
The  following  is  the  concluding  scene  of  the 
tragedy  : 

THE  LAST  SCENE  IN  MEDEA. 

[Jason,  Medea,  and  Chorus.] 
Jos. — Ye  female  train  that  near  this  mansion 
stand, 
Say  is  Medea  in  the  house  who  wrought 
These  deeds  of  horror,  or  withdrawn  by  flight  ? 
But  she  must  hide  her  deep  beneatli  the  earth, 
Or  rise  on  light  wings  through  the  etliereal  height, 
Or  vengeance  for  the  royal  house  will  fall 
With  fury  on  lier.     Doth  lier  pride  presume, 
That  having  slain  the  monarch  of  this  land. 
Her  flight  shall  lie  secure  from  chastisement? 
But  less  for  her  than  for  my  sons  my  care. 
Revenge  from  those  whom  she  hath  wronged  shall 

fall 
On  her ;  I  come  to  save  mj'  chiklrens'  lives, 
Lest  on  their  heads  the  kindred  of  the  king 
Punish  their  impious  mother's  murderous  deed. 
Chor.  — Thou   k  no  west  not,  wretched  Jason,  to 
what  height 
Thy  ills  are  risen,  or  this  thou  hadst  not  said. 
Jaa. — What !  does  her  purpose  reach  to  kill  me 

too? 
Chor. — Thy  sons  are  dead  beneath  their  mother's 

hands. 
Jas.— Ah   me!    what  sayest  thou.    Thou  hast 
pierced  my  lieart. 


iJ04  EURIPIDES. 

Chor.— Think  of  tliy  sons  as  living  now  no  more. 
Jus. — Where  killed  she  them?  abroad,  or  in  the 

house  ? 
Choi'. — Open  the  door,  and  thou  wilt  see  them 

slain. 
Jus. — Instant,  ye  menial  train,  unbar  the  door, 
Give  me  admittance  that  I  may  behold 
This  aggravated  ill — my  children  slain, 
And  drag  her  to  deserved  punishment. 

[Here,  according  to  the  Sctujlia»t,  Medea  appears  above  in  a 
chariot  drawn  by  dranonx,  bearing  the  bodies  of  her  slatight- 
ereii  mna.] 

Med. — Why  with  this  tumult  dost  thou  beat  the 
door, 
Seeking  the  dead,  and  me  who  did  the  deed  ? 
Forbear  this  uproar.  Wouldst  thou  aught  with  me, 
Speak  it;  but  never  shalt  thou  touch  me  more; 
Tlie  Sun,  my  father,  gives  me  such  a  car — 
A  safe  protection  from  each  hostile  hand. 

Jas. — O  thou  detested  woman,  most  abhorred 
By  the  just  gods,  by  me,  and  all  mankind ! 
In  thine  owTi  children   who   couldst  plunge  the 

sword. 
Their  mother  thou  to  reave  me  of  my  sons ; 
And,  having  done  this  deed,  dost  yet  behold 
The  sun,  the  earth — tliis  deed  of  horror  done  I 
Perdition  seize  thee !     Now  I  know  thee;  then 
I  knew  tliee  not,  when  from  thy  home  I  led  thee, 
Led  thee  to  Greece  from  a  barbaric  shore. 
Pernicious  monster,  to  thy  father  false, 
And  traitors  to  the  land  that  nurtured  thee  ; 
And  now  tlie  vengeful  Furies  on  my  head 
Punish  thy  crimes  ;  for  with  thy  brother  s  blood 
Distained,  the  gallant  Argo  didst  thou  mount. 
This  was  a  prelude  to  thy  ruthless  deeds. 
Wedded  by  me,  a  mother  too  by  me. 
My  children  hast  thou  murdered,  in  revenge* 
For  my  new  bed  :  an  act  no  dame  of  Greece 
Would  ever  dare  attempt.     Yet  I  preferred  thee 
To  all  their  softer  charms,  and  wedded  thee — 
Alliance  hateful  and  destructive  to  me  ; 
A  tigress,  not  a  woman,  of  a  soul 
More  wild,  more  savage,  than  the  Tuscan  Scylla 
But  millions  of  reproaches  would  not  gall 


EURIPIDES.  305 

That  hard,  unfeeling  heart.     Then  get  thee  gone, 
Achiever  of  base  mischiefs,  blood-stained  pest, 
Stained  with  thy  children's  blood  ;  be  gone  and 
perish. 
Med.— Full  answer  to  thy  words  could  I  return, 
Recounting  each  past  circumstance;  but  Jove, 
The  Almighty    Father,     knows    what    grace     I 

showered 
On  thee,  and  what  requital  thou  hast  made. 
Thou  Shalt  not  pass  thy  wanton  life  in  joys, 
My  bed  dishonored,  and  make  villanous  jests 
At  my  disgrace.     Nor  shall  thy  royal  bride, 
Nor  the  proud  Creon  who  betrothed  her,  dare 
To  chase  me  from  his  country  unchastised. 
Call  me  a  tigress,  then,  or,  if  tliou  wilt, 
A  Scylla  howling  gainst  the  Tuscan  shore: 
I,  as  is  right,  have  taught  thy  heart  to  bleed. 
Jos.— Thy  heart  too  bleeds,  a  sharer  in  these  ills. 
3/etZ.— Be  thou  assured  of  that;  j-et  in  my  griefs 
I  joy  tliou  canst  not  make  a  mock  at  them. 
Ja.s.— My  children,  a  bad  mother  have  you  found. 
Med.— 'Sly  sons,    you    perished    through    your 

father's  folly. 
Jos.— Yet  my  right  hand  plunged  not  the  mur- 
derous sword. 
Med.— But  thy  foul  wrongs  and  thy  new  nuptials 

plunged  it. 
Jus. — And  for  these  nuptials  hast  thou  killed 

thy  sons  ? 
Med.—Thia  to  a  woman  deem'st  thou  a  slight 

pain '( 
Jan. — To  one  discreet;  but  all  is  ill  to  thee. 
Med. — These  are  no  more  ;  and  that  shall  rend 

thy  heart. 
Jus. — Their  shades  shall  pour  their  vengeance 

on  thy  head. 
Med. — The  just  gods   know  which  iirst  began 

these  ills. 
Jas. — And  tlje  gods  know  thy  execrable  heart. 
Med. — Tliou  and  thy  bitter  speech  are  liateful 

to  me. 
Jaa. — And  tliine  to  me.      This  soon  may  liave 
an  end. 


306  EURIPIDES. 

Med.— How 'i   for  I  wisli  to  free  me  from  thy 
sight. 

Jas. — Give  me  my  sons,  to  mourn  and  bury  them. 

Med. — Never ;  for  on  the  heiglit  where  Juno's 
shrine 
Hallows  the  ground,  this  hand  shall  bury  them 
That  hostile  rage  may  not  insult  their  ashes, 
And  rend  theui  from  the  tomb.     A  solemn  feast 
And  sacrifice  hereafter  to  this  land 
Will  I  appoint,  to  expiate  this  deed 
Of  horrid  murder.     In  the  friendly  land     [^Egeua, 
Where    once   Erechtlieus   reigned,   the   liouse  of 
Pandion's  son,  is  open  to  receive  me  ; 
Thither  I  go.     But  thou,  as  tliy  vile  deeds 
Deserve,  shalt  vilely  ])erish,  thy  base  head 
Crushed  with  the  mouldering  relics  of  thy  Argo, 
And  of  my  nuptials  feel  that  wretched  end. 

Jas. — Thee  may  the  Erinys  of  thy  sons  destroy, 
And  Justice,  which  for  blood  vindictive  calls 
For  blood. 

Med. — What  god  will  hear  thee,  or  what  Fury, 
Thou  perjured,  base  destroyer  of  the  rites 
Of  hospitality 

Jas. —  Away,  away. 

Thou  pest  abhorred,  thou  murderer  of  thy  sons. 

Med. — Go  to  thy  house;  go  and  entomb  thy  wife. 

Jas. — I  go,  deprived,  alas,  of  both  my  sons. 

Med. — This  grief  be  thine,  even  to  thy  latest  age. 

Jas. — O  my  dear  sons  ! 

Med. —  Ay,  to  their  mother  dear, 

But  not  to  thee. 

Jas. —         And  wherefore  didst  thou  kill  them? 

Med. — To  rend  thy  heart, 

Jas. —  Ah,  me,  ah  wretched  me  I 

I  long  to  kiss  the  dear  cheeks  of  my  sons. 

Med. — Thou  wouldst  address  them  now,  embrace 
them  noiv ; 
Then  thou  couldst  chase  them  from  thee. 

Jas.~  By  the  gods, 

Give  me  to  touch  their  soft  and  delicate  flesh. 

Med. — Never:  thy  words  are  thrown  away  in 
vain. 

Jas. — Hear'st  thou  this,  Jove,  with  what  indig- 
nant pride 


EURIPIDES.  307 

I  am  rejected,  with  what  insults  wronged. 
By  this  abhorred,  this  child-destroying  tigress? 
Yet  what  I  may,  what  power  is  left  me  yet, 
I  will  lament  them,  will  sit  down  and  wail, 
And  call  to  witness  the  avenging  gods, 
That,  having  slain  my  sons,  thou  hast  denied  me 
To  touch  the  dead  and  lay  them  in  tiie  tomb. 
Oh  that  I  never,  never  had  begot  them. 
To  see  them  thus,  thus  murdered  by  thy  hands. 
Chor. — Jove  in  high  heaven  dispenses  various 

fates : 
And  now  the  gods  shower  blessings,  which  our 

hopes 
Dare  not  aspire  to  ;  now  control  the  ills 
We  deemed  inevitable  :  thus  tlie  god 
To  these  hath  given  an  end  we  never  thought : 
Such  is  the  dreadful  fortune  of  this  day. 
— Tran.sl.  of  Potter. 

The  legend  of  Iphigenia  forms  the  subject 
of  two  dramas  by  Euripides — IphUjenia  in 
Taun's  and  Iphigenia  at  Aidis.  Agamemnon 
having  incurred  the  displeasure  of  Diana,  the 
Grecian  fleet  assembled  for  the  expedition 
against  Troy  was  detained  by  contrary  winds 
at  the  port  of  AuHs,  and  the  wrath  of  the 
goddess  could  be  appeased  only  upon  condi- 
tion that  Agamemnon  should  offer  up  his  own 
daugliter,  Iphigenia,  as  a  sacrifice.  In  order 
to  ensure  the  triumph  of  the  Grecian  arms, 
Iphigenia  consents  to  become  a  victim.  Ac- 
cording to  the  more  usual  version  of  the 
legend  the  sacrifice  was  completed;  but  ac- 
cording to  that  adopted  by  Euripides,  at  the 
moment  when  the  sacrificial  knife  was  raised, 
Diana  intervened,  substituted  a  fawn  in  place 
of  Iphigenia,  whom  she  bore  off  to  Tauris 
(the  modern  Crimea)  and  made  her  priestess 
of  her  temple  there,  where  she  remained  for 
twenty  yearH,  when  she  was  carried  off  by 
her  brother  Orestes,  who  had  come  to  that 
region  on  a  j)lund(*ring  expedition.  This  ex- 
pedition forms  i]\c  ihcnw.  <if  Ij>hi(/niia  in 
Tauris,  to  wlncli  /jiliigrtiiit  af  A  iilin  fovma  a 


308  EURIPIDES. 

kind  of  prelude,  though  written  many  years 
later,  being  probably  the  latest  of  all  the 
dramas  of  Euripides.  In  the  following  scene 
Iphigenia,  her  mother  Clytemnestra,  attended 
by  a  chorus  of  singing  maidens,  are  approach- 
ing the  place  for  the  sacrifice. 

IPHIGENIA   AT  AULIS. 

/i>/i.— Who  goes  with  me  and  leads  me  by  the 
hair 
Ere  I  am  dragged  away  ? 
Clyt. —  I  will  go  with  thee. 

Iph.—  No ; 

That  were  unseemly. 
Clyt. —  Hanging  on  thy  robes. 

Iph, — Let  me  prevail,  my  mother  ;  stay  :  to  me 
As  more  becoming  this,  and  more  to  thee. 
Let  one  of  these,  the  attendants  of  my  father, 
Conduct  me  to  Diana's  hallowed  mead. 
Where  I  shall  fall  a  victim. 

Clyt.—  Oh,  my  child. 

Dost  thou  then  go  ? 
Iph. —  And  never  to  return. 

Clyt. — And  wilt  thou  leave  thy  mother  ? 
Iph. —  As  thou  seest. 

Not  as  I  merit. 
Clyt. —  Stay,  forsake  me  not. 

Iph.— I  suffer  not  a  tear  to  fall.     But  you, 
Ye  virgins,  to  my  fate  attune  the  hymn, 
Diana,  daughter  of  Almighty  Jove. 
Witli  favoring  omens  sing.  Success  to  Greece, 
Come,  with  the  basket  one  begin  the  rites  ; 
One  with  purifying  cakes  the  flames 
Enkindle.     Let  my  father  his  right  hand 
Place  on  the  altar  ;  for  I  come  to  give 
Safety  to  Greece,  and  conquest  to  her  arms. 
[Iphigenia  and  the  Chorus.] 
I2)higenia, 
Lead  me  :  mine  the  glorious  fate 
To  o'erturn  the  Trojan  state  : 
Ilium's  towers  their  heads  shall  bow. 
With  tlie  garlands  bind  my  brow  ; 
Bring  them,  be  these  tresses  crowned. 
Round  tlie  shrine,  the  altar  round, 
Bear  the  lavers  which  you  fill 


EURIPIDES.  309 

From  the  pure  translucent  rill. 
High  your  choral  voices  raise, 
Turned  to  hymn  Dianas  praise, 
Blest  Diana,  royal  maid.— 
Since  the  Fates  demand  my  aid, 
I  fulfil  their  awful  power 
By  my  slaughter,  by  my  gore. 

Chorus. 
Reverenced,  reverenced  mother,  now 
Thus  for  thee  our  tears  shall  flow : 
For  unhallowed  would  a  tear 
'Mid  the  solemn  rites  appear. 

Ipliigenia. 
Swell  the  notes,  ye  virgin  train. 
To  Diana  swell  the  strain  ; 
Queen  of  Chalcis,  adverse  land  ; 
Queen  of  Aulis,  on  whose  strand,  . 
Winding  to  a  narrow  bay. 
Fierce  to  take  its  angry  way. 
Waits  the  war,  and  calls  on  me 
Its  retarded  force  to  free. 
O  my  country,  where  these  eyes 
Opened  on  Pelasgic  skies  I 
O  ye  virgins,  once  my  pride. 
In  Mycenae  who  reside  ! 

Clionis. 
Why  of  Perseus  name  the  town 
Which  Cyclopean  rampires  crown  T 

l2)higenia. 
Me  you  reared  a  beam  of  light : 
Freely  now  I  sink  in  night. 

Chorus. 
And  for  this,  immortal  fame, 
Virgin,  shall  attend  thy  name. 

I])hiij«iiitt. 
Ah,  thou  beaming  lami)  of  day, 
Jove-born,  bright,  ethereal  ray  ! 

CliontK. 
See,  she  goes  :  her  glorious  fato 
To  o'erturn  the  Phrygian  state  : 
Soon  the  wreaths  shall  bind  her  brow  ; 
Soon  the  hiKtral  waters  How, 
Soon  that  Ix-auteous  neck  shall  feel, 


310  EURIPIDES. 

Piercing  deep,  the  fatal  steel, 

Ami  the  ruthless  altar  o'er 

Sprinkle  drops  of  gushing  gore. 

By  thy  father's  dread  command 

There  tlie  cleansing  lavers  stand  ; 

There  in  arms  the  Grecian  powers 

Burn  to  march  'gainst  Ilium's  towers. 

But  our  voices  lot  us  raise 

Tuned  to  hymn  Diana's  praise  : 

Virgin  daugliter  she  of  Jove, 

Queen  among  the  gods  above, 

That  with  conquest  and  renown 

She  the  arms  of  Greece  may  crown. 

To  thee,  dread  power,  we  make  our  vows. 
Pleased  when  the  blood  of  human  victims  flows. 

To  Phrygia's  hostile  strand. 
Where  rise  perfidious  Ilium's  hated  towers, 

Waft,  O  waft,  the  Grecian  powers. 
And  aid  this  martial  band  ! 

On  Agamemnon's  honored  head. 
While  wide  the  spears  of  Greece  theii  terrors 
spread, 

The  immortal  crow^n  let  conquest  place, 
With  glory's  brightest  grace. 
— Transl.  of  Potter. 

Here  probably  ends  the  drama  as  left  by 
Euripides,  although  thei-e  is  appended  to  it  an 
additional  scene  of  about  a  hundred  poorly- 
written  lines,  in  which  a  messenger  comes 
upon  the  ground,  who  announces  that  after 
Iphigenia  has  been  led  off  to  the  place  of 
sacrifice,  Diana  had  appeared  and  saved  the 
life  of  the  maiden.  If  we  suppose  that  these 
lines  were  written  by  Euripides,  they  can  be 
only  the  rough  draft  of  the  manner  in  which 
he  intended  to  conclude  the  drama,  which  is 
certainly  incomplete  without  a  scene  indicat- 
ing that  the  sacrifice  was  not  consummated. 
This  consideration  is  strong  evidence  that 
Euripides  was  engaged  upon  IjMgenia  at 
Aulis  when  ho  died  at  the  age  of  seventy- 
four. 


EUSEBIUS.  311 

EUSEBIUS,  an  ecclesiastical  historian,  born 
in  Palestine  about  265,  died  about  340.  After 
pursuing  his  studies  in  various  places,  he 
opened  a  school  at  Csesarea,  where  he  became 
a  protege  of  Bishop  Pamphilus,  whose  name 
he  assumed  as  a  kind  of  surname.  In  order 
to  distinguish  him  from  several  other  per- 
sons of  the  same  name,  he  is  usually  desig- 
nated as  Eusebius  Pamphili.  Pamphilus  was 
put  to  death  during  the  Diocletian  persecu- 
tion, about  309.  Diocletian  died  in  315,  and 
Eusebius  became  Bishop  of  Caesarea.  Upon 
the  accession  of  Constantine  in  324,  Christi- 
anity became  the  religion  of  the  Roman  Em- 
pire. Eusebius  came  into  high  favor  with 
Constantine.  At  the  Council  of  Nice  he  sat 
at  the  emperor's  right  hand,  and  drew  up  the 
first  draft  of  the  Nicene  Creed.  In  the  the- 
ological disputes  which  ensued,  Eusebius 
sided  with  Arius  against  Athanasius.  In  335 
Eusebius  returned  to  his  bishopric  of  Caesarea 
and  devoted  the  remainder  of  his  life  to  the 
completion  of  the  writings  upon  which  he  had 
been  previously  engaged.  He  wrote  several 
treatises  of  a  controversial  or  expository 
character;  a  laudatory  Lj/e  of  Constantine; 
the  Chronicon,  a  conspectus  of  universal  his- 
torj'  down  to  his  own  times ;  the  Onomasticon, 
a  kind  of  Old  Testament  Gazetteer.  His 
most  important  work,  which  has  gained  for 
him  the  designation  of  "  the  Father  of  Eccle- 
siastical History,"  is  the  Ecclesiastical  His- 
tory, from  tlie  earliest  times  down  to  the  20th 
year  of  tlie  reign  of  Constantine.  Tliis  work, 
continued  for  half  a  century  longer  by  Sozo- 
nien,  Socrates,  and  Theod<jret,  has  been  sev- 
eral times  translated  into  English.  We  give 
the  concluding  chapter  of  this  history. 

RESULTS  OF  TICK  TRIUMPH  OF  CONSTANTINK. 
To   liiiii,  then'fon*,  tin*   SuprtMiie   fJod   Kraiited 
from  heaven  above,  the  fruits  of  liis  piety,   the 


312  EUSEBIUS. 

trophies  of  victory  over  the  wicked  ;  and  that 
nefarious  tyrant  (Licinius)  with  all  his  counsel- 
lors and  adherents,  he  cast  prostrate  at  the  feet  of 
Constantine  :  for  when  he  proceeded  to  the  ex- 
tremes of  madness  in  his  movements,  the  divinely 
favored  emperor  regarded  him  as  no  more  to  be 
tolerated,  but  taking  prudent  measures,  and  ming- 
ling the  firm  principles  of  justice  with  his 
humanity,  he  determined  to  come  to  the  protec- 
tion of  those  who  were  so  miserably  oppressed  by 
the  tyrant — and  in  this,  by  banishing  smaller 
pests,  he  thus  advanced  to  save  vast  multitudes  of 
the  human  race.  He  had  exercised  his  humanity 
iu  commiserating  him  before,  though  Licinius  was 
a  man  by  no  means  deserving  of  compassion,  but 
it  proved  of  no  avail  to  him,  for  he  would  not  re- 
nounce his  iniquity  but  rather  increased  his  mad- 
ness against  the  people  his  subjects.  To  the  op- 
pressed there  was  no  hope  of  salvation  left  in  the 
cruelties  they  endured  from  the  savage  beast. 
Wherefore  also,  Constantine,  the  protector  of  the 
good,  combining  his  hatred  of  wickedness  with 
the  love  of  goodness,  went  forth  with  his  son 
Crispus,  the  most  benevolent  Cajsar,  to  extend  a 
saving  arm  to  all  those  that  were  perishing.  Both, 
therefore,  the  father  and  the  son,  having  God  the 
universal  King,  and  his  Son  our  Saviour,  as  their 
leader  and  aid,  drawing  up  the  army  on  all  sides 
against  the  enemies  of  God,  bore  away  an  easy 
victory  ;  all  things  being  prospered  by  God,  in  the 
conflict,  according  to  their  wishes. 

Suddenly,  then,  and  sooner  than  said,  those  that 
yesterday  breathed  threats  and  destruction  were 
no  more,  not  even  leaving  the  memory  of  their 
name.  Their  paintings,  their  effigies,  their  honors 
received  the  deserved  contempt  and  disgrace, 
and  those  very  events  which  Licinius  had  seen 
occurring  to  the  iniquitous,  these  same  he  ex- 
perienced himself.  As  he  would  neither  receive 
instruction,  nor  grow  wise  by  the  chastisements 
of  his  neighbors,  he  proceeded  in  the  same  course 
of  impiety  and  was  justly  hurled  down  the  same 
precipice  with  them.  He  therefore  lay  prostrated 
iu  this  way.     But  the  mighty  and  victorious  Con- 


MARIAN  EVANS.  313 

stantine,  adorned  with  every  virtue  of  religion, 
with  liis  most  pious  son,  Crispus  Caesar,  resembling 
in  all  things  his  father,  recovered  the  East  as  his 
own,  and  thus  restored  the  Roman  Empire  to  its 
ancient  state  of  one  united  body  :  extending  their 
peaceful  sway  around  the  world,  from  the  rising 
sun  to  the  opposite  regions,  to  the  north  and  the 
south,  even  to  the  last  border  of  the  declining  day. 
All  fear,  therefore,  of  those  who  had  previously 
aflSicted  them  was  now  wholly  removed.  They 
celebrated  splendid  and  festive  days  with  joy  and 
hilarity.  All  things  were  filled  with  light,  and  all 
who  before  were  sunk  in  sorrow  beheld  each  other 
with  smiling  and  cheerful  faces.  With  choirs  and 
hymns  in  the  cities  and  villages,  at  the  same  time 
they  celebrated  and  extolled  first  of  all  God  the 
universal  King,  because  they  were  thus  taught ; 
then  they  also  celebrated  the  praises  of  the  pious 
emperor,  and  with  him  all  his  divinely-favored 
children.  There  was  a  perfect  oblivion  of  past 
evils,  and  past  wickedness  was  buried  in  forget- 
fulness.  There  was  nothing  but  enjoyment  of  the 
present  blessings  and  expectations  of  those  yet  to 
come.  Edicts  were  ])ublished  and  issued  by  the 
victorious  emperor,  full  of  clemency,  and  laws 
were  enacted,  indicative  of  munificence  and  gen- 
uine religion.  Thus,  then,  after  all  the  tyranny 
had  been  purged  away,  the  empire  was  justly  re- 
served, firm  and  without  a  rival  to  Constantine 
and  his  soub  ;  who  first  sweejnng  away  that  en- 
mity to  God  exhibited  by  the  former  rulers,  sen- 
sible of  the  mercies  conferred  upon  them  by  God, 
exhibited  also  their  own  love  of  religion  and  of 
God,  with  their  piety  and  gratitude  to  Him  by 
those  works  and  ojjerations  which  they  presented 
to  the  view  of  all  the  world.— Trans?,  of  Dale. 

EVANS,  Marian  ("  George  Eliot "),  an  Eng- 
lish novelist  and  poet,  born  November  22, 
1819,  died  D<'(  ember  22,  1880.  She  was  the 
youngest  eliild  of  Kolx-rt  Evans,  the  agent  of 
the  Arbiiry  cstat*''  in  Warwickshire. 

Mrs.  Evans's  liealth  failed,  and  at  tlic  age  of 
five  years,  her  daughter  was  sent  with  an  older 


314  MARIAN  EVANS. 

sister  to  a  school  at  Attleboro,  from  which 
they  came  home  occasionally  on  Saturdays. 
In  her  eighth  or  ninth  year  she  was  trans- 
ferred to  a  school  at  Nuneaton,  and  in  her 
thirteenth  year  to  one  at  Coventry,  conducted 
by  the  daughters  of  a  Baptist  minister,  women 
of.  fine  attainments,  who,  in  addition  to  their 
own  instruction,  gave  their  pupils  excellent 
masters  in  French,  German,  and  music.  The 
young  girl  had  already  a  passion  for  books, 
and  read  all  that  came  within  her  reach. 
While  at  Coventry  she  made  rapid  progress 
in  composition  and  in  music.  Her  mother's 
continued  illness  recalled  her  from  school  in 
1835.  Mrs.  Evans  died  in  the  following  year; 
and  soon  after  her  death,  the  marriage  of  the 
elder  daughter  left  the  younger  sole  manager 
of  her  father's  household.  She  also  engaged 
in  active  charitable  work,  continued  her  read- 
ing, and  studied  German,  Italian,  and  music 
Avith  masters  from  Coventry,  to  which  town 
she  removed  with  her  father  in  1841.  Her 
literary  work  began  with  the  translation  into 
English  of  Strauss's  Life  of  Jesus [I8i6). 

Mr.  Evans  died  in  1849.  Immediately  after 
his  death  his  daughter  accompanied  some 
friends  to  Switzerland,  where  she  remained 
for  nearly  a  year.  In  1851  she  became  editor 
of  the  Westminster  lievieiv,  to  which  she  was 
already  a  contributor.  This  change  in  her 
life  led  to  the  formation  of  lasting  friendships 
with  Herbert  Spencer  and  other  distinguish- 
ed literary  men.  Her  editorial  connection 
ceased  in  1854  when  she  assumed  the  duties 
of  a  wife  to  Mr.  George  Henry  Lewes  and  of 
a  mother  to  his  sons ;  but  her  literary  work 
went  on,  interrupted  only  by  ill  health.  She 
continued  to  write  for  the  Review,  translated 
Spinoza's  Ethics,  and  in  1857,  published  in 
Blackwood's  Magazine  her  first  works  of  fic- 
tion, a  series  of  short  stories  under  the  general 
title.  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life.     With  the  publi- 


MARIAN  EVANS  315 

cation  of  these  tales  she  assumed  the  name  of 
George  Ehot.  which  long  shielded  her  from 
identification  as  their  author.  They  at  once 
attracted  general  attention,  and  elicited  the 
highest  praise  from  all  classes  of  readers, 
as  indicating  a  new  and  unique  power 
in  literature.  The  appearance  in  1859  of 
her  first  novel  Adam  Bede,  deepened  the  im- 
pression made  by  the  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life, 
and  placed  its  author  in  the  first  rank  of 
English  novelists.  The  Mill  on  the  Floss  (1859), 
Silas  Warner,  the  Weaver  of  Raseloe  (1861), 
Romola,  a  story  of  Florence  in  the  days  of 
Savonarola  (1863),  Felix  Holt  the  Radical 
(1866),  Middlemarch,  a  Study  of  Provincial 
Life  (1871),  and  Daniel  Deronda  (1876),  fully 
sustained  her  reputation.  Besides  her  novels 
she  published  numerous  poems,  among  them 
The  Spanish  Gypsy,  a  drama  (1868),  O  May  I 
Join  the  Choir  Invisible,  and  Hotv  Lisa  Loved 
the  King  (1869),  The  Legend  of  Jubal  {1870), 
and  Amngart,  a  dramatic  poem  (1871).  In 
1879  appeared  a  volume  of  essays.  The  Im- 
pressions of  Theophrastus  Such.  This  was 
her  last  published  work.  Mr.  Lewes  died  in 
1878:  and  in  May  1880,  she  married  John 
Walter  Cross,  a  tried  friend  for  many  years. 
In  December  of  the  same  year  she  died. 

IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  SORROW. 

At  five  o'clock  Lisbeth  caiue  down  stairs  with 
a  large  key  in  lier  liand  ;  it  was  the  key  of  the 
chaniljer  where  her  husband  lay  dead.  Tlirough- 
out  tlie  day,  except  in  her  occasional  outbursts  of 
wailing  grief,  she  had  been  in  incessant  move- 
ment, performing  the  initial  duties  to  her  dead 
with  the  awe  and  exactitude  tliat  Ijelong  to 
religious  rites.  She  liad  Itrouglit  out  her  little 
store  of  bleached  linen,  whicli  she  had  for  long 
years  kept  in  reserve  for  this  supreme  use.  It 
seemed  but  ye.sU'rday,  that  time  ho  many  nudsum- 
mers  ag<j,  when  slie  liad  told  Tbijis  where  this  linen 
lay,  that  he  miglit  be  sure  and  reach  it  (jut  for  her 


.M«  MARIAN  EVANS. 

wlion  she  died,  for  slio  was  tlie  elder  of  tlie  two. 
Then  there  liad  been  the  work  of  cleansing  to  the 
strictest  purity  every  object  in  the  sacred  clianiber, 
and  of  removing  from  it  every  trace  of  common 
daily  occupation.  Tlie  small  window  which  had 
hitherto  freely  let  in  the  frosty  moonlight  or  the 
warm  summer  sunrise  on  the  working  man's  slum- 
ber, must  now  be  darkened  with  a  fair  white  sheet, 
for  this  was  the  sleep  which  is  as  sacred  under  the 
bare  rafters  as  in  ceiled  houses.  Lisbeth  had  even 
mended  a  long-neglected  and  unnoticeable  rent  in 
the  checkered  bit  of  bed  curtain;  for  the  moments 
were  few  and  precious  now  in  which  she  would  be 
able  to  do  the  smallest  office  of  respect  or  love  for 
the  still  corpse,  to  which,  in  all  her  thoughts,  she 
attributed  some  consciousness.  Our  dead  are  nev- 
er dead  to  us  until  we  have  forgotten  them  ;  they 
can  be  injured  by  us,  they  can  be  wounded  ;  they 
know  all  our  penitence,  all  our  aching  since  that 
their  place  is  empty  ;  all  the  kisses  we  bestow  on 
the  smallest  relic  of  their  presence.  And  the  aged 
peasant  woman  most  of  all  believes  that  her  dead 
are  conscious. 

Decent  burial  was  what  Lisbeth  had  been  think- 
ing of  for  herself  through  years  of  thrift,  with  an 
indistinct  expectation  that  she  should  know  when 
she  was  being  carried  to  the  churchyard,  followed 
by  her  husband  and  her  sons,  and  now  she  felt  as 
if  the  greatest  work  of  her  life  were  to  be  done  in 
seeing  that  Thias  was  decently  buried  before  her— 
under  the  white  thorn,  where  once  in  a  dream  she 
had  thought  she  lay  in  the  coffin,  yet  all  tlie  while 
saw  the  sunshine  above,  and  smelt  the  white  blos- 
soms that  were  so  thick  upon  the  thorn  the  Sun- 
day she  went  to  be  churched  after  Adam  was 
bom. 

But  now  she  had  done  everything  that  could  be 
done  to-day  in  the  chamber  of  death— had  done  it 
all  herself,  with  some  aid  from  her  sons  in  lifting, 
for  she  would  let  no  one  be  fetched  to  help  her 
from  the  village,  not  being  fond  of  female  neigh- 
bors generally  ;  and  her  favorite  Dolly,  the  old 
housekeeper  at  Mr.  Burge's,  who  had  come  to  con- 
dole with  her  in  the  morning  as  soon  as  she  lieard 
of  Thias's  death,  was  too  dim-sighted  to  be   of 


MARIAN  EVANS.  317 

much  use.  She  had  locked  the  door,  and  now 
held  the  key  m  her  hand,  as  slie  threw  lierself 
wearil}-  into  a  chair  that  stood  out  of  its  place  in 
the  middle  of  the  house-floor,  where  in  ordinary 
times  she  would  never  have  consented  to  sit.  The 
kitchen  had  had  some  of  her  attention  that  day. 
It  was  soiled  with  the  tread  of  muddy  shoes,  and 
untidy  with  clothes  and  other  objects  out  of  place. 
But  what  at  another  time  would  have  been  intol- 
erable to  Lisbeth's  habits  of  order  and  cleanliness, 
seemed  to  her  just  now  what  should  be ;  it  was 
right  that  things  should  look  strange  and  disor- 
dered and  wretched,  now  the  old  man  had  come 
to  his  end  in  that  sad  way;  the  kitchen  ought  not 
to  look  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Adam,  over- 
come with  the  agitation  and  exertions  of  the  day, 
after  his  niglit  of  hard  work,  had  fallen  asleep  on 
a  bench  in  the  workshop;  and  Seth  was  in  the 
back-kitchen,  making  a  fire  of  sticks,  that  he 
might  get  the  kettle  to  boil,  and  persuade  his 
mother  to  have  a  cup  of  tea,  an  indulgence  which 
she  rarely  allowed  herself.  There  was  no  one  in 
the  kitchen  when  Lisbeth  entered  and  threw  her- 
self into  the  chair.  She  looked  round  with  blank 
eyes  at  the  dirt  and  confusion  on  which  the  bright 
afternoon  sun  shown  dismally  ;  it  was  all  of  a 
piece  with  the  sad  confusion  of  her  mind— that 
confusion  whicli  belongs  to  the  first  hours  of  a 
sudden  sorrow,  when  the  poor  human  soul  is  like 
one  who  lias  l>een  deposited  sleeping  among  the 
ruins  of  a  vast  city,  and  wakes  up  in  dreary 
amazement,  not  knowing  whether  it  is  the  grow- 
ing or  the  dying  day— not  knowing  why  and 
whence  came  tliis  illimitable  scene  of  d«>solation, 
or  why  he  too  finds  himself  desolate  in  tlie  midst 
of  it. 

At  another  time  Lisliotli's  first  thought  would 
have  been,  "Where  is  Adam?"  but  the  sudden 
deatli  of  biT  liusband  had  restored  him  in  tliese 
hours  to  that  first  plate  in  her  affectionK  which  he 
had  licld  six-and-tuenty  years  Ijefore  ;  sheliad  for- 
gotten liis  faults  as  we  forget  the  sorrows  of  our  dc- 
parte<l  rhildhf><»d,  and  thought  of  notliing  but  the 
young  husband's  kindness  and  tin*  old  man's  |)a- 
tience.     Her  eyes  ccjntiuued  to  wander  blankly 


<it8  MARIAN  EVANS. 

until  Seth  came  in  and  began  to  remove  some  of 
the  scattered  things,  ami  clear  the  small  round 
deal  table,  that  he  might  set  out  his  mother's  tea 
upon  it. 

"  What  art  goin'  to  do?''  she  said,  rather  peev- 
ishly. 

"  I  want  thee  to  have  a  cup  of  tea,  mother,"  an- 
swered Seth,  tenderly.  "  It'll  do  thee  good  ;  and 
I'll  put  two  or  three  of  these  things  away,  and 
make  the  house  look  more  comfortable." 

"  Comfortable  !  How  canst  talk  o'  ma'in'  things 
comfortable  ?  Let  a-be,  let  a-be.  There's  no  com- 
fort for  me  no  more,"  she  went  on,  the  tears  coming 
when  she  began  to  speak,  "  now  thy  poor  fayther's 
gone,  as  I've  washed  for  and  mended  an'  got's 
victual  for'm  for  thirty  'ear,  an'  him  allays  so 
pleased  wi'  iverything  I  done  for'm,  an'  used  to  be 
so  handy  an'  do  the  jobs  for  me  when  I  war  ill  an' 
cumbered  wi'  the  babby,  an'  made  me  the  posset 
an'  brought  it  up  stairs  as  proud  as  could  be,  an' 
carried  the  lad  as  war  as  heavy  as  two  children 
for  fivo  mile,  an'  ne'er  grumbled,  all  the  way  to 
Warson  Wake,  'cause  I  wanted  to  go  an'  see  my 
sister,  as  war  dead  an'  gone  the  very  next  Christ- 
mas as  e'er  come.  An'  him  to  be  drownded  in  the 
brook  as  we  passed  o'er  the  day  we  war  married 
an'  come  home  together  ;  an'  he'd  made  thim  lots 
o'  shelves  for  me  to  put  my  plates  an'  things  on, 
an'  showed  'em  me  as  proud  as  he  could  be,  'cause 
he  know'd  I  should  be  pleased.  An'  he  war  to  die, 
an'  me  not  to  know,  but  to  be  a-sleepin'  i'  my  bed, 
as  if  I  caredna  noght  about  it.  Eh  !  an'  me  to 
live  to  see  that !  An'  us  as  war  young  folks 
once,  and  thought  we  should  do  rarely  when  we 
war  married  !  Let-a-be,  let-a-be !  I  wonna'  ha' 
no  tay  ;  I  carena  if  I  ne'er  ate  nor  drink  no  more. 
When  one  end  o'  th'  bridge  tumbles  down,  where's 
th'  use  o'  th'  other  stannin'  ?  I  may's  well  die,  an' 
foUer  my  old  man.  There's  no  knowin'  but  he'll 
want  me." 

Here  Lisbeth  broke  from  words  into  moans, 
Bwaying  herself  backward  and  forward  on  her 
chair.  Seth,  always  timid  in  his  behavior  towards 
his  mother,  from  tlie  sense  that  he  had  no  influence 
over  her,  felt  it  was  useless  t(j  attempt  to  persuade 


MAKIAN  EVANS.  319 

or  soothe  her  till  this  passion  was  past ;  so  he  con- 
tented himself  with  tending  the  back-kitchen  fire, 
and  folding  up  liis  father's  clothes,  which  had  been 
hanging  out  since  morning,  afraid  to  move  about 
the  room  where  his   mother  was,  lest  he  should 

irritate  her  farther 

Lisbeth  had  been  rocking  herself  in  this  way  for 
more  than  five  minutes,  giving  a  low  moan  with 
every  forward  movement  of  her  body,  when  she 
suddenly  felt  a  hand  placed  gently  on  hers,  and  a 
sweet  treble  voice  said  to  her,  "Dear  sister,  the 
Lord  has  sent  me  to  see  if  I  can  be  a  comfort  to 
you." 

Lisbeth  paused  in  a  listening  attitude,  without 
removing  her  apron  from  her  face.  The  voice  was 
strange  to  her.  Could  it  be  her  sisters  spirit  come 
back  to  her  from  the  dead  after  all  those  years? 
She  trembled,  and  dared  not  look. 

Dinah,  Ijelieving  that  this  pause  of  wonder  was 
in  itself  a  relief  for  the  sorrowing  woman,  said  no 
more  just  yet,  but  quietly  took  off  her  bonnet,  and 
then,  motioning  silence  to  Seth,  who  on  hearing 
her  voice  had  come  in  with  a  beating  heart,  laid 
one  hand  on  the  back  of  Lisbeth's  chair,  and  lean- 
ed over  her,  that  she  might  be  aware  of  a  friendly 
presence.  Slowly  Lisbeth  drew  down  her  apron 
and  timidly  she  opened  her  dim  dark  eyes.  She 
saw  nothing  at  first  but  a  face— a  pure  pale  face, 
with  loving  giay  eyes,  and  it  was  quite  unknown 
to  lier.  Her  wonder  increased  ;  perhaps  it  teas  an 
angel.  But  in  the  same  instant  Dinah  had  laid 
her  band  on  Listeth's  again,  and  the  old  woman 
looked  down  at  it.  It  was  a  much  smaller  hand 
than  her  own.  But  it  was  not  white  and  delicate, 
for  Dinah  had  never  worn  a  glove  in  her  life,  and 
ber  hand  bore  the  traces  of  labor  from  her  child- 
hood upward.  Lisbeth  looked  earnestly  at  the 
hand  for  a  moment,  and  then,  fixing  her  eyes 
again  on  Dinah's  face,  said,  with  something  of 
restored  courage,  but  in  a  tone  of  surprise, 

"  Why,  ye're  a  workin'  woman  !  " 

"Yes,  lam  Dinah  Morris,  and  I  work  in  the 
cotton-mill  wlieti  I  am  at  home." 

"  Ah  !  "'  said  LislH'th  slowly,  still  wondering  ;  ye 
corned  in  so  light,  like  the  sluulow  on  tlic  wall, 


y20  MARIAN  EVANS. 

an'  spoke  i'  my  ear.  as  I  thought  you  might  be  a 
sperrit,  ye've  got  a'most  the  face  of  one  as  is  a-sit- 
tin'  on  the  grave  i'  Adam's  new  Bible." 

'•I  come  from  the  Kail  Farm  now.  You  know 
Mrs.  Poyser — she's  my  aunt,  and  she  has  heard  of 
j-our  great  affliction,  and  is  very  sorry  ;  and  I'm 
come  to  see  if  I  can  be  any  help  to  you  in  your 
trouble;  fori  know  your  sons,  Adam  and  Seh, 
and  I  know  you  have  no  daughter,  and  when  the 
clergyman  told  me  how  the  hand  of  God  was 
heavy  upon  you,  mj^  heart  went  out  towards  you, 
and  I  felt  a  command  to  come  and  be  to  you  in 
the  place  of  a  daughter  in  this  grief,  if  you  will 
let  me." 

"Ah!  I  know  whoy'are  now  ;  y'are  a  Melhody, 
Hke  Seth  ;  he's  tould  me  on  you,"  said  Lisbeth, 
fretfully,  her  overpowering  sense  of  pain  return- 
ing now  her  wonder  was  gone.  "  Ye'll  make  it 
out  as  trouble's  a  good  thing,  like  he  allays  does. 
But  Where's  the  use  o'  talkin'  to  me  a-that-n  ? 
Ye  canna  make  the  smart  less  wi'  talkin'!  Ye'll 
ne'er  make  me  believe  as  it's  better  for  me  not 
to  ha'  my  old  man  die  in's  bed,  if  he  must  die, 
an'  ha'  the  parson  to  pray  by'm,  and  me  to  sit 
by'm,  an' tell  him  ne'er  to  mind  the  ill  words  I'n 
gen  him  sometimes  when  I  war  angered,  an'  to 
gi'm  a  bit  an'  a  sup,  as  long  as  a  bit  an'  a  sup 
he'd  swallow.  But  eh  !  to  die  i'  the  could  water, 
an'  us  close  to'm  an'  ne'er  to  know ;  an'  me  a- 
sleepin',  as  if  I  ne'er  belonged  to'm  no  more  nor 
if  he'd  been  a  journeyman  tramp  from  nobody 
knows  where." 

Here  Lisbeth  began  to  cry  and  rock  herself 
again  ;  and  Dinah  said  : 

"Yes,  dear  friend,  your  affliction  is  great.  It 
would  be  hardness  of  heart  to  say  that  your  trou- 
ble was  not  heavy.  God  did  not  send  me  to  you  to 
make  light  of  your  sorrow,  buj;  to  mourn  with 
you,  if  you  will  let  me.  If  you  had  a  table  spread 
for  a  feast,  and  was  making  merry  with  your 
friends,  you  would  tbink  it  was  kind  to  let  me 
come  and  sit  down  and  rejoice  with  you,  because 
you  would  think  I  should  like  to  share  tbo.se  good 
things  ;  but  I  should  like  better  to  share  in  your 
trouble  and  your  labor,  and  it  would  seem  harder 


MARIAN  EVANS.  331 

to  me  if  you  denied  me  that.  You  won't  send  me 
away  ?  You're  not  angry  with  me  for  coming  ?" 
"Nay,  nay  ;  angered  !  who  said  I  war  angered? 
It  war  good  on  you  to  come.  An'  Seth,  why 
donna  ye  get  her  some  taj'  ?  Ye  war  in  a  hurry 
to  get  some  for  me,  as  had  no  need,  but  ye  donna 
think  o'  gettin'  't  for  them  as  wants  it.  Sit  ye 
down  :  sit  ye  down.  I  thank  ye  kindly  for  comin', 
for  its  little  wage  ye  get  by  walkin'  through  the 
wet  fields  to  see  an  old  woman  like  me.  Nay,  I'n 
got  no  daughter  o"  my  own— ne'er  had  one — an' 
I  warna  sorry,  for  they're  poor  queechy  things, 
gells  is  ;  I  allays  wanted  to  ha'  lads  as  could  fend 
for  theirsens.  An'  the  lads  uU  be  marryin' — I 
shall  ha'  daughters  enoo'  and  too  many.  But 
now,  do  you  make  tlie  tay  as  ye  like  it,  for  I'n 
got  no  taste  in  my  mouth  this  day  ;  It's  all  one 
what  I  swallow — it's  all  got  the  taste  o'  sorrow 
wVt."^Adam  Bede. 

A  PASSAGE  AT  ARMS. 

Bartle  Massey  returned  from  the  fireplace,  where 
he  had  Ijeen  smoking  his  first  pipe  in  quiet,  and 
broke  the  silence  by  saying,  as  he  thrust  his  fore- 
finger into  the  canister,  "  Why,  Ailam,  how  hap- 
pened you  not  to  Ije  at  church  on  Sunday  ?  answer 
me  that,  you  rascal.  The  anthem  went  limping 
without  you.  Are  you  going  to  disgrace  your 
8cho<jlniaster  in  his  old  age?" 

"No,  Mr.  Massey,"  said  Adam.  "  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Poyser  can  tell  you  where  I  was.  I  was  in  no  bad 
company  " 

"She's  gone,  Adam,  gone  to  Snowfield,"  said 
Mrs.  poyser,  reminded  of  Dinah  for  the  first  time 
this  evening.  "  I  tliovight  you'd  ha'  persuaded  her 
better.  Nought  'u<l  hold  her  but  siie  must  go  yes- 
terday forenoon.  The  missis  lias  hardly  got  over 
it.  I  thought  she'd  ha'  no  sperrit  for  th'  harvest 
supper." 

Mrs.  Poyser  had  thought  of  Dinah  several  times 
since  Adam  had  coiiif  in,  but  she  ha<l  had  "no 
heart"  to  nicnti'ii  tlie  bad  news. 

"What!"  said  Bartle  with  an  air  of  disgust.'* 
"  \V^'»s  thf-re  a  woman  concerned  !  Then  I  give  you 
up,  Adam." 


322  MARIAN  EVANS. 

"  But  it's  a  woman  you've  spoke  well  on,  Bartle," 
said  Mr.  Poj'ser.  "  Come,  now,  you  canna  draw 
back  ;  you  said  once  as  women  wouldn't  ha'  been 
a  bad  invention  if  they'd  all  been  like  Dinah." 

"I  meant  her  voice,  man — I  meant  her  voice, 
that  was  all,"  said  Bartle.  "  I  can  bear  to  hear  her 
speak  without  wanting  to  put  wool  in  my  ears.  As 
for  other  things,  I  dare  say  she's  like  the  rest  o'  the 
women— thinks  two  and  two  '11  come  to  make  five, 
if  she  cries  and  bothers  enough  about  it." 

"  Ay,  ay  ! "  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  "one 'ud think,  an' 
hear  some  folks  talk,  as  the  men  war'  cute  enough 
to  count  the  corns  in  a  bag  o'  wheat  wi'  only  smell- 
ing at  it.  They  can  see  through  a  barn  door,  they 
can.  Perhaps  that's  the  reason  they  can  see  so 
little  this  side  on't." 

Martin  Poyser  shook  with  delighted  laughter, 
and  winked  at  Adam  as  much  as  to  say  the  school- 
master was  in  for  it  now. 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Bartle  sneeringly,  "the  women  are 
quick  enough,  they're  quick  enough.  They  know 
the  rights  of  a  story  before  they  hear  it,  and  can 
tell  a  man  what  his  thoughts  are  before  he  knows 
'em  himself." 

"Like  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  "for  the  men 
are  mostly  so  slow,  their  thoughts  overrun  'em  an' 
they  can  only  catch  'em  by  the  tail.  I  can  count  a 
stocking- top  while  a  man's  getting's  tongue  ready; 
an'  when  he  outs  wi'  his  speech  at  last,  there's  little 
broth  to  be  made  on't.  It's  your  dead  chicks  takes 
the  longest  hatchin'.  However,  I'm  not  denyin' 
the  women  are  foolish;  God  Almighty  made  'em  to 
match  the  men." 

"  Match  ! "  said  Bartle  ;  "ay,  as  vinegar  matches 
one's  teeth.  If  a  man  says  a  word,  his  wife  '11 
match  it  with  a  contradiction  ;  if  he's  a  mind  for 
hot  meat,  his  wife  '11  match  it  with  cold  bacon;  if  he 
laughs,  she'll  match  him  with  whimpering.  She's 
such  a  match  as  th'  horse-fly  is  to  th'  horse  ;  she's 
got  the  right  venom  to  sting  him  with— the  right 
venom  to  sting  him  with." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  "  I  know  what  the  men 
like— a  poor  soft,  as  'ud  simper  at  'em  like  the 
pictur  o'  the  sun,  whether  they  did  right  or  wrong, 


MAklAN  EVANS.  323 

an'  say  thank  you  for  a  kick,  an"  pretend  she  didna 
know  which  end  she  stood  uppermost,  till  her  hus- 
band told  lier.  That's  what  a  man  wants  in  a  wife, 
mostly  ;  he  wants  to  make  sure  o'  one  fool  as  "11  tell 
him  he's  wise.  But  there's  some  men  can  do  wi'out 
that — they  think  so  much  o'  themselves  a'ready  ; 
an  that's  how  it  is  there's  old  bachelors." 

"Come  Craig,"  said  Mr.  Poyser  jocosely,  "you 
mun  get  married  pretty  quick,  else  you'll  be  set 
down  for  an  old  bachelor ;  an'  you  see  what  the 
women  '11  think  on  you." 

"  WeU,"  said  Mr.  Craig,  willing  to  conciliate  Mrs. 
Poyser,  and  setting  a  high  value  on  his  own  com- 
pliments, ' '  /  like  a  cleverish  woman — a  woman 
o'  sperrit — a  managing  woman." 

"You're  out  there,  Craig,''  said  Bartle  dryly;" 
"you're  out  there.  You  judge  o'  your  garden- 
stuff  on  a  better  plan  than  that ;  you  pick  the 
things  for  what  they  can  excel  in — for  wliat 
they  can  excel  in.  You  don't  value  your  peas 
for  their  roots,  or  your  carrots  for  their  flowers. 
Now,  that's  the  way  you  should  choose  women; 
their  cleverness  '11  never  come  to  much — never 
come  to  much  ;  but  they  make  excellent  simple- 
tons, ripe,  and  strong- flavored." 

"What  dost  say  to  that?''  said  Mr.  Poyser 
throwing  himself  back  and  looking  merrily  at  his 
wife. 

"Say  I"  answered  Mrs.  Poyser,  with  dangerous 
fire  kindling  in  her  eye;  "why,  I  say  as  some 
folks'  tongues  are  like  the  clocks  as  run  on  strik- 
in',  not  to  tell  you  the  time  o'  the  day,  but  because 
there's  summat  wrong  i'  their  own  inside." 

Mrs.  Poyser  would  jirobably  liave  brought  her 
rejoinder  to  a  fartlu-r  climax,  if  every  one's  atten- 
tion had  not  at  this  moment  been  called  to  the 
other  end  of  the  table. — Adam  Bede. 

THE   DODSONS. 

Few  wives  were  more  submissive  than  Mrs. 
Tulliver  on  all  iKjints  connected  with  her  family 
relations;  but  she  had  been  a  Miss  Dodson.  and  tlie 
I)o«ls<»nH  wi-re  a  very  resjH>ctabl<'  family  imlccd — a.s 
much  l<Hjked  up  to  as  any  in  tlu-ir  own  parisli,  or 
tlie  next  t<;  it.     The  Miss  Dodson.s  had  alwavs  l)een 


324  MARIAN  EVANS. 

thought  to  hold  up  their  heads  very  high,  and  no 
one  was  surprised  that  the  two  eldest  had  married 
so  well- not  at  an  early  age,  for  that  was  not  the 
practice  of  the  Dodson  family.  There  were  par- 
ticular ways  of  doing  everything  in  that  family  : 
particular  ways  of  bleaching  the  linen,  of  making 
the  cowslip-wine,  curing  the  hams,  and  keeping 
the  bottled  gooseberries  ;  so  that  no  daughter  of 
that  house  could  be  indifferent  to  the  privilege  of 
having  been  born  a  Dodson,  rather  than  a  Gibson 
or  a  Watson.  Funerals  were  always  conducted 
with  a  peculiar  propriety  in  the  Dodson  family  ; 
the  hat-bands  were  never  of  a  blue  shade,  the 
gloves  never  split  at  the  thumb,  everybody  was  a 
mourner  who  ought  to  be,  and  there  were  always 
scarfs  for  the  bearers.  When  one  of  the  family 
was  in  trouble  or  sickness,  all  the  rest  went  to 
visit  the  unfortunate  member,  usually  at  the  same 
time,  and  did  not  shrink  from  uttering  the  most 
disagreeable  truths  that  correct  family  feeling  dic- 
tated. If  the  illness  or  trouble  was  the  sufferer's 
own  fault,  'twas  not  in  the  practice  of  the  Dodson 
family  to  shrink  from  saying  so.  In  short, 
there  was  in  this  family  a  peculiar  tradition  as 
to  what  was  the  right  thing  in  household  manage- 
ment and  social  demeanor ;  and  the  only  bitter 
circumstance  attending  this  superiority  was  a 
painful  inability  to  approve  the  condiments  or 
the  conduct  of  families  ungoverned  by  the  Dodson 
tradition.  A  female  Dodson,  when  in  "strange 
houses,"  always  ate  dry  bread  with  her  tea,  and 
declined  any  sort  of  preserves,  having  no  confi- 
dence in  the  butter,  and  thinking  that  the  preserves 
had  probably  begun  to  ferment  from  want  of  due 
sugar  and  boiling.  There  were  some  Dodsons  less 
like  the  family  than  others— that  was  admitted  ; 
but  in  so  far  as  they  were  "kin,"  they  were  of 
necessity  better  than  those  who  were  "no  km." 
And  it  is  remarkable  that  while  no  mdividual 
Dodson  was  satisfied  with  any  other  individual 
Dodson,  each  was  satisfied,  not  only  with  him  or 
herself,  but  with  the  Dodsons  collectively.  .  .  . 
The  religious  and  moral  ideas  of  the  Dodsons 
and  TuUivers  were  kind,  but  there  was  no  heresy 


MARIAN  EVANS.  32S 

in  it— if  heresy  proi^erly  means  choice — for  they 
did  not  know  there  was  any  other  religion  ex- 
cept that  of  chapel-goers,  which  appeared  to  run 
in  families  like  asthma.  .  .  .  The  religion  of  the 
Dodsons  conriisted  in  revering  whatever  was  cus- 
tomary and  respectable.  .  .  A  Dodson  would  not 
be  taxed  with  the  omission  of  anything  that  was 
becoming,  or  that  belonged  to  that  eternal  fitness 
of  things  which  was  plainly  indicated  in  the  prac- 
tice of  the  most  substantial  parishioners,  and  in 
the  family  traditions,  such  as  obedience  to  parents, 
faithfulness  to  kindred,  industry,  rigid  honesty, 
thrift,  tlie  thorough  scouring  of  wooden  and  cop- 
per utensils,  the  hoarding  of  coins  likely  to  dis- 
appear from  the  currency,  the  production  of 
first-rate  commodities  for  the  market,  and  the 
general  preference  for  whatever  was  home-made. 
The  Dodsons  were  a  very  proud  race,  and  their 
pride  lay  in  the  utter  frustration  of  all  desire  to 
tax  them  with  a  breach  of  traditional  duty  or  pro- 
priety, A  wholesome  pride  in  many  respects, 
since  it  identified  honor  with  perfect  integrity, 
thoroughness  of  work,  and  faithfulness  to  admit- 
ted rules :  and  society  owes  some  worthy  qualities 
to  mothers  of  tlie  Dodson  class,  who  made  their 
butter  and  their  fromenty  well,  and  would  have 
felt  disgraced  to  make  it  otherwise.  To  be  honest 
and  poor  was  never  a  Dodson  motto,  still  less  to 
seem  rich  though  being  poor  ;  rather,  the  family- 
badge  was  to  be  honest  and  rich  ;  and  not  only 
rich,  but  riclier  than  was  supposed.  To  live  re- 
spected, and  have  the  proper  bearers  at  your  fu- 
neral, was  an  achievement  of  the  ends  of  existence 
that  would  be  entirely  nullified  if,  on  the  reading 
of  your  will,  you  sank  in  the  opinion  of  your 
fellow-men,  either  by  turning  out  to  be  poorer 
than  tliey  expected,  or  by  leaving  your  money  in  a 
capricious  manner,  without  strict  regard  to  degrees 
of  kin.  The  right  thing  nmst  always  be  done  to- 
wanl  kindred.  The  right  thing  was  to  correct 
them  severely,  if  they  were  other  than  a  credit 
to  the  family  :  but  still  not  to  alienate  t)icm  from 
the  Hmallrst  rightful  share  in  the  family  8h(^- 
bu  kif'S  and  other  property.  A  conspicuous  (jual- 
ity  in  the  Do<lson  churact(7r  was  its  geuuiueneas  ; 


326  MARIAN  EVANS. 

its  vices  and  virtues  alike  were  phases  of  a  proud, 
honest  egoism,  whicli  had  a  hearty  dislike  to 
whatever  made  against  its  own  credit  and  interest, 
and  would  be  frankly  hard  of  speech  to  inconven- 
ient "kin,"  but  would  never  forsake  or  ignore 
them— would  not  let  them  want  bread,  but  would 
only  require  them  to  eat  it  with  bitter  herbs.— 27te 
Mill  on  the  Floss, 

TITO  CHOOSES. 

As  Cenini  closed  the  door  behind  him,  Tito  turn- 
ed round  with  the  smile  dying  out  of  his  face,  and 
fixed  his  eyes  on  the  table  where  the  florins  lay. 
He  made  no  other  movement,  but  stood  with  his 
thumbs  in  his  belt,  looking  down,  in  that  trans- 
fixed state  which  accompanies  the  concentration 
of  consciousness  on  some  inward  image. 

"A  man's  ransom!" — who  was  it  that  had 
said  five  hundred  florins  was  more  than  a  man's 
ransom  ?  If  now,  under  this  midday  sun,  on 
some  hot  coast  far  away,  a  man  somewhat  strick- 
en in  years  —a  man  not  without  high  thoughts, 
and  with  the  most  passionate  heart— a  man  who 
long  years  ago  had  rescued  a  little  boy  from  a 
life  of  beggary,  filth,  and  cruel  wrong,  had  reared 
him  tenderly,  and  been  to  him  as  a  father— if  that 
man  were  now  under  this  summer  sun  toilng  as 
a  slave,  hewing  wood  and  drawing  water,  perhaps 
being  smitten  and  buffeted  because  he  was  not 
now  deft  and  active?  If  he  was  saying  to  himself, 
"  Tito  will  find  me;  he  had  but  to  carry  our  man- 
uscripts and  gems  to  Venice  ;  he  will  have  raised 
money,  and  will  never  rest  till  he  finds  me 
out  ?  "  If  that  were  certain,  could  he,  Tito,  see 
the  price  of  the  gems  lying  before  him,  and  say, 
"I  will  stay  at  Florence,  where  I  am  fanned  by 
the  soft  airs  of  promised  love  and  prosperity;  I 
will  not  risk  myself  for  his  sake?"  No,  surely 
not,  if  it  were  certain.  But  nothing  could  be  far- 
ther from  certainty.  The  galley  had  been  taken 
by  a  Turkish  vessel  in  its  way  to  Delos  :  that  was 
known  by  the  report  of  the  companion  galley 
which  had  escaped.  But  there  had  been  resistance, 
and  probable  bloodshed  ;  a  man  had  been  seen 
falling  overboard  :  who  were  the  survivors,  and 
wha   had  befallen  them  amongst  all  the  multitude 


-       MARIAN  EVANS.  327 

of  possibilities  ?  Had  not  he,  Tito,  suffered  ship- 
wreck, and  narrowly  escaped  drowning  ?  He  had 
good  cause  for  feeling  the  omnipresence  of  casual- 
ties that  threatened  all  projects  with  futility.  The 
rumor  that  there  were  pirates  who  had  a  settle- 
ment in  Delos  was  not  to  be  depended  on,  or 
might  be  nothing  to  the  purpose.  What,  probably 
enough,  would  be  the  result  if  he  were  to  quit 
Florence  and  go  to  Venice,  get  authoritative  let- 
ters— yes,  he  knew  that  might  be  done— and  set 
out  for  the  Archipelago  ?  Why,  that  he  should  be 
himself  seized,  and  spend  all  his  florins  in  prelim- 
inaries, and  be  again  a  destitute  wanderer— with 
no  more  gems  to  sell. 

Tito  had  a  clearer  vision  of  that  result  than  of 
the  possible  moment  when  he  might  find  his  fa- 
ther again  and  carry  him  deliverance.  It  would 
surely  be  an  unfairness  that  he,  in  his  full  ripe 
youth,  to  whom  life  had  hitherto  had  some  of  the 
stint  and  subjection  of  a  school,  should  turn  his 
back  on  promised  love  and  distinction,  and  per- 
haps never  be  visited  by  that  promise  again. 
"  And  yet,''  he  said  to  himself,  "  if  I  were  certain 
that  Baldassare  Calor  was  alive,  and  that  I  could 
free  him,  by  whatever  exertions  or  perils,  I  would 
go  now — now  I  have  the  money— it  was  useless  to 
debate  the  matter  before.  I  would  go  now  to 
Bardo  and  Bartolomeo  Scala,  and  tell  them  the 
whole  truth."  Tito  did  not  say  to  himself  so  dis- 
tinctly that  if  those  two  men  had  known  the 
whole  truth,  he  was  aware  there  would  have  been 
no  alternative  for  him  but  to  go  in  search  of  his 
benefactor,  who,  if  alive,  was  the  rightful  owner 
of  the  gems,  and  wliom  he  had  always  equivocally 
spoken  of  as  "  lost ; "  he  did  not  say  to  himself — 
what  be  was  not  ignorant  of — that  Greeks  of  dis- 
tinction had  made  sacrifices,  taken  voyages  again 
and  again,  and  sought  help  from  crowned  and 
mitred  beads  for  tlic  sake  of  freeing  rehitives 
from  slavery  to  tin;  Turks.  Public  opinion  did  not 
regard  this  as  exceptional  virtue.  Tliis  was  his 
first  real  collofjuy  witli  liiinHclf:  he  liad  gone  on 
following  til*'  impulwH  of  tlie  nionir>nt,  and  one  of 
tlio.S);  impulsoH  liad  ]>ofn  to  conceal  half  the  fac: 
he  had  never  considered  Ibis  part  of  his  conduct 


328  MARIAN  EVANS. 

long  enough  to  face  the  conscioiisness  of  his  mo- 
tives for  the  conceahncnt.  What  was  the  use  of 
telling  the  whole?  Ii  was  true  the  thought  had 
crossed  his  mind  several  times  since  lie  liad  quitted 
NaupHa  tliat,  after  all,  it  was  a  great  relief  to  be 
quit  of  Baldassare,  and  he  would  have  liked  to 
know  icho  it  was  that  had  fallen  overboard.  But 
such  thoughts  spring  inevitably  out  of  a  relation 
that  is  irksome.  Baldassare  was  exacting,  and 
had  got  stranger  as  he  got  older:  he  was  constantly 
scrutinizing  Tito's  mind  to  see  whether  it  answered 
to  his  own  exaggerated  expectations,  and  age— 
the  age  of  a  thick-set,  heavy-browed,  bald  man  be- 
yond sixty,  whose  intensity  and  eagerness  in  the 
grasp  of  ideas  have  long  taken  the  character  of 
monotony  and  repetition,  may  be  looked  at  from 
many  points  of  view  without  being  found  attract- 
ive. Such  a  man,  stranded  among  new  acquaint- 
ances, unless  he  had  the  philosophers  stone,  would 
hardly  find  rank,  youth,  and  beauty  at  his  feet. 
The  feelings  that  gather  fervor  from  novelty  will 
be  of  little  help  toward  making  the  world  a  home 
for  dimmed  and  faded  human  beings  ;  and  if  there 
is  any  love  of  wliich  they  are  not  widowed,  it  must 
be  the  love  that  is  rooted  in  memories  and  distills 
perpetually  the  sweet  balms  of  fidelity  and  for- 
bearing tenderness. 

But  surely  such  memories  were  not  absent  from 
Tito's  mind?  Far  in  the  backward  vista  of  his 
remembered  life,  when  he  was  only  seven  years 
old,  Baldassare  had  rescued  him  from  blows,  had 
taken  him  to  a  home  that  seemed  like  opened 
paradise,  where  there  was  sweet  food  and  soothing 
caresses,  all  had  on  Baldassare's  knee,  and  from 
that  time  till  the  hour  they  had  parted,  Tito  had 
been  the  one  centre  of  Baldassare's  fatherly  cares. 
And  he  had  been  docile,  pliable,  quick  of  appre- 
hension, ready  to  acquire:  a  very  bright  lovely 
boy,  a  youth  of  even  splendid  grace,  who  seemed 
quite  without  vices,  as  if  that  beautiful  form 
represented  a  vitality  so  exquisitely  poised  and 
balanced  that  it  could  k?iow  no  uneasy  desires,  no 
unrest— a  radiant  presence  for  a  lonely  man  to 
have  won  for  himself.  If  he  were  silent  when  his 
father  expected  some  response,   still  he  did  not 


Marian  evans.  32ft 

look  moody;  if  he  declined  some  labor — why,  he 
flung  himself  down  witli  such  a  charming,  half- 
smiling,  lialf-pleading  air,  that  tlie  pleasure  of 
looking  at  bim  made  amends  to  one  who  had 
watched  his  growth  with  a  sense  of  claim  and  pos- 
sessiun;  the  curves  of  Tito's  mouth  had  ineffable 
good-humor  in  them.  And  then,  the  quick  talent 
to  which  everytliing  came  readily,  from  philo- 
sophical systems  to  tlie  rhymes  of  a  street  ballad 
caught  up  at  a  hearing  I  Would  any  one  have  said 
that  Tito  had  not  made  a  rich  return  to  his  bene- 
factor, or  that  his  gratitude  and  affection  would 
fail  on  any  great  demand  ?  He  did  not  admit  that 
his  gratitude  had  failed  ;  but  it  was  not  certain 
that  Baldassare  was  in  slavery,  not  certain  that 
be  was  living.  "  Do  I  not  owe  something  to 
myself?"  said  Tito,  inwardly,  with  a  slight 
movement  of  his  shoulders,  the  first  he  had 
made  since  he  turned  to  look  down  at  the  florins. 
"  Before  I  quit  everything,  and  incur  again  all 
the  risks  of  which  I  am  even  now  weary,  I  must 
at  )ea.st  have  a  reasonable  hope.  Am  I  to  spend 
my  life  in  a  wandering  search  ?  /  believe  he  is  dead. 
C'ennini  was  right  al)out  my  florins.  I  will  place 
them  in  his  bands  to-morrow."  When,  the  next 
morning,  Tito  put  this  determination  into  act,  be 
had  cliosen  his  colors  in  the  game,  and  bad  given 
an  inevitable  borit  to  his  wishes.  He  had  made  it 
impossible  that  he  should  not  from  henceforth  de- 
sire it  to  \xi  the  truth  that  his  father  was  dead  ; 
impossible  that  lie  should  not  be  tempted  to  base- 
ness rather  than  that  the  preci.se  facts  of  his  con- 
duct should  not  remain  forever  concealed. 

Under  every  guilty  secret  there  is  hidden 
a  brocxl  of  guilty  wishes,  wliose  unwholsome 
infecting  life  is  clierished  by  the  darkness.  The 
contaminating  effect  of  deeds  often  lies  less 
in  the  commission,  than  in  the  consequent  adju.st- 
ment  of  our  desires — the  enlistment  of  our  self- 
interest  on  tlie  side  of  falsity  :  as,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  purifying  influence  of  public  confession 
springs  from  the  fa<t  that,  by  it,  the  liope  in  lies 
is  forever  swept  away,  and  the  soul  recovers  the 
uoble  attitude  of  sitnphfity. 


390  MARIAN  EVANS. 

Besides,  in  the  first  distinct  colloquy  with  him- 
self  the  ideas  which  had  previously  been  scattered 
or  interrupted,  had  now  concentrated  themselves  ; 
the  little  rills  of  selfishness  had  united  and  made  a 
channel,  so  that  they  could  never  again  meet  with 
the  same  resistance.  Hitherto  Tito  had  left  in 
vague  indecision  the  question  whether,  with  the 
means  in  his  power,  he  would  not  return  and  ascer- 
tain liis  father's  fate  ;  he  had  now  made  a  definite 
excuse  to  himself  for  not  taking  that  course,  the 
had  avowed  to  himself  a  choice  which  he  would 
have  been  ashamed  to  avow  to  others,  and  which 
would  have  made  him  ashamed  in  the  resurgent 
presence  of  his  father.  But  the  inward  shame, 
the  reflex  of  that  outward  law  which  the  great 
heart  of  mankind  makes  for  every  individual  man, 
a  reflex  which  will  exist  even  in  the  absence  of 
the  sympathetic  impulses  that  need  no  law,  but 
rush  to  the  deed  of  fidelity  and  pity  as  inevitably 
as  the  brute  mother  shields  her  young  from  the 
attack  of  the  hereditary  enemy— that  inward 
shame  was  showing  its  blushes  in  Tito's  determined 
assertion  to  himself  that  his  father  was  dead,  or 
that  at  least  search  was  hopeless.— -BowoZa, 

DOROTHEA'S  MISTAKES. 

Dorothea  herself  had  no  dreams  of  being  praised 
above  other  women,  feeling  that  there  was  always 
something  better  which  she  might  have  done,  if 
she  had  only  been  better  and  known  better.  Still, 
she  never  repented  that  she  bad  given  up  position 
and  fortune  to  marry  Will  Ladislaw,  and  he 
would  have  held  it  the  greatest  shame,  as  well  as 
sorrow  to  him,  if  she  had  repented.  They  were 
bound  to  each  other  by  a  love  stronger  than  any 
impulses  which  could  have  marred  it.  No  life 
would  have  been  possible  to  Dorothea,  which  was 
not  filled  with  emotion,  and  she  had  now  a  life 
filled  also  with  a  beneficent  activity  which  she  had 
not  the  doubtful  pains  of  discovering  and  marking 
out  for  herself 

Sir  James  never  ceased  to  regard  Dorothea's 
second  marriage  as  a  mistake  ;  and,  indeed,  this 
remained  the  tradition  concerning  it  in  Middel- 
march,  where  she  was  spoken  of,  to  a  younger  gen- 


IVIAKIAN  EVANS.  331 

eration,  as  a  fine  girl  who  married  a  sickly  clergy- 
man, old  enough  to  be  her  father,  and  in  little 
more  than  a  year  after  his  death  gave  up  her  es- 
tate to  marry  liis  cousin — young  enough  to  have 
been  his  son,  with  no  property,  and  not  well-born. 
Those  who  had  not  seen  anything  of  Dorothea 
usually  observed  that  she  could  not  have  been 
"a  nice  woman,"  else  she  would  not  have  mar- 
ried either  the  one  or  the  other. 

Certainly  those  determining  acts  of  her  life  were 
not  ideally  beautiful.  They  were  the  mixed  re- 
sult of  young  and  noble  impulse  struggling  under 
prosaic  conditions.  Among  the  many  remarks 
passed  on  her  mistakes,  it  was  never  said  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Middlemarch  that  such  mistakes 
could  not  have  happened  if  the  society  into  which 
she  was  born  had  not  smiled  on  propositions  of 
marriage  from  a  sickly  man  to  a  girl  less  than 
half  his  own  age — on  modes  of  education  which 
make  a  woman's  knowledge  another  name  for 
motley  ignorance  on  rules  of  conduct  which  are  in 
flat  contradiction  with  its  own  loudly  asserted  be- 
liefs. While  this  is  the  social  air  in  which  mor- 
tals begin  to  breathe,  there  will  be  collisions  such 
as  those  in  Dorothea's  life,  where  great  feelings 
will  take  the  aspect  of  error,  and  great  faith  the 
aspect  of  illusion.  For  there  is  no  creature  whose 
inward  being  is  so  strong,  that  it  is  not  greatly  de- 
termined by  what  lies  outside  it.  A  new  Theresa 
will  hardly  liave  the  opportunity  of  reforming  a 
conventual  life,  any  more  than  a  new  Antigone 
will  spend  her  heroic  piety  in  daring  all  for  the 
sake  of  a  brother's  burial;  the  medium  in  which 
their  ardent  deeds  took  shape,  is  forever  gone. 
But  we  in.significent  peojile,  with  our  daily  words 
and  acts,  are  preparing  the  lives  of  many  Doro- 
theas, B<^jme  of  which  may  present  a  far  sadder 
sacrifice  than  that  of  the  Dorotliea  whose  story  we 
know. 

Her  finely  touched  spirit  had  still  its  fine  issues, 
though  they  were  not  widely  visible.  Her  full 
nature,  like  that  river  of  whirli  Alcxandor  broke 
the  Btrnngtii,  KfK>nt  itself  m  channels  which  lja<l  no 
great  ii.iinc  on   thr-  earth.     Hut  tlie  effect   of  her 


332  MARIAN  EVANS. 

being  on  those  around  her,  was  incalculably  dif- 
fusive ;  for  the  growing  good  of  the  world  is 
partly  dependent  on  unliistoric  acts  ;  and  that 
things  are  not  so  ill  witli  you  and  me  as  they 
might  have  been,  is  half  owing  to  the  number  who 
lived  faithfully  a  hidden  life,  and  rest  in  unvis- 
ited  tombs,  — Middlemarch. 

O  MAY  I  JOIN  THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE. 

O  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence  ;  live 

In  pulses  stirred  to  generosity, 

In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn  • 

For  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self, 

In  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the  night  like  stars, 

And  with  their  mild  persistence  urge  man's  search, 

To  vaster  issues. 

So  to  live  is  heaven  : 
To  make  undying  music  in  the  world, 
Breathing  a  beauteous  order,  that  controls 
With  growing  sway  the  growing  life  of  man. 
So  we  inherit  that  sweet  purity 
For  which  we  struggled,  failed,  and  agonized 
With  widening  retrospect  that  bred  despair. 
Rebellious  flesh  that  would  not  be  subdued, 
A  vncious  parent  shaming  still  its  child. 
Poor  anxious  penitence  is  quick  dissolved  ; 
Its  discords  quenched  by  meeting  harmonies, 
Die  in  the  large  and  charitable  air. 
And  all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self, 
That  sobbed  religiously  in  yearning  song. 
That  watched  to  ease  the  burden  of  the  world, 
Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be. 
And  what  may  yet  be  better — saw  within 
A  worthier  image  for  the  sanctuar}^ 
And  shaped  it  forth  before  the  multitude. 
Divinely  human,  raising  worship  so 
To  higher  reverence  more  mixed  with  love — 
That  better  self  shall  live  till  human  Time 
Shall  fold  its  eyelids,  and  the  human  sky 
Be  gathered  like  a  scroll  within  the  tomb, 
Unread  forever. 

This  is  life  to  come. 
Which  martyred  men  have  made  more  glorious 


WILLIAM  M.  EVARTS.  333 

For  U3  who  strive  to  follow. 

May  I  reach 
That  purest  heaven — be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony. 
Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feed  pure  love, 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty. 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffused. 
And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense  ! 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible. 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world. 

DAY   IS  DYING. 

Day  is  dying  !     Float,  O  song 

Down  the  westward  river, 
Requiems  chanting  to  the  Day — 

Day,  the  mighty  Giver. 

Pierced  by  shades  of  Time,  he  bleeds, 

Melted  rubies  sending 
Through  the  river  and  the  sky. 

Earth  and  Heaven  blending. 

All  the  long-drawn  earthy  banks, 

Up  to  cloudland  lifting; 
Slow  between  them  drifts  the  swan, 

'Twixt  two  heavens  drifting. 

Wings  half  open  like  a  flower, 

July  deeper  flushing, 
Neck  and  breast  as  virgin's  pure — 

Virgin  proudly  blushing. 

Day  is  dying  !     Float,  O  Swan  ; 

Down  the  ruby  river  ; 

Follow,  song,  in  requiem 

To  the  mighty  Giver. 

— From   the  Spaninh  Gypsy. 

EVARTS,  V7ILLIAM  Maxwell,  an  Ameri- 
can lawyer  and  statesman,  born  at  Boston  in 
1818.  He  graduated  at  Yale  in  1837,  studied 
at  the  Harvard  Law  School,  and  in  1§41, 
was  admitted  to  the  New  York  bar,  and  soon 
rose  to  a  high  rank  in  his  profession,  and 
has  been  engaged  as  counsel  in  numerous 
important  cnsos.  In  18»i8  he  was  the  leading 
counsel  iu  tlic;  defense  of  President  Andrew 


334  WILLIAM  M.  EVARTS. 

Johnson,  then  vmder  impeachment,  and  dur- 
ing the  remainder  of  Mr.  Johnson's  term  he 
was  Attorney-General  of  the  United  States. 
In  1872  he  was  one  of  the  counsel  of  the  Uni- 
ted S  tates  in  the  tribunal  of  Arbitration  at 
Geneva,  on  the  Alabama  Claims.  Upon  the 
accession  to  the  Presidency  of  Mr,  Hayes,  in 
1877,  Mr.  Evarts  was  made  Secretary  of  State, 
retaining  that  position  during  the  administra- 
tion of  Mr.  Hayes.  Mr.  Evarts's  published 
writings  consist  mainly  of  occasional  discours- 
es and  addresses.  The  principal  of  these  are  : 
Centennial  Oration  before  the  Linonian  So- 
ciety of  Yale  College  (1853),  Address  before  the 
Neiv  England  Society  (1854),  Argument  before 
the  Geneva  Arbitration  Tribunal  (1872),  Eu- 
logy on  Chief-Justice  Chase  (1874),  and  Cen- 
tennial Oration  at  Philadelphia  (1876.) 

NEUTRALS  AND  BELLIGERANTS. 

What,  then,  is  the  doctrine  of  hospitality  or  asy- 
lum, and  what  is  the  doctrine  which  porhibits  the 
use  (under  cover  of  asylum,  under  cover  of  hospit- 
ality, or  otherwise)  of  neutral  ports  and  waters  as 
bases  of  naval  operations  ?  It  all  rests  upon  the 
principle  that,  while  a  certain  degree  of  protection 
or  refuge,  and  a  certain  peaceful  and  innocent  aid, 
under  the  stress  to  which  maritime  voyages  are 
exposed,  are  not  to  be  denied,  and  are  not  to  be 
impeached  as  unlawful,  yet  anything  that  under 
its  circumstances  and  in  its  character  is  the  use  of  a 
port  or  of  waters  for  naval  operations,  is  proscrib- 
ed, although  it  may  take  the  guise,  much  more  if 
it  be  an  abuse,  of  the  privilege  of  asylum  or  hos- 
pitalitj-.  There  is  no  difference  in  principle,  in 
morality,  or  in  duty,  between  neutrality  on  land 
and  neutrality  at  sea.  What,  then,  are  the  fa- 
miliar rules  of  neutrality  within  tlie  territory  of  a 
neutral,  in  respect  to  land  warfare? 

Whenever  stress  of  the  enemy,  or  misfortune, 
or  cowardice,  or  seeking  an  advantage  of  refresh- 
ment, carries  or  drives  one  of  the  belligerants  or 
any  part  of  his  forces  over  the  frontier  into  the 
neutral  territory,  what  is  the  duty  of  the  neutral? 


WILLIAM  M.  EVARTS.  335 

It  is  to  dis'irm  the  forces  and  send  them  into 
the  interior  till  the  war  is  over.  There  is  to  be  no 
practicing  with  this  question  of  neutral  territory. 

The  refugees  are  not  compelled  by  the  neutral 
to  face  their  enemy ;  they  are  not  delivered  up  as 
prisoners  of  war  ;  they  are  not  surrendered  to  the 
immediate  stress  of  war  from  which  they  sought 
refuge.  But  from  the  moment  they  come  within 
neutral  territory  they  are  to  become  non-combat- 
ants, and  they  are  to  end  their  relations  to  the 
war.  There  are  familiar  examples  of  this  in  the 
recent  history  of  Europe. 

What,  then,  is  the  doctrine  of  the  law  of  nations 
in  regard  to  asylum,  or  refuge,  or  hospitality,  in 
reference  to  belligerants  at  sea  during  war.  The 
words  themselves  sufficiently  indicate  it.  The 
French  equivalent  of  "relacheforcee,  "  equally  de- 
scribes the  only  situation  in  which  a  neutral  recog- 
nizes the  right  of  asylum  and  refuge  ;  not  in  the 
sense  of  shipwreck,  I  agree,  but  in  the  sense  in 
which  the  circumstances  of  ordinary  navigable  ca- 
pacity to  keep  the  seas,  for  the  purposes  of  the  voy- 
age and  the  maintenance  of  the  ci'uise,  render  the 
resort  of  vessels  to  a  port  or  ports  suitable  to,  and 
convenient  for,  their  navigp.tion,  under  actual  and 
bona  fide  circumstances  requiring  refuge  and 
asylum. — Aryument  before  the  Geneva  Tribunal, 

THE  "NASHVILLE"  AND  THE    "SHENANDOAH." 

[77ie  Nashville,  when  she  reached  Bermuda, 
two  dayu'  voyage  from  Charleston]  had  no  coal, 
and  she  took  four  hundred  and  fifty  tons  more  on 
board  to  execute  the  naval  operations  which  she 
projected  when  she  left  Charleston,  and  did  not 
take  the  means  to  a<complisli,  but  relied  upon 
getting  tliem  in  a  neutral  i>ort  to  enable  her  to 
pursue  her  cruise.  Now  the  doctrine  of  relache 
forcie,  or  of  refuge,  or  of  asylum,  or  of  hospitality, 
has  nothing  to  do  with  a  transaction  of  that  kind. 

TJie  ves.sel  comes  out  of  a  port  of  safety,  at 
home,  with  a  supply  from  tlie  resources  of  the 
l)elligerant  that  will  only  carry  it  to  a  neutral 
|K)rt,  to  take  in  tJwre  the  means  of  accomplishing 
it.s  [»rojert<Ml  naval  operations.  And  no  system  of 
relief   ill  distress,  or  of  allowing  .supply  of  the 


336  WILLIAM  M.  EVARTS. 

means  of  taking  the  seas  for  a  voyage  interrupted 
by  the  exliaustion  of  the  resources  originally  pro- 
vided, have  anything  to  do  with  a  case  of  this 
kind.  It  was  a  deliberate  plan  when  the  naval 
operation  was  meditated  and  concluded  upon,  to 
use  the  neutral  port  as  a  base  of  naval  operations, 
which  plan  was  carried  out  by  the  actual  use  of 
the  neutral  territory  as  proposed.  Now  we  say, 
•hat  if  this  tribunal  upon  the  facts  of  that  case, 
shall  find  that  this  neutral  port  of  Bermuda  was 
planned  and  used  as  the  base  of  the  naval  opera- 
tions projected  at  the  start  of  the  vessel  from 
Charleston — that  that  is  the  use  of  a  neutral  port 
as  a  base  for  naval  operations.  On  what  principle 
is  it  not?  Is  it  true  that  the  distance  of  the  pro- 
jected naval  operation,  or  its  continuance,  makes 
a  difference  in  principle,  as  to  the  resort  to  estab- 
lish a  base  in  neutral  territory,  or  to  obtain  supplies 
from  such  a  base?  Why,  certainly  not.  Why, 
that  would  be  to  proscribe  the  slight  and  compar- 
atively harmless  abuses  of  neutral  teiTitory,  and 
to  permit  the  bold,  impudent,  and  permanent 
application  of  neutral  territory  to  belligerant  pur- 
poses. 

Let  us  take  the  case  of  the  Shenandoah.  The 
project  of  the  Shenandoah's  voyage  is  known.  It 
was  formed  within  the  Confederate  territory.  It 
was  that  the  vessel  should  be  armed  and  sup- 
plied— that  she  should  make  a  circuit,  passing 
aiound  Cape  Horn  or  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope — 
that  she  should  put  herself,  on  reaching  the  pro- 
per longitude,  in  a  position  to  pursue  her  cruise  to 
the  Arctic  Ocean,  there  to  make  a  prey  of  the 
whaling  fleet  of  the  United  States.  To  break  up 
these  whaling  operations,  and  destroy  the  fleet, 
was  planned  under  motives  and  for  advantages 
which  seemed  to  that  belligerant  to  justify  the  ex- 
pense and  risk  and  peril,  of  the  undertaking.  That 
is  the  naval  operation,  and  all  that  was  done  inside 
of  the  belligerant  territory  was  to  form  the  pro- 
ject of  the  naval  operation,  and  to  communicate 
authority  to  execute  it  to  the  officers  who  were 
outside  of  that  territory. 

Now,  either  the  Shenandoah,   if  she  was  to  be 
obtained,  prepared,  armed,  furnished,  and  coaleil 


WILLIAM  M.  EVARTS.  337 

for  that  extensive  naval  operation,  was  to  have  no 
base  for  it  at  all,  or  it  was  to  find  a  base  for  it  in 
neutral  ports.  It  is  not  a  phantom  ship,  and  must 
have  a  base.  Accordingly,  as  matter  of  fact,  all 
that  went  tu  make  up  the  execution  of  that  oper- 
ation of  maritimewar,  was  derived  from  the  neu- 
tral ports  of  Great  Britain.  The  ship  was  thence 
delivered  and  sallied  forth  ;  was  furnished  from 
neutral  ports  and  waters.  It  resorted  to  Madeira 
to  await  the  arrival  of  the  Laurel,  which,  by  con- 
cert and  employment  in  advance  of  the  sailing  of 
the  Sfienandoah,  was  to  take  the  armament, 
munitions  of  war,  officers,  and  a  part  of  the  crew, 
to  complete  the  Slienandoah's  fitness  to  take  the 
seas,  as  a  ship-of-war,  to  execute  the  naval  project 
on  which  she  originally  sailed,  and  which  were 
transferred  from  ship  to  ship  at  sea.  The  island 
of  Madeira  served  only  as  a  rendezvous  for  the 
two  vessels,  and  if  there  had  been  occasion — aa 
in  fact  there  was  not — might  have  furnished  a 
shelter  from  storms.  Thus  made  a  fighting  ship 
from  these  neutral  ports,  as  a  base,  and  furnished 
from  the  same  base  with  tlie  complete  materials 
for  tlie  naval  operations  projected,  the  Shenan- 
doah made  captures,  as  without  interruption  of 
her  main  project  she  might ;  rounded  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope,  and  came  to  Melbourne,  another  Brit- 
ish port,  whence  she  was  to  take  her  last  departure 
for  her  distant  field  of  operation — the  waters  of 
the  whahng  fleet  of  the  United  States  in  the 
Arcti<;  Ocean.  At  Melbourne  she  obtained  four 
hundred  and  fifty  tons  of  coal — or  something  of 
that  kind — and  forty  men ;  and  without  botli  of 
these,  as  w(;il  as  important  repairs  of  lier  machin- 
ery, she  could  not  have  carried  out  the  naval 
project  on  which  slie  ha«l  started.  The  coal  taken 
at  Melbourne  was  sfut  by  appointment  from  Liv- 
erpool, and  was  there  to  complete  her  refitment. 
The  naval  operation  \v<nild  liave  failed  if  tho 
vessel  had  notreceive<l  the  replenishment  of  power 
an<l  resouncK  at  Melbourne  as  a  base. 

Now  this  case  of  the  Slwnandoah  illustrates  by 
its  caif'er,  (Hi  a  large  scale  tlie  project  of  a  lielliger- 
ant    in  maritime  war,   which  sets  fortli  a  vessel 


338  WILLIAM  M.  EVARTS. 

and  furnislies  it  complete  for  wai-,  plans  its  naval 
operations  and  executes  them — and  all  this  from 
neutral  ports  and  ivaters,  as  the  only  base,  and  as 
a  sufficient  base.  Melbourne  was  the  only  port 
from  which  the  Shenandoah  received  anything 
after  its  first  supply  from  the  home  ports  of  Great 
Britain  ;  and  it  finally  accomplished  the  main  op- 
eration of  its  naval  warfare  by  means  of  the  coal- 
ing and  other  refitment  at  Melbourne.  Whether 
it  could  rely  for  the  origin  of  its  naval  power,  and 
for  the  means  of  accomplishing  its  naval  warfare, 
upon  the  use  of  neutral  ports  and  waters,  under 
tlie  cover  of  commercial  dealings  in  contraband 
of  war,  and  under  the  cover  of  the  privilege  of 
asylum,  was  the  question  which  it  proposed  to  it- 
self, and  which  it  answered  for  itself.  It  is  under 
the  application  of  these  principles  that  the  case 
of  the  Shenandoah  is  supposed  to  be  protected 
from  being  a  violation  of  the  law  of  nations, 
which  prohibits  the  use  of  ports  and  waters  of  a 
neutral  as  a  base  of  naval  operations. — Argument 
before  the  Geneva  Tribunal. 

CHASE   AND  WEBSTER. 

If  I  should  attempt  to  compare  Mr.  Chase,  eith- 
er in  resemblance  or  contrast,  with  the  great 
names  in  our  public  life,  of  our  own  times  and  in 
our  previous  history,  I  should  be  inclined  to 
class  him,  in  the  solidity  of  his  faculties,  the  firm- 
ness of  his  will,  and  in  the  moderation  of  his 
temper,  and  in  the  quality  of  his  public  services, 
with  that  remarkable  school  of  statesmen  who, 
through  the  Revolutionary  war,  wrought  out  the 
independence  of  their  country  which  they  had  de- 
clai-ed,  and  framed  the  Constitution  by  which  the 
new  liberties  were  consolidated  and  their  perpe- 
tuity insured.  Should  I  point  more  distinctly  at 
individual  characters  whose  traits  he  most  recalls, 
Ellsworth  as  a  lawyer  and  judge,  and  Madison  as 
a  statesman,  would  seem  not  only  the  most  like, 
but  very  like  Mr.  Chase.  In  the  groups  of  his  con- 
temporaries, in  public  affairs,  Mr.  Chase  is  always 
named  with  the  most  eminent.  In  every  trium- 
virate of    conspicuous    activity    he    would    be 


WILLIAM  ^r.  EVARTS.  338 

naturally  associated.  Thus  in  the  preliminary 
agitations  which  prepared  the  triumphant  politics, 
it  is  Chase  and  Sumner  and  Hale  ;  in  the  competi- 
tion for  the  Presidency  wlien  the  party  expected 
to  carry  it,  it  is  Seward  and  Lincoln  and  Chase  ; 
in  administration,  it  is  Stanton  and  Seward  and 
Chase  ;  in  the  Senate,  it  is  Chase  and  Seward  and 
Sumner.  AH  these  are  newly  dead,  and  we  accord 
them  a  common  homage  of  admiration  and  of 
gratitude,  not  yet  to  be  adjusted  or  weighed  out 
to  each. 

Just  a  quarter  of  a  century  before  Mr.  Chase 
left  these  halls  of  learning  the  College  [Dartmouth] 
sent  out  another  scholar  of  her  discipline,  with 
the  same  general  traits  of  birth  and  condition  and 
attendant  influences  which  we  have  noted  as  the 
basis  of  the  power  and  influence  of  this  later  son 
of  Dartmouth.  He  plaj'ed  a  famous  part  in  his 
time  as  Lawyer,  Senator,  and  Minister  of  State, 
and  in  all  the  greatest  affairs,  and  in  all  the  high- 
est spheres  of  public  action  ;  and  to  his  eloquence 
his  countrymen  paid  the  singular  homage  with 
which  the  Greeks  ci-owned  tliat  of  Pericles,  who 
alone  was  called  "  Olympian,"'  for  his  grandeur 
and  his  power.  He  died  with  the  turning  tide 
from  the  old  statesmanship  to  the  new,  then  oj^en- 
ing,  now  closed,  in  which  Mr.  Chase  and  his 
con  tern  j>oraries  have  done  their  work  and  made 
their  fame. 

Twentj'-one  years  ago  this  venerable  College, 
careful  of  the  memory  of  one  who  had  so  greatly 
served  as  well  as  lionored  her,  heard  from  the 
lips  of  Choate  the  praise  of  Webster.  Wliat  lover 
of  the  College,  what  admirer  of  genius  and  elo- 
quence, can  forget  the  pathetic  and  splendid 
tribute  which  the  consummate  orator  paid  to  the 
mighty  fame  of  the  great  statesman?  What 
mattered  it  to  him  or  to  tlie  College  that,  for  the 
moment,  this  fame  was  checked  and  clouded  in 
the  divided  judgments  of  his  countrymen,  by  the 
rising  storms  of  the  approacliing  struggle.  But, 
instriJfted  by  tlie  experience  of  the  vancjuished 
reUllion,  none  ;ir<'  now  ho  (hill  as  not  to  see  that 
the  c<>nb<»lifluti<»n  u.'  llic  Union,  the  demonstruLiua 


^40  WILLIAM  M.  EVARTS. 

of  tho  true  doctrine  of  the  Constitution,  the  solici- 
tous observance  of  every  obHgation  of  the  compact, 
were  the  great  preparations  for  the  final  issue  of 
American  politics  between  freedom  and  slavery. 

To  these  preparations  the  life-work  of  Webster 
and  his  associates  was  devoted  ;  the  force  and 
magnitude  of  the  explosion  have  justified  all  their 
solicitudes  lest  it  should  burst  the  cohesion  of  our 
unity.  The  general  sense  of  our  countrymen  now 
understands  that  the  statesmen  who  did  the 
most  to  secure  the  common  Government  for  slav- 
ery and  freedom  under  the  frame  of  the  Constitu- 
tion, and  who  in  the  next  generation  did  the  most 
to  strengthen  the  bonds  of  the  Union,  and  to  avert 
the  last  test  till  that  strength  was  secured,  and,  in 
our  own  latest  times,  did  the  most  to  make  the 
contest  at  last,  become  seasonable  and  safe,  thor- 
ough and  unyielding  and  unconditional,  have  all 
wrought  out  the  great  problem  of  our  statesman- 
ship, which  was  to  assure  to  us  "  Liberty  and 
Union,  now  and  forever  one  and  inseparable." 
They  all  deserve — as  they  shall  all  receive,  each 
for  his  share — the  gratitude  of  their  countrymen 
and  the  applause  of  the  world. 

To  the  advancing  generations  of  youth  that 
Dartmouth  shall  continue  to  train  for  the  ser- 
vice of  the  republic  and  the  good  of  mankind, 
the  lesson  of  the  life  we  commemorate  to-day  is 
neither  obscure  nor  uncertain.  The  toils  and  hon- 
ors of  the  past  generations  have  not  exhausted  the 
occasions  nor  the  duties  of  our  public  life  ;  and 
the  preparation  for  them,  whatever  else  it  may 
include,  can  never  omit  the  essential  qualities 
which  have  always  marked  every  prosperous  and 
elevated  career.  These  are,  energy,  labor,  truth, 
courage,  and  faith.  These  make  up  that  ultimate 
Wisdom  to  which  the  moral  constitution  of  the 
world  assures  a  triumph.  "  Wisdom  is  the  princi- 
pal thing ;  she  shall  bring  thee  to  honor  ;  she 
shall  give  to  thy  head  an  ornament  of  grace  ; 
a  crown  of  glory  shall  she  deliver  to  thee." 
—Eulogy  upon  Chief-Justice  Chase. 


JOHN  EVELYN.  341 

EVELYN,  John,  an  English  author,  born  in 
1620,  died  in  1706.  He  inherited  a  large  estate, 
was  educated  at  Oxford,  and  in  1644,  served  as 
a  volunteer  in  the  Low  Countries.  When  the 
civil  war  broke  out,  he  joined  the  royalist 
army  ;  but  the  cause  being  lost  he  traveled  in 
France  and  Italy,  returning  to  England  in 
1651.  After  the  restoration  of  Charles  II. 
Evelyn  became  a  favorite  at  court.  He  was 
one  of  the  founders  of  the  Royal  Society, 
and  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  its  Trans- 
actions. He  was  one  of  the  first  Englishmen 
to  treat  gardening  and  arboriculture  scien- 
tifically. In  1664,  at  the  request  of  the  Royal 
Society,  he  put  forth  a  folio  volume  entitled 
Sylva,  or  a  Discourse  on  Forest  Trees  and 
the  Propagation  of  Timber  in  his  Majesty's 
Dominions,  the  effect  of  which  was  to  occasion 
the  planting  of  an  immense  number  of  oak- 
trees,  which  in  the  next  century  furnished 
material  for  the  construction  of  the  ICnglish 
navy.  In  167.5  he  published  another  folio 
volume.  Terra  ;  a  Discourse  on  the  Earth, 
relating  to  the  Culture  and  Improvement  of  it 
for  Vegetation  and  the  Propagation  of  Plants. 
His  estate  near  Deptf(jrd  attracted  much 
admiration  on  account  of  the  great  number  of 
exotic  plants  which  were  cultivated  there. 
When  Peter  the  Great  of  Russia  visited  Eng- 
land in  the  Spring  of  1698,  Evelyn's  mansion 
was  leased  to  him,  and  the  owner  complains 
bitterly  of  the  wanton  manner  in  which  the 
Czar  and  liis  suite  abused  his  cherished  plan- 
tations. Besides  the  works  already  mentioned 
Evelyn  wrote  several  others  of  very  consider- 
able value.  But  of  more  permanent  interest 
than  any  of  the  others  is  his  Diary,  kopt  from 
1641  tr>  1706,  which  was  first  published  in  1818. 
and  aftfrwardsin  18.59  and  1871,  thelastedition 
being  in  a  singlt;  large  volume.  His  third 
son,  likewi.se  Joh.n  Evkly.n  (1654-1698),  pub- 


842  JOHN  EVELYN. 

lishcd  several  translations,  among  which  was 
Plutarch's  Life  of  Alexander  the  Great.  In  the 
following  extract  from  Evelyn's  Diary  the 
original  spelling  is  retained  : 

THE  GREAT  FIRE  IN  LONDON. 

1666.  2d  Sept.  This  fatal  night  about  ten  began 
that  deplorable  fire  near  Fish  Streete  in  London. 

3d.  The  fire  continuing,  after  dinner  I  took 
coach  with  my  wife  and  sonn  and  went  to  the  Bank 
side  in  Southwark,  where  we  beheld  that  dismal 
spectacle,  the  whole  citty  in  dreadful  flames  near 
ye  water  side  ;  all  the  houses  from  the  Bridge,  all 
Thames  Street,  and  upwards  towards  Cheapeside, 
downe  to  the  Three  Cranes,  were  now  consum'd. 

The  fire  having  continued  all  this  night — if  I 
may  call  that  night  which  was  light  as  day  for  ten 
miles  round  about,  after  a  dreadful  manner — when 
conspiring  with  a  fierce  eastern  wind  in  a  very 
drie  season,  I  went  on  foote  to  the  same  place,  and 
saw  the  whole  south  part  of  ye  citty  burning  from 
Cheapside  to  ye  Thames,  and  all  along  Cornehill — 
for  it  kindl'd  back  against  ye  wind  as  well  as  for- 
ward— Tower  Streete,  Fenchurch  Streete,  Gracious 
Streete,  and  so  along  to  Bainard's  Castle,  and  was 
now  taking  hold  of  St.  Paule's  Church,  to  which 
the  scaffolds  contributed  exceedingly.  The  con- 
flagration was  so  universal,  and  the  people  so 
astonished,  that  from  the  beginning,  I  know  not 
by  what  despondency  or  fate,  they  hardly  stirr'd 
to  quench  it,  so  that  there  was  nothing  heard  or 
scene  but  crying  out  and  lamentation,  running 
about  like  distracted  creatures,  without  at  all  at- 
tempting to  save  even  their  goods,  such  a  strange 
consternation  there  was  upon  them,  so  as  it  burned 
both  in  breadth  and  length,  the  churches,  publiq 
halls,  exchange,  hospitals,  monuments,  and  orna- 
ments, leaping  after  a  prodigious  manner  from 
house  to  house  and  streete  to  streete,  at  greate 
distances  one  from  ye  other;  for  ye  heate  with  a 
long  set  of  faire  and  warme  weather  had  even 
ignited  the  air,  and  prepared  the  materials  to  con- 
ceive the  fire,  which  devoured,  after  an  incredible 
manner,  houses,  furniture,  and  everything.     Here 


JOHN  EVELYN.  343 

we  saw  the  Thames  cover'd  with  goods  floating, 
all  the  barges  and  boates  laden  with  what  some 
had  time  and  courage  to  save,  as,  on  ye  other,  ye 
carts,  &c..  carrying  out  to  the  fields,  which  for 
many  miles  were  strew "d  with  moveables  of  all 
sorts,  and  tents  erecting  to  slielter  both  people  and 
what  goods  they  could  get  away.  Oh  the  miser- 
able and  calamitous  spectacle  !  such  as  haply  the 
world  had  not  seene  the  like  since  the  foundation 
of  it,  nor  be  outdone  till  the  universal  conflagration 
thereof.  All  the  skie  was  of  a  fiery  aspect,  like 
the  top  of  a  burning  oven,  and  the  light  seene 
above  40  miles  round  about  for  many  nights. 
God  grant  my  eyes  may  never  behold  the  like, 
who  now  saw  above  10,000  houses  all  in  one  flame: 
the  noise,  and  cracking,  and  thunder  of  the  im- 
petuous flames,  ye  shrieking  of  women  and 
children,  the  hurry  of  people,  the  fall  of  towers, 
houses,  and  churches,  was  like  an  hideous  storme, 
and  the  aire  all  about  so  hot  and  inflam'd,  that 
at  last  one  was  not  able  to  approach  it,  so  that 
they  were  forc'd  to  stand  still  and  let  ye  flames 
burn  on,  wch  they  did  for  neere  two  miles  in 
length  and  one  in  bredth.  The  clouds  of  smoke 
were  dismall,  and  reach'd  upon  computation  neer 
50  miles  in  length.  Thus  I  left  it  thisafternoone 
burning,  a  resemblance  of  Sodom  or  the  last  day. 
It  forcibly  called  to  my  mind  that  passage — non 
eniiti  hie  Jiabemus  stahilem  civitatem:  the  ruins 
resembling  the  picture  of  Troy.  London  was,  but 
is  no  more  !    Thus,  I  returned. 

4th.  The  burning  still  rages,  and  it  is  now 
gotten  as  far  as  the  Inner  Temple :  all  Fleete 
Streete,  the  Old  Bailey,  Ludgate  Hill,  Warwick 
Lane,  Newgate,  Paul's  Chain,  Watling  Streete, 
now  flaming,  and  most  of  it  reduc'd  to  ashes ;  the 
stones  of  Panics  flew  like  granados,  ye  mealting 
lead  running  duwne  the  streetes  in  a  streame,  and 
tl)e  very  jjavemcntH  glowing  with  fiery  rednes.se, 
so  as  no  hor.se  n<jr  man  was  able  to  trea<l  on  them, 
and  the  demolition  had  stopp'd  all  the  passages,  so 
that  no  help  could  be  appli<.'d.  The  eastern  wind 
Btill  more  im|M;tuously  drove  tlie  flames  f(^rward. 


344  JOHN  EVELYN. 

Notliing  but  ye  Almighty  power  of  God  was  able 
to  stop  them,  for  vaine  was  ye  lielp  of  man. 

5th,  It  crossed  towards  Whitehall  :  but  oh  1  the 
confusion  there  was  then  at  that  court !  It  pleased 
his  Maty  to  connnand  me  among  ye  rest  to  looke 
after  the  quenching  of  Fetter  Lane  end,  to  pre- 
serve, if  possible,  that  part  of  Holburn,  whilst  the 
rest  of  ye  gentlemen  tooke  their  several  posts — for 
now  they  began  to  bestir  themselves,  and  not  till 
now,  who  hitherto  had  stood  as  men  intoxicated, 
with  their  hands  acrosse — and  began  to  consider 
that  nothing  was  likely  to  put  a  stop  but  the  blow- 
ing up  of  so  many  houses,  as  might  make  a  wider 
gap  than  any  had  yet  ben  made  by  the  ordinary 
method  of  pulling  them  down  with  engines  ;  this 
some  stout  seamen  propos'd  early  enough  to  have 
sav'd  near  ye  whole  citty,  but  this  some  tenacious 
and  avaritious  men,  aldermen,  &c.,  would  not 
permit,  because  their  houses  must  have  ben  of  the 
first.  It  was  therefore  now  commanded  to  be 
practis'd,  and  my  concern  being  particularly  for 
the  hospital  of  St.  Bartholomew,  neere  Smithfield, 
where  I  had  many  wounded  and  sick  men,  made 
me  the  more  diligent  to  promote  it,  nor  was  my 
care  for  the  Savoy  lesse.  It  now  pleas'd  God,  by 
abating  the  wind,  and  by  the  Industrie  of  ye 
people,  infusing  a  new  spirit  into  them,  that  the 
fury  of  it  began  sensibly  to  abate  about  noone,  so 
as  it  came  no  farther  than  ye  Temple  westward, 
nor  than  ye  entrance  of  Smithfield  north.  But 
continu'd  all  this  day  and  night  so  impetuous 
towards  Cripplegate  and  the  tower,  as  made  us  all 
despaire  ;  it  also  broke  out  againe  in  the  Temple, 
but  the  courage  of  the  multitude  persisting,  and 
many  houses  being  blown  up,  such  gaps  and  deso- 
lations were  soone  made,  as  with  the  former  three 
days'  consumption,  the  back  fire  did  not  bo  vehe- 
mently urge  upon  the  rest  as  formerly.  There  was 
yet  no  standing  neere  the  burning  and  glowing 
mines  by  neere  a  furlong's  space. 

The  coale  and  wood  wharfes  and  magazines  of 
oyle,  rosin,  &c.  did  infinite  mischiefe,  so  as  the  in- 
vective which  a  little  before  I  liad  dedicated  to  his 
Maty,  and  publish'd,  giving  warning  what  might 


JOHN  EVELYN.  ."45 

probably  be  the  issue  of  suffering  those  shops 
about  to  be  in  the  citty,  was  look'd  on  as  a  pro- 
phecy. 

The  poore  inhabitants  were  dispers'd  about  St. 
George's  Fields,  and  Mooretields,  as  far  as  High- 
gate,  and  several  miles  in  circle,  some  under  tents, 
some  under  miserable  butts  and  hovells,  many 
without  a  rag  or  any  necessary  utensills,  bed  or 
board,  who.  from  delicatenesse,  riches,  and  easy 
accommodations  in  stately  and  well  -  f  urnish'd 
houses,  were  now  reduc'd  to  extremest  misery  and 
poverty. 

In  this  calamitous  condition,  I  returned  with  a 
sad  heart  to  my  bouse,  blessing  and  adoring  the 
mercy  of  God  to  me  and  mine,  who  in  the  midst 
of  all  this  ruine  was  like  Lot,  in  my  little  Zoar, 
safe  and  sound.  .  .  . 

7tb.  I  went  this  naorning  on  foot  fm  Whitehall 
as  far  as  London  Bridge,  thro'  the  late  Fleete 
Streete,  Ludgate  Hill,  by  St.  Paules,  Cheapside, 
Exchange,  Bishopgate,  Aldersgate,  and  out  to 
Moorefields.  thence  thro"  Cornehill,  &c.  with  extra- 
ordinary difhculty,  clambering  over  heaps  of  yet 
smoking  rubbish,  and  fre(juently  mistaking  where 
I  was.  The  ground  under  my  feete  was  so  hot 
that  it  even  burnt  the  soles  of  my  shoes.  In  the 
meantime  his  Maty  got  to  the  Tower  by  water,  to 
demolish  ye  houses  about  the  graff,  which  being 
built  intirely  about  it.  bad  they  taken  fire  and  at- 
tack'd  the  While  Tower  where  the  magazine  of 
powder  lay,  would  undoubtedlj-  not  only  have 
beaten  down  and  destroy'd  all  ye  bridge,  but 
Bunke  and  tome  the  vessells  in  ye  river,  and  ren- 
der'd  ye  demolition  lieyond  all  expression  for  sev- 
eral miles  about  the  countrey. 

At  ray  return.  I  was  infinitely  concern'd  to  find 
that  goodly  chunh,  St.  I'aules,  now  a  sad  ruine, 
and  that  beautiful  i)ortico — for  structure  compar- 
able to  any  in  Euro|H',  as  not  long  l>efore  repair'd 
by  the  late  king— now  rent  in  pieces,  Hakes  of  yaul 
HtoneH  split  asunder,  and  nothing  remaining  intire 
but  the  iiiKcription  in  the  arcbitnive,  showing  by 
whom  it  wiiK  huilt,  \\  lii<h  h.id  not  r)ne  letter  of  it 
defar'd  I  It  was  jLstoriishing  to  sec  what  inuiieiiKe 
Stones  the  heal  had  in  a  manner  culcin'd,  so  that 


346  JOHN  EVELYN, 

all  ye  ornaments,  columns,  freezes,  and  projectures 
of  massic  Portland  stone  flew  off,  even  to  ye  very 
roofe,  where  a  sheet  of  lead  covering  a  great  space 
was  totally  mealted;  the  ruins  of  the  vaulted  roofe 
falling  broken  into  St.  Faith's,  which  being  filled 
with  the  magazines  of  bookes  belonging  to  ye 
stationers,  and  carried  thither  for  safety,  they 
were  all  consumed,  burning  for  a  weeke  following. 
It  is  also  observable,  that  the  lead  over  ye  altar  at 
3'e  east  end  was  untoucli'd,  and  among  the  divers 
monuments,  the  body  of  one  bishop  remain'd 
intire.  Thus  lay  in  ashes  that  most  venerable 
church,  one  of  the  most  ancient  pieces  of  early 
piety  in  ye  Christian  world,  besides  neere  one 
hundred  more.  The  lead,  yron  worke,  bells,  plate, 
&c.,  mealted  ;  the  exquisitely  wrought  Mercers 
Chapell,  the  sumptuous  Exchange,  ye  august 
fabriq  of  Christ  Church,  all  ye  rest  of  the  Com- 
panies Halls,  sumptuous  buildings,  arches,  all  in 
dust ;  the  fountaines  dried  up  and  ruin'd,  whilst 
the  very  waters  remain'd  boiling  ;  the  vorago's  of 
subterranean  cellars, wells,  and  dungeons,  formerly 
warehouses,  still  burning  in  stench  and  dark  clouds 
of  smoke,  so  that  in  5  or  6  miles,  in  traversing 
about,  I  did  not  see  one  load  of  timber  unconsum'd, 
nor  many  stones  but  what  were  calcin'd  white  as 
snow.  The  people  who  now  walk'd  about  ye 
mines  apjiear'd  like  men  in  a  dismal  desart,  or 
rather  in  some  greate  citty  laid  waste  by  a  cruel  en- 
emy ;  to  which  was  added  the  stench  tliat  came  from 
some  poore  creatures  bodies,  beds,  &c.  Sir  Tho. 
Gressham's  statue,  tho'  fallen  from  its  nich  in  the 
Royal  Exchange,  remain'd  intire,  when  all  those 
of  ye  kings  since  ye  Conquest  were  broken  to 
pieces,  also  the  standard  in  Cornehill,  and  Queen 
Elizabeth's  effigies,  with  some  armes  on  Ludgate, 
continued  with  but  little  detriment,  whilst  the  vast 
yron  chaines  of  the  citty  streetes,  hinges,  barrs, 
and  gates  of  prisons,  were  many  of  them  mealted 
and  reduc'd  to  cinders  by  ye  vehement  heate.  I 
was  not  able  to  passe  through  any  of  the  narrow 
streetes,  but  kept  the  widest ;  the  ground  and  air, 
smoake  and  fiery  vapour  continu'd  so  intense,  that 
my  haire  was  almost  sing'd,  and  my  feete  un- 
sufTerably  sur-heated.    The  bie  lanes  and  narrower 


ALEXANDER  H.  EVERETT.  347 

streetes  were  quite  fiU'd  up  witli  rubbish,  nor 
could  one  have  knowne  where  he  was,  but  by  ye 
mines  of  some  church  or  hall,  that  had  some 
remarkable  tower  or  pinnacle  remaining.  I  then 
went  towards  Islington  and  Highgate,  where  one 
might  have  scene  200,000  people  of  all  ranks  and 
degrees  dispersed  and  lying  along  by  their  heapes 
of  what  they  could  save  from  the  fire,  deploring 
their  losse  ;  and  tho'  ready  to  perish  for  hunger 
and  destitution,  yet  not  asking  one  penny  for 
relief,  which  to  me  appeared  a  stranger  sight  than 
any  I  had  yet  beheld.  His  Majesty  and  Council 
indeede  tooke  all  imaginable  care  for  their  reliefe, 
by  proclamation  for  the  country  to  come  in  and 
refresh  them  with  provisions.  In  ye  midst  of  all 
this  calamity  and  confusion,  there  was,  I  know 
not  how,  an  alarme  begun  that  the  French  and 
Dutch,  with  whom  we  were  now  in  hostility, 
were  not  only  landed,  but  even  entering  the  citty. 
There  was,  in  truth,  some  days  before,  greate 
suspicion  of  those  two  nations  joining  ;  and  now 
that  they  had  ben  the  occasion  of  firing  the  towne. 
This  report  did  so  terrific,  that  on  a  suddaine  there 
was  such  an  uproare  and  tumult,  that  they  ran 
from  their  goods,  and  taking  what  weapons  they 
could  come  at,  they  could  not  be  stoppd  from 
falling  on  some  of  those  nations,  whom  they  casu- 
ally met,  without  sense  or  reason.  The  clamour 
and  peril  grew  so  excessive,  that  it  made  the  whole 
court  amaz'd,  and  they  did  with  infinite  paines 
and  greate  difficulty  reduce  and  appease  the 
people,  sending  troops  of  soldiers  and  guards  to 
cause  them  to  retire  into  ye  fields  againe,  where 
they  were  watched  all  this  night.  I  left  them 
pretty  quiet,  and  came  home  sufficiently  weary 
and  broken.  Tlieir  spirits  thus  a  little  calmed, 
and  the  affright  aljated.  they  now  began  to  repaire 
into  ye  suburbs  alx>ut  the  citty,  where  such  as  had 
friends  or  opportunity  got  slielter  for  the  present, 
to  which  his  Matys  proclamation  also  invited 
them. 

EVERETT,  Alexander  Hill,  an  American 
diplomatist  and  scholar,  brother  of  Edward 
Everett,  born  at  Boston  in  1792.  died  at  Can* 


348  ALEXANDER  II.  EVERETT. 

ton,  China,  in  1847.  He  graduated  at  Har- 
vard at  the  age  of  fourteen,  with  the  highet 
honors  of  his  class,  and  soon  after  com- 
menced the  study  of  law  under  John  Quincy 
Adams.  In  1809-11  he  was  attached  to  the 
legation  of  Mr.  Adams  at  St.  Petersburg.  In 
1812  he  commenced  the  practice  of  law  at 
Boston.  From  1814  to  1825  he  was  attached 
to  the  mission  to  the  Netherlands,  during  the 
last  four  years  as  its  head.  In  1825  he  was 
appointed  Minister  plenipotentiary  to  Spain. 
In  1829  he  returned  to  America,  and  for  five 
years  was  editor  of  the  North  American  Re- 
view. In  1830  he  was  elected  to  the  Senate 
of  Massachusetts.  He  had  always  acted  with 
the  party  styled  National  Republican  or 
Whig  ;  but  during  President  Jackson's  sec- 
ond term  he  became  affiliated  with  the  Demo- 
cratic party,  and  in  1838  and  1840  was  an  un- 
successful candidate  for  Congress.  In  1845 
he  was  appointed  Commissioner  to  China, 
but  having  got  as  far  as  Rio  Janeiro  his 
broken  health  compelled  him  to  return.  He 
sailed  again  for  China  in  1846  ;  but  died  not 
long  after  his  arrival  at  Canton.  During 
Mr.  Everett's  diplomatic  residence  in  Europe 
he  wrote  several  works  upon  social  and  po- 
litical topics,  which  were  translated  into  oth- 
er languages.  He  also  contributed  largely  to 
the  North  American  Revieiv  mostly  upon  top- 
ics connected  with  French  literature.  Two 
volumes,  made  up  of  selections  from  his  es- 
says and  poems  were  published  in  1845  and 
1847. 

THE  YOUNG  AMERICAN. 

Scion  of  a  mighty  stock  ! 
Hands  of  iron — hearts  of  oak — 
Follow  with  unflinching  tread 
Where  the  noble  fathers  led. 

Craft  and  subtle  treachery 
Gallant  youtli !  are  not  for  thee  ; 
Follow  thou  in  word  and  deeds, 
Where  tlie  God  within  thee  leads. 


ALEXANDER  H.  EVERETT.  349 

Honesty  with  steady  eye. 
Truth  and  pure  sinipHcity, 
Love  that  gently  winneth  hearts 
These  shall  be  thy  only  arts  : 

Prudent  in  the  council  train, 
Dauntless  on  the  battle-plain. 
Ready,  at  thy  country's  need, 
For  her  glorious  cause  to  bleed  !  •  .  ,  . 


Let  the  noble  motto  be 
God — the  Country — Liberty  ! 
Planted  on  Religion's  rock, 
Thou  shalt  stand  in  every  shock. 

Laugh  at  Danger  far  or  near  ! 
Spurn  at  baseness — spurn  at  fear  1 
Still,  with  persevering  might 
Speak  the  truth,  and  do  the  right. 


Happy  if  celestial  favor 
Smile  upon  thy  high  endeavor : 
Happy  if  it  be  thy  call 
In  the  holy  cause  to  fall. 

FRANKLIN   AND  MONTESQUIEU  IN  ELYSIUM. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  fortunate  inhabitants 
of  Elysium  retain,  in  some  degiee  at  least,  the 
tastes  and  occupations  that  belonged  to  them 
during  their  lifetime.  We  have  the  authority 
of  Virgil  to  this  point,  which  is  deservedly  high  in 
everything  relating  to  the  subject.  There  is  also 
but  too  much  reason  to  suppose  that  some  of  these 
distinguished  persons  are  subject,  like  the  most 
favored  mortals  in  our  sublunary  sphere,  to  the 
disease  of  ennui,  and  are  glad  to  resort  to  reading 
and  other  amusements,  in  order  to  carry  on  the 
war  with  vigor  against  the  great  enemy.  Time.  It 
has  long  l>een  susiK-ctcd  for  these  reasons,  that  in 
making  provision  for  the  comfort  of  the  Elysians, 
the  acconunoflatioii  of  l)ookK  and  newspajxirs  had 
not  been  overlooke<l.  Having  accidentally  dis- 
covered the  lo<;ul  situation  of  this  jtart  of  the 
Universe,  and  having  had  an  opportunity  of 
examining  it  souiewhat  at  leisure,  I  am  able  to 


350  ALEXANDER  H.  EVERETT. 

assure  the  public  that  this  idea  is  perfectly  correct. 
The  booksellers'  shops,  the  libraries,  and  the  read- 
ing-rooms are  on  a  very  good  footing;  and  the 
new  publications  and  journals  are  received  with 
great  regularity  from  all  parts  of  the  world.  How 
this  is  effected,  and  whether  passengers  might  not 
pass  by  the  same  conveyances  that  brmg  the 
Gazettes,  it  is  not  necessary  to  inquire,  the  rather 
as  Captain  Symmes  has  kindly  undertaken  this 
part  of  the  investigation.  _ 

The  Elysians,  however,  are  constantly  informed 
of  the  progress  of  events  in  the  world  and  those 
who  during  their  lives  were  engaged  in  literary  or 
scientific  pursuits,  find  a  very  agreeable  resource, 
when  time  hangs  heavy  upon  their  hands,  m  ex- 
amining the  new  publications  as  they  are  receiv- 
ed and  refreshing  their  memories  m  regard  to  the 
old,  or  in  comparing  their  ideas  upon  these  sub- 
iects  in  conversation  with  each  other.     I  had  an 
opportunity  of  listening  to  some  of  these  conversa- 
tions, and  shall  set  down  for  the  amusement  of 
the  public,  the  heads  of  a  dialogue  between  Presi- 
dent Montesquieu  and  Dr.  Franklin  which  occur- 
red  in   one    of    the    principal  reading-rooms  in 


Elysium. 


I  was  sitting  one  day  in  this  P  ace,  when  the 
venerable  Doctor  entered.  A  ter  booking  about 
him  a  little  while  with  a  leisurely  air,  and 
examining  the  newspapers  of  the  day,  he  took 
down  from  its  place  a  volume  of  Montesquieu  s 
Smrit  of  the  Lmos.  He  appeared  to  be  looking 
flit  for  the  purpose  of  refreshing  1^- ^J/ 
and  sometimes  laid  it  down,  and  seemed  omed 
tate  upon  what  he  had  been  reading.  While  this 
was  going  on,  the  President  himself  came  m.     The 

wo  mustrious  philosophers    saluted  each  o the 
with  a  great  appearance  of  cordiality  and  mutual 
respect;   and  the  conversation  was  immediately 
introduced  by  the  following   remark    from  Dr. 

^  Fmlwin.-Mr.  President,  I  was  employed  as 
you  entered  in  reflecting  upon  the  chapter  in  your 
celebrated  work  on  law,  in  which  you  analyse  he 
British  Constitution.     Notwithstanding  the  high 


ALEXANDER  H.  EVERETT.  ^51 

respect  with  which  I  am  disposed  to  receive  every- 
thing which  proceeded  from  your  pen,  I  confess 
that  I  can  hardly  agree  with  you  in  all  your 
remarks  upon  this  subject. 

Montesquieu. — Consider,  my  dear  Doctor,  at  the 
time  when  that  chapter  was  written,  a  political 
observer  had  not  all  the  lights  to  guide  him  that 
are  now  to  be  found  in  the  world,  or  that  were  at 
hand  even  during  jour  lifetime.  The  great  age  of 
revolutions,  which  was  destined  to  I'eform  the 
science  of  Government,  had  not  then  arrived.  We 
were  only  beginning  to  see  our  way  clear  a  little, 
by  the  twilight  that  was  just  announcing  it.  We 
had  not  then  had  the  benefit  of  your  example,  my 
dear  Doctor,  and  that  of  your  countrymen,  to  cor- 
rect our  theories.  Although  most  of  my  remarks 
on  the  Britisli  Constitution  are  substantially  cor- 
rect, I  should  still  (jualify  them  considerably,  and 
state  some  of  them  in  different  language,  if  I  were 
to  write  them  over  again. 

Franklin. — Among  the  points  susceptible  of 
qualification  you  would  perhaps  include  the  intro- 
(luctory  remark,  that  it  is  unnecessary  to  theorize 
on  the  form  of  government  most  favorable  to 
liberty,  since  the  prolilem  has  been  resolved  in 
practice  by  the  British  Constitution.  Tliis  con- 
clusion, my  dear  President,  seems  to  be  a  little 
unphilosophical.  The  most  that  could  he  said 
with  propriety  on  the  strength  of  one  example 
would  seem  to  be  that  liberty  is  compatible  with 
this  form  of  government.  No  general  conclusion 
can  be  drawn  with  safety  from  a  single  instance. 
If  the  English  are  free,  it  may  perhaps  be  in  spite 
of  their  form  of  government ;  and  this  is  even 
intimated  by  yourself  in  another  passage  of  your 
works,  where  you  olwerve  that  the  Government  of 
England  is  a  Republic  masked  under  the  form  of 
a  Monarchy 

MontrHipdeu. — Why,  Doctor,  this  was  rather  a 
manner  of  expreBsioii,  and  not  to  be  taken  quite 
in  earnest.  I  merely  meant  to  be  understood  that 
as  tlie  FOnglish  nation  furnished  one  of  <lie  most 
remarkalile  exanqih-Hof  tlie  enjoyment  of  practical 
lilx-'rty,  tlie  forms  in  use  there  must  bo  of  great 


352  ALEXANDER  H.  EVERETT. 

weight  in  illustrating  the  theory  of  the  subject. 
I  committed  a  more  substantial  error  in  stating  as 
the  principle  of  English  libert)',  and  of  the  British 
Constitution,  the  existence  of  three  distinct  powers 
in  the  administration,  engaged  by  their  nature  in 
I>erpetual  conflict.  Such  a  state  of  things  could 
not  possibly  be  permanent,  and  would  produce, 
while  it  lasted,  nothing  but  disorder.  In  fact,  it 
never  has  existed  in  England.  ...  In  considering 
a  necessary  discord  of  its  i>rinciiial  components 
parts  as  the  essential  ingredient  and  great  excel- 
lence of  the  British  Constitution,  I  made  a  twofold 
mistake:  first  in  supposing  a  state  of  facts  directly 
contrary  to  the  reality;  and  secondly,  as  was  very 
natural,  in  accounting  for  my  false  principles  .  .  . 
Since  then  we  are  agreed  that  the  principle  of  the 
British  Constitution  does  not  lie  in  the  balance  of 
three  conflicting  powers,  as  is  commonly  thought, 
in  what  do  you  suppose  it  to  consist? 

FranMin. — It  would  be  impossible,  my  dear 
President,  to  define  it  with  more  exactness  and 
precision  than  you  have  done  yourself  in  the  short 
passage  I  have  already  quoted  from  the  earliest — 
and  I  say  it  without  disparagement  to  your  later 
and  graver  productions — the  best  of  your  works. 
The  British  Government  is  a  Republic  disguised 
under  the  form  of  a  Monarchy.  It  is  the  essen- 
tial principle  of  this  Government  that  the  sove- 
reign power,  which  is  exercised  ostensibly  by  King, 
Lords,  and  Commons,  is  possessed  in  reality  by 
the  third  of  these  branches,  which  is  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  people. 

Montesquieu. — Do  you  conceive  then  that  the 
King  and  the  House  of  Peers  have  no  influence  on 
the  Government  ? 

Franklin. — In  order  to  answer  this  question,  it 
is  necessary  to  distinguish  them  as  the  possessors 
of  hereditary  titles,  and  their  interest  as  great 
proprietors.  In  the  latter  point  of  view  their 
weight  is  very  considerable,  since  their  possessions 
are  very  large.  In  the  former  whether  they  are 
regarded  as  an  order  of  nobles  or  an  hereditary 
magistracy — their  influence  is  altogether  null.  .  .  . 
The  personal  nullity  of  the  King  has  long  been 


ALEXANDER  H.  EVERETT,  353 

formally  recognized  in  principle.  To  say  that  the 
King  can  do  no  wrong  is  as  much  as  to  say  that 
the  King  can  do  nothing.  The  institution  of  the 
royal  office  on  this  footing  is  only  a  mode  of  regu- 
lating the  appointment  of  the  actual  executive 
officers  called  the  Ministers.  .  .  .  The  King,  how- 
ever, in  his  nominations  is  only  an  indirect  organ 
of  the  House  of  Commons.  It  is  easy  to  see  that 
the  House  of  Lords  is  a  mere  pageant ;  or,  at  most, 
another  House  of  Commons  quite  inferior  in  im- 
portance to  the  first.  But  in  every  country  effect- 
ive power  is  attached  to  the  possession  of  property. 
Where  property  is  equally  divided  among  the 
members  of  a  society,  political  power  is  also 
equally  divided,  and  the  government  is  in  sub- 
stance democratic.  Where  property  is  very  un- 
equally divided,  and  a  great  proportion  centres  in 
a  few  hands,  the  political  power  is  divided  in  the 
same  way,  and  the  government  is  aristocratic.  As 
far  as  there  may  be  said  to  exist  a  real  aristocracy, 
it  coincides  to  a  considerable  degree  with  the  nom- 
inal one ;  since  the  hereditary  nobles  are  among 
the  largest  proprietors  in  the  Kingdom.  ...  It 
would  seem  therefore,  Mr.  President,  that  in  at- 
tributing the  establishment  of  hereditary  ranks, 
titles,  and  magistracies  to  tiie  necessity  of  protect- 
ing certain  individuals,  distinguished  by  birth, 
wealth,  and  honors,  from  the  jealousy  of  the  peo- 
ple, you  have  exactly  inverted  the  natural  order 
of  causes  and  effects.  Wealth  is  the  real  essence 
of  aristfx;racy,  and  itself  affords  security  to  rank 
and  titles.  It  is  clear,  therefore,  that  rank  and 
titles  could  not  have  been  established  for  the  pur- 
pose of  protecting  wealth. 

Montesquieu.— True,  Doctor,  the  rank  and  titles 
are  only  the  formal  expression  of  the  real  state  of 
things  that  constitutes  aristocracy,  which  is  the 
concentration  of  large  estates  in  a  few  hands, 
and  the  connection  of  political  power  with  the 
possession  of  them.  To  what,  then,  do  you  at- 
tribute the  existence  of  this  phenomenon  ?  Do  you 
reganl  it  as  a  voluntary  institution,  or  as  a  neces- 
Bary  consequence  of  the  progress  of  society  ?— iV. 
A.  Review,  April,  lb21. 


854  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

EVERETT,  Edward,  an  American  states- 
man and  orator,  born  at  Dorchester,  Mass.,  in 
1794,  died  at  Boston  in  1865.  Ho  graduated  at 
Harvard  in  1811,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  and 
soon  afterwards  became  tutor  in  the  college, 
pursuing  at  the  same  time  his  studies  in  di- 
vinity. In  1812  he  dehvered  the  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  Poem  at  Harvard,  his  subject,  which 
was  treated  rather  playfully,  being  "Amer- 
ican Poets, "  as  they  would  be  in  time,  not  as 
they  then  were ;  for  as  yet  no  American 
had  printed  any  poem  of  considerable  merit. 

FUTURE  POETS  OP  AMERICA. 

When  the  warm  bard  his  country's  worth  would 

tell, 
To  Mas-sa-chu-setts's  length  his  lines  must  swell : 
Would  he  the  gallant  tales  of  war  rehearse, 
'Tis  graceful  Bunker  fills  the  polished  verse  ; 
Sings  he,  dear  land,  those  lakes  and  streams  of 

thine, 
Some  mild  Mem-phre-ma-gog  murmurs  in  his  line, 
Some  A-mer-is-cog-gin  dashes  by  his  way, 
Or  smooth  Con-nect-i-cut  softens  in  his  lay, 
Would  he  one  verse  of  easy  movement  frame. 
The  map  will  meet  him  with  a  hopeless  name ; 
Nor  can  his  pencil  sketch  one  perfect  act, 
But  vulgar  history  mocks  him  with  a  fact. 

But  yet,  in  soberer  mood,  the  time  shall  rise. 
When  bards  will  spring  beneath  our  native  skies; 
Where  the  full  chorus  of  creation  swells, 
And  each  glad  spirit,  but  the  poet,  dwells, 
Where  whispering  forests  murmur  notes  of  praise; 
And  headlong  streams  their  voice  in  concert  raise. 
Where   sounds   each   anthem,    but   the    human 

tongue, 
And  nature  blooms  unrivaled  but  unsung. 
Oh  yes  !  in  future  days  our  Western  lyres, 
Turned  to  new  themes,  shall  glow  with  purer  fires. 
Clothed  with  the  charms    to    grace    their  later 

rhyme. 
Of  every  former  age  and  foreign  clime 


EDWARD  EVERETT.  P,55 

Haste  happy  times,   when   through   tuese    wide 

domains 
Shall  sound  the  concert  of  harmonious  strains  ; 
Through  all  the  clime  the    softening    notes    be 

spread, 
Sung  in  each  grove,  and  in  each  hamlet  read. 
Fair  maids  shall  sigh,  and  youthful  heroes  glow, 
At  songs  of  valor  and  at  tales  of  woe  ; 
While  the  rapt  poet  strikes,  along  his  lyre, 
The  virgin's  beauty  and  the  warrior's  fire. 
Thus  each  successive  age  surpass  the  old. 
With  happier  bards  to  hail  it  than  foretold, 
While  Poesy's  star  shall,  like  the  circling  sun, 
Its  orbit  finish  where  it  first  begun. 
—PJii  Beta  Kappa  Poem,  1812. 

This  poem,  written  at  eighteen,  certainly 
gave  promise  that  Everett's  name  might 
stand  high  on  the  list  of  American  poets. 
This  promise  was  never  fulfilled.  He  wrote 
little  verse;  though  one  poem,  Alaric  theVisi- 
yoth,  makes  good  his  claim  to  rank  among  the 
poets  in  our  English  tongue.  The  poem  is 
founded  upon  a  passage  in  an  old  chronicler, 
which  reads:  "Towards  the  close  of  this  year, 
410,  while  engaged  in  the  siege  of  Cosentia, 
Alaric  was  seized  with  an  illness  which 
proved  fatal  after  a  very  short  duration.  He 
was  buried,  with  his  treasui'es,  in  the  bed  of 
the  river  Busentinus,  which  was  diverted 
from  its  channel  for  that  purpose,  and  all  the 
prisoners  who  were  engaged  in  the  work  were 
put  to  death,  in  order  that  the  place  of  his 
sepulchre  might  remain  unknown." 

ALARIC  THE  VISIGOTH. 

When  I  am  dead,  no  pageant  train 
Shall  wa«te  their  Borrows  at  my  bier, 

Nor  worthless  iHjmj)  of  homage  vain 
Stain  it  with  liypo'Titic  tear; 

For  I  will  die  us  I  did  live, 

Nor  take  the  boon  I  cannot  give. 


856  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

Ye  shall  not  raise  a  marble  bust 
Upon  the  spot  where  I  repose  ; 

Ye  shall  not  fawn  before  my  dust, 
In  hollow  circumstance  of  woes  ; 

Nor  sculptured  clay,  with  lying  breath, 

Insult  the  clay  that  moulds  beneath. 

Ye  shall  not  pile  with  servile  toil, 
Your  monuments  upon  my  breast, 

Nor  yet  within  the  common  soil 
Lay  down  the  wreck  of  power  to  rest. 

Where  man  can  boast  that  he  has  trod 

On  him  that  was  "  The  Scourge  of  God." 

But  ye  the  mountain  stream,  shall  turn, 

And  lay  its  secret  channel  bare, 
And  hollow,  for  your  sovereign's  urn, 

A  resting-place  forever  there: 
Then  bid  its  everlasting  springs 
Flow  back  upon  the  King  of  kings  ; 
And  never  be  the  secret  said 
Until  the  deep  gives  up  its  dead. 

My  gold  and  silver  ye  shall  fling 
Back  to  the  clods  that  gave  them  birth- 

The  captured  crowns  of  many  a  king, 
The  ransom  of  a  conquered  earth  : 

For  e'en  though  dead  will  I  control 

The  trophies  of  the  Capitol. 

But  when  beneath  the  mountain  tide 

Ye've  laid  your  monarch  down  to  rot, 
Ye  shall  not  rear  upon  its  side 

Pillar  or  mound  to  mark  the  spot : 
For  long  enough  the  earth  has  shook 
Beneath  the  terrors  of  my.  look  ; 
And  now  that  I  have  run  my  race, 
The  astonished  realms  shall  rest  a  space. 

My  course  w^as  like  a  river  deep. 
And  from  the  Northern  hills  I  burst, 

Across  the  world  in  wrath  to  sweep  ; 
And  where  I  went  the  spot  was  curst : 

No  blade  of  grass  again  was  seen 

Where  Alaric  and  his  hosts  had  been. 


EDWARD  EVERETT.  357 

See  how  their  haughty  barriers  fail 
Beneath  the  terror  of  the  Goth  ! 

Their  iron-breasted  legions  quail 
Before  my  ruthless  sabaoth, 

And  low  the  queen  of  empires  kneels. 

And  grovels  at  my  chariot-wheels. 

Not  for  myself  did  I  ascend 

In  judgment  my  triumphal  car; 

"Twas  God  alone  on  high  did  send 
The  avenging  Scythian  to  the  war, 

To  shake  abroad,  with  iron  hand, 

The  appointed  scourge  of  his  command. 

With  iron  hand  that  scourge  I  reared 

O'er  guilty  king  and  guilty  realm; 
Destruction  was  the  ship  1  steered, 

And  Vengeance  sat  upon  the  helm 
When  launched  in  fury  on  the  flood, 
I  ploughed  mj'  way  througli  seas  of  blood, 
And  in  the  stream  their  hearts  had  spilt, 
Washed  out  the  long  arrears  of  guilt. 

Across  the  everlasting  Alp 
I  poured  the  toiTent  of  my  powers, 

And  feeble  C*sars  shrieked  for  help 

In  vain  within  their  seven-hilled  towers. 

I  quenched  in  blood  the  brightest  gem 

That  glittered  in  their  diadem  ; 

And  struck  a  darker,  deeper  dye 

In  the  purple  of  their  majesty; 

And  bade  my  Northern  banners  shine 

Upon  the  conquered  Palatine. 

My  course  is  run,  my  errand  done — 
I  go  to  Him  from  whom  I  came  ; 

But  never  yet  sliall  set  the  sun 
Of  glory  that  adorns  my  name  ; 

And  Ii<Miian  hearts  shall  long  l)e  sick 

When  men  shall  think  of  Alaric. 

My  course  is  run,  my  errand  done  ; 

But  darker  ministers  of  fate, 
Impatient  round  the  eternal  Throne, 

And  in  the  caves  of  Vengeance  wait ; 
And  HiMtu  mankind  shall  blench  away 
Before  the  name  of  Attila. 


358  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

In  1813  Edward  Everett  became  pastor  of 
the  Brattle  Street  (Unitarian)  Church  in 
Boston,  and  speedily  attained  a  high  reputa- 
tion for  the  eloquence  of  his  discourses.  In 
1814  he  was  chosen  Eliot  Professor  of  Greek 
in  Harvard  College,  and  went  to  Eui-ope  to 
better  fit  himself  for  the  duties  of  this  office. 
He  remained  in  Europe  about  four  years, 
pursuing  a  wide  course  of  study ;  and  in  1819 
entered  upon  his  duties  at  Harvard.  He  also 
edited  the  North  American  Revieic  for  some 
four  years,  dui'ing  which  period  he  contributed 
largely  to  its  pages,  and  subsequently  when 
the  editorship  passed  into  the  hands  of  his 
brother,  Alexander  H.  Everett.  In  1822  he 
married  the  daughter  of  Peter  C.  Brooks,  one 
of  the  wealthiest  men  of  Boston,  a  biography 
of  whom  was  written  by  him  some  thirty 
years  later. 

Mr.  Everett's  political  career  began  in  1824, 
when  he  was  elected  to  Congress,  in  which  he 
served  for  ten  successive  years.  He  declined 
a  re-election  in  1834,  and  in  1835  was  elected 
Governor  of  Massachusetts,  holding  the  office 
by  successive  re-elections  for  four  years.  In 
1840  he  was  sent  as  Minister  Plenipotentiary 
to  England.  Daniel  Webster,  Secretary  of 
State,  died  in  October,  1852,  and  Mr.  Everett 
filled  that  position  during  the  remaining  four 
months  of  Mr.  Fillmore's  administration.  In 
1853  he  was  elected  United  States  Senator; 
but  impaired  health  compelled  him  to  resign 
his  seat  within  a  year. 

Mr.  Everett  took  an  active  part  in  the  dis- 
cussion of  the  political  questions  of  the  time ; 
but  he  was  more  especially  noted  as  an  orator 
at  literary  and  other  public  occasions.  Col- 
lections of  his  Speeches  and  Addresses  have 
been  miade  at  several  periods.  The  second 
collection,  in  two  volumes,  made  in  1850,  con- 
tains more  than  eighty  Addresses  ;  a  third 
volume  appeared  in  1858,  and  a  fourth  volume 


EDWARD  EVERETT.  359 

in  1869.  One  of  the  best  of  these  is  the  Phi 
Beta  Kappa  Oration,  dehvered  at  Harvard  on 
July  4,  1826,  being  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of 
the  Declaration  of  Independence.  On  that 
day,  within  a  few  hours  of  each  other,  Jeffer- 
son and  Adams,  of  whom  the  orator  had  just 
feelingly  spoken,  passed  from  earth. 

THE  5IEX   AND  DEEDS  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 

Often  as  it  has  been  repeated,  it  will  bear  another 
repetition  ;  it  ought  especially  to  be  repeated  on 
this  day: — the  various  addresses,  petitions,  and 
appeals,  the  correspondence,  the  resolutions,  the 
legislative  and  popular  debates  from  1764  to  the 
declaration  of  independence  present  a  maturity  of 
political  wisdom,  a  strength  of  argument,  a 
gravity  of  style,  a  manly  eloquence,  and  a  moral 
courage  of  which  unquestionably  the  modern 
world  affords  no  other  example.  This  meed  of 
praise,  substantially  accorded  at  the  time  by  Lord 
Chatham  in  the  British  Parliament,  may  well  be 
repeated  by  us.  For  most  of  the  venerated  men 
to  whom  it  is  paid,  it  is  but  a  pious  tribute  to 
departed  worth.  The  Lees  and  the  Henrys,  Otis, 
Quincy.  Warren,  and  Samuel  Adams— the  men 
who  spoke  those  words  of  thrilling  power  which 
raised  and  directed  the  storm  of  modern  resist- 
ance, and  rang  like  a  voice  of  fire  across  the  At- 
lantic— are  iKjyond  the  reach  of  our  praise.  To 
most  of  them  it  was  granted  to  witness  some  of 
the  fruits  of  their  labors :  such  fruits  as  revolu- 
tions do  not  often  bear.  Others  departed  at  an 
untimely  hour,  or  nobly  fell  in  the  onset ;  too  soon 
for  this  country,  too  soon  for  everything  but  their 
own  undying  fame. 

But  all  are  not  gone  ;  some  still  survive  among 
UB  to  hail  the  jubilee  of  the  independence  they 
declared.  Go  hack  to  that  day  when  Jefferson  and 
Adams  comixwed  the  Hul>-committee  who  reported 
the  D«'<-larati()n  of  Independence.  Think  of  the 
mingled  Hen.satioiiH  (if  that  i)rond  hut  anxious  day, 
compared  t<j  the  joy  of  this.  What  reward,  what 
crown,  what  trea-nure,  could  the  world  and  all  its 
kiugdouiH   afford    compared    with    having    Ijeen 


860  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

united  in  that  commission,  and  living  to  Bee  its 
most  wavering  hopes  turned  into  glorious  realitj? 

Venerable  men,  you  have  outlived  the  dark  days 
wliich  followed  your  more  than  heroic  deed  ;  you 
have  outlived  your  more  than  strenuous  conten- 
tion who  should  stand  first  among  the  people  whose 
liberty  you  had  vindicated.  You  have  lived  to 
bear  to  each  other  the  respect  which  the  nation 
bears  to  you  both  ;  and  each  has  been  so  happy  as 
to  exchange  the  honorable  name  of  a  leader  of  a 
party  for  that  more  honorable  one,  the  Father  of 
his  Country,  While  this  our  tribute  of  respect,  on 
this  jubilee  of  our  independence  is  paid  to  the 
gray  hairs  of  the  venerable  survivor  [Adams]  in 
our  neighborhood,  let  it  not  less  heartily  be  sped 
to  him  [Jefferson]  whose  hand  traced  the  lines  of 
that  sacred  charter  which,  to  the  end  of  time,  has 
made  this  day  illustrious.  And  is  an  empty  pro- 
fession of  respect  all  that  we  owe  to  the  man  who 
can  show  the  original  draught  of  the  Declaration 
of  Independence  of  the  United  States,  in  his  own 
handwriting?  Ought  not  a  title-deed  like  this  to 
become  the  acquisition  of  the  nation  ?  Ought  it 
not  to  be  laid  up  in  the  jiublic  archives?  Ought 
not  the  price  at  which  it  is  bought  to  be  a  provis- 
ion for  the  ease  and  comfort  of  the  old  age  of  him 
who  drew  it  ?  Ought  not  he  who  at  the  age  of 
thirty  declared  the  independence  of  his  country, 
at  the  age  of  eighty  to  be  secured  by  his  country 
in  the  enjoyment  of  his  own  ? 

Nor  would  we,  on  the  return  of  this  eventful 
day,  forget  the  men  who,  when  the  conflict  of 
council  was  over,  stood  forward  in  that  of  arms. 
Yet  let  me  not,  by  faintly  endeavoring  to  sketch, 
do  deep  injustice  to  the  story  of  their  exploits. 
The  efforts  of  a  life  would  scarce  suffice  to  draw 
this  pi(^ture  in  all  its  astonishing  incidents,  in  all 
its  mingled  colors  of  sublimity  and  woe,  of  agony 
and  triumph.  But  the  age  of  commemoration  is 
at  hand.  The  voice  of  our  fathers'  blood  begins 
to  cry  to  us  from  beneath  the  soil  which  it  moist- 
ened. Time  is  bringing  forward,  in  their  proper 
relief,  the  men  and  deeds  of  that  high-souled  day. 
The  generation  of  contemporary  worthies  is  gone  ; 
the  crowd  of  the  unsigualized  great  and  |;ood  dis- 


THOMAS  EWBANK.  361 

appears  ;  and  the  leadei-s  in  war,  as  well  as  in  the 
cabinet,  are  seen  in  fancy's  eye  to  take  their  sta- 
tions on  the  mount  of  remembrance.  They  come 
from  the  embattled  cliffs  of  Abraham  ;  they  start 
from  the  heaving  sods  of  Bunker's  Hill ;  they 
gather  from  the  blazing  lines  of  Saratoga  and 
Yorktown,  from  the  blood-dyed  waters  of  the 
Brandywine,  from  the  dreary  snows  of  Valley 
Forge,  and  all  the  hard-fought  fields  of  the  war. 
With  all  their  wounds  and  all  their  honors,  they 
rise  and  plead  with  us  for  their  brethren  who  sur- 
vive ;  and  command  us,  if  indeed  we  cherish  the 
memory  of  those  who  bled  in  our  cause,  to  show 
our  gratitude,  not  by  sounding  words,  but  by 
stretching  out  the  strong  arm  of  the  country's 
prosperity  to  help  the  veteran  survivors  gently 
down  to  their  graves.— Phi  Beta  Kappa  Oration, 
July  4,  1826. 

EWBANK,  Thomas,  an  Anglo-American 
manufacturer  and  author,  born  at  Durham, 
England,  in  1792,  died  at  New  York  in  1870. 
He  was  apprenticed  to  a  tin  and  copper-smith, 
and  in  1819  emigrated  to  New  York,  where 
he  established  himself  as  a  manufacturer  of 
metallic  tubing.  In  1835  he  retired  from 
active  business,  and  devoted  himself  to  scien- 
tific and  literary  pursuits.  From  1849  to  1852 
he  was  U.  S.  Commissioner  of  Patents.  His 
principal  works  are :  Descriptive  and  Histor- 
ical Accoioit  of  Hydraulic  and  other  Machines 
(1842),  The  World  a  Workshop  (1855),  Life  in 
Brazil,  giving  an  account  of  a  visit  to  that 
country  in  1845-1846  (1856),  Thoughts  on  Mat- 
ter and  Force  (185H;,  and  Reminiscenses  in 
the.  Patent  Office  ( 18.59 j. 

FUNERAL  CUSTOMS  AT  RIO  JANEIRO. 

As  Boon  as  a  person  dies  the  doors  and  windows 
are  closed— the  only  occawion,  it  is  said,  when  the 
front  entrance  of  a  Brazilian  dwelling  is  shut. 
The  undertaker  is  sent  for,  and  as  the  cost  of  fu- 
nerals is  graduated  to  every  degree  of  display,  he  is 


363  THOMAS  EWBANK. 

told  to  prepare  one  of  so  many  viilreis.*  Every- 
thing is  then  left  to  him.  The  corpse  is  always 
laid  out  in  the  best  room,  is  rarely  kept  more  than 
thirty-six  hours,  and  not  often  more  than  twenty- 
four  — the  number  required  by  law.  If  the  de- 
ceased was  married,  a  festoon  of  black  cloth  and 
gold  is  hung  over  the  street-door ;  if  unmarried, 
lilac  and  black  ;  for  children,  white  or  blue  and 
gold.  Coffins  for  the  married  are  invariably  black, 
but  never  for  young  persons  ;  theirs  are  red,  scar- 
let, or  blue.  Priests  are  inhumed  or  borne  to 
the  tomb  in  coffins  on  which  a  large  cross  is  por- 
trayed ;  lay  people  cannot  have  the  use  of  these. 
In  fact,  few  persons,  rich  or  poor,  are  buried  in 
coffins  ;  their  principal  use  being  to  convey  the 
corpse  to  the  cemetery,  and  then,  like  the  hearse, 
they  are  returned  to  the  undertaker. 

Fond  of  dress  while  living,  Brazilians  are  bu- 
ried in  their  best,  except  when  from  religious 
motives  other  vestments  are  preferred.  Punctil- 
ious to  the  last  degree,  they  enforce  etiquette  on 
the  dead.  These  must  go  into  the  next  world  in 
becoming  attire:  married  females  draped  in  black, 
with  black  veils,  their  arms  folded,  and  their 
hands  resting  on  the  opposite  elbows;  the  unmar- 
ried in  white  robes,  veils,  and  chaplets  of  white 
flowers;  their  hands  closed  as  if  in  adoration,  with 
palm-branches  between  them.  The  hands  of  men 
and  boys  are  crossed  upon  the  breast,  and  if  not 
occupied  with  other  symbols,  a  small  cup  is  placed 
in  them,  and  removed  at  tbe  tomb.  Official  char- 
acters are  shrouded  in  official  vestments:  priests  in 
their  robes,  soldiers  in  their  uniforms,  members  of 
the  brotherhoods  in  their  albs,  sisters  of  the  same 
societies  in  those  appropriate  to  them,  e.g.  those  of 
the  Carmo,  in  black  gowns,  blue  cloaks,  and  a 
blue  slip  for  tbe  head. 

Children  under  ten  or  eleven,  are  set  out  as 
friars,  nuns,  saints,  and  angels.  When  the  corpse 
of  a  boy  is  dressed  as  St.  John,  a  pen  is  placed  in 
one  hand  and  a  book  in  the  other.  When  con- 
signed to  the  tomb  as  St.  Jose,  a  staff  crowned 
with  flowers,  takes  the  place  of  the  pen — for  Jo- 

♦  The  value  of  the  milrei  is  about  fO  cents. 


THOMAS  EWBANK.  363 

seph  had  a  rod  that  budded  like  Aaron's.  If  a  child 
is  named  after  St.  Francis  or,  St.  Anthony,  he  gen- 
erally has  a  monk's  gown  and  cowl  for  his  winding- 
sheet.  Of  higher  types,  St.  Michael  the  Archangel 
is  a  fashionable  one.  The  little  body  wears  a 
tunic,  short  skirts  gathered  at  the  waist  by  a  belt, 
a  golden  helmet  (made  of  gilt  pasteboard,  and  tight 
red  boots.  His  right  hand  rests  on  the  hilt  of  a 
sword.  Girls  are  made  to  represent  Madonnas 
and  other  popular  characters.  When  supplement- 
ary locks  are  required,  the  undertaker  supplies 
them,  as  well  as  rouge  for  the  cheeks  and  pearl 
powders  for  the  neck  and  arms. 

Formerly  it  was  the  custom  to  carry  young 
corpses  upright  in  procession  through  the  streets, 
when,  but  for  the  closed  eyes,  a  stranger  could 
hardly  believe  the  figure  before  him — with  ruddy 
cheeks,  hair  blowing  in  the  wind,  in  silk  stockings 
and  shoes,  and  his  raiment  sparkling  with  jewels, 
grasping  a  palm-branch  in  one  hand,  and  resting 
the  other  quite  naturally  on  some  artificial  support 
— could  be  a  dead  child.  But  how  was  the  body 
sustained  in  a  perpendicular  position?    "  Generally 

in  this  way,"  said  Senhora  P ,   who  had  often 

assisted  on  such  ocx'casions,  "a  wooden  cross 
was  fixed  on  the  platform,  and  against  it  the  body 
wa«  secured  by  ribbons  at  the  ankles,  knees, 
under  tlie  arms,  and  at  the  neck."  Twenty-five 
years  ago  this  practice  wa.s  common  ;  it  is  now  con- 
fined chiefly  to  the  interior. 

No  near  relative  accompanies  a  corpse  to  the 
cemetery.  It  is  given  at  the  door  into  the  hands 
of  friends,  to  whom  its  final  and  respectful  dis- 
posal is  confided.  No  refreshments  of  any  kind 
are  furnislu'd, 

On  the  death  of  a  father,  mother,  husband,  wife, 
son,  or  daughter,  the  house  is  closed  for  seven 
days,  during  which  the  survivors  indulge  in  pri- 
vate grii'f :  thf-y  wear  mourning  twelve  months. 
For  brothers  and  sisters,  the  house  is  closed  four 
days,  tlif  [Mriod  of  mourning  four  months.  On 
the  la.st  of  the  four  or  seven  days,  mourners  at- 
tend maKS,  and  then  resume  the  husinesH  of  life. 
For  first  «()usinH,  uncles,  and  aunts,  the  established 


364  THOMAS  EWBANK. 

rule  is  to  wear  mourning  two  months  ;  for  second 
cousins,  one ;  for  other  relatives,  from  eight  to 
fifteen  days.  By  an  old  law,  survivors  can  be 
compelled  thus  to  respect  the  dead  according  to 
degrees  of  consanguinity.  The  poor  contrive, 
by  aid  of  friends,  and  sometimes  by  selling  what 
articles  of  furniture  or  clothing  they  can  spare,  to 
comply  with  the  general  custom. 

Widows  never  ]a\  aside  their  weeds  unless  they 
marry.  Till  recently  thoy  were  never  known  to 
dance,  such  an  act  being  deemed  scandalous,  no 
matter  how  long  their  husbands  had  been  dead. 
And  now  the  old  people  shake  their  heads,  and 
repeat  an  ancient  apothegm  :  "Widows  should 
ever  mourn  their  first  love,  and  never  take  a  sec- 
ond." They  complain  of  modern  degeneracy  and 
the  disappearance  of  old  Portuguese  virtue.  But 
the  young  folks  contend  that  they  are  as  good  as 
their  grand-dams,  and  insist  that  if  widows  seldora 
remain  such  now,  it  was  much  the  .same  formerly, 
as  the  proverb  more  than  intimates  :  "  Viuve  rica 
cazada  fica.'^  Clusters  of  a  small  purple  flower  are 
here  known  as  "  Widows'  Tears."  They  bloom  but 
once  a  year,  and  soon  dry  up. 

When  the  corpse  of  a  husband  is  laid  out,  cus- 
tom requires  his  surviving  partner  to  appear  before 
consoling  friends  in  a  black  woolen  gown,  train, 
and  cap,  crape  veil,  a  fan  in  one  hand,  and  a  hand- 
kerchief in  the  other.     Old  Senhora  P ,  who 

ought  to  know,  saj's  the  mouchoir  often  hides 
smiles  as  well  as  tears  ;  and  further  that  some 
widows  have  no  cause  to  cry — their  losses  being 
no  losses  at  all.  Those  who  cry  loudest,  she  re- 
marked, are  the  soonest  comforted  ;  and  mention- 
ed a  Senhora  who,  on  the  fifth  day,  being  told  that 
her  beauty,  as  well  as  her  health,  was  suffering, 
looked  up  and  naively  said,  "If  that  is  the  case,  1 
will  stop  ;"  and  she  did. 

Visits  of  condolence  are  attended  with  fashion- 
able formalities.  Unless  you  call  in  deep  mourn- 
ing you  are  thought  disrespectful.  A  full  dress  of 
black  is  a  nine  qua  von  for  both  lady  and  gentle- 
men visitors  ;  unless  near  neighbors,  etiquette  re- 
quires a  carriage  and  footman.  Enlightened  Bra- 


JULIANA  EWING.  365 

Lilians  are  awake  to  the  evils  of  these  expensive 
follies,  and,  as  in  other  lands,  are  making  efiforts 
to  reform  them. 

With  the  exception  of  holy  water  the  priests  are 
paid  for  everything.  When  a  person  is  not  inter- 
red in  the  parish  he  lived  in,  the  fee  is  exacted  all 
the  same.  In  these  cases  the  Vicar  attends  in  a 
carriage,  immediately  behind  the  corpse,  till  it 
reaches  its  destination.  He  then  bows  to  his 
reverend  brother  into  whose  charge  he  delivers 
the  body,  according  to  ecclesiastical  or  civil  rule, 
and  retires  receiving  the  legal  fee  of  twenty  mil- 
reis— the  rich  frequently  giving  more.  Previous 
to  the  transfer  the  doctor's  certificate  of  the  cause 
of  death  must  be  obtained,  and  countersigned  by 
the  Vicar,  for  which  the  latter  receives  two  milreis 
— he  often  gets  twenty. 

Whatever  they  may  be  in  life,  lay  people  are 
profitable  to  priests  when  they  cease  to  live.  Mas- 
ses—many or  few— are  then  to  be  offered  for  them; 
and  masses  are  always  paid  for.  The  usual  charge 
for  one  at  which  a  family  attends  soon  after  a 
burial,  is  two  dollars— the  wealthy,  of  course,  not 
being  limited  to  that.  For  subsec^uent  ones  a 
special  agreement  is  made.  J — s  observed  that  he 
and  another  gentleman  were  executors  of  an 
acqaintance  who  left  five  hundred  milreis  to  be 
expended  in  masses  for  the  repose  of  his  spirit. 
They  agreed  with  a  priest,  and,  as  usual,  at  so 
much  for  each.  Now  every  mass  to  be  effective, 
must  lie  performed  fasting  and  before  noon  ;  and 
in  the  case  referred  to,  one  only  was  to  be  cele- 
brated in  one  day,  and  for  the  exclusive  benefit  of 
the  soul  of  the  payer.  In  a  very  short  time  the 
priest  brought  in  his  bill,  ready  receipted,  and 
asked  for  his  money.  Objections  were  raised  on 
the  ground  that  half  the  period  had  not  elapsed 
which  was  m-crssary  honestly  to  perform  his 
agreement.  He  insist«'<l  that  all  he  had  bargained 
f<»r  liad  \kixi  proprrly  done.  They  winced,  but 
paid  him.  — Lifr  in  lintzil.  Chap.  VI. 

EWING.  .IcMANA  HuKATiA  ((tatty),  an 
^^iglish  aiitlior,  born  in  ISll,  (lied  in  1HR.5. 
Shi!  w;i8  tlu;  daughter  of  a  York.sliire  clergy- 


366  JULIANA  EWINQ. 

man,  and  began  hor  story -telling  for  the 
amusement  of  her  brothers  and  sisters. 
When  about  twenty  years  of  age,  she 
published  several  short  stories  in  The  Monthly 
Packet,  and  in  1886  became  one  of  the  chief 
contributors  to  Aunt  Judy's  Magazine  for 
Children,  established  by  her  mother,  Mrs. 
Gatty.  Her  marriage  in  1867  to  Major  Alex- 
ander Ewing,  and  her  removal  to  Fredericton, 
New  Bioinswick,  did  not  interrupt  her  writing. 
Many  of  her  verses  and  her  charming  tales 
for  young  people,  which  appeared  first  in 
Aunt  Judy'' s  Magazine,  have  been  republished 
in  book -form.  Among  them  are  Melchior's 
Dream,  Brothers  of  Pity,  and  Other  Tales, 
The  Broivnies,  Mrs.  Ovei'theivay's  Remem- 
hrances,  Old  Fashioned  Fairy  Tales,  Loh- 
Lie-hy -the- Fire,  Jan  of  the  Windmill,  Six  to 
Sixteen,  A  Great  Emergency  and  Other  Tales, 
Master  Fritz,  We  and  the  World,  and  Jack- 
anapes. 

MADAM  LIBERALITY. 

Plum-cakes  were  not  plentiful  in  her  home 
when  Madam  Liberality  was  young,  and  such  as 
there  were,  were  of  the  "wholesome"  kind — plenty 
of  breadstuff,  and  the  currants  and  raisins  at  a 
respectful  distance  from  each  other.  But,  few  as 
the  plums  were,  she  seldom  ate  them.  She 
picked  them  out  very  carefully,  and  put  them  into 
a  box  which  was  hidden  under  her  pinafore. 

When  we  grown-up  people  were  children,  and 
plum-cake  and  plum-pudding  tasted  very  much 
nicer  than  they  do  now,  we  also  picked  out  the 
plums.  Some  of  us  ate  them  at  once,  and  had 
then  to  toil  slowly  through  the  cake  or  pudding, 
and  some  valiantly  dispatched  the  plainer  portion 
of  the  feast  at  the  beginning,  and  kept  their  plums 
for  other  people.  When  the  vulgar  meal  was 
over — that  commonplace  refreshment  ordained 
and  superintended  by  the  elders  of  the  household — 
Madam  Liberality  would  withdraw  into  a  corner, 
from  whicli  she  issued  notes  of  invitation  to  all 


JULIANA  EWING.  5^67 

the  dolls.     They  were  "fancy  written"  on  curl- 
papers, and  folded  into  cocked-hats. 

Then  began  the  real  feast.  The  dolls  came,  and 
the  children  with  them.  Madam  Liberality  had 
no  toy  tea-sets  or  dinner-sets,  but  there  were 
acorn-cups  filled  to  the  brim,  and  the  water  tasted 
deliciously,  though  it  came  out  of  the  ewer  in  the 
night-nursery,  and  had  not  even  been  filtered. 
And  before  every  doll  was  a  flat  oyster-shell 
covered  with  a  round  oyster-shell,  a  complete  set 
of  complete  pairs  which  had  been  collected  by 
degrees,  like  old  family  plate.  And,  when  the 
upper  shell  was  raised,  on  every  dish  lay  a  plum. 
It  was  then  that  Madam  Liberality  got  her  sweet- 
ness out  of  the  cake.  She  was  in  her  glory  at  the 
head  of  the  inverted  tea-chest,  and  if  the  raisins 
would  not  go  round,  the  empty  oyster-shell  was 
hers,  and  notliing  oifended  her  more  than  to  have 
this  noticed.  That  was  her  spirit  then  and  always. 
She  could  "do  without'  anything,  if  the  where- 
withal to  be  hospitable  was  left  to  her 

It  may  seem  strange  tliat  Madam  Liberality 
should  ever  have  been  accused  of  meanness,  and 
yet  her  eldest  brother  did  once  shake  his  head  at 
lier  and  say,  "You're  the  most  meanest  and  the 
generoiineHt  person  I  ever  knew !"  And  Madam 
Liberality  wept  over  the  accusation,  although  her 
brother  was  then  too  young  to  form  either  his 
words  or  his  opinions  correctly.  But  it  was  the 
touch  of  truth  in  it  which  made  Madam  Liberality 
cry.  To  the  end  of  their  lives  she  and  Tom  were 
alike,  and  yet  different  in  this  matter.  Madam 
Lil)erality  saved,  and  pinched,  and  planned,  and 
then  gave  away,  and  Tom  gave  away  without  the 
pinching  and  saving.  This  sounds  much  hand- 
somer, and  it  was  poor  Tom's  misfortune  that  he 
always  U'lieved  it  to  l>e  so  ;  though  he  gave  away 
wliat  did  not  l>elong  to  him.  and  fell  back  for  the 
supply  of  his  own  pretty  numerous  wants  upon 
other  jxiople,  not  forgetting  Madam  Liln'rality. 
Painful  ex|M'rience  convinced  Madam  LilM-rality  in 
the  end  that  liis  way  w:im  a  wrong  one,  but  she 
ha<l  her  doubts  many  tirn<*fl  in  her  life  whether 
then*  wf-n-  not  Kometliing  unliandsonK'  in  her  own 
iiecid»-d   talent  for  economy.      Not  that  economy 


308  JULIANA  EWINCJ. 

was  always  pleasant  to  her.  When  people  are 
ver3'  poor  for  tlieir  j)osition  in  life,  they  can  only 
keep  out  of  deht  by  stinting  on  many  occasions 
when  stinting  is  very  painful  to  a  liberal  spirit. 
And  it  requires  a  sterner  virtue  than  good  nature 
to  hold  fast  the  truth  that  it  is  nobler  to  be  shabby 
and  honest,  than  to  do  things  handsomely  in  debt. 
— A  Great  Emergency  and  Other  Tales. 

McAUSTER  GAES  HAME. 

John  Brown  remained  by  his  friend,  whose 
painful  lits  of  coughing,  and  of  gasping  for  breath, 
were  varied  by  intervals  of  seeming  stupor. 
When  a  candle  haa  been  brought  in  and  placed 
near  the  bed,  the  Highlander  roused  himself  and 
asked  : 

"  Is  there  a  Bible  on  yon  table?  Could  ye  read 
a  bit  to  me,  laddie  ?" 

There  is  little  need  to  dwell  on  the  bitterness  of 
heart  with  which  John  Brown  confessed:  "I  can't 
read  big  words,  McAlister." 

"Did  ye  never  go  to  school?"  said  the  Scotch- 
man. 

"  I  didn't  learn,"  said  the  poor  boy;  "I  played.'' 

"  Aye,  aye.  Wee'l,  ye'll  learn  when  ye  gang 
hame,"  said  the  Highlander,  in  gentle  tones. 

•'I'll  never  get  home,"  said  John  Brown 
passionately.  "I'll  never  forgive  myself.  I'll 
never  get  over  it  that  I  couldn't  read  to  ye  when 
ye  wanted  me,  McAlister." 

"Gently,  gently,"  said  the  Scotchman.  "Dinna 
daunt  yoursel'  over  much  wi'  the  past,  laddie;  and 
for  me — I'm  not  that  presoomtious  to  think  I  can 
square  up  a  misspent  life  as  a  man  might  com- 
pound wi's  creditors.  Gin  He  forgi'es  me,  He'll 
forgi'e;  but  it's  not  a  prayer  up  or  a  chapter  down 
that'll  Stan'  between  me  and  the  Almighty.  So 
dinna  fret  yoursel',  but  let  me  think  while  I  may." 

And  so,  far  into  the  night  the  Highlander  lay 
silent,  and  John  Brown  watched  by  him.  It  was 
just  midnight  when  he  partly  raised  himself,  and 
cried  :     "  Whisht,  laddie  !  do  ye  hear  the  pipes?" 

The  dying  ears  must  have  been  quick,  for  John 
Brown  heard  nothing ;  but  in  a  few  minutes  Iw 
beard  tlie  bagpipes  from  the  officers'  mess;  where 


FREDERICK   WILLIAM  FABER.        369 

they  were  keeping  Hogmenay.  They  wese  play- 
ing the  old  year  out  with  "  Auld  Lang  Syne,"  and 
the  Highlander  beat  the  time  out  with  his  hand, 
and  his  eves  gleamed  out  of  his  rugged  face  in  the 
dim  light,  as  cairngorms  glitter  in  dark  tartan. 
There  was  a  pause  after  the  first  verse,  and  he  grew 
restless,  and  turning  doubtfully  to  where  John  Brown 
sat,  as  if  his  sight  were  failing,  he  said:  "  Ye'U  mind 
your  promise,  yell  gang  hame  '?"  And  after  a  while 
he  repeated  the  last  word  "  Hame  !" 

But  as  he  spoke  there  spread  over  his  face  a  smile 
so  tender  and  so  full  of  happiness,  that  John  Brown 
held  his  breath  as  he  watched  him.  As  the  light  of 
sunrise  creeps  over  the  face  of  some  rugged  rock,  it 
crept  from  chin  to  brow,  and  the  pale  blue  eyes  shone 
tranquil,  like  water  that  reflects  heaven.  And  when 
it  had  passed  it  left  them  still  open,  but  gems  that 
had  lost  their  way. — Lob- Lieby-the- Fire. 

FABER,  Frederick  William,  an,  English 
clergyman  and  author,  born  in  1814,  died  in 
1863.  He  was  educated  at  Oxford;  was  or- 
dained Deacon  in  1837,  Priest  in  1839,  and  in 
1843  became  Rector  of  Eltham;  but  two  years 
later  he  formally  united  with  the  Roman 
Catholic  communion,  to  which  he  had  for 
several  years  been  strongly  inclined.  In  1848 
he  joined  the  "  Oratorians'  at  Brompton,  of 
which  religious  House  he  became  Superior  in 
1850.  His  writings  in  verse  and  prose  were 
numerous.  His  principal  poems  published  be- 
fore leaving  the  Anglican  Church  were  The 
Cherrrell  Water  Lily  n840),  Sir  Lancelot  (1844, 
re-written  in  1858),  and  The  Rosary  and  other 
Poems  (1845).  After  becoming  a  Roman 
Catholic  he  wrote  many  Hymns.  In  1857  he 
put  forth  a  collected  edition  of  all  the  poems 
which  he  had  published.  Several  of  his 
hymns,  such  as  ''  O  come  and  mourn  with  me 
awhile,"  "Hark I  hark,  my  soul,"  "Sweet 
Saviour,  bless  us  ere  we  go,"  have  found  a 
place  in  Protestant  as  well  aa  Catholic 
24 


370       FREDERICK  WILLIAM  PABER. 

hymnals.  Of  Faber's  devotional  works  in 
prose,  the  most  popular  are  All  for  Jesua 
(1853),  The  Blessed  Sacrament (1855),  and  The 
Precious  Blood  (1860). 

DOCTRINE  AND  ADORATION. 

We  began  with  reflecting  on  the  mystery  of  the 
Precious  Blood  because  all  devotion  starts  best  with 
doctrine.  The  incredibilities  of  divine  love  become 
more  credible  when  we  have  learned  them  first  as 
dogmas.  It  was  also  the  more  necessary  to  begin 
with  doctrine  in  the  case  of  a  "devotion,"  which 
claims  to  be  an  adoration  also.  We  then  turned  from 
God  to  man,  and  strove  to  form  a  right  estimate  of 
the  Precious  Blood  by  studying  from  various  points  of 
view  our  extreme  need  of  it,  and  our  immeasurable 
wretchedness  without  it.  We  then  traversed  its  em- 
pire, learned  its  character  by  studying  the  method 
of  its  government,  and  judged  of  its  magnificence  by 
the  splendor  of  its  dominion.  Our  next  step  was  to 
unfold  its  chronicles.  We  found  there  a  whole  rev- 
elation of  God,  and  much  of  the  secret  history  of  His 
eternity.  We  discovered  there  our  own  place  in  cre- 
ation by  discovering  our  place  in  the  procession 
of  the  Precious  Blood.  From  its  history  we  passed 
to  its  biography,  to  that  notable  characteristic  of  it 
which  especially  reveals  its  spirit— its  prodigality. 
We  saw  how  God's  prodigalities  are  not  excesses,  but 
most  extraordinary  magnificences;  and  also  how  our 
poverty  is  so  extreme  that  we  can  only  live  on  from 
day  to  day  by  being  economical  of  God's  most  exuber- 
ant liberalities.  As  we  had  begun  with  doctrine 
and  adoration,  we  have  had  to  end  with  practice  and 
devotion.  The  history,  the  characteristics,  and  the 
spirit  of  the  devotion  to  the  Precious  Blood  have 
been  the  concluding  subjects  of  our  reflections,— TAe 
Precious  Blood. 

In  1869  was  published  The  Life  and  Letters 
of  Frederick  William  Faber,  edited  by  Father 
Edward  Bowden.  Some  of  these  letters,  al- 
though not  written  for  publication,  are  of 
special  interest  as  showing  the  progress  of  his 


FREDERICK   WILLIAM  FABER.       371 

feeling  towards  Roman  Catholicism.  On  St. 
Alban's  Day  [June  17],  1843.  he  writes  from 
Rome  to  his  friend  the  Rev.  J.  B.  Morris,  who 
also  subsequently  became  a  Roman  Catholic : 

FABER  AND  POPE   PICS  IX. 

The  Rector  of  the  English  College  accompanied  me 
[to  the  Vatican,  where  he  went  by  appointment  for  a 
private  presentation  to  the  Pope],  and  told  me  that  as 
Protestants  did  not  like  kissing  the  Pope's  foot,  I 
should  not  be  expected  to  do  it.  We  waited  in  the 
lobby  of  the  Vatican  library  for  half  an  hour,  when 
the  Pope  arrived,  and  a  prelate  opened  the  door,  re- 
maining outside.  The  pope  was  perfectly  alone, 
without  a  courtier  or  a  prelate,  standing  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  library,  in  a  plain  white  cassock,  and  a 
white  silk  skull-cap  (white  is  the  papal  color).  On 
entering  I  knelt  down,  and  again,  when  a  few  yards 
from  him,  and  lastly,  before  him.  He  held  out  his 
hand,  but  I  kissed  his  foot;  there  seemed  to  be  a 
mean  puerility  in  refusing  the  customary  homage. 

With  Dr.  Baggs  for  interpreter,  we  held  a  long 
conversation:  He  spoke  of  Dr.  Pusey's  suspension  for 
defending  the  Catholic  doctrine  of  the  Eucharist, 
with  amazement  and  disgust;  he  said  to  me:  "  You 
must  not  mislead  yourself  in  wishing  for  unity,  yet 
waiting  for  your  Church  to  move.  Think  of  the  sal- 
vation of  your  own  soul."  I  said  I  feared  self-will 
and  individual  judging.  He  said:  "  You  are  all  in- 
dividuals in  the  English  Church;  you  have  only 
external  communion,  and  the  accident  of  being  all 
under  the  Queen.  You  know  this;  you  know  all 
doctrines  are  taught  amongst  you  anyhow.  You 
have  good  wishes,  may  God  strengthen  them!  You 
must  think  for  yourself  and  for  your  soul.  He  then 
laid  his  hand  on  my  head,  and  said:  "  May  the  grace 
of  Gf)d  correspond  to  your  good  wishes,  and  deliver 
you  from  the  nets  (insidie)  of  Anglicanism,  and  bring 
you  to  the  tnie  Holy  Church."  I  left  him  almost  in 
tears,  afTocted  as  much  by  the  earnest,  afTectionate 
demeanor  of  the  good  old  man,  as  by  his  blessing 
and  his  prayer.  I  shall  remember  ist.  Alban's  day 
In   1843  to  my  life's  cikI.  .  .  . 


373       FREDERICK  WILLIAM  FABER. 

As  to  myself,  nothing  retains  me  [in  the  Anglican 
Church]  but  the  fear  of  self-will.  I  grow  more  and 
more  Roman  every  day,  but  I  hope  not  wilfully.  I 
used— and  blessed  it  was — to  invoke  the  Saints;  but 
since  the  day  last  Lent,  when  you  said  you  feared  it 
was  not  justifiable  on  our  system,  I  have  desisted: 
for,  please  God,  I  will  obey  in  all  things  while  I  can. 
But  I  do  not  know  what  the  end  will  be  indeed;  I 
hardly  dare  read  the  Articles;  their  weight  grows 
heavier  on  me  daily.  I  hope  our  Blessed  Lady's  in- 
tercession may  not  cease  for  any  of  us,  because  we  do 
not  .seek  it,  since  we  desist  for  obedience  sake. — Life 
and  Letters. 

A  few  weeks  later  he  again  writes  to  Morris: 

DOUBTING  AND   SUFFERING. 

Whatever  be  the  end  of  my  doubts,  I  can  already 
rejoice  in  one  thing,  namely,  I  have  suffered.  One  of 
the  Saints  said  "  Pat  ire  e  morire — To  suffer  and  die;" 
but  Sta.  Maria  Maddalena  de'Pazzi  went  further, 
"  Vivere  e patire — To  live  and  suffer. "  .  .  .  If  we  are 
not  now  in  the  One  Church,  but  in  a  concubine  (so 
long  as  it  be  a  doubt),  we  may  hope,  in  the  endurance 
of  that  last  mercy,  Purgatory,  to  be  knitted  into 
that  true  Body;  but  if  it  grows  beyond  a  doubt — 
what  then?  You  will  say.  Suffer,  suffer,  suffer.  If 
it  be  so,  I  must  go  on,  and  God  will  reveal  this  also 
to  me.  If  I  try  to  pray,  if  I  kneel  without  words  in 
acknowledgment  of  God's  Presence,  if  I  try  to  love 
Christ,  if  I  meditate  on  the  Passion,  all  is  in  the  mist 
and  in  the  dark.  I  think  "  All  must  begin  with  the 
One  Church;  are  you  in  it?  If  not,  of  what  good  is 
all  this?  You  have  had  it  put  before  you.  Look  at 
her  Catholicity,  unity,  sanctity,  fruitful  missions, 
clear  miracles,  wonderful  Saints,  ancient  things. 
You  pray  in  vain,  becau-se  you  have  not  really  hum- 
bled yourself  before  the  Church  thus  revealed  to  you; 
you  confess  in  vain,  you  communicate  in  vain;  all 
are  shadows."  So  thoughts  rush  upon  me.  If  in 
happy  times  I  say  "  Amore  amorui  Tui  mundo  moriar 
qui  amore  amoris  mei  dignatus  es  in  Cruei  mori," 
then  comes  the  chilling  question,  "Why  are  you  not 


FREDERICK   WILLIAM  FABER.       373 

in  the  communion  where  he  was  who  said  that,  and 
lived  upon  it?" 

But  you  will  answer:  "  You  think  too  much  about 
the  salvation  of  your  own  soul,  and  too  little  about 
the  Church.  But,  my  dear  J ,  I  have  not  the  con- 
solation of  thinking  that  I  am  running  the  risk  (most 
dreadful  idea)  for  the  Church,  but  of  harming  a 
number  of  misbelievers  by  not  following  the  light 
given  me  to  show  me  where  the  Church  is.  .  .  .  It 
comes  to  this :  To  stay  is  misery  at  present,  and  I 
dare  not  go  away. — Life  and  Letters. 

In  January,  1846,  two  months  after  he  had 
been  formally  received  into  the  Roman  Catho- 
lic communion,  Mr.  Faber  wrote  a  letter  to  a 
friend  justifying  the  step  which  he  had  taken. 

REASONS  FOR  LEAVING  THE  ANGLICAN  CHURCH. 

Why  should  it  seem  to  you  so  unnatural  that  those 
who  have  left  you  should  feel  anything  rather  than 
loyalty  and  aflfection  to  a  .system,  or  anything  but 
kindly  reminiscences  of  a  dreadful  position  which 
they  were  forced  from  by  the  simple  fear  of  ever- 
lasting ruin?  Where  do  I  owe  my  Christian  allegi- 
ance? Is  it  not  to  the  Church  of  my  baptism?  And 
surely  you,  at  least,  cannot  \x:  so  foolish  as  to  suppose 
that  any  one  is  baptized  into  anyparticular,  insular, 
national,  or  provincial  part  or  branch  of  the  Church, 
or  into  anything  short  of  the  Catholic  Church  of 
Christ.  It  is  there  my  allegiance  is  due,  and  it  is 
there  your  allegiance  is  due  also. 

A  fal.se  system  took  me  from  my  mother  as  .soon  as 
I  had  either  sense  to  do  overt  acts  of  schLsm,  or 
wilfulness  to  commit  a  mortal  sin.  That  8y.stem 
nurtured  me  in  hatred  of  the  Holy  See;  it  nurtured 
me  in  false  doctrine  ;  it  has  had  the  strength  of  my 
youth,  and  formed  the  character  of  my  mind,  and 
educated  me  in  strange  neglect  as  well  of  doctrinal 
instruction  as  of  moral  safeguards.  And  now,  do  I 
owe  allegiance  to  the  mother  from  whose  breasts  I 
was  torn,  and  whose  face  was  so  long  strange  to  me? 
or  to  her  who  lore  mo  frf)m  her,  and  usurped  a  name 
that  was  not  hers,  ami  whose  fraud  I  have  discovered? 


374       FREDERICK  WILLIAM  FABER. 

No!  I  owe  my  allegiance  to  the  Church  into  which 
I  wa§  baptized,  the  Church  wherein  my  old  fore- 
fathers died,  the  Church  wherein  I  can  help  my  later 
fathers  who  died  away  from  her  in  their  helpless 
ignorance.  And  like  the  stolen  child  who  has  found 
his  mother,  her  loving  reception  and  the  outbreak — 
the  happy  outbreak — of  his  own  instinct  tell  him, 
and  have  told  him,  more  truly  than  all  the  legal 
proofs  of  parentage  can  do,  that  this,  and  this  only, 
is  the  true  mother  who  bore  him  years  ago  to  God, 
and  welcomes  him  now,  in  a  way  that  humbles  him 
most  of  all— without  suspicion,  probation,  or  reproof. 
— Life  and  Letters. 

O  COME  AKD  MOURN  WITH  ME  AWHILE. 

O  come  and  mourn  with  me  awhile; 

O  come  ye  to  the  Saviour's  side; 
O  come,  together  let  us  mourn: 

Jesus,  our  Lord,  is  crucified. 

Have  we  no  tears  to  shed  for  him, 
While  soldiers  scoff  and  Jews  deride? 

Ah!  look  how  patiently  he  hangs: 
Jesus,  our  Lord,  is  crucified. 

How  fast  his  hands  and  feet  are  nailed; 

His  throat  with  parching  thirst  is  dried; 
His  failing  eyes  are  dimmed  with  blood: 

Jesus,  our  Lord,  is  crucified. 

Seven  times  he  spake,  seven  words  of  love; 

And  all  three  hours  his  silence  cried 
For  mercy  on  the  souls  of  men: 

Jesus,  our  Lord,  is  crucified. 

Come,  let  us  stand  beneath  the  Cross; 

So  may  the  blood  from  out  his  side 
Fall  gently  on  us,  drop  by  drop: 

Jesus,  our  Lord,  is  crucified. 

A  broken  heart,  a  fount  of  tears. 
Ask,  and  they  will  not  be  denied: 

Lord  Jesus,  may  we  love  and  weep, 
Since  Thou  for  us  art  crucified. 


FREDERICK  WILLIAM  FABER.       375 


MY   GOD,    HOW  "WONDERFUL  THOU  AST. 

My  God,  how  wonderful  Thou  art, 

Thy  majesty  how  bright; 
How  beautiful  Thy  mercy-seat, 

In  depths  of  burning  light. 

How  dread  are  thine  eternal  years, 

O  everlasting  Lord; 
By  prostrate  spirits  day  and  night 

Incessantly  adored. 

How  wonderful,  how  beautiful, 

The  sight  of  Thee  must  be. 
Thine  endless  wisdom,  boundless  powers, 

And  awful  purity. 

O  how  I  fear  Thee,  Living  God, 

With  deepest,  tenderest  fears. 
And  worship  Thee  with  trembling  hope. 

And  penitential  tears. 

Yet  I  may  love  Thee,  too,  0  Lord, 

Almighty  as  Thou  art. 
For  Thou  hast  stoojMjd  to  ask  of  me 

The  love  of  my  poor  heart. 

No  earthly  father  loves  like  Thee, 

No  mother,  e'er  so  mild. 
Bears  and  forbears,  as  Thou  hast  done, 

With  me,  thy  sinful  child. 

Father  of  Jesus,  love's  reward. 

What  rapture  will  it  be 
Prostrate  before  thy  throne  to  lie, 

And  ever  gaze  on  Thee. 

hark!  hark,  my  boul. 

Hark!  hark,  my  soul;  Angelic  songs  are  swelling 
O'er  earth's  green  fields,  and  ocean's  wave-beat 
shore; 

How  sweet  the  truths  those  blesw^d  strains  are  telling 
Of  that  new  life  when  sin  shall  be  no  more. 

Angels  of  Jesus,  Anf^r-ls  of  light, 

Singing  to  welcome  the  pilgrims  of  the  night. 


376       FREDERICK  WILLIAM  PABER. 

Onward  we  go,  for  still  we  hear  them  siDging, 
"  Come,  weary  souls,  for  Jesus  bids  you  come:" 

And  through  the  dark  its  echoes  sweetly  riugiag, 
The  music  of  the  Gospel  leads  us  home. 

Angels  of  Jesus,  Angels  of  light, 

Singing  to  welcome  the  pilgrims  of  the  night. 

Far,  far  away,  like  bells  at  evening  pealing, 
The  voice  of  Jesus  sounds  o'er  land  and  sea; 

And  laden  souls  by  thousands  meekly  stealing, 
Kind  Shepherd,  turn  their  weary  steps  to  Thee. 

Angels  of  Jesus,  Angels  of  light. 

Singing  to  welcome  the  pilgrims  of  the  night. 

Rest  comes  at  length,  though  life  be  long  and  dreary, 
The  day  must  dawn,  and  darksome  night  be  past; 

Faith's  journey  ends  in  welcome  to  the  weary. 
And  heaven— the  heart's  true  home — will  come  at 
last. 

Angels  of  Jesus,  Angels  of  light, 

Singing  to  welcome  the  pilgrims  of  the  night. 

Angels,  sing  on !  your  faithful  watches  keeping; 

Sing  us  sweet  fragments  of  the  songs  above; 
Till  morning's  joy  shall  end  the  night  of  weeping. 

And  life's  long  shadows  break  in  cloudless  love. 
Angels  of  Jesus,  Angels  of  light. 
Singing  to  welcome  the  pilgrims  of  the  night. 

SWEET  SAVIOtTR,   BLESS  US  ERE  WE  GO. 

Sweet  Saviour,  bless  us  ere  we  go; 

Thy  word  into  our  minds  instil; 
And  make  our  lukewarm  hearts  to  glow 

With  lowly  love  and  fervent  will. 
Through  life's  long  day  and  death's  dark  night, 
O  gentle  Jesus,  be  our  Light. 

The  day  is  gone,  its  hours  have  run, 

And  thou  hast  taken  count  of  all. 
The  scanty  triumphs  grace  hath  won. 

The  broken  vow,  the  frequent  fall. 
Through  life's  long  day  and  death's  dark  night, 
O  gentle  Jesus,  be  our  Light. 


GEORGE  STANLEY  FABER.  377 

Grant  us,  dear  Lord,  from  evil  ways, 

True  absolution  and  release; 
And  bless  us,  more  than  in  past  days, 

"With  purity  and  inward  peace. 
Through  life's  long  day  and  death's  dark  night, 
O  gentle  Jesus,  be  our  Light. 

Do  more  than  pardon;  give  us  joy. 

Sweet  fear,  and  sober  liberty, 
And  simple  hearts  without  alloy 

That  only  long  to  be  like  Thee. 
Through  life's  long  day  and  death's  dark  night, 
O  gentle  Jesus,  be  our  Light. 

Labor  is  sweet,  for  Thou  hast  toiled; 

And  care  is  light,  for  Thou  hast  cared; 
Ah!  never  let  our  works  be  soiled 

With  strife,  or  by  deceit  ensnared. 
Through  life's  long  day  and  death's  dark  night, 
O  gentle  Jesus,  be  our  Light. 

For  all  we  love— the  poor,  the  sad, 

The  sinful— unto  Thee  we  call; 
O  let  thy  mercy  make  us  glad: 

Thou  art  our  Jesus  and  our  All. 
Through  life's  long  day  and  death's  dark  night, 
O  gentle  Jesus,  be  our  Light. 

FABER,  George  Stanley,  an  English  cler- 
gyman and  theological  writer,  uncle  of  Fred- 
erick W.  Faber.  born  in  1773,  died  in  1854. 
He  studied  at  Oxford,  became  a  Fellow  and 
tutor  of  Lincoln  College,  and  in  1801  was  ap- 
pointed Bampton  lecturer.  He  gave  up  his 
Fellowship  in  1803,  and  for  two  years  acted  as 
curate  to  his  fath(!r,  the  Rector  of  Calverley, 
in  Yorkshire.  He  afterwards  held  several 
vicarages,  and  in  1831  was  made  prebendary 
of  Salisbury,  and  in  1832  master  of  Sherburne 
Hospital.  He  wrote  numerous  works,  all  of  a 
theological  character,  many  of  them  relating 
specially  to  the  subject  of  the  prophecies. 
The  most  important  of  these  are :  HorcB  Moaai- 


378    GEORGE  STANLEY  FABER. 

cce  (1801,  enlarged  in  1818) ;  On  the  Mysteries 
of  the  Cabiri  (1803),  The  Origin  of  Pagan 
Idolatry  (1816),  Difficulties  of  Infidelity  (1823), 
Difficulties  of  Romanism  (1826),  The  Sacred 
Calendar  of  Prophecy  (1828),  Papal  Infalli- 
bility (1851),  and  The  Revival  of  the  French 
Emperorship  Anticipated  from  the  Necessity 
of  Prophecy  (1853). 

INFIDELITY  PUT  ON  THE  DEFENSIVE. 

In  their  various  controversies  with  infidel  writers, 
the  advocates  of  Revelation  have  generally  contented 
themselves  with  standing  upon  the  defensive.  Against 
the  enemies  of  their  faith  they  have  rarely  taken 
offensive  operations.  Difficulties,  indeed,  they  have 
removed,  and  objections  they  have  answered,  when 
started  by  the  ingenuity  of  a  deistical  opponent;  but 
they  have,  for  the  most  part,  neglected  to  urge  the 
manifold  objections  and  the  serious  difficulties  which 
attend  upon  his  own  system.  Hence,  so  far  as  I  can 
judge,  they  have  needlessly  given  him  the  advantage 
which  an  assailant  will  always  seem  to  possess  over  a 
person  assailed. 

With  this  view  of  the  question,  it  is  not  my  pur- 
pose to  consider  the  sundry  matters  which  from  time 
to  time  have  been  brought  forward  by  deistical  au- 
thors against  the  Holy  Scriptures.  Sjich  a  task  in 
the  present  state  of  the  controversy  may  well  be 
deemed  superfluous,  for,  in  truth,  it  would  be  merely 
to  repeat  and  answer  objections  which  have  been 
made  and  answered  again  and  again.  I  am  rather 
inclined  to  state  a  few  of  the  numerous  difficulties 
with  which  the  infidel  scheme  is  itself  encumbered. 
Whence,  unless  indeed  they  can  be  satisfactorily  re- 
moved, there  will  arise  a  strong  presumption  that,  at 
some  time,  and  in  some  place,  and  after  some  manner, 
the  Supreme  Being  has  expressly  revealed  himself  to 
his  creature  man ;  and  as  the  Christian  Dispensation — 
viewed  as  grounding  itself  upon  the  preceding  Patri- 
archal and  Levitical  Dispensations — is  the  only  form 
of  religion  which,  with  any  reasonable  show  of  argu- 
ment, can  claim  to  be  a  revelation  from  hcavcn,  we 


GEORGE  STANLEY  FABER.  370 

may  possibly  be  brought  to  a  conclusion,  that,  how 
ever  much  has  been  said  by  intidels  respecting  the 
easy  faith  of  those  who  have  embraced  the  Gospel, 
there  is,  after  all,  more  real  credulity  in  the  disbelief 
of  Christianity  than  in  the  belief  of  it. — I}ifficultits 
of  Infidelity,  Sect.  I. 

AXLEGKD   IKP088IBILITT   OF  A  REVELATION. 

The  best  possible  ground  for  deistical  infidelity  is 
the  position  that  ' '  In  the  very  nature  of  things,  a  reve- 
lation from  heaven  cannot  take  place." 

If  this  position  has  ever  been  seriously  maintained 
by  any  writer  of  the  deistical  school,  the  difficulty 
inseparably  attendant  upon  it  will  be  found  in  the 
necessary  consequence  which  it  involves;  a  conse- 
quence no  less  formidable  than  an  eventual  denial  of 
(Jod's  omnipotence.  That  such  is,  indeed,  its  neces- 
sary consequence,  will  appear  from  the  following  syl- 
logism: 

God  can  do  everything  which  is  not  in  itself  a  con- 
tradiction :  but  it  can  never  be  shown  that  a  revelation 
from  God  to  man  implies  any  contradiction.  There- 
fore a  revelation  from  God  to  man  is  abstractedly 
possible.  From  the  terms  of  this  syllogism  it  is  evi- 
dent that  the  abstract  possibility  of  u  revelation  from 
God  to  man  cannot  \nt  denied  without  a  concomitant 
denial  of  God's  onmipolence.  A  denial,  therefore,  of 
God's  omnipotence  is  the  necessary  consequence  of 
maintaining  the  position  before  us.  Whence  it  follows 
that  the  present  position,  involving  a  denial  of  God's 
omuipcjtence,  involves  also,  in  the  creed  both  of  the 
deist  and  the  Christian,  a  gross  and  palpable  absurd- 
ity. .  .  . — Difficulties  of  Infidelity,  Sect.  I. 

ALLEGED    INSCFFICIENCV    OF  THE    EVIDENCE    OF  A 
REVELATION. 

A  third  pos.sible  ground  of  Infidelity  is  "the  posi- 
tion that  "  the  evidein-cs  u|)oti  wiiich  our  reception  of 
every  system  claiming  to  be  a  n^vdalioii  from  heaven 
is  demanded,  are  so  weak  and  unsatisfactory  that 
they  are  iosutQcicnt  to  command  our  rca.souable  os- 
aent." 


380    GEORGE  STANLEY  PABER 

Should  this  position  be  assumed  by  the  xinbeliever, 
while  we  disclaim  the  vindication  of  any  theological 
system,  except  that  which  is  propounded  in  the  Bible, 
as  being  a  matter  wholly  foreign  to  the  question  at 
issue  between  us,  we  have  a  clear  right  to  expect  and 
demand  a  regidar  confutation  of  the  arguments  which 
are  advanced  in  our  best  treatises  on  the  evidences  of 
Judaism  and  Christianity;  for  it  is  nugatory  to  say 
that  the  evidences  in  favor  of  the  Bible  being  a  divine 
revelation  are  weak  and  unsatisfactory,  while  yet  no 
regular  confutation  of  the  arguments  upon  which 
those  evidences  rest  is  pretended  to  be  brought  for- 
ward. 

To  start  difficulties  is  one  thing;  to  answer  argu- 
ments another.  The  work  which  we  have  a  right  to 
demand  is  a  work  in  which  the  author  shall  go  regu- 
larly through  the  treatises  (we  will  say)  of  Leslie  and 
Paley;  taking  argument  after  argument,  necessarily 
showing  their  utter  inconclusiveness,  and  then  bring- 
ing out  the  triumphant  conclusion  that  "  the  evidences 
of  a  Divine  revelation  are  too  weak  and  unsatisfactory 
to  command  our  reasonable  assent." 

Let  this  be  done;  and  we  may  allow  the  present 
ground  of  Infidelity  to  be  tenable.  But  simply  to 
assert  that  the  evidences  are  insufficient,  while  not  an 
attempt  is  made  to  give  a  regular  answer  to  the  va- 
rious arguments  which  have  been  brought  forward 
by  writers  on  the  evidences,  is  plainly  an  assertion 
without  proof.  If  the  evidences  are  indeed  insuflS- 
cient,  it  must  doubtless  be  easy  to  answer  the  argu- 
ments. Why,  then,  has  no  reply  been  given  to  them? 
Why  is  a  mere  naked,  gratuitous  assertion  made  as  to 
the  insufficiency  of  the  evidences,  while  the  argu- 
ments yet  remain  imanswered?  Such  silence  is  not  a 
little  suspicious;  and  it  is  difficult  to  refrain  from 
conjecturing  that  vague  assertion  is  found  to  be  more 
easy  than  regular  confutation  ;  and  a  starting  of  insu- 
lated difficulties  less  toilsome  than  a  formal  reply  to 
a  series  of  close  reasoning.  .  .  . — DifficuUiei  of  In- 
fidelity, Sect.  I. 


GEORGE  STANLEY  FABER.     381 


THE  BELIE\'ER'8  THEORY  AS  TO  A  REVELATION. 

In  the  present  stage  of  the  argument,  then,  the  be- 
liever admits  Christianity  to  be  a  revelation  from  God, 
on  the  following  several  grounds:  1.  A  revelation 
from  heaven  is,  in  the  abstract,  a  circumstance  clearly 
possible.  2.  From  a  consideration  of  the  wisdom  of 
the  Creator,  and  the  ignorance  of  the  created,  the 
fact  of  a  divine  revelation  is  highly  probable. 
3.  The  evidence  in  favor  of  Christianity  being  adivine 
revelation  is  so  strong  that  it  cannot  be  reasonably 
controverted;  more  especially  as  the  arguments  upon 
which  the  evidence  rests  have  never  yet  been  con- 
futed.— Mere  difficulties,  even  if  unanswerable,  can- 
not set  aside  direct  and  positive  evidence.  Still  less, 
therefore,  can  they  set  it  aside  when  they  have  been 
fully  and  completely  solved. — 5.  Numerous  pre- 
tended revelations,  like  copious  issues  of  base  coin, 
are  no  proof  of  the  non-existence  of  what  is  genuine; 
but  the  false  may  be  readily  distinguished  from  the 
true  by  a  careful  and  honest  examination  of  their  re- 
spective evidences. — Finally,  as  our  unassisted  rea- 
son is  an  insufficient  teacber — a  matter  long  since  ac- 
knowledged by  the  wisest  of  the  Greeks — a  revelation 
from  God  is  no  less  necessary  in  the  abstract  than  the 
claim  of  Christianity  to  be  received  as  such  a  revela- 
tion is  well  founded  in  the  concTete.— Difficulties  of 
Infidelity,  Sect.  I. 

THE  unbeliever's  THEORY  AS  TO  A  REVELATION. 

On  theotber  hand— still  in  the  present  stage  of  the 
argument — the  unbeliever  denies  Christianity  to  be  a 
revelation  from  God  on  the  following  several  grounds: 

Although  a  revelation  may  perhaps  in  itself  be  pos- 
sible, yet  the  fact  of  one  is  very  higlily  improbable  : 
Ijccause  it  is  to  the  last  degree  unlikely  that  an  all- 
wise  Creator  should  deem  it  necessary  to  give  any 
instructions  to  a  nitioual  but  inevitably  ignorant  Iwiug 
whom  he  had  created.  The  evidence  in  favor  of 
Christianity  being  a  divine  revehition  is  insufflcieut, 
though  no  inlidcl  lias  hitlierto  l)een  able  to  confute 
the  argumeut.s  on  wliich  it  rests.— Insulated  objec- 
tions to  a  fact,  notwithstanding  they  have  been  fre- 


382  ROBERT  FaBYAN. 

quently  answered,  are  quite  sufficient,  with  a  reason- 
able inquiry,  to  set  iiside  the  very  strongest  unanswered 
evidence. — As  many  pretended  revelations  are  con- 
fessedly impostures,  therefore  all  alleged  revelations 
must  clearly  be  impostures  likewise. — Lastly,  as  our 
unassisted  reason  is  held  by  some  philosophers  to  be 
a  sufficient  teacher,  while  others  declare  it  to  be 
wholly  insufficient,  a  revelation  from  God  is  quite 
unnecessary;  nor  ought  any  claim  of  this  character 
to  be  admitted,  though  it  may  rest  on  the  very 
strongest  unconfuted  arguments. — Difficulties  of  In- 
fidelity.  Sect.  I. 

FENAL  SUMMATION   OP  THE  CASE. 

These  are  some  of  the  numerous  difficulties  which 
encumber  the  theory  of  the  Infidel — difficulties  from 
which  he  can  never  extricate  himself,  because  they 
are  essentially  inherent  in  the  hypotheses  which  he 
has  most  unhappily  and  most  illogically  been  in- 
duced to  adopt.  They  have  now  been  stated  and  dis- 
cussed at  considerable  length,  and  (it  is  hoped)  also 
with  fairness  and  impartiality.  On  a  careful  review 
of  the  whole  argument,  the  cautious  reader  must 
judge  for  himself  whether,  after  all  the  captious  ob- 
jections which  have  at  various  times  been  started  by 
Infidel  writers,  the  disbelief  of  Christianity  does  not 
involve  a  higher  degree  of  credulity  than  the  belief 
in  it :  whether,  in  point  of  rationality  it  be  not  more 
difficult  to  pronounce  it  an  imposture,  than  to  admit 
it  as  a  revelation  from  heaven. — Difficulties  of  Infi- 
delity, Sect.  VIII. 

FABYAN,  or  FABIAN,  Robert,  an  English 
chronicler,  born  about  1450,  died  in  1512. 
He  seems  to  have  received  a  fair  education, 
became  a  member  of  the  Draper's  Company, 
was  chosen  an  alderman  of  London,  and  after- 
wards sheriff.  He  is  principally  known  by 
tbe  Chronicle,  "  whiche  he  hymself  nameth  the 
Concordaunce  of  Hystoryes,''^  from  the  time 
when  "  Brute  entryed  firste  the  lie  of  Albion" 
to  the  year  1485,  the  work  being  continued  by 


ROBERT  FABYAN.  383 

unknown  hands  down  to  the  year  1559.  The 
Chronicle  was  first  printed  in  1516,  again  in 
1533,  1542.  1559,  1811,  carefully  edited  by  Sir 
Henry  Ellis.  It  is  divided  into  seven  portions, 
to  each  of  which  is  appended  a  poem  under 
the  title  of  "The  Seven  Joys  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin."  The  Chronicle  is  of  no  special  value 
except  the  last  portion,  in  which  the  author 
minutely  narrates  events  which  occurred  very 
near  his  own  time. 


JACK  cade's  rNSURRECTION,  1450.* 

And  in  the  month  of  June  this  year,  the  commons 
of  Kent  assembled  them  in  great  multitude,  and 
chose  to  them  a  Captain,  and  named  him  Mortimer, 
and  cousin  to  the  Duke  of  York;  but  of  most  he  was 
named  Jack  Cade.  This  kept  the  people  wondrously 
together,  and  made  such  ordinances  among  them  that 
he  brought  a  great  number  of  people  unto  the  Black 
Heath,  where  he  devised  a  bill  of  petitions  to  the  king 
and  his  coimcil,  and  showed  therein  what  injuries 
and  oppressions  the  poor  commons  suffered  by  such 
as  were  about  the  king,  a  few  persons  in  number,  and 
all  under  color  to  come  to  his  above.  The  king's 
council,  seeing  this  bill,  disallowed  it,  and  counselled 
the  king,  which  by  the  7th  day  of  June  had  gathered 
to  him  a  strong  host  of  people,  to  go  again'  his  rebels, 
and  to  give  unto  them  battle.  Then  the  king,  after 
the  said  rebels  had  holden  their  field  upon  Black 
Ilealh  seven  days,  made  toward  them.  Whereof 
hearing,  the  Captain  drew  back  with  his  people  to  a 
village  called  Sevenoaks,  and  there  embattled.  Then 
it  was  agreed  by  the  king's  council  that  Sir  Humphrey 
Stafford,  knight,  with  William  his  brother,  and  other 
certain  gentlemen,  should  follow  the  chase,  and  the 

•  In  this  extract  the  spelling  has  been  modernized.  The 
first  sentence  stands  thus  in  the  early  editions:  "  And  in  the 
rnoneth  of  Juny  this  yf  re,  the  comons  of  Kent  a.ssemblyd 
them  in  (?rete  niultytude,  and  chase  to  them  a  capitayne,  and 
name<l  hym  Mortymcr,  and  cosyn  to  the  Duke  of  York;  but 
of  moste  he  was  named  Jack  Cade.  This  kepte  the  people 
wondrouslio  togader." 


384  ROBERT  FABYAN. 

king  with  bis  lords  should  return  luito  Greenwich, 
weening  to  them  that  the  rebels  were  Med  and  gone. 
But,  as  before  I  have  shewed,  when  Sir  Humphrey 
with  his  company  drew  near  unto  Sevcnoaks,  he  was 
warned  of  the  Captain  that  there  abode  with  hia 
people.  And  when  he  had  counselled  with  the  other 
gentlemen,  he,  like  a  manful  knight,  set  upon  the 
rebels,  and  fought  with  them  long;  but  in  the  end  the 
Captain  slew  him  and  his  brother,  with  many  other, 
and  caused  the  rest  to  give  back.  .  .  . 

And  so  soon  as  Jack  Cade  had  thus  overcome 
the  Staffords,  he  anon  apparelled  him  with  the 
knight's  apparel,  and  did  on  him  his  bryganders  set 
with  gilt  nails,  and  his  salet  and  gilt  spurs;  and  after 
he  had  refreshed  his  people,  he  returned  again  to 
Black  Heath,  and  there  pight  again  his  field,  as  here- 
tofore he  had  done,  and  lay  there  from  the  29th  day 
of  June,  being  St.  Peter's  day,  till  the  first  day  of 
July.  In  which  season  came  unto  him  the  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury  and  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  with 
whom  they  had  long  communication,  and  found  him 
right  discreet  in  his  answers;  howbeit  they  could  not 
cause  him  to  lay  down  his  people,  and  to  submit  him 
unto  the  king's  grace. 

In  this  while  the  king  and  the  queen,  hearing  of 
the  increasing  of  his  rebels,  and  also  the  lords  fearing 
their  own  servants,  lest  they  would  take  the  Captain's 
party,  removed  from  London  to  Killingworth,  leav- 
ing the  city  without  aid,  except  only  the  Lord  Scales, 
which  was  left  to  keep  the  Tower,  and  with  him  a 
manly  and  warly  man  named  Matthew  Gowth.  Then 
the  Captain  of  Kent  thus  hoving  at  Black  Heath,  to 
the  end  to  blind  the  more  the  people,  and  to  bring 
him  in  fame  that  he  kept  good  justice,  beheaded 
there  a  petty  captain  of  his  named  Paris,  for  so  much 
as  had  offended  again'  such  ordinances  as  he  had 
established  in  his  host.  And  hearing  that  the  king  and 
all  his  lords  were  thus  departed,  drew  him  near  unto 
the  city;  so  that  upon  the  first  day  of  July  he  entered 
the  borough  of  Southwark,  being  then  Wednesday, 
and  lodged  him  there  that  night,  for  he  might  not  be 
suffered  to  enter  the  city.  .  .  . 

And  the  same  afternoon,  about  five  of  the  clock, 


ROBERT  FABYAN.  385 

tlie  Captain  with  his  people  entered  by  the  bridge; 
and  when  he  came  upon  the  drawbridge,  he  hewed 
the  ropes  that  drew  the  bridge  in  sunder  with  his 
sword,  and  so  passed  into  the  city,  and  made  in  sim- 
dry  places  thereof  proclamations  in  the  king's  name, 
that  no  man,  upon  pain  of  death,  should  rob  or  take 
anything  per  force  without  paying  therefor.  By 
reason  whereof  he  won  many  hearts  of  the  commons 
of  the  city;  but  all  was  done  to  l)eguile  the  people,  as 
after  shall  evidently  appear.  He  rode  through  divers 
streets  of  the  city,  and  as  he  came  by  London  Stone, 
he  strake  it  with  his  sword,  and  said:  "  Xow  is  Mor- 
timer lord  of  this  city."  And  when  he  had  thus 
shewed  himself  in  divers  places  of  the  city,  and 
shewed  his  mind  to  the  mayor  for  the  ordering  of  his 
people,  he  returned  into  Southwark,  and  there  abode 
as  he  before  had  done;  his  people  coming  and  going 
at  lawful  hours  when  they  would.  Then  upon  the 
mom,  being  the  third  day  of  July  and  Fridaj-,  the 
said  Captain  entered  again  the  city,  and  caused  the 
Lord  Saye  to  be  fette  from  the  Tower,  and  led  into 
the  Guildhall,  where  he  was  arraigned  before  the 
mayor  and  other  of  the  king's  justices.  Then  the  Lord 
Saye  desired  that  he  might  be  judged  by  his  peers. 
"Whereof  hearing,  tlie  Captain  sent  a  company  of  his 
unto  the  hall,  the  which  per  force  took  him  from  his 
officers,  and  so  brought  him  unto  the  .standard  in 
Cheap,  where,  or  he  were  half  shriven,  they  strake  off 
his  head;  and  tliat  done,  pight  it  \ipon  a  long  pole,  and 
so  bare  it  about  with  them.  .  .  . 

Tiien  toward  night  he  returned  into  Southwark, 
and  upon  the  morn  re-entered  the  city,  and  dinfd 
that  (lav  at  a  place  in  St.  Margaret  Patyn  pans)), 
calhd  Glierstis  House;  and  wlun  he  had  dined,  like 
nn  uncurtcous  gtiest,  roljbtd  him.  iis  the  day  bcforf 
he  had  Malpius.  For  whidi  two  robl)cries,  allM-it 
that  the  ])or,iil  and  the  needy  people  drew  unto  him. 
and  were  partners  of  that  ill,  the  honest  and  thrifty 
commoners  cast  in  tlicir  minds  the  sequel  of  this 
matter,  and  frared  lest  they  should  be  dealt  with  in 
like  mannr-r,  by  moans  whereof  he  lost  the  people's 
favour  anrl  licarf'^.  For  it  wa.'s  to  Ik-  thought  if  lie 
had  not  execute<l  that  ro])ber\',  he  might  have  gone 
25 


386  GAUCELM  FAIDIT. 

fair  and  brought  his  purpose  to  good  effect,  if  he  had 
iutcuded  well  ;  but  it  is  to  deem  and  prcsuj)pose  that 
the  intent  of  him  was  not  good,  wherefore  it  might 
not  come  to  any  good  conclusion. 

Then,  upon  the  fifth  day  of  July,  the  Captain  being 
in  Southwark,  caused  u  man  to  be  beheaded,  for 
cause  of  displeasure  to  him  done,  as  the  fame  went; 
and  so  he  kept  him  in  Southwark  all  that  day;  how- 
beit  he  might  have  entered  the  city  if  he  had  wold. 
And  when  night  was  coming,  the  major  and  citizens, 
with  Matthew  Gowth,  like  to  their  former  appoint- 
ment, kept  the  passage  of  the  bridge,  being  Sunday, 
and  defended  the  Kentish  men,  which  made  great 
force  to  re-enter  the  city.  Then  the  Captain,  seeing 
this  bickering  begun,  yode  to  harness  and  called  his 
people  about  him,  and  set  so  fiercely  upon  the  citizens 
that  he  drave  them  back  from  the  stulpcs  in  South- 
wark, or  bridge-foot,  unto  the  drawbridge.  Tlien 
the  Kentishmen  set  fire  upon  the  drawbridge.  In  de- 
fending whereof  many  a  man  was  drowned  and 
slain.   .  .  . 

But  it  was  not  long  after  that  the  Captain  with  his 
company  was  thus  departed  that  proclamations  were 
made  in  divers  places  of  Kent,  of  Sussex,  and  Sow- 
therey,  that  who  might  take  the  aforesaid  Jack  Cade, 
cither  alive  or  dead,  .should  have  a  thousand  mark  for 
his  travail.  After  which  proclamation  thus  published, 
a  gentleman  of  Kent,  named  Alexander  Iden,  awaited 
so  his  time  that  he  took  him  in  a  garden  in  Sussex, 
where  in  the  taking  of  him  the  said  Jack  was  slain; 
and  so  being  dead  was  brought    into  Southwark 

the day  of  the  month  of  September,  and  then 

left  in  the  King's  Bench  for  that  night.  And  upon 
the  morrow  the  dead  corpse  was  drawn  through  the 
high  streets  of  the  city  unto  Newgate,  and  there 
headed  and  quartered,  whose  head  was  then  sent  to 
London  Bridge,  and  his  four  quarters  were  sent  to 
four  sundry  towns  of  Kent. 

FAIDIT,  Gaucelm,  a  French  troubadour, 
who  probably  flourished  about  1200,  although 
some  authorities  place  him  half  a  century  later. 
About  all  that  is  known  of  him  is  that,  having 


GAUCELM  FAIDIT.  387 

lost  his  fortune  in  gaming,  he  became  a 
"Jongleur,''  and  after  the  death  of  Richard 
Coeui--de-Lion,  travelled  from  place  to  place 
for  many  years.  More  than  fifty  poems 
attributed  to  him  have  been  preserved. 

RICHARD  OF  THE  LION  HEART. 

And  must  thy  chords,  my  lute,  be  strung 

To  lays  of  woe  so  dark  as  this  ? 
And  must  the  fatal  tnilh  be  sung — 

The  final  knell  of  hope  and  bliss — 
Which  to  the  end  of  life  shall  cast 

A  gloom  that  will  not  cease — 
Whose  clouds  of  woe,  that  gather  fast, 

Each  accent  shall  increase  ? 
Valor  and  fame  are  fled,  since  dead  thou  art, 
England's  King  Richard  of  the  Lion  Heart! 

Yes!— dead!— whole  ages  may  decay. 

Ere  one  so  true  and  brave 
Shall  yield  the  world  so  bright  a  ray 

As  sunk  into  thy  grave! 
Noble  and  valiant,  fierce  and  bold, 

Gentle,  and  soft,  and  kind. 
Greedy  of  honor,  free  of  gold, 

Of  thought,  of  grace,  refined: 
Not  he  by  whom  Darius  fell, 

Arthur,  or  Charlemagne, 
With  deeds  of  more  renown  can  swell 

The  minstrel's  proudest  strain; 
For  he  of  all  that  witli  him  strove,  ' 

The  conqueror  became, 
Or  by  the  merry  of  his  love. 

Or  the  terror  of  his  name    .  .  . 

O,  noble  King!     O,  Knight  renowned! 

Where  now  is  battle's  pride. 
Since  in  the  lists  no  lon/^er  found. 

With  conquest  at  tliy  side? 
Upon  tliy  crest  and  on  thy  sword 

Thou  show'dst  where  jjlory  lay. 
And  M-aled,  even  with  lliy  lightest  word. 

The  fate  of  uiuuy  a  day. 


■SS8  EDWARD   FAIRFAX. 

Where  now  the  open  heart  and  hand 

All  service  that  o'erpaidV 
The  gifts  that  of  a  barren  land 

A  smiling  garden  made? 
And  those  whom  love  imd  honest  zeal 

Had  to  thy  fate  allied, 
Who  looked  to  thee  in  woe  and  weal. 

Nor  heeded  aught  beside? 
The  honors  thou  couldst  well  allow, 

What  hand  shall  now  supply? 
What  is  their  occupation  now? — 

To  weep  thy  loss — and  die! 

The  haughty  pagan  now  shall  raise 

The  standard  high  in  air, 
Who  lately  saw  thy  glory's  blaze. 

And  tied  in  wild  despair. 
The  Holy  Tomb  shall  linger  long 

Within  the  Moslem's  power, 
Since  God  hath  willed  the  brave  and  strong 

Should  wither  in  an  hour. 
Oh  for  thy  arm,  on  Syria's  plain. 
To  drive  them  to  their  tents  again! 

Has  Heaven  a  leader  still  in  store 

That  may  repay  thy  loss? 
Those  fearful  realms  who  dares  explore, 

And  combat  for  the  Cross? 
Let  him— let  all— remember  well 

Thy  glory  and  thy  name — 
Remember  how  young  Henry  fell. 

And  Geoffrey,  old  in  fame! 
Oh,  he  who  in  thy  pathway  treads. 

Must  toil  and  pain  endure; 
His  head  must  plan  the  boldest  deeds, 

His  arm  must  make  them  sure! 
—  Trand.  ^/Costello. 

FAIRFAX,  Edward,  an  English  poet,  bom 
about  1580.  died  about  1632.  He  vfas  a  son  of 
Sir  Thomas  Fairfax,  of  Denton,  in  Yorkshire ; 
and  lived  the  life  of  a  quiet  country  gentle- 
man of  fair  estate.     He  wrote  several  works, 


EDWARD  FAIRFAX.  389 

among  which  were  a  series  of  ten  Eclogues 
and  a  Discourse  on  Witchcraft,  as  it  icas 
acted  in  the  Family  of  Mr.  Edirard  Fairfax, 
in  1621;  tliis  was  printed  in  1859,  edited  by 
Eiehard  Monckton  Milnes,  afterwards  Lord 
Houghton.  Fairfax  is  known  by  his  transla- 
tion of  Tasso's  Jerusalem  Delivered,  which 
was  pubhshed  in  1600,  under  the  title  Godfrey 
of  Bulloigne;  or,  the  Eecoverie  of  Jerusalem, 
done  i)ito  English  heroicall  verse,  by  Ediv. 
Fairfax,  Gent.  Few  translations  have  ever 
received  such  high  commendation  from  great 
poets,  among  whom  are  Waller,  Diyden, 
Collins,  and  Milton. 

ARiirOA  AND   HER  ENCHANTED  CASTLE. 

And  with  that  word  she  smiled,  and  ne'ertheless 
Her  love-to}s  still  she  used,  and  pleasures  bold; 

Her  kiir— that  done — she  twisted  up  in  tress, 
And  looser  locks  in  silken  laces  rolled: 

Her  curls  in  garland- wise  she  did  up  dress, 
Wherein,  like  rich  enamel  laid  on  gold, 

The  twisted  flow 'rets  smiled,  and  her  white  breast 

The  lilies  there  that  spring  wuth  roses  dressed. 

The  jolly  peacock  spreads  not  half  so  fair 
The  eyed  feathei-s  of  his  pompous  train; 

Nc"  golden  Iris  so  bends  in  the  air 
Her  twenty -colored  bow,  through  clouds  of  rain, 

Yet  all  her  ornaments,  strange,  rich,  and  rare, 
Her  girdle  did  in  price  and  beauty  stain; 

Not  that,  with  scorn,  which  Tuscan  Guilla  lost, 

Nor  Venus'  cestus  could  match  this  for  cost. 

Of  mild  denays,  of  tender  scorns,  of  sweet 
Itepulscs,  war,  peace,  hope,  despair,  joy,  fear; 

Of  smiles,  jests,  mirth,  woe,  grief,  and  sad  regret; 
Sighs,  sorrows,  tears,  embracements,  kisses  dear, 

That,  mixiid  first,  by  weight  and  measure  meet; 
Then,  at  an  easy  tire,  altenipered  were; 

This  womlrouH  girdle  did  Armida  frame, 

And,  when  she  \sould  be  loved,  wore  the  same. 


390  EDWAllD  FAIRFAX. 


RINAUJO  AT  MOUNT  OLIVET  AND  THE   ENCHANTED 
WOOD. 

It  was  the  time,  when  'gainst  the  breaking  day, 
Rebellious  night  yet  strove,  and  still  repined; 

For  in  the  east  appeared  the  morning  gray, 
And  yet  some  lamps  in  Jove's  high  palace  shined, 

When  to  Mount  Olivet  he  took  his  way, 
And  saw  as  round  about  his  eyes  he  twined. 

Night's  shadows  hence,  from  thence  the  morning's 
shine, 

This  bright,  that  dark;  that  earthly,  this  divine. 

Thus  to  himself  he  thought:  How  many  bright 
And  'splendent  lamps  shine  in  heaven's  temple  high  I 

Day  hath  his  golden  sun,  her  moon  the  night, 
Her  fixed  and  wandering  stars  the  azure  sky: 

So  framed  all  by  their  Creator's  might. 
That  still  they  live  and  shine,  and  ne'er  will  die, 

Till  in  a  moment,  with  the  last  day's  brand 

They  burn,  and  with  them  burn  sea,  air,  and  land. 

Thus  as  he  musfid,  to  the  top  he  went. 

And  there  kneeled  down  with  reverence  and  fear; 
His  eyes  upon  heaven's  eastern  face  he  bent; 

His  thoughts  above  all  heavens  uplifted  were — 
"  The  sins  and  errors  which  I  now  repent, 

Of  my  unbridled  youth,  O  Father  dear, 
Remember  not,  but  let  thy  mercy  fall 
And  purge  my  faults  and  my  offences  all." 

Thus  prayed  he:  with  purple  wings  up  flew, 
In  golden  weed,  the  morning's  lusty  queen, 

Begilding  with  the  radiant  beams  she  threw, 
His  helm,  the  harness,  and  the  mountain  green; 

Upon  his  breast  and  forehead  gently  blew 
The  air,  that  balm  and  nardus  breathed  unseen, 

And  o'er  his  head,  let  down  from  clearest  skies, 

A  cloud  of  pure  and  precious  dew  there  flies. 

The  heavenly  dew  was  on  his  garments  spread, 
To  which  compared,  his  clothes  pale  ashes  seem, 

And  sprinkled  so  that  all  that  paleness  fled. 
And  thence  of  purest  white  bright  rays  outstream: 


WILLIAM  FALCONER,  391 

So  cheered  are  the  flowers,  late  -withered, 

With  the  sweet  comfort  of  the  morning  beam; 
And  so,  returned  to  youth,  a  serpent  old 
Adorns  herself  in  new  and  native  gold. 

The  lovely  whiteness  of  his  changed  weed 
The  prince  perceived  well  and  long  admired; 

Toward  the  forest  marched  he  on  with  speed. 
Resolved,  as  such  adventures  great  required; 

Thither  he  came,  whence,  shrinking  back  for  dread 
Of  that  strange  desert's  sight,  the  first  retired; 

But  not  to  him  fearful  or  loathsome  made 

That  forest  was,  but  sweet  with  pleasant  shade. 

A  dreadful  thunder-clap  at  last  he  heard. 
The  aged  trees  and  plants  well-nigh  that  rent, 

Yet  heard  the  n}Tnphs  and  syrens  afterward. 
Birds,  winds,  and  waters  sing  with  sweet  consent; 

Whereat  amazed,  he  stayed  and  well  prepared, 
For  his  defence,  heedful  and  slow  forth-went, 

Nor  in  his  way  his  passage  aught  withstood, 

Except  a  quiet,  still,  transparent  flood: 

On  the  green  banks,  which  that  fair  stream  inbound, 
Flowers  and  odors  sweetly  smiled  and  smelled, 

Which  reaching  out  his  stretched  arms  around, 
All  the  large  desert  in  his  bosom  held, 

And  through  the  grove  one  channel  passage  found; 
This  in  the  wood,  that  in  the  forest  dwelled; 

Trees  clad  the  streams,  streams  green  those  trees  aye 
made, 

And  so  exchanged  their  moisture  and  their  shade. 

FALCONER,  William,  a  British  poet  bom 
at  Edinburg'.i  about  1730,  lost  at  sea  in  1769. 
He  was  the  son  of  a  barber ;  entered  the  mer- 
chant service  at  an  early  age,  and  in  his  eigh- 
teenth year  became  second  mate  of  the  Bi'i- 
tannia,  a  vessel  engaged  in  the  liCvant  trade. 
The  vessel  was  wrecked  ofT  Cape  Colonna,  in 
Greece,  and  all  on  board  perished  except  Fal- 
coner and  two  otliora.  This  casualty  forms 
the  subject  of  his  poem  The  Sfiij>wr(xk,  first 


393  WILLIAM   FALCONER. 

published  in  1762,  afterwards  in  17(54  and  1769, 
with  considerable  changes  and  additions.  The 
poem  was  dedicated  to  the  Duke  of  York,  who 
procured  for  the  author  an  appointment  as 
midshipman  on  board  the  Royal  George.  The 
ship  being  paid  off  in  a  few  months,  Falconer 
served  for  awhile  as  purser  on  another  vessel 
in  the  royal  navy.  He  then  engaged  in  liter- 
ary labor,  his  principal  work  being  an  elabo- 
rate Universal  Marine  Dictionary,  published 
in  1769.  This  procured  for  him  the  appoint- 
ment of  purser  on  board  the  Aurora,  which 
had  been  commissioned  to  carry  out  several 
ofScers  of  the  East  India  Company.  The  ves- 
sel sailed  in  October,  1769,  reached  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope,  whence  she  set  sail  for  India 
on  the  27th  of  December.  Nothing  was  after- 
wards heard  of  her;  and  she  is  supposed  to 
have  foundered  at  sea, 

AN  EVENING  AT   SEA. 

The  sun's  bright  orb,  declining  all  serene, 
Now  glanced  obliquely  o'er  the  woodland  scene. 
Creation  smiles  around;  on  every  spray 
The  warbling  birds  exalt  their  evening  lay. 
Blithe  skipping  o'er  yon  hill,  the  fleecy  train 
Join  the  deep  chorus  of  the  lowing  plain; 
The  golden  lime  and  orange  there  were  seen, 
On  fragrant  branches  of  perpetual  green. 
The  crystal  streams,  that  velvet  meadows  lave, 
To  the  green  ocean  roll  with  chiding  wave. 
The  glassy  ocean,  hushed,  forgets  to  roar, 
But  trembling,  murmurs  on  the  sandy  shore: 
And  lo  !  his  surface,  lovely  to  behold ! 
Glows  in  the  west,  a  sea  of  living  gold! 
While,  all  above,  a  thousand  liveries  gay 
The  skies  with  pomp  ineffable  array. 
Arabian  sweets  perfume  the  hippy  plains: 
Al)Ove,  beneath,  around,  enchantment  reigns! 
While  yet  the  shades,  on  time's  eternal  scale, 
With  long  vibration  deepen  o'er  the  vale; 


WILLIAM  FALCONER.  393 

While  yet  the  songsters  of  the  vocal  grove 
With  dying  numbers  tune  the  soul  to  los'e, 
With  joyful  eyes  the  attentive  master  sees 
The  auspicious  omens  of  an  eastern  breeze. 
Now  radiant  Vesper  leads  the  starry  train, 
And  night  slow  draws  her  veil  o'er  land  and  main; 
Round  the  charged  bowl  the  sailors  form  a  ring  ; 
By  turns  recount  the  wondrous  tale,  or  sing ; 
As  love  or  battle,  hardships  of  the  main. 
Or  genial  wine,  awake  their  homely  strain: 
Then  some  the  watch  of  night  alternate  keep. 
The  rest  lie  buried  in  oblivious  sleep. 


THE  SHIPWRECK  OFF  CAPE  COLONNA. 

But  now  Athenian  mountains  they  descry, 
And  o'er  the  surge  Colonna  frowns  on  high. 
Besidl  the  Cape's  projecting  verge  is  placed 
A  range  of  columns  long  by  time  defaced; 
First  planted  by  devotion  to  sustain, 
In  elder  times,  Tritonia's  sacred  fane 
Foams  the  wild  beacli  below  with  maddening  rage, 
Where  waves  and  rocks  a  dreadful  combat  wage. 
With  mournful  look  the  seamen  eyed  the  strand. 
Where  death's  inexorable  jaws  expand; 
Swift  from  their  minds  elapsed  all  dangers  past. 
As,  dumb  with  terror,  they  beheld  the  last. 
Now  on  the  trembling  shn)uds,  tefore,  behind, 
In  mute  saspense  they  mount  into  the  wind. 
The  steersmen  now  received  their  last  command 
To  wheel  the  vessel  sidelong  to  the  strand. 
Twelve  sailors  on  the  forema.st,  who  depend, 
High  on  the  platform  of  the  top  ascend: 
Fatal  retreatl  for  while  the  plunging  prow 
Immerges  headlong  in  the  wave  Indow, 
Down-prcKsed  by  watery  weight  the  bowsprit  bends, 
And  from  above  the  stem  <lec[)-(Tashiiig  rendH. 
Beneath  her  Ix-ak  the  floating  ruins  lie; 
The  foremast  totters,  unsuslaiiied  on  high; 
And  now  the  ship,  fore  lifted  l»y  the  .sea. 
Hurls  the  tail  fabric  backwanl  ci'er  her  lee; 
Wliile,  in  the  general  wreck,  the  faithful  stay 
DragH  the  maintop  iiia«t  from  its  post  away. 


394  WILLIAM  FALCONER. 

Flung  from  the  mast,  the  seamen  strive  in  vain 
Through  hostile  Hoods  their  vessel  to  regain. 
The  waves  they  buffet,  till,  bereft  of  strength, 
O'erpowered,  they  yield  to  cruel  fate  at  length. 
The  hostile  waters  close  around  their  head. 
They  sink  forever,  numbered  with  the  dead! 
Those  who  remain  their  fearful  doom  await, 
Nor  longer  mourn  their  lost  companions'  fate. 
The  heart  that  bleeds  with  sorrows  all  its  own. 
Forgets  the  pangs  of  friendship  to  bemoan.  .  .  . 

And  now,  lashed  on  by  destiny  severe, 
With  horror  fraught,  the  dreadful  scene  drew  near, 
The  ship  hangs  hovering  on  the  verge  of  death. 
Hell  yawns,  rocks  rise,  and  breakers  roar  beneath! 
In  vain  the  cords  and  axes  were  prepared. 
For  now  the  audacious  seas  insult  the  yard; 
High  o'er  the  ship  they  throw  a  horrid  shade. 
And  o'er  her  burst,  in  terrible  cascade. 
Uplifted  on  the  surge,  to  heaven  she  flies, 
Her  shattered  top  half  buried  in  the  skies. 
Then  headlong  plunging,  thunders  on  the  ground; 
Earth  groans,  air  trembles,  and  the  deeps  resound  1 
Her  giant  bulk  the  dread  concussion  feels. 
And,  quivering  with  the  wound,  in  torment  reels; 
So  reels,  convulsed  with  agonizing  throes. 
The  bleeding  bull  beneath  the  murderer's  blows. 
Again  .she  plunges;  hark!  a  second  shock 
Tears  her  .strong  bottom  on  the  marble  rock! 
Down  on  the  vale  of  death  with  dismal  cries. 
The  fated  victims,  shuddering,  roll  their  eyes 
In  wild  despair;  while  yet  another  stroke. 
With  deep  convulsion  rends  the  solid  oak: 
Till,  like  the  mine  in  whose  infernal  cell 
The  lurking  demons  of  destruction  dwell, 
At  length  asunder  torn,  her  frame  divides. 
And,  crashing  spreads  in  ruin  o'er  the  tides.  .  .  . 

As  o'er  the  surf  the  bending  mainmast  hung. 
Still  on  the  rigging  thirty  seamen  clung; 
Some  on  a  broken  crag  were  struggling  cast, 
And  there  by  oozy  tangles  grappled  fast; 
Awhile  they  bore  the  o'erwhelming  billows'  rage, 
Unequal  combat  with  their  fate  to  wage; 


JULIAN  FANE.  395 

Till,  all  benumbed  and  feeble,  they  forego 
Their  slippery  hold,  and  sink  to  shades  below; 
Some  from  the  main-yard-arm  impetuous  thrown 
On  marble  ridges  die  without  a  groan; 
Three  with  Palemou  on  their  skill  depend, 
And  from  the  wreck  on  oars  and  rafts  descend; 
Now  on  the  mountain  wave  on  high  they  ride. 
Then  down  they  plunge  beneath  the  involving  tide; 
Till  one,  who  seems  in  agony  to  strive. 
The  whirling  breakers  heave  on  shore  alive: 
The  rest  a  speedier  end  of  anguish  knew, 
And  pressed  the  stormy  beach— a  lifeless  crew! 

FANE,  Julian,  an  English  poet,  born  at 
London  in  1S27,  died  in  1870.  In  1852  he  pub- 
lished a  small  volume  of  Poems,  and  in  1861, 
in  conjunction  with  Eobert  Lytton  Bulwer 
("  Owen  Meredith")  he  put  forth  Tannhduser; 
or.  The  Battle  of  the  Bards.  He  had  been  ac- 
customed to  write  a  sonnet  to  his  mother  {ad 
Matrem)  upon  her  birthday.  Of  the  last  of 
these— that  dated  in  1870— Lord  Lytton  says, 
in  his  Life  of  Fane:  "On  the  evening  of  the 
12th  of  March,  1870,  his  physical  suffering  was 
excessive.  The  follo^ving  day  was  the  birth- 
day of  his  mother.  She  found  what  she  dared 
not,  could  not  anticipate.  There  lay  upon  the 
table  a  letter  with  two  sonnets.  They  were 
the  last  words  ever  written  by  Julian  Fane." 

AD  matrem:  march  13,  1862. 
Oft  in  the  after  days,  when  thou  and  I 

Have  fallen  from  the  scope  of  human  view, 
When,  both  together,  iindcr  the  sweet  sky 

We  sleep  ])eneath  the  daisies  and  the  dew, 
Men  will  recall  thy  gracious  presence  bland, 

Conninc:  tlic  pictured  sweetness  of  thy  face; 
Will  pore  o'er  paiiilinirs  by  thy  plastic  hand, 

And  vaunt  thy  skill,  and  tell  thy  deeds  of  grace, 
Oh  may  liny  then,  who  crown  thee  with  true  bays, 

SayinL',  "  What  love  unto  her  son  she  bore!" 
Make  tills  afldition  )o  thy  perfect  pniise: 

"  Nor  ever  yet  was  mother  worshipped  more!" 


396       ANNE   HARRISON  FANSHAWE. 

So  shall  I  live  with  thee,  and  thy  dear  fame 
Shall  link  my  love  unto  thine  honored  name. 

AD  matkem:  makch  13,  1864. 

Music,  and  frankincense  of  flowers,  belong 

To  this  sweet  festival  of  all  the  year. 
Take,  then,  the  latest  blossom  of  my  song. 

And  to  Love's  canticle  incline  thine  ear. 
What  is  it  that  Love  chants  ?  thy  perfect  praise. 

What  is  it  that  Love  prays?  worthy  to  prove. 
What  is  it  Love  desires?  thy  length  of  days. 

What  is  it  that  Love  asks?  return  of  love. 
Ah,  what  requital  can  Love  ask  more  dear 

Than  by  Love's  priceless  self  to  be  repaid? 
Thy  liberal  love  increasing  year  by  year, 

Hath  granted  more  than  all  my  heart  hath  prayed. 
And  prodigal  as  Nature,  makes  me  pine 
To  think  how  poor  my  love  compared  with  thine. 

AD  matrem:  makch  13,  1870. 

When  the  vast  heaven  is  dark  with  ominous  clouds. 

That  lower  their  gloomful  faces  to  the  earth; 
When  all  things  sweet  and  fair  are  cloaked  in  shrouds, 

And  dire  calamity  and  care  have  birth; 
AVhen  furious  tempests  strip  the  woodland  green. 

And  from  bare  boughs  the  hapless  songsters  sing; 
When  Winter  stalks,  a  spectre,  on  the  scene. 

And  breathes  a  blight  on  every  living  thing; 
Then,  when  the  spirit  of  man,  by  sickness  tried. 
Half  fears,  half  hopes,  that  death  be  at  his  side. 

Out  leaps  the  sun,  and  gives  him  life  again. 
O  mother,  I  clasped  Death;  but  seeing  thy  face. 
Leapt  from  his  dark  arms  to  thy  dear  embrace. 

FANSHAWE  (Anne  Harrison),  Lady, 
an  English  writer,  born  in  1625,  died  in  1680. 
About  1644  she  was  married  to  Sir  Richard 
Fanshawe  (1608-1666),  who  bore  a  prominent 
part  in  the  political  and  diplomatic  history  of 
his  time.  He  was  also  a  poet  of  some  repute, 
especially  for  his  spirited  translations  of  the 
Pastor  Fido  of  Guarini,  and  the  Lusiad  of 


ANNE  HARRISON  FANSHAWE.       397 

Camoens,  besides  others  from  Latin,  Italian, 
and  Spanish.  A  volume  made  up  his  Letters 
was  printed  in  1724.  Not  long  after  his  death 
Lady  Fanshawe  wrote  her  Memoirs,  in  which 
her  husband  figures  largely.  These  were  first 
printed  in  1829,  under  the  editorial  care  of 
Sir  N.  Harris  Nicolas. 

LADY  AND   SIR   RICHARD   FAKSHAWE:   1545. 

My  husband  had  provided  very  good  lodgings  for 
us  [at  Bristol] ,  and  as  soon  as  he  could  come  home 
from  the  council,  where  he  was  at  my  arrival,  he, 
with  all  expressions  of  joy,  received  me  in  his  arms, 
and  gave  me  a  hundred  pieces  of  gold,  sajing:  "I 
know  thou  that  keeps  my  heart  so  well  will  keep  my 
fortune,  which  from  this  I  will  ever  put  into  thy 
hands  as  God  shall  bless  me  with  increase;"  and 
now  I  thought  myself  a  perfect  queen,  and  my  hus- 
band so  glorious  a  crown,  that  I  more  valued  myself 
to  be  called  by  his  name  than  born  a  princess;  for  I 
knew  him  very  wise  and  very  good,  and  his  soul 
doted  on  me — upon  which  confidence  I  will  tell  you 
what  happened. 

My  Lady  Rivers,  a  brave  woman,  and  one  that  had 
suffered  many  thousand  pounds'  loss  for  the  king, 
and  whom  I  had  a  great  reverence  for,  and  she  a 
kindness  for  me  as  a  kinswoman,  in  discourse  she 
tacitly  commended  the  knowledge  of  state  affairs,  and 
that  some  women  were  very  happy  in  a  good  under- 
standing thereof,  as  my  Lady  Aubigny,  Lady  Isal)cl 
Thynne,  and  divers  others,  and  yet  none  was  at  first 
mf)rc'  rapablc  than  I;  that  in  the  night  she  knew  there 
came  a  post  from  Paris  from  the  queen,  and  that  she 
would  be  extremely  glad  to  hear  what  the  queen 
commanded  the  king  in  order  to  his  affairs,  Siiying  if 
I  would  ask  my  liusbMiul  privately  he  would  tell  me 
what  he  foimd  in  the  packet,  and  I  might  tell  her. 

I,  that  was  3'oung  and  innocent,  and  lo  that  day 
had  never  in  my  mouth  "  What  news?"  began  to 
think  there  was  more  inquiring  into  public  affairs 
than  I  thought  of,  and  tlial  it  iK'iug  a  fashionable 
thing  would   make  me  more  beloved   of  my  bus- 


898       ANNE  nARllISON  FANSHAWE. 

band,  if  that  had  been  possible,  than  I  then  was. 
When  luy  husband  returned  home  from  council,  and 
went  with  his  handful  of  papers  into  his  study  for 
an  hour  or  more,  I  followed  him;  he  turned  hastily 
and  said:  "What  wouldst  thou  have,  my  life?"  I 
told  him,  I  heard  the  prince  had  received  a  packet 
from  the  queen,  and  I  guessed  it  was  that  in  his 
hand,  and  I  desired  to  know  what  was  in  it.  He 
smilingly  replied:  "  My  love,  I  will  immediately  come 
to  thee;  pray  thee,  go,  for  I  am  very  busy. "  When  he 
came  out  of  his  closet,  I  revived  my  suit;  he  kissed 
me,  and  talked  of  other  things.  At  supper  I  would 
eat  nothing;  he  as  usual  sat  by  me,  and  drank  often 
to  me,  which  was  his  custom,  and  was  full  of  dis- 
course to  company  that  was  at  table.  Going  to  bed, 
I  asked  again,  and  said  I  could  not  believe  he  loved 
me  if  he  refused  to  tell  me  all  he  knew;  but  he 
answered  nothing,  but  stopped  my  mouth  with  kisses. 
So  we  went  to  bed;  I  cried,  and  he  went  to  sleep. 

Next  morning  early,  as  his  custom  was,  he  called  to 
rise,  but  began  to  discourse  with  me  first,  to  which  I 
made  no  reply;  he  rose,  came  on  the  other  side  of 
the  bed,  and  kissed  me,  and  drew  the  curtains  softly 
and  went  to  court.  When  he  came  home  to  dinner, 
he  presently  came  to  me  as  usual,  and  when  I  had 
him  by  the  hand,  I  said:  "  Thou  dost  not  care  to  see 
me  troubled;"  to  which  he,  taking  me  in  his  arms, 
answered:  "My  dearest  soul,  nothing  upon  earth 
can  afflict  me  like  that;  but  when  you  ask  me  of  my 
business,  it  was  wholly  out  of  my  power  to  satisfy 
thee;  for  my  life  and  fortune  shall  be  thine,  and 
every  thought  of  my  heart  in  which  the  trust  I  am 
in  may  not  be  revealed;  but  my  honor  is  my  own; 
which  I  cannot  preserve  if  I  communicate  the 
prince's  affairs;  and  pray  thee,  with  this  answer  rest 
satisfied." 

So  great' was  his  reason  and  goodness,  that,  upon 
consideration,  it  made  my  folly  appear  to  me  so  vile, 
that  from  that  day  until  the  day  of  his  death,  I  never 
thought  fit  to  ask  him  any  business,  but  what  he 
communicated  freely  to  me  in  order  to  his  estate  or 
family. 


MICHAEL  FARADAY.  3&9 

FAEADAY,  Michael,  an  English  physicist, 
born  in  1791,  died  in  1867.  He  was  the  son  of 
a  poor  blacksmith,  and  at  the  age  of  fourteen 
was  apprenticed  to  a  bookbinder.  While 
thus  employed  he  attended  some  of  the  chem- 
ical lectures  of  Humphry  Davy,  of  which  he 
took  notes.  These  he  transmitted  to  Davy, 
asking  his  assistance  to  "  escape  from  trade 
and  enter  into  the  service  of  science."  Tlie 
result  was  that  Faraday,  in  his  twentj'-third 
year,  became  the  assistant  of  Davy  in  the  lab- 
oratory of  the  Royal  Institution.  In  1825, 
upon  the  retirement  of  Sir  Humphry,  he  was 
appointed  director  of  the  laboratory,  and  in 
1833  he  was  made  the  first  Fullerian  Professor 
of  Chemistry,  a  position  which  he  held  until 
his  death;  so  that  his  connection  with  the 
Royal  Institution  lasted  fifty-four  years.  His 
investigations  were  especially  directed  to  the 
sciences  of  Chemistry  and  Electricity,  in  which 
his  discoveries  have  been  exceeded  in  value 
by  no  other  man.  Besides  almost  innumera- 
ble papers  in  the  transactions  of  learned  so- 
cieties and  in  scientific  journals,  his  principal 
works  are:  Chemical  Manipulations  (1827), 
Researches  in  Electi-ic ity  (18S1-55),  Researches 
in  Chemistry  and  Physics  (1859),  Lectures  on 
the  Forces  of  Matter  (1860),  and  Lectures  on 
the  Chemical  History  of  a  Candle  (1861).  He 
was  a  man  of  sincere  piety,  a  member  and 
elder  of  a  small  religious  Society,  known  as 
"Sandemanians."  His  views  on  the  relations 
between  science  and  religion  are  expressed  in 
a  lecture  on  "Mental  Education"  delivered 
before  the  R<jyal  Institution  in  1854,  and 
j)rinted  at  the  end  of  his  Researches  in  Chem- 
istry and  Physics.  Of  this  lecture  he  says: 
"These  observations  are  so  immediately  con- 
nected in  their  nature  and  origin  with  my  own 
intolleetual  life,  considered  either  as  cause  or 
coasequeTice,  tlwit   I  have  thought  the  close 


400  MICHAEL   FAHADAY. 

of  this  volume  not  an  unfit  place  for  their  re- 
production." 

NATURAL   AND  SPIRITUAL  BELIEF. 

Before  cnleriug  upon  the  subject  I  must  make  one 
distinction  which,  however  it  may  appear  to  others, 
is  to  me  of  the  highest  importance.  High  as  man  is 
placed  above  the  creatures  around  him,  there  is  a 
higher  and  far  more  exalted  position  within  his  view: 
and  the  ways  are  infinite  in  which  he  occupies  his 
Ihouglits  about  the  fears,  or  hopes,  or  expectations  of  a 
future  life.  I  believe  that  the  truth  of  that  futiire 
cannot  be  brought  to  his  knowledge  by  any  exertion 
of  his  mental  powers,  however  exalted  they  may  be; 
that  it  is  made  known  to  him  by  other  teaching  than 
his  own,  and  is  received  through  simple  belief  in  the 
testimony  given.  Let  no  one  suppose  for  an  instant 
that  the  self  education  I  am  about  to  commend  in  re- 
spect to  the  things  of  this  life  extends  to  any  consid- 
erations of  the  hope  set  before  us,  as  if  man  by  rea- 
soning could  find  out  God.  It  would  be  improper 
here  to  enter  upon  this  subject  further  than  to  claim 
an  absolute  distinction  between  religious  and  ordinary 
belief. 

I  shall  be  reproached  wMth  the  weakness  of  refus- 
ing to  apply  those  mental  operations,  which  I  think 
good  in  respect  of  high  things,  to  the  very  highest.  I 
am  content  to  bear  the  reproach.  Yet  even  in  earthly 
matters  I  believe  that  "the  invisible  things  of  Him 
from  the  creation  of  the  world  are  clearly  seen,  being 
understood  by  the  things  that  are  made,  even  His 
eternal  power  and  Godhead;"  and  I  have  never  seen 
anything  incompatible  between  those  things  which 
can  be  known  by  the  spirit  of  man  which  is  within 
him  and  those  higher  things  concerning  the  future 
which  he  cannot  know  by  that  spirit. 

FORCE    AND   THE   ATOMIC   THEORY   OF  MATTER. 

I  have  long  held  an  opinion  almost  amounting  to  a 
conviction,  in  common,  I  believe,  with  many  other 
lovers  of  natural  knowledge  that  the  various  forms 
under  which  the  forces  of  matter  are  made  manifest, 


MICHAEL  FARADAY.  401 

have  one  common  origin;  in  other  words,  are  so  di- 
rectly related  and  so  mutually  dependent,  that  they 
are  convertible,  as  it  were,  into  one  another,  and  pos- 
sess equivalents  of  power  in  their  action.  .  .  .  The 
atomic  \iew  of  the  constitution  of  matter  would  seem 
to  involve  necessarily  the  conclusion  that  matter  tills 
all  space,  or  at  least  all  space  to  which  gravitation 
extends;  foi  gravitation  is  a  property  of  matter  de- 
pendent on  a  certain  force,  and  it  is  this  force  which 
constitutes  the  matter.  In  that  view,  matter  is  not 
mutually  penetrable;  but  each  atom  extends,  so  to 
say,  throughout  the  whole  of  the  solar  system,  yet  al- 
ways retaining  its  own  centre  of  force. 

Faraday  has  been  called  "the  prince  of 
popular  lecturers."  As  early  as  1842  he  com- 
menced a  course  of  lectures  on  chemistry  to 
juvenile  audiences,  and  these  lectures  are  de- 
scribed as  the  most  perfect  examples  of  ex- 
temporaneous speaking.  Not  a  little  of  the 
charm  of  these  lectures  was  found  in  his  facil- 
ity of  making  experiments,  in  which  lie  was 
himself  as  earnest  as  a  cliild  playing  with  its 
toys.  Among  his  most  popular  courses  of  lec- 
tures were  those  on  The  Chemical  Histoid  of 
a  Candle. 

FOOD  AS  A  FUEL. 

What  is  all  this  process  going  on  within  us  which 
we  cannot  do  without,  either  day  or  night,  which  is 
so  i)rovi(lcd  for  by  the  Author  of  all  things,  that  He 
has  arranged  that  it  shall  be  independent  of  all  will? 
If  we  restrain  our  respiration,  as  we  can  to  a  certain 
extent,  we  should  destroy  ourselves.  When  we  are 
asleep,  the  organs  of  respiration,  and  the  parts  tliat 
are  associated  with  tlicni,  .still  goon  with  their  action, 
8<j  oeces.sary  is  this  i)n)cess  of  re.'^piralion  to  us,  tiiis 
contact  of  air  witli  tlie  lungs.  I  must  tell  you  in  the 
briefest  jKiSsible  manner,  what  this  process  is.  We 
consume  food:  the  f<K)d  goes  through  that  stmnge  set 
of  ve.s.sel.s  ami  organs  within  us.  and  is  lirought  into 
various  ])arts  u{  tiic  syst<-m,  into  lltr  digcsliv(!  parts 
especially;  and  alternately  the  portion  which  is  so 
20 


'iO-i  MICHAEL  P^ARADAY. 

changed  is  carried  through  our  lungs  by  one  set  of 
ve*<sels,  while  the  air  that  we  inhale  ami  exhale  is 
drawn  into  and  thrown  out  of  the  lungs  by  another 
sot  of  vessels,  so  that  the  air  and  the  food  come  close 
together,  separated  only  by  an  exceedingly  thin  sur 
face:  the  air  can  thus  act  upon  the  blood  by  this 
process,  producing  precisely  the  same  results  in  kind 
as  we  have  seen  in  the  case  of  the  caudle.  The  candle 
combines  with  parts  of  the  air,  forming  carbonic 
acid,  and  evolves  heat;  so  in  the  lungs  there  is  this 
ciu-ious,  wonderful  change  taking  place.  The  air 
entering,  combines  with  the  carbon  (not  carbon  in  a 
free  state,  but,  as  in  this  case,  placed  ready  for  action 
at  the  moment),  and  makes  carbonic  acid,  and  is  so 
thrown  out  into  the  atmosphere,  and  thus  this  singular 
result  takes  place,  we  may  thus  look  upon  the  food  as 
fuel.  Let  me  take  that  piece  of  sugar,  which  will 
serve  my  purpose.  It  is  a  compound  of  carbon,  hy- 
tlrogen,  and  oxygen,  similar  to  a  candle,  as  contain- 
ing the  same  elements,  though  not  in  the  same  propor- 
tion; the  proportions  in  sugar  being  these:  Carbon,  72; 
hydrogen,  11,  oxygen,  88  —  99. 

This  is,  indeed,  a  very  curious  thing,  which  you 
can  well  remember,  for  the  oxygen  and  hydrogen  are 
in  exactly  the  proportions  which  form  water,  so  that 
sugar  may  be  said  to  be  compounded  of  72  parts  of 
carbon  and  99  parts  of  water;  and  it  is  the  carbon  in 
the  sugar  that  combines  with  the  o.xygen  carried  in 
by  the  air  in  the  process  of  respiration,  so  making  as 
like  candles;  producing  these  actions,  warmth,  and 
far  more  wonderful  results  besides,  for  the  sustenance 
of  the  system,  by  a  most  beautiful  and  simple  process. 
To  make  this  still  more  striking,  I  will  take  a  little 
sugar;  or  to  hasten  the  experiment  I  will  use  some 
syrup,  which  contains  about  three-fourths  of  sugar 
and  a  little  water.  If  I  put  a  little  oil  of  vitriol  on  it,  it 
takes  away  the  water  and  leaves  the  carbon  in  a  black 
mass.  You  see  how  the  carbon  is  coming  out,  and 
before  long  we  .shall  have  a  solid  mass  of  charcoal, 
all  of  which  has  come  out  of  sugar.  Sugar,  as 
you  know,  is  food,  and  here  we  have  absolutely  a 
solid  lump  of  carbon  where  you  would  not  have  ex- 
pected it.     And   i'-  iiiatttiie  arrangements  so  as  to 


MICHAEL  FARADAY.  403 

oxidize  the  carboa  of  sugar,  we  shall  have  a  much 
more  striking  result  Here  is  sugar,  and  I  have  here 
an  oxidizer— a  quicker  one  than  the  atmosphere;  and 
so  -we  shall  oxidize  this  fuel  by  a  process  different 
from  respiration  in  its  form,  though  not  different  in 
its  kind.  It  is  the  combustion  of  the  carbon  by  the 
contact  of  oxygen  which  the  body  has  supplied  to  it. 
If  I  set  this  into  action  at  once,  you  will  see  combus- 
tion produced.  Just  what  occurs  in  my  lungs— tiiking 
in  oxygen  from  another  source,  namely,  the  atmos- 
phere—takes place  here  by  a  more  rapid  process. 

You  will  be  a.«;tonished  when  I  tell  you  what  this 
curious  play  of  carbon  amounts  to.  A  caudle  will 
burn  .some  four,  five,  six,  or  seven  hours.  What, 
then,  must  be  the  daily  amount  of  carbon  going  up 
into  the  air  in  the  way  of  carbonic  acid!  What  a 
quantity  of  carbon  must  go  from  each  of  us  in 
respiration !  What  a  wonderful  change  of  carbon  must 
take  place  under  these  circumstances  of  combustion 
or  respiration!  A  man  in  twenty-four  hours  converts 
as  much  as  seven  ounces  of  carbon  into  carbonic  acid; 
a  milch  cow  will  convert  seventy  ounces,  and  a  horse 
seventy-nine  ounces,  solely  by  the  act  of  respiration. 
That  is,  the  horse  in  twenty -four  hours  burns  seventy- 
nine  ounces  of  charcoal,  or  carbon,  in  his  organs  of  res- 
piration, to  supply  his  natural  warmth  in  that  time  All 
the  warm  blooded  animals  get  their  warmth  in  this 
way,  by  the  conversion  of  carbon,  not  in  a  free  state, 
hut  in  a  state  of  coml)ination.  And  what  an  extra- 
ordinary notion  this  gives  us  of  the  alterations  going  on 
in  our  atmosphere.  As  much  as  five  million  pounds, 
or  548  tons  of  oarl)onic  acid  is  fonned  by  respiration  in 
London  alone  in  twenty-four  hours.  And  wlicre  docs 
all  this  go?  Up  into  the  air.  If  the  carbon  had  been 
like  the  lead  which  I  showed  you,  or  the  iron,  whicii,  in 
burning  produces  a  solid  substance,  what  would  liaii- 
pcn?  C;ombustion  covdrl  not  goon.  Asdiarcoal  burns 
it  becomes  a  vapor,  and  passes  off  into  llie  atmosphere, 
which  is  the  great  vehicle,  the  great  carrier  for  con- 
v(?ying  it  away  to  other  j>laces.  Then  what  becomes 
of  it?  Wonderful  is  it  to  finfl  that  the  change  pro- 
duced by  respiration,  which  seems  so  injurious  to  us 
(for  we  cannot  breathe  air  twice  oven,  is  the  very  life 


404       MANOEL   DE  FARIA   E  SOUZA. 

anil  support  of  plants  and  vegetables  that  grow  upon 
the  surface  of  the  earth.  It  is  the  same  also  under 
the  surface,  in  tlie  great  bodies  of  water;  for 
fishes  and  other  animals  respire  upon  the  same  prin- 
fijile,  though  not  exactly  by  contact  with  the  open  air. 
— Gfiemical  Ilistaryofa  Candle. 

FARIA  E  SOUZA,  Manoel  de,  a  Portu- 
guese historian  and  poet,  bom  in  1590,  died  in 
1649.  Though  Portuguese  by  birth,  he  was 
for  much  of  his  hfc  a  resident  of  Spain,  and 
most  of  his  works  are  in  the  Spanish  language. 
In  Portuguese  he  wrote  only  a  few  sonnets 
and  eclogues. 

YOUTH   AND  MANHOOD. 

Now  past  for  me  are  April's  maddening  hours 

Whose  freshness  feeds  the  vanity  of  youth; 

A  Spring  .so  utterly  devoid  of  truth, 
Who.se  fruit  is  error,  ;ind  deceit  whose  flowers. 

Gone,  too,  for  me,  is  Summer's  sultry  time, 
When  idly,  reasonless,  I  sowed  those  seeds 
yielding  to  manhood  charms,  now  proving  weeds 

With  gaudy  colors,  poisoning  as  they  climb. 
And  well  I  fancy  that  they  both  are  flown. 

And  that  beyond  their  tyrant  reach  I'm  placed; 

But  yet  I  know  not  if  I  yet  must  taste 
Their  vain  attacks:  my  thoughts  still  make  me  own 

That  fruits  of  weeds  deceitful  do  not  die, 

When  feelings  sober  not  as  years  pass  by. 

—  Transl.  o/Adamson. 

FARINI,  Carlo  Luigi,  an  Italian  author 
and  statesman,  bom  in  1822,  died  in  1866.  He 
studied  medicine  at  Bologna,  and  first  became 
known  as  the  author  of  several  medical 
treatises  and  a  contributor  to  scientific  periodi- 
cals. His  connection  with  political  affairs  oc- 
sioned  his  proscription  in  1842.  Soon  after  the 
accession  of  Pius  IX.  to  the  pontificate  Farini 
was  recalled.  In  1848  he  was  in  the  suite  of 
Charles  Albert,   and  after  the  flight  of  the 


CARLO  LUIGI  FARINI.  405 

King  protested  against  the  proclaiming  of  a 
republic.  He  was  Minister  of  Public  In- 
struction in  1850,  and  was  afterwards  a 
member  of  the  Supreme  Council.  His  influ- 
ence was  powerful  in  promoting  the  union  of 
Central  Italy  to  the  kingdom  of  Victor 
Emmanuel  II.  In  1861  he  became  Minister  of 
Commerce  and  Public  Works,  and  in  1862 
President  of  the  Council.  Farini  has  been 
called  "the  mind  of  Italy,  as  Garibaldi  was 
its  sword."  His  work  II  Stato  Romano,  a 
history  of  Rome  from  1815  to  1850,  was  trans- 
lated into  English  by  W.  E.  Gladstone  in  1859. 
Farini  also  wrote  Storia  d' Italia,  a  continu- 
ation of  Botta's  work. 

THE   SURRENDER   OF   MILAN. 

In  any  otlier  sort  of  war,  Charles  Albert  would 
have  been  able,  from  that  point,  to  pass  beyond  the 
Po,  and  use  it  as  a  screen;  and  according  to  circum- 
stances, either  to  hold  his  ground  in  the  Duchies,  or 
to  throw  himself  afresh  inio  Lombardy,  or  to  re-enter 
Piedmont  by  its  proper  line  of  defence,  that  is,  from 
Alessandria  to  Genoa,  or  from  the  Po  to  the  sea. 
But  political  rea.sons  and  respects  were  always  to 
prevail  in  that  war  of  ours:  accordingly  the  King 
still  designed  to  cover  a  part  of  Lombardy,  and  to 
defend  ^lilan.  From  the  Mincio  to  that  city,  he  could 
not  make  head  against  the  enemy  at  any  one  point. 
The  Oglio  was  incapable  of  defence.  The  Adda  might, 
indeed,  iiave  been  defended  for  awhile  under  cover  of 
Pfzzighetone  and  Lodi;  but  a  division  wbicli  guarded 
the  paKSJige  allowed  it  to  be  surprised,  and,  Ix'ing  cut 
off  from  the  bulk  of  the  army,  was  forced  to  throw 
itself  into  Piacenza.  In  vain  wa.s  an  effort  made  to 
halt  and  figlit  at  Lodi,  for  our  men  would  not  hold 
their  ground,  and  it  was  necc-ssjirj'  to  continue  the 
march  to  Milan,  which  they  reached  on  the  Sd  of 
AugUBt.  The  bulk  of  the  enemy  was  still  in  good 
condition,  but  in  front  of  it  hurried  thousands  upon 
thousjinds  of  fugitives,  who  flung  nway  their  arms, 
and    carried  terror   among  the   inhabit^infs   both  of 


406  CARLO   LUIGI  FARINI. 

town  and  country,  so  that  they  too  fled  in  distress. 
History  shows  that  an  army  defeated  on  the  Mincio, 
or  towards  the  Ticino,  has  hardly  ever  been  able  to 
make  head  in  Lonibardy.  So  it  was  this  time  also. 
Milan  had  little  of  victuals  and  less  of  ammunition; 
the  ground  about  it  had  not  been  cleared  of  numerous 
obstructions  to  the  defence.  A  few  trenches  had 
barely  been  dug  on  the  bastions,  and  towards  the 
Piazza  d'Armc.  The  six  or  seven  thousand  troops 
who  had  been  there,  raw  conscripts,  had  gone  with 
Garibaldi  to  defend  Brescia  and  the  environs;  yet 
part  of  the  National  Guard  and  of  the  people  panted 
for  battle.  Under  the  walls  of  Milan,  the  Pied- 
montese  army  was  reduced  to  2o,000  men,  having 
diminished  by  one  half  in  seven  days;  for  one 
division,  with  the  great  park  of  artillery,  had,  as  I 
have  said,  crossed  the  Po,  and  15,000  fugitives  ran 
for  their  lives  by  the  roads  to  the  Po  and  the  Ticino. 
Radetzki  had  left  3,000  men  at  Cremona,  and  had 
despatched  10,000  to  Pavia.  These  might  at  any 
instant  join  the  35,000  whom,  on  the  morning  of  the 
4th  of  August,  he  brought  before  Milan,  with  the 
intention  of  either  shutting  up  the  King  in  the  city, 
or  compelling  him  to  continue  his  retreat.  The 
Piedmontese  were  placed  in  order  of  battle  before 
the  city,  in  a  curved  line,  at  ten  or  fifteen  furlongs 
distance  from  it.  The  engagement  began  at  ten,  and 
was  well  contested  on  both  sides,  until  the  Austrians, 
having  broken  the  Piedmontese  line,  charged  some 
battalions  in  flank,  took  six  cannon,  and  obliged  our 
men  to  retreat  towards  the  city.  The  Piedmontese 
had,  however,  fought  gallantly,  and  the  most  reso- 
lute of  the  citizens  of  Milan  had  likewise  sho'wn 
courage  and  intrepidity  in  the  highest  degree.  The 
bells  rang  the  alarm;  barricades  were  erected;  there 
was  every  appearance  of  preparing  for  a  desperate 
defence.  But  when  the  army  was  seen  driven  back 
upon  the  city,  the  courage  of  the  greater  part  pave 
way.  A  place  not  very  strong  always,  in  modern 
wars,  falls,  after  a  short  time  into  the  hands  of  an 
enemy,  if  he  is  in  force,  and  resolved  to  win  it,  at 
whatever  cost,  by  fire  and  sword,  and  if  it  does  not 
possess  an  army  able  to  keep  him  at  arms'  length. 


CARLO  LUIGI  FARINl.  40: 

But  our  army  was  already  beaten,  so  that  nothing 
remained  but  to  expose  it,  and  tlie  city  with  it,  to 
utter  annihilation;  that  is  to  say,  to  lose  the  sole 
nucleus  of  strength  for  Italy,  without  saving  Milan. 
A  formidable  host  of  45,000  foes,  drunken  with 
victory  and  revenge,  were  panting  to  chastise  the  re- 
bellious city.  The  King  designed  to  save  it  by  offer- 
ing to  the  Marshal  to  give  it  up,  and  retire  upon  the 
Ticino.  The  Marshal  assented;  allowijig  two  daj's 
for  the  retreat,  and  one  for  those  of  the  Milanese, 
who  might  wish  it,  to  depart;  he  also  promised  to 
respect  property  and  persons.  On  the  morning  of 
the  5th,  the  arrangement  was  known  in  Milan,  and  a 
fierce  tumult  arose,  such  that  the  very  skies  rang 
with  the  shouts  of  "Treachery!"  such  as  gave  the 
republicans  and  the  partisans  of  Radetzki  admirable 
opportunity  for  inflaming  the  public  mind,  and  stir- 
ring up  the  high-spirited  youth  and  the  daring  com- 
monalty against  the  King;  such  as  showed  that  those 
in  power  at  Vienna  were  right  when  they  afhrmed 
that  dangers  far  more  serious  than  any  from  the 
Austrian  army  overhung  Charles  Albert.  For  the 
rioters,  surrounding  the  palace  of  the  King,  and 
cursing  him  for  a  traitor,  de.'iigned  to  obstruct  his 
egress.  Torn  in  spirit  by  such  a  spectacle,  and  like- 
wise moved  by  the  complaints  of  the  municipality, 
Charles  Albert  cancelled  the  agreement,  and  told  the 
Milanese  that  if  they  determined  to  die  beneath  the 
ruins  of  their  city,  he  too  would  bury  himself  with 
them.  But  municipal  magistrates  faltered,  and  de- 
cided on  sending  to  liadetzki  a  request  to  maintain 
tlie  agreement.  It  was  then  arranged  that  the 
Aastrians  should  enter  the  next  day,  the  6th  of 
Augu.st,  at  noon.  The  rioters,  who  wished  to  ol)- 
struct  the  King's  departure,  grew  hotter  in  their 
passion,  pillaged  and  overturned  his  carriages,  tried 
to  pierce  into  the  palace  and  set  fire  to  it,  tired 
musketry  against  the  windows,  and  obliged  him  to 
wait  for  night  in  order  to  gel  out,  and  further,  to 
have  Rome,  companies  of  infantry  to  clear  the  way. 
Amid  the  darkness,  the  war  of  Ijells,  and  musket- 
shots,  tlie  King  e-scjiped  the  rage  of  the  maniacs  that 
menaced  his  life.     That  gang,  which  tried  the  long 


408     IJENJAMIN   LEOPOLD  FAHJEON. 

sulleriug  of  God  by  such  an  enormity,  deserves  the 
brand  of  infamy,  whether  it  M'ere  composed  of  the 
offspriufT  of  the  ref)ublican  sects,  or  of  the  hirelings 
of  Austria.  But  what  brand  vim  be  deep  enough  for 
men  that,  in  such  extremities  of  vanquished  Itiily, 
drew  upon  her  God's  malediction,  by  aiming  Italian 
arms  at  the  breasts  of  brothers,  who  had  entered 
Lombardy,  to  shed  their  blood  for  the  common 
liberty,  and  by  lumting  out  for  slaughter  the  very 
first  monarch,  as  God  is  witness  !  that  in  the  round 
of  centuries,  had  olfered  up  to  our  unhajjpy  country 
the  holocaust  of  his  life,  his  fame,  his  throne,  his 
children?  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  no  party,  no  sect, 
was  responsible  for  any  deliberate  contrivance  of 
such  outrages;  and  that,  for  the  less  disgrace  of 
Italy,  they  may  be  imputed  to  the  blind  fury  of  the 
scum  of  men  without  a  name  assorted  together  by 
terror,  by  the  enemy's  gold,  by  cupidity;  such  dregs 
as  are  common  to  all  nations.  —  T/te  Roman  State. 
Transl.  ofW.  E.  Gladstone. 

FAKJEON,  Benjamin  Leopold,  an  English 
novelist,  born  in  London  in  1833.  For  some 
years  he  Avas  a  journahst  and  theatrical  man- 
ager in  New  Zealand.  He  returned  to  London 
in  1869.  His  first  novel,  Grif  (1870),  had  great 
success.  His  reputation  was  increased  by  the 
publication  of  Joshua  Marvel  and  Blade-d*- 
Grass  (1871).  He  has  since  published  many 
novels,  and  is  also  a  successful  lecturer  and 
reader.  Among  his  works  are  Golden  Grain, 
Bread-ayid-Cheese  and  Kisses,  The  Duchess  of 
Rosemary  Lane,  An  Island  Pearl,  Jessie  Trim, 
The  King  of  No  Land,  Shadows  on  the  Snow, 
London's  Heart,  The  Bells  of  Penraven,  Great 
Porter  Square,  The  Sacred  Nugget,  Solomon 
Isaacs,  Love's  Harvest,  Love's  Victory,  Gou- 
tran.  Little  Make-Believe,  and  Golden  Land ; 
or,  Links  from  SJwre  to  Shore. 


BENJAMIN  LEOPOLD  FARJEON.      409 


JOSHUA'S  COITRTSHTP. 

It  was  all  settled  without  a  word  passing  between 
them.  I  don't  believe  there  ever  was  such  another 
courtship.  They  were  sitting  in  Mrs.  Marvel's 
kitchen,  only  four  of  them — father,  mother,  Ellen, 
and  Joshua.  It  really  looked  like  a  conspiracy,  that 
no  other  person  came  into  the  kitchen  that  night;  but 
there  they  were,  conspiracy  or  no  conspiracy.  There 
was  Mrs.  Marvel,  knitting  a  pair  of  stockings  for 
Joshua;  not  getting  along  very  fast  with  them,  it 
must  be  confessed,  for  her  spectacles  required  a  great 
deal  of  rubbing,  and  there  was  Mr.  Marvel,  smoking 
his  pipe,  throwing  many  a  furtive  look  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Joshua  and  Ellen,  who  were  sitting  next  to 
each  other,  happy  and  silent.  There  is  no  record  of 
how  long  they  sat  thus  without  speaking;  but  sud- 
denly, although  not  aliruptly,  Joshua  put  his  arm 
round  Ellen's  waist,  and  drew  her  closer  to  him.  It 
was  only  a  look  that  passed  between  them;  and  then 
Joshua  kissed  Ellen's  lips,  and  she  laid  her  head  upon 
his  brea-^it.     "Mother!  father!  look  here!" 

Mrs.  Marvel  ro.se,  all  of  a  tremble,  and  laid  her 
hand  upon  Ellen's  head,  and  kissed  the  young  lovers. 
But  Mr.  Marvel  behaved  quite  differently.  He  cast 
one  quick,  satisfied  look  at  the  two  youngsters;  and 
then  he  turned  from  them  and  continued  smoking  as 
if  nothing  unusual  had  occurred. 

"Well,  father!"  exclaimed  Joshua,  rather  surprised 
at  his  father's  silence. 

"  Well,  Jo.sh!"  replied  Mr.  Marvel. 

"  Do  you  see  this?"  asked  Joshua,  with  his  arm 
round  Ellen's  waist. 

Ellen,  blu.'^Iiing  rosy  red,  looked  shyly  at  Mr.  Mar- 
vel; but  he  looked  stolidly  at  her  in  return. 

"Yes,  I  see  it.  Josh,"  said  Mr.  Marvel,  without 
any  show  of  emotion. 

"  And  wliat  do  you  say  to  it'/" 

"  What  do  I  say  to  it.  Josh?"  replied  Mr.  Marvel, 
with  dignity.  "  Well,  1  believe  1  am  your  father; 
and,  as  such,  I  think  }-o\i  should  ask  me  if  I  was 
agreeable.  I  thought  it  j)roper  tf)  ask  my  father, 
Josh.    It  isn't  because  I'm  a  woml-tumer — " 


410      BENJAMIN    LEOPOLD   FAHJEON. 

"No,  no,  father,"  internipted  Joshua;  "  I  made  a 
mistiike.     Ellen  and  I  thought — " 

"Ellen  and  you  thought,"  repeated  Mr.  Marvel. 

"  That  if  you  were  agreeable—"  continued  Joshua. 

"  That  if  I  was  agreeable,"  repeated  Mr.  Marvel. 

"  And  if  you  will  plea.se  to  give  your  consent — " 
said  Joshua,  purpo.sely  prolonging  his  preamble. 

"  And  if  I  would  be  pleased  to  give  my  consent," 
repeated  Mr.  Marvel,  with  a  chuckle  of  satisfaction. 

"  That  as  we  love  each  other  very  much,  we  would 
like  to  get  married." 

"That's  dutifid,"  said  Mr.  Marvel,  laying  down 
his  pipe  oracularly.  "  I'm  only  agreeable,  Jo.sh,  be- 
cause I'm  old,  and  ])ecause  I'm  married.  As  I  said 
to  mother  the  other  night,  when  we  were  talking  the 
matter  over —  ah,  you  may  stare;  but  we  knew  all 
about  it  long  ago;  didn't  we,  mother?  Well,  as  I 
was  saying  to  mother  the  other  night,  if  I  was  a  young 
man,  and  mother  wasn't  in  the  way,  I'd  marry  her 
myself,  and  you  might  go  a-whistling.  Shiver  my 
timbers,  my  lass!"  he  cried,  breaking  through  the 
trammels  of  wood  turning  and  becoming  suddenly 
nautical,  "  come  and  give  me  a  kiss!" 

Whicli  Ellen  did;  and  so  the  little  comedy  ended 
happily.  Jo.shua  having  a  right  now  to  sit  with  his 
arm  around  Ellen's  waist,  availed  himself  of  it,  you 
may  be  sure.  If  Ellen  went  out  of  the  room,  he  had 
also  a  right  to  go  and  inquire  where  alie  was  going; 
and  this,  curiously  enough,  happened  four  or  five 
times  during  the  night.  If  anything  could  have 
added  to  the  happiness  of  Mr.  Marvel— except  being 
anything  but  a  wood-turner,  which  at  his  age  was  out 
of  the  question-— it  was  this  proceeding  of  Joshua's. 
Every  time  Joshua  followed  Ellen  out  of  the  room, 
Mr.  Marvel  looked  at  his  wife  with  pleasure  beaming 
from  his  eyes.  "  It  puts  me  in  mind  of  the  time 
I  came  a-courting  you,  mother,"  he  said.  "  How 
the  world  spins  round!  It  might  have  been  last 
night  when  you  and  me  was  saying  good-bye  at  the 
street-door. ^-Joa/tMa  Marvel. 

NAMrNG   THE   CHILD. 

Theie  was  not  a  garden  in   Stony  Alley.     Not 
within  the  memory  of  living  men  had  a  flower  been 


BENJAMIN  LEOPOLD  FA"R.TEOlsr.     411 

known    to  bloom    there.     There  were  many   poor 
patches  of  ground,  crowded  as  the  neighborhood  was, 
which  might  have  been  devoted  to  the  cultivation  of 
a  few  bright  petals;  but  they  are  allowed  to  lie  fal- 
low, festering  in  the  sun.     Thought  of  graceful  form 
and  color  had  never  found  expression  there.     Strange, 
therefore,  that  one  year,  when  Summer  was  treading 
close  upon  the  heel  of  Spring,  sending  warm,  sweet 
winds  to  herald  her  coming,  there  should  spring  up 
in  one  of  the  dirtiest  of  all  the  back-yards  in  Stony 
Alley,  two  or  three  blades  of  grass.     How  they  came 
there  was  a  mystery.     No  human  hand  was  account- 
able for  their  presence.     It  may  be  that  a  bird  flying 
over  the  place,  had  mercifully  dropped  a  seed,  or 
that  a  kind  wind  had  borne  it  to  the  spot.     But  how- 
ever they  came,  there  they  were,  these  blades  of  grass, 
peeping  up  from  the  ground  shyly,  and  wouderingly, 
and  ginng  promise  of  brighter  color  even  in  the  midst 
of  the  unwholesome  surroundings.     Our  little  casta- 
^vay— she  was  no  better— now  three  years  of  age,  was 
sprawling  in  this  dirty  back-yard  with  a  few  other 
children— all  of  them  regular  students  of  Dirt  Col- 
lege.    Attracted  by  the  little  bit  of  color,  she  crav.led 
to  the  spot  where  it  shone  in  the  light,  and  straight- 
way fell   to  watching  it,  and  inhaling  quit*  uncon- 
8ciou.sly  whatever  of  grace  it  possessed.    Once  or  twice 
she  touched  the  tender  blades,  and  seemed  to  be  pleased 
to  find  them  soft  and  pliant.    The  other  children,  de- 
lighted at  having  the  monopoly  of  a  gutter  that  ran 
through  the  yard,  did  not  disturb  her;  and  so  she  re- 
mained during  the  day,  watching  and  wondering,  and 
fell  asleep  by  the  side  of  the  blades  of  grass,  and 
dreamed,  perhaps,  of  brighter  colors  and  more  grace- 
ful forms  than  had  ever  yet  found  place  in  her  young 
imagination.     The  next  day  she  made  her  way  again 
totlie  spot,  and  seeitig  that  the  blades  had  grown  a 
little,  wondered   and    wondered,  and    unconsciously 
(!xcrcis<.'d  that  innate  sense  of  worshif)  of  the  beautiful 
which  is  implanted  in  every  nature,  and  wliich  causes 
the  merest  balx-s  to  rejoice  at  light  and  shapes  of 
I  iiauty  and  harmony  of  sound.   .  .   . 

Slie  grew  to  love  the.se  emerald  leaves,  and  watched 
lli'jn  day  after  day,  until    the  women  round  about 


413         ELIZA  WOOLSON  FARNHAM. 

observed  and  commented  upon  her  strange  infatua- 
tion. But  one  evening  when  the  leaves  were  at  their 
brightest  and  strongest,  a  man,  running  hastily 
through  the  yard,  crushed  the  blades  of  grass  beneath 
his  heel,  and  lore  them  from  the  earth.  The  grief  of 
the  child  was  inten.><e.  She  cast  a  passionate  yet  be- 
wildered look  at  the  man,  and  picking  up  the  torn, 
soiled  blades,  put  them  in  the  breast  of  her  ragged 
frock,  in  the  belief  that  warmth  would  bring  them 
back  to  life.  She  went  to  bed  with  the  mangled 
leaves  in  her  hot  hand ;  and  when  she  looked  at  them 
the  next  morning,  they  bore  no  resemblance  to  the 
bright  leaves  which  had  been  such  a  delight  to  her. 
She  went  to  the  spot  where  they  had  grown,  and 
cried  without  knowing  why;  and  the  man  who  had 
destroyed  the  leaves  happening  to  pass  at  the  time, 
she  struck  at  him  with  her  little  fists.  He  pushed  her 
aside  rather  roughly  with  his  foot;  and  Mrs.  Manning 
seeing  this,  and  having  also  seen  the  destruction  of 
the  leaves,  and  the  child's  worship  of  them,  blew  him 
up  for  his  unkindness.  He  merely  laughed,  and  said 
he  wouldn't  have  done  it  if  he  had  looked  where  he 
was  going,  and  that  it  was  a  good  job  for  the  child 
that  she  wasn't  a  blade  o'  grass  herself,  or  she  might 
have  been  trodden  down  with  the  others.  The  story 
got  about  the  alley,  and  one  and  another,  at  first 
in  fun  and  derision,  began  to  call  the  child  Little 
Blade-o'-Grass,  until,  in  course  of  time,  it  came  to 
be  recognized  as  her  regular  name,  and  she  was 
known  by  it  all  over  the  neighborhood.  So,  being 
thus  strangely  christened.  Little  Blade-o'-Grass  grew 
in  years  and  ignorance,  and  became  a  worthy  mem- 
ber of  Dirt  College,  in  which  school  she  was  ma- 
triculated for  the  battle  of  life. — Blade-o'-Grass. 

FARNHAM,  Eliza  "Woolson  (Burhaus),  an 
American  philanthropist  and  author,  born  in 
1815,  died  in  1864.  In  her  twenty-first  year 
she  went  to  Illinois.  While  there  she  married 
Thomas  W.  Famham.  After  her  return  to 
New  York,  in  1841,  she  was  engaged  for  three 
years  in  philanthropic  work  among  women  in 


ELIZA    WOOLSON  FARNHAiL         413 

the  prisons.  In  1844  she  was  appointed  matron 
of  the  female  department  of  the  State  Prison 
at  Sing  Sing.  Foul"  years  afterwards  she  re- 
moved to  Boston,  and  was  for  some  time  con- 
nected with  the  Institution  for  the  BHnd  in 
that  city.  She  next  lived  several  years  in 
California,  then  studied  medicine  for  two 
years,  and  in  1859  organized  a  society  for  the 
aid  and  protection  of  destitute  women  emi- 
grating to  the  West,  several  times  accompany- 
ing parties  of  women  there.  During  her 
residence  at  Sing  Sing  she  published  Life  in 
Prairie  Land,  and  supervised  an  edition  of 
Sampson's  Criminal  Jurisprudence.  In  185G 
she  pubhshed  California  Lidoors  and  Out,  in 
1859  My  Early  Days,  and  in  1864  W\nnan  and 
her  Era,  a  work  on  the  position  and  rights  of 
women.  The  Ideal  Attained,  a  work  of  fiction, 
was  published  in  1865,  after  her  death. 

MORNING  ON  THE  PRAIRIES. 

We  are  within  the  borders  of  a  little  grove.  Be- 
fore us  stretches  a  prairie;  boundless  on  the  south 
and  east,  and  f  rlnj^ed  on  the  north  by  a  line  of  forest, 
the  green  top  of  which  is  just  visible  in  a  dark  waving 
line  I)etwecn  the  tender  hue  of  the  growing  grass  and 
the  golden  sky.  South  and  east,  as  far  as  the  eye  can 
stretch,  the  plain  is  unbroken  .save  l>y  one  "lone 
tree,"  which,  from  time  immemorial,  has  been  the 
compass  of  the  red  man  and  his  white  Ijrother.  The 
light  creeps  slowly  up  the  sky;  for  twilight  is  long 
on  these  savannahs.  The  heavy  dews  which  the  cool 
night  has  deposited  glisten  on  the  leaves  and  sjjikes  of 
gra-ss,  and  the  particles,  occasionally  mingling,  are 
borne  by  their  own  weight  to  the  earth.  The  slight 
blade  on  which  they  hung  recovers  then  its  erect 
position,  or  falls  into  its  natural  curve,  with  a  quick 
but  gentle  motion,  that  imparts  an  appearance  of  life 
to  that  nearest  you,  even  before  the  wind  ha.s  laid  his 
hand  on  the  pulseless  sea  beyond.  A  vast  ocean, 
teeming  with  life,  redolent  with  sweet  odors!  It 
yields  no  s<jund  sjivc  the  one  which  lirst  arrested  our 


414    THOMAS  JEFFERSON  FARNHAM. 

attention,  and  this  is  uttered  witbout  ceasing.  It  is 
not  the  prolonged  note  of  one,  but  the  steady  succes- 
sion of  innumerable  voices.  It  comes  up  near  you, 
and  travels  on,  ringing  more  and  more  faintly  on  the 
ear,  till  it  is  returned  by  another  line  of  respondents, 
and  comes  swelling  in  full  chorus,  stronger  and  nearer, 
till  the  last  seems  to  be  uttered  directly  at  your  feet. 
But  the  light  is  gaining  upon  the  gray  dawn.  Birds 
awaken  in  the  wood  behind  us,  and  salute  each  other 
from  the  swinging  branches.  Insects  begin  their  busy 
hum.  And  now,  the  sun  has  just  crowded  his  rim 
above  a  bank  of  gorgeous  clouds,  and  pours  a  flood 
of  dazzling  light  across  the  grassy  main.  Each 
blade  becomes  a  chain  of  gems,  and,  as  the 
light  increases,  and  the  breath  of  morning  shakes 
them,  they  bend,  and  flash,  and  change  their  hues, 
till  the  whole  space  seems  sprinkled  with  dia- 
monds, rubies,  emeralds,  amethysts,  and  all  precious 
stones.  .  .  .  The  sun  is  fairly  up.  The  flashing  gems 
have  faded  from  the  grass-tops;  the  grouse  has 
ceased  his  matin  song;  the  birds  have  hailed  the 
opening  day,  and  are  gayly  launching  from  the  trees; 
the  curtain,  which  has  hung  against  the  eastern  sky, 
is  swept  away,  and  the  broad  light  pours  in  resist- 
less.— Life  in  Prairie  Land. 

FARNHAM,  Thomas  Jefferson,  an  Ameri- 
can traveller  and  author,  husband  of  the  pre- 
ceding, born  in  1804,  died  in  1848.  In  1839  he 
organized  an  expedition  across  the  continent 
to  Oregon.  He  then  went  to  Cahfornia,  and 
was  active  in  procuring  the  release  of  Ameri- 
can and  English  citizens  imprisoned  by  the 
Mexican  Government.  He  is  the  author  of 
Travels  in  Oregon  Territory  (1842),  Travels  in 
California  and  Scenes  in  the  Pacific,  and  A 
Memoir  of  the  Northwest  Boundary  Line 
(1845),  and  Mexico;  Its  Geography,  People  and 
Institutions  (1848). 

POETS  OF  THE  OCEAN. 

What  man  in  his  senses  lovea  the  Ocean?  The 
mermaids   are   all   porpoises,    and   their   songs   all 


THOMAS  JEFFERSON   FARNHAM.    -115 

grunts!  The  deep  sounds  of  the  ocean's  pealing 
organ  are  the  rude  groans  of  the  winds,  and  the  dash- 
ing rage  of  far-rolling  surges,  rapping  madly  at  the 
bows.  The  tufts  of  dancing  foam  on  the  bitter 
wastes— desert,  heaving,  unsympatbizing,  cold,  home- 
less! Love  of  Ocean!  Poetry  of  Ocean !  It  is  a  pity 
I  cannot  love  it— see  in  its  deep  still  lower  realm,  or 
in  its  lonely  tumults,  or  its  surface  when  the  air  is 
still,  its  heat,  thirst  and  death,  its  vast  palpitating 
tomb,  the  shady  hand  and  veiled  smile  of  loveliness! 
— that  I  cannot  believe  Old  Ocean  has  a  heart,  which 
sends  its  kindly  beatings  up  and  down  all  the  shores 
of  earth!  ....  There  is,  however,  a  certain  class  of 
beings  who  hold  a  very  different  opinion:  there  are 
the  regular  old  Salts;  men  who  from  boyhood  have 
slept  in  the  forecastle,  eaten  at  the  windlass,  sung  at 
the  halyards,  danced  on  the  yards  to  the  music  of  the 
tempest,  and  hailed  the  tumult  of  the  seas  as  a  frolic 
in  which  they  had  a  joyfiil  part.  We  respect  these 
poets.  Indued,  the  ocean  to  them  is  a  world,  the 
theatre  of  their  being;  and  by  inhabiting  it  all  their 
days,  these  singular  men  become  changed  from 
participants  in  the  delights  of  natural  life  on  land  to 
creatures  of  memory.  Memory!  that  mental  action 
which  sifts  the  past  of  its  bitterest  evils,  and  gives 
only  the  blossom  and  the  fruit  to  after-time.  These 
they  enjoy  in  the  midnight  watch,  at  dawn,  in  the 
storm,  the  calm,  and  in  visions  of  sleep;  but  forever 
upon  the  deep;  on  the  great  expanse  of  the  sea!  Is  it 
wonderful,  then,  that  they  should  love  it?  that  their 
affections  become  poetry?  See  them  .seated  at  their 
meal  l^efore  the  mast;  their  wide  pants  lap  over  their 
8{>rawled  limbs;  the  red  flannel  shirt  peers  out  at  the 
wrists,  and  blazes  over  tbcir  broad  chests  between  the 
ample  dimensions  of  the  heavy  pea-jacket;  and 
crowning  all  is  the  tarpaulin  with  its  streaming  band, 
cocked  on  one  side  of  the  head;  and  grouped  in  the 
most  approved  style  of  a  thoroughly  lazy  independ- 
ence, they  eat  their  meal.  At  such  times,  if  the 
wcatlior  l>c  fine,  studding  sails  out,  and  top-gallants 
pulling,  they  speak  of  the  ship  as  a  lady,  well  decked, 
andoflx-autiftinjcariiig.  gliding  like  a  nymph  through 
the  gurgling  waters.     If  the  breeze  be  strong,  and 


416  GEORGE  FARQUHAR. 

drives  her  down  on  her  beams,  they  speak  of  her  as 
bowing  to  her  Lord  and  Master,  while  she  uses  his 
might  to  bear  her  on  to  her  own  purposes.  And  if 
the  temi)est  weighs  on  the  sea,  and  the  fierce  winds 
howl  down  upon  her  dead  ahead,  and  the  storm-sail 
displays  over  the  forechains  its  three-sided  form,  and 
the  ship  lays  up  to  the  raging  elements,  breasting 
every  swoop  of  wave  and  blast,  she  is  still  a  lady, 
coming  forth  from  her  empire  of  dependent  loveli- 
ness to  bow  before  an  irresistible  force,  only  to  rise 
again,  and  present  the  sceptre  of  Hope  to  tlismayed 
man.  These  Salts  believe  in  the  poetry  of  the  sea, 
and  of  the  noble  structures  in  which  they  traverse  its 
pathless  immensity. — Travels  in  California. 

FARQUHAR,  George,  a  British  comic  dram- 
atist, bom  at  Londonderry,  Ireland,  in  1678 ; 
died  at  London  in  1707.  He  was  the  son  of  a 
clergyman,  and  in  his  sixteenth  year  went  as 
a  sizar  to  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  under  the 
patronage  of  the  Bishop  of  Dromore.  He  re- 
mained here  only  a  short  time,  and  in  the 
next  year  appeared  upon  the  Dublin  stage. 
While  acting  in  a  fencing  scene  he  carelessly 
inflicted  a  severe  wound  upon  his  antagonist; 
whereupon  he  abandoned  the  stage,  and  re- 
ceived from  the  Earl  of  Orrery  a  Heutenant's 
commission  in  his  regiment,  A  few  months 
afterwards  he  went  to  London,  and  began  his 
career  as  a  dramatist.  His  first  comedy.  Love 
in  a  Bottle^  was  brought  upon  the  stage  while 
he  was  a  minor.  During  the  remaining  ten 
years  of  his  life  he  produced  about  a  dozen 
comedies,  the  best  of  which,  The  Beaux'  Strat- 
agem, was  written  in  six  weeks,  and  he  died 
very  soon  afterwards  in  great  poverty.  He 
had  early  contracted  an  unfortxmate  mar- 
riage, and  to  a  fellow  actor  and  friend  he 
wrote:  "Dear  Bob,  I  have  nothing  to  leave 
thee  to  perpetuate  my  memory  but  two  help- 
less girls.    Look  upon  them  sometimes,  and 


GEORGE  FARQUHAR.  417 

think  of  liiin  that  was  to  the  last  moment  of 
his  hfe  thine,  George  Farquhar."  A  pension 
of  £30  a  year  was  bestowed  upon  his  two 
infant  daughters,  one  of  whom  hved  to  re- 
ceive it  for  fully  sixty  years.  The  best  that 
can  be  said  of  Farquhar's  comedies  is  that  the 
worst  of  them  are  not  as  indecent  as  those  of 
Wycherly  and  Congreve. 

BOIOrACE   -VND  AIMWELL. 

Boniface. — This  waj',  this  way,  sir. 

Aimwell.— Yon' re  my  laudlord,  I  suppose  ? 

Bon. — Yes,  sir,  I'm  old  Will  Bouiface;  pretty  well 
known  upon  this  road,  as  the  saying  is. 

Aim. — Oh,  Mr.  Boniface,  your  servant. 

Bon. — Oh,  sir,  what  will  your  servant  please  to 
drink,  as  the  saying  is? 

Aim. — I  have  heard  your  town  of  Lichfield  much 
famed  for  ale;  I  think  I'll  taste  that. 

5c«.— Sir,  I  have  now  in  my  cellar  ten  tun  of  the 
best  ale  in  Staffordshire;  'tis  smooth  as  oil,  sweet  as 
milk,  clear  as  amber,  and  strong  as  brandy,  and  will 
be  just  fourteen  years  old  the  tifth  day  of  next 
31arch,  old  style. 

Aim. — You're  very  exact,  I  find,  in  the  age  of 
your  ale. 

Bon. — \a  punctual,  sir,  as  I  am  in  the  age  of  my 
children:  I'll  show  you  such  ale.  Here,  tapster, 
broach  number  1700,  as  the  saying  is.  Sir,  you  shall 
taste  my  anuo  dbmiui.  I  have  lived  in  Lichfield, 
man  and  boy,  about  eight-and-fifty  years,  and  I 
believe  have  not  con.sumed  eight-aud-fifty  ounces  of 
meat. 

Aim.—Xi  a  meal,  you  mean,  if  one  may  guess  l»y 
your  bulk? 

Hon. — Not  in  my  life,  sir;  I  have  fed  purely  upon 
ale;  I  have  ate  my  ale,  drank  my  ale;  and  I  always 
sleep  upon  my  ale.  [Enter  T<iji»tfr  iril/i  a  tanknrd.'\ 
Now,  sir,  you  shall  see  —  Your  worship's  liealth. 
[Drinkn.] — Ha!  delicious,  delicious;  fancy  it  Bur- 
gundy; only  fancy  it — and  'tis  worth  ten  shillings  a 
quart. 

27 


418  GEORGE  FAUQUIIAR. 

Aim.— [Drinks.]  'Tis  confouuded  strong. 

Bon. — Strong!  it  must  be  so,  or  how  would  we  be 
strong  that  drink  it? 

Aim. — And  have  you  lived  so  long  upon  this  ale, 
landlord? 

Jion. — Eight-and-fifty  years,  upon  my  credit,  sir; 
but  it  killed  my  wife,  poor  woman,  as  the  saying  is. 

Aim. — How  (;ame  that  to  pass? 

lion. — I  don't  know  how,  sir;  she  would  not  let 
the  ale  take  its  natural  course,  sir;  she  was  for  quali- 
fying it  every  now  and  then  with  a  dram,  as  the  say- 
ing is;  and  an  honest  gentleman,  that  came  this  way 
from  Ireland,  made  her  a  present  of  a  dozen  bottles 
of  usquebaugh— but  the  poor  woman  was  never  well 
after;  but,  however,  I  was  obliged  to  the  gentleman, 
you  know. 

Aim.— Why,  was  it  the  usquebaugh  that  killed 
her? 

Ban. — My  Lady  Bountiful  said  so.  She,  good 
lady,  did  what  could  be  done;  she  cured  her  of  three 
tympanies;  but  the  fourth  carried  her  off;  but  she's 
happy,  and  I'm  contented,  as  the  saying  is. 

Aim. — Who  is  that  Lady  Bountiful  you  men- 
tioned? 

Bon. — Odds  my  life,  sir,  we'll  drink  her  health. 
[Drinks.]  My  Lady  Bountiful  is  one  of  the  best  of 
women.  Her  last  husband,  Sir  Charles  Bountiful, 
left  her  worth  a  thousand  pounds  a  year;  and  I 
believe  she  lays  out  one-half  on't  it  in  charitable  uses 
for  the  good  of  her  neighbors. 

Aim. — Has  the  lady  any  children? 

Bon. — Yes,  sir,  she  has  a  daughter  by  Sir  Charles; 
the  finest  woman  in  all  our  county,  and  the  greatest 
fortune.  She  has  a  son,  too,  by  her  first  husband, 
'Squire  Sullen,  who  married  a  fine  lady  from  London 
t'other  day;  if  you  please,  sir,  we'll  drink  his  health. 
[Drinks.] 

Aim.— What  sort  of  man  is  he? 

Bon. — Why,  sir,  the  man's  well  enough  ;  says 
little,  thinks  less,  and  does  nothing  at  all,  faith;  but 
he's  a  man  of  great  estate,  and  values  nobody. 

Aim. — A  sportsman,  I  suppose? 

Bon.— Yes,  he's   a   man  of  pleasure;  he  plaj's  at 


FREDEiacIv   WILLIAM   FARRAR.     419 

whist,  and  smokes  his  pipe  eight-aud-forty  hours  to- 
gether sometimes. 

Aim.— A.  fine  sportsman,  truly!— and  married,  you 
say? 

^rt.— Ay;  and  to  a  curious  woman,  sir.  But  he's 
my  landlord,  and  so  a  man,  you  know,  would  not— 
Sir,  my  humble  service.  [Drinks.]  Though  I  value 
not  a  farthing  what  he  can  do  to  me;  I  pay  him  his 
rent  at  quarter  day;  I  have  a  good  running  trade;  I 
have  but  one  daughter,  and  I  can  give  her —  But  no 
matter  for  that. 

^m.— You're  very  happy,  Mr.  Boniface.  Pray, 
what  other  company  have  you  in  town? 

Bon.— A.  power  of  fine  ladies;  and  then  we  have 
the  French  officers. 

Aim.— Oh,  that's  right;  you  have  a  good  many  of 
those  gentlemen.  Pray,  how  do  you  like  their  com- 
pany? 

Bon.—^o  well,  as  the  saying  is,  that  I  could  wish 
•we  had  as  many  more  of  'em.  They're  full  of 
money,  and  pay  double  for  everything  they  have. 
They  know,  sir,  that  we  paid  good  round  ta.xes  for 
tiie  making  of  'em;  and  so  they  are  willing  to  reim- 
burse us  a  little;  one  of  'em  lodges  in  my  house. 
[Bell  rings.}  I  beg  your  worship's  pardon;  I'll  wait 
on  you  in  half  a  minute.— TA*  Beaux'  Stratagem. 

FARRAR,  Frederick  William,  an  English 
clergyman  and  author,  born  at  Bombay, 
India,  in  1831.  After  studying  at  King  Wil- 
liam's College,  Isle  of  Man,  and  at  King's  Col- 
lege, London,  he  became  a  classical  exhibi- 
tioner of  the  University  of  London  in  1850, 
graduated  there ;  was  successively  a  Scholar 
and  Fellow  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge, 
where  he  took  his  Bachelor's  degiee  in  1854, 
having  distinguished  him-self  in  his  class  and 
taken  a  prize  for  Englisli  verse.  He  subse- 
quently gained  other  prizes.  He  took  Holy 
Orders  in  1851.  After  some  years'  experience 
as  one  of  i\w  Assistant  Masters  at  Harrow,  lie 
held  the  Head    Mastersliip   of   Marlborougli 


420     FREDEIUCK    WILLIAM   PARRAR. 

College  from  1871  till  187G.  In  1870  he 
preached  the  Hulsean  Lectures,  and  in  1873 
was  nominated  one  of  tlie  Queen's  Chaplains 
in  Ordinary.  He  became  a  Canon  of  West- 
minster in  1876,  and  Archdeacon  of  West- 
minster in  1883.  Among  his  works  are  Eric, 
or  Little  by  Little  (1858),  Julian  House  (1869), 
and  St.  Wiyiif  red's  ;  or,  the  World  of  Scliool 
(1863),  The  Origin  of  Language  (1860),  Chap- 
ter's on  Langvxige  (1865),  Families  of  Speech 
(1870),  smce  revised  and  published  with  Chap- 
ters on  Language  under  tlie  title  of  Language 
and  Layiguages  (1878),  A  Lectur-  an  Public 
School  Edtication  (1867).  TJieFall  of  Man,  and 
Other  Sei^ions  (1865),  The  Witness  of  History 
to  ChHst  (1871),  The  Silence  and  Voices  of 
God  (1873),  The  Life  of  Christ  (1874),  Eternal 
Hope  (1878),  Life  of  St.  Paid  (1879),  Early 
Days  of  Christianity  (1882),  Seekers  after  God 
(1883),  The  Messages  of  the  Books  (1885),  and 
The  History  of  hiterpretation  (1886),  the  last- 
named  work  being  the  Bampton  Lectures  for 
1885. 

THE  HILL  OF  NAZARETH. 

It  has  been  implied  that  there  are  but  two  spots  in 
Palestine  where  we  may  feel  an  absolute  moral  cer- 
tainty that  the  feet  of  Christ  have  trod,  namely — the 
well-side  at  Shechem,  and  the  turning  of  that  road 
from  Bethany  over  the  Mount  of  Olives  from  which 
Jerusalem  first  bursts  upon  the  view.  But  to  these  I 
would  add  at  least  another— tlu;  summit  of  the  hill 
on  which  Nazareth  is  built.  That  summit  is  now 
unhappily  marked,  not  by  any  Christian  monument, 
but  by  the  wretched,  ruinous,  crumbling  icely  of  some 
obscure  Mohammedan  saint.  Certainly  there  is  no 
child  of  ten  years  old  in  Nazareth  now,  however  dull 
and  unimpressionable  he  may  be,  who  has  not  often 
wandered  up  to  it;  and  certainly  there  could  have 
been  no  boy  at  Nazareth  in  olden  days  who  had  not 
followed  the  common  instinct  of  humanity  by  climb- 
ing up  those  tliymy  hill  slopes    to  the   lovely  and 


FREDERICK   WILLIAM  FARRAR.      421 

easily  accessible  spot  which  gives  a  view  of  the  world 
beyond.  The  hill  rises  six  hundred  feet  above  the 
level  of  the  sea.  Four  or  five  hundred  feet  below 
lies  the  happy  valley.  The  view  from  this  spot 
would  in  any  country  be  regarded  as  extraordinarily 
rich  and  lovely;  but  it  receives  a  yet  more  indescrib- 
able charm  from  our  belief  that  here,  with  his  feet 
among  the  mountain  flowers,  and  the  soft  breeze  lift- 
ing the  hair  from  his  temples,  Jesus  mu.st  often  have 
watched  the  eagles  poised  in  the  cloudless  blue,  and 
have  gazed  upwards  as  He  heard  overhead  the  rushing 
plumes  of  the  long  line  of  pelicans,  as  they  winged 
their  way  from  the  streams  of  Kishon  to  the  Lake  of 
Galilee.  And  what  a  vision  would  be  outspread 
before  Him,  as  He  sat  at  spring-time  on  the  green 
and  thyme-besprinkled  turf  !  To  Him  every  field 
and  fig-tree,  every  palm  and  garden,  every  house 
and  synagogue,  would  have  been  a  familiar  object ; 
and  most  fondly  of  all  among  the  square  flat-roofed 
houses  would  his  eye  single  out  the  little  dwelling- 
place  of  the  village  carpenter.  To  the  north,  just 
beneath  them,  lay  the  narrow  and  fertile  plain  of 
Asochis,  from  which  rise  the  wood-crowned  hills  of 
Naphtali,  and  conspicuous  on  one  of  them  was  Safed, 
"  the  city  set  upon  a  hill;"  l^eyond  these,  on  the  far 
horizon,  Hermon  ui)heaved  into  the  blue  the  huge 
splendid  ma.ss  of  his  colossal  .shoulder,  white  with 
eternal  snows.  Eastward,  at  a  few  miles  distance, 
ro.se  the  green  and  rounded  summit  of  Tabor,  clothed 
with  terebinth  and  oak.  To  the  west  Ho  would  gaze 
through  that  diaphanous  idr  on  the  purple  ridge  of 
Carmel,  among  whose  forests  Elijah  had  found  a 
home;  and  on  Caifa  and  Accho,  and  the  dazzling  line 
of  white  sand  which  fringes  the  waves  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean, doited  here  and  there  with  the  white  sails  of 
the  "ships  of  Chittim."  Southward,  broken  only 
by  the  graceful  outlines  of  Little  Hennou  and  Gillxja, 
lay  the  entire  |)lain  of  Esdraelon,  so  memorable 
in  the  history  of  Palestine  and  of  the  world,  across 
whicli  lay  the  southward  path  to  that  city  wliich  had 
ever  been  the  murderess  of  the  proph(!t,s.  and  where 
it  may  be  that  even  now,  in  tin;  dim  foreshadowing  of 
prophetic  vision.  He  foresaw  the  agony  in  the  garden, 


423     FREDERICK    WILLIAM   FARRAR. 

Ihemockings  and  scoiirgiiigs,  the  cross  and  the  crown 
of  thorns. 

The  scene  which   lay  there  outspread  before  the 
eyes  of  the  youthful  Jesus  was  indeed  a  central  spot 
in  the  world  which  He  came  to  save.     It  was  in  the 
heart  of  the  Laud  of  Israel,  and  yet— .separated  from 
it  only  by  a  narrow  boundary  of  hills  and  streams- 
Phoenicia,  Syria,  Arabia,  Babylonia,  and  Egypt  lay 
close  at  hand.     The  Isles  of  the  Gentiles,  and  all  the 
glorious  regions  of  Europe,  were  almost  vi.sible  over 
the  shining  waters  of  that  Western  sea.   The  standards 
of  Rome  were  planted  on  the  plain  before  Him;  the  lan- 
guage of  Greece  was  spoken  in  the  towns  below.    And 
however  peaceful  it  then  might  look,  green  as  a  pave- 
ment of  emeralds,  rich  with  its  gleams  of  vivid  sun- 
light, and  the  purpling  shadows  which  floated  over  it 
from  the  clouds  of  the  latter  rain,  it  had  been  for  cen- 
turies a  battle-field  of  nations.     Pharaohs  and  Ptol- 
emies, Emirs  and  Arsacids,  Judges  aud  Consids,  had 
all  contended  for  the  mastery  of  that  smiling  tract. 
It  had  glittered  with  the  lances  of  the  Amalekites;  it 
had  trembled  under  the  chariot-wheels  of  Scso.stris; 
it  had  echoed  the  twanging  bowstrings  of  Sennacherib; 
it  had  been  trodden  by  the  phalanxes  of  Macedonia; 
it  had  clashed  with  the  l)roadswords  of  Rome;  it  was 
destined  hereafter  to  ring  with  the  battle-cry  of  the 
Crusaders,  and  thunder  with  the  artillery  of  England 
and  of  France.     In  that  plain  of  Jezreel,  Europe  and 
Asia,    Judaism    and    Heathenism,    Barbarism    and 
Civilization,   the   Old   and   the  New  Covenant,  the 
history  of  the  past  and   the  hopes  of  the  present, 
seemed  all  to  meet.     No  scene  of  deeper  significance 
for  the  destinies  of  humanity  could   possibly  have 
arrested  the   youthful   Saviour's  gaze— The  Life  of 
Christ. 

THE  GREATNESS  OP  ST.  PAUL. 

How  little  did  men  recognize  his  greatness!  Here 
was  one  to  whom  no  single  man  that  has  ever  lived, 
before  or  since,  can  fumi.sh  a  perfect  parallel.  If  we 
look  at  him  only  as  a  writer,  how  immen.sely  does  he 
surpa.ss,  in  his  most  casual  Epistles,  the  greatest 
authors,  whether  Pagan  or  Christian,  of  his  own  and 


FREDERICK  WILLIAM  FARRAR.      423 

succeeding  epochs.  The  Younger  Pliny  was  famous 
as  a  letter-writer,  yet  the  younger  Pliny  never 
produced  any  letter  so  exquisite  as  that  to  Philemon. 
Seneca,  as  a  moralist,  stood  almost  unrivalled,  yet  not 
only  is  clay  largely  mingled  with  his  gold,  but  even 
his  finest  moral  aphorisms  are  inferior  in  breadth  and 
intensity  to  the  most  casual  of  St.  Paul's.  Epictetus 
and  Marcus  Aurelius  furnish  us  with  the  purest  and 
noblest  specimens  of  stoic  loftiness  of  thought,  yet 
St.  Paul's  chapter  on  charity  is  worth  more  than  all 
they  ever  wrote.  If  we  look  at  the  Christian  world, 
the  very  greatest  worker  in  each  realm  of  Christian 
service  does  but  present  an  inferior  aspect  of  one 
phase  only  of  Paul's  many-sided  pre  eminence.  As 
a  theologian,  as  one  who  formulated  the  doctrines  of 
Christianity,  we  may  compare  him  with  St.  Augus- 
tine and  St.  Thomas  of  Aquinum;  yet  how  should 
we  be  shocked  to  tind  in  him  the  fanciful  rhetoric 
and  dogmatic  bitterness  of  the  one,  or  the  scholarly 
aridity  of  the  other!  If  we  look  at  him  as  a  moral 
reformer,  we  may  compare  him  with  Savonarola;  but 
in  his  practical  control  of  even  the  most  thrilling 
spiritual  impulses — in  making  the  spirit  of  the 
prophet  subject  to  the  prophet — how  grand  an 
exemplar  might  he  not  have  furnished  to  the  im- 
pas.sioned  Florentine!  If  we  con.sider  him  as  a 
preacher,  we  may  compare  him  to  St.  Bernard;  yet 
St.  Paul  would  liave  been  incapable  of  the  unnatural 
asceticism  and  heresy-hunting  hardness  of  tbe  great 
abbot  of  Clairvau.x.  As  a  reformer  who  altered  the 
entire  course  of  human  history,  Luther  alone  re- 
sembles him;  yet  how  incomparably  is  the  Apostle 
superior  to  Luther  in  insight,  in  courtesy,  in  humility, 
in  dignity,  in  self-control!  As  a  mi.ssionary  we  might 
compare  him  to  Xavier,  as  a  practical  organizer  to  St. 
Gregory,  as  a  fervent  lover  of  souls  to  Whitefield, 
and  to  many  other  saints  of  God  in  many  of  his  en- 
dowments; but  no  saint  of  God  lias  ever  attained  the 
same  heights  in  so  many  capacities,  or  received  the 
gifts  of  the  Spirit  in  so  rich  an  outpouring,  or  borne 
in  his  mortal  brxly  such  evidi-nt  brandniarks  of  the 
Lord.  In  his  lifetime  he  was  no  whit  behind  the  very 
chiefc.st  of  the  Apostles,  and  lie  towers  alM)ve  the  very 


i2i     FREDEKICK    WILLIAM   rAKIlAK. 

greatest  of  all  the  Saints  Avho  have  siucu  striven  to 
follow  the  example  of  bis  devotion  to  the  Lord. — Life 
and  Work  of  St.  Paul. 

THE  STUDY  OF  PAGAN  MORALISTS. 

A  sceptical  writer  has  observed,  with  something 
like  a  sneer,  that  the  noblest  utterances  of  Gospel 
morality  may  be  paralleled  from  the  writings  of 
heathen  philosophers.  The  sneer  is  pointless,  and 
Christian  moralists  have  spontaneously  drawn  atten- 
tion to  the  fact.  The  divine  origin  of  Christianity 
does  not  rest  on  its  morality  alone.  By  the  aid  of 
light  which  was  within  them,  by  deciphering  the  law 
written  on  their  own  consciences,  however  much  its 
letters  may  have  been  obliterated  or  dijnmcd,  Plato, 
and  Cicero,  and  Seneca,  and  Epictetus,  and  Aurclius 
were  enabled  to  grasp  and  to  enunciate  a  multitude 
of  great  and  memorable  truths;  yet  they  themselves 
would  have  been  the  first  to  admit  the  wavering 
uncertainty  of  their  hopes  and  speculations,  and  the 
absolute  necessity  of  a  further  illumination.  So 
strong  did  that  necessity  appear  to  some  of  the  wisest 
among  them,  that  Socrates  ventures  in  express  words 
to  prophesy  the  future  advent  of  some  hcaven-.sent 
Guide.  Those  who  imagine  that  without  a  written 
revelation  it  would  have  been  possible  to  learn  all  that 
is  necessary  for  man's  well-being,  are  speaking  in 
direct  contradiction  even  of  those  very  teachers  to 
whose  writings  they  point  as  a  proof  of  their  asser- 
tion. .  .  , 

The  morality  of  Paganism  was,  on  its  own  confes- 
sion, insufficient.  It  was  tentative,  where  Christianity 
is  authoritative;  it  was  dim  and  partial,  where  Chris- 
tianity is  bright  and  complete;  it  was  inadequate  to 
rouse  the  sluggish  carelessness  of  mankind,  where 
Christianity  came  in  with  an  imperial  and  awakening 
power;  it  gives  only  a  rule,  where  Christianity  sup- 
plies a  principle.  And  even  where  its  teachings  were 
absolutely  coincident  with  those  of  Scripture,  it  failed 
to  ratify  them  with  a  sufficient  sanction;  it  failed  to 
announce  them  with  the  same  powerful  and  con- 
tagious ardor;  it  failed  to  furnish  an  absolutely 
faultless  and  vivid  example  of  their  practice;  it  failed 


FREDERICK   WILLIAM  FARRAR.      425 

to  inspire  them  with  an  irresistible  motive;  it  failed 
to  support  them  with  a  powerful  comfort  under  the 
ditiiculties  which  were  sure  to  oe  encountered  in  the 
aim  after  a  consistent  and  holy  life.  .  .  . 

What  advantage,  then,  can  we  gain  by  studying  in 
Pagan  writers  truths  which  are  expressed  more  nobly, 
more  clearly,  and  infinitely  more  effectually  in  our 
own  sacred  books?  Before  answering  the  question, 
let  me  mention  the  traditional  anecdote  of  the  Cali]jh 
Omar.  When  he  conquered  Alexandria,  he  was 
shown  its  magnificent  library,  in  which  were  collected 
uutold  trea.sures  of  literature,  gathered  together  by 
the  zeal,  the  labor,  and  the  liberality  of  a  dynasty  of 
kings.  "  What  is  the  good  of  all  those  books  ?"  he 
said.  "  They  are  either  in  accordance  with  the  Koran, 
or  contrary  to  it.  If  the  former,  they  are  superfluous; 
if  the  latter,  they  are  pernicious.  In  either  case,  let 
them  be  burnt."  Burnt  they  were,  as  legend  tells; 
but  all  the  world  has  condemned  the  Caliph's  reason- 
ing as  a  piece  of  stupid  Philistinism  and.  barbarous 
bigotry. 

Perhaps  the  question  as  to  the  use  of  reading 
Pagan  ethics  is  equally  uuphilosophical;  at  any  rate, 
we  can  spare  but  very  few  words  to  its  consideration. 
The  answer  obviously  is,  that  God  has  spoken  to 
men,  "at  sundry  times  and  in  divers  manners,"  with 
a  richly  variegated  unsdom.  Sometimes  He  has 
taught  truth  by  the  voice  of  Hebrew  prophets,  sonu-. 
times  by  the  voice  of  Pagan  philosophers.  And  all 
Mis  voices  demand  our  listening  ear.  If  it  was  given 
to  the  Jew  to  speak  with  diviner  insight  and  intenscr 
power,  it  is  given  to  the  Gentile  also  to  speak  at 
times  with  a  large  and  lofty  utterance,  and  we  may 
Imm  truth  from  men  with  alien  lips  and  another 
tongue.  They,  too,  had  the  dream,  the  vision,  the 
dark  saying  upon  the  harp,  the  "daughter  of  a 
voice,"  the  mystic  flashes  upon  the  graven  gems. 
And  'Juch  tniths  come  to  us  with  a  singular  fore* 
und  freshneas,  with  a  strange  beauty,  as  the  doctrines 
of  a  les-s  brightly  illuminated  manhood;  witL  a  new 
power  of  conviction  from  their  originality  of  form, 
whirh,  because  it  is  less  familiar  to  us,  is  well  cal 
culated   to  arrest  our  attention   after   it    has  been 


■m  EDGAR  PAWCETT. 

paralyz-cd  by  familiar  repetitions.  We  cannot  afford 
to  lose  these  heallieii  testimonies  to  Christian  truth; 
or  to  hush  the  glorious  utterances  of  Muse  and  Sibyl 
which  iuive  justly  outlived  "the  drums  and  tramp- 
lings  of  a  hundred  triumphs."  We  may  make  them 
infinitely  profitable  to  us.  If  St.  Paul  quotes 
Aratus,  and  Menander,  and  Epimenides,  and  perhaps 
more  than  one  lyrical  melody  besides,  with  earnest 
appreciation — if  the  inspired  Apostle  could  both 
learn  himself  and  teach  others  out  of  the  utterances 
of  a  Cretan  philosopher  and  an  Attic  comedian — we 
may  be  sure  that  many  of  Seneca's  apophthegms 
would  have  filled  him  with  pleasure,  and  that  he 
would  have  been  able  to  read  Epictctus  and  Aurelius 
with  the  same  noble  admiration  which  made  him  see 
with  thankful  emotion  that  memorable  altar  To  the 
Unknown  God. — Seekers  after  Ood. 

FAWCETT,  Edgar,  an  American  poet  and 
novelist,  bom  in  New  Yoi-k,  in  1847.  He  was 
educated  at  Columbia  College.  Among  his 
publications  are,  Short  Poems  for  Short  Peo- 
ple (1871),  Ellen  Story  (1876),  Purple  and  Fine 
Linen  (1878),  A  False  Friend,  a  drama,  and 
A  Hopeless  Case  (1880),  A  Gentleman  of 
Leisure  (1881),  An  Ambitious  Woman  (1883), 
Tinkling  Cymbals,  Rutherford,  and  Song  and 
Story,  a  volume  of  poems  (1884),  Social 
Silhouettes  (1885),  Romance  and  Revery, 
poems,  and  The  House  at  High  Bridge  (1886), 
and  The  Confessions  of  Claude  (1887). 

THE   GENTLEMAN   WHO   LIVED   TOO   LONG. 

At  length  I  awoke  one  evening  to  the  fact  that  I 
had  not  seen  the  old  gentleman  for  several  weeks. 
Learning  his  residence,  I  called  there.  I  found  him 
lying  back  in  an  arm-chair,  quite  alone.  The 
chamber  bore  no  signs  of  poverty,  but  it  was  grim 
and  stiff  in  all  its  appointments.  It  needed  the  evi- 
dence of  a  woman's  touch.  I  thought  of  the  dead 
and  gone  Elizabeth.  How  different  everything 
would  have  been  if—    But,  good  heavens  !  of  what 


EDGAR  FAWCETT.  427 

was  I  thinking?  Elizabeth,  even  if  she  had  married 
Beau  Billington,  might  have  lived  to  a  good  old 
age  and  still  long  ago  have  been  in  her  grave.  The 
old  invalid  smiled  when  he  saw  me;  but  while  I  sat 
down  beside  him  and  took  his  hand,  he  gave  me  no 
further  sign  or  recognition.  His  old  voluble  tongue 
was  silent  forever.  His  paralysis  had  affected  him 
most  of  all  in  that  way.  Every  morning  he  would  be 
dressed  and  go  to  his  chair,  walking  feebly,  but  still 
walking.  And  there  he  would  sit  all  day  never 
speaking,  yet  smiling  his  dim,  vacant,  pathetic  smile, 
if  the  doctor  or  landlady  or  valet  addressed  him. 
He  was  quite  deserted  by  all  his  friends.  No;  I 
should  say  he  had  no  friends  left  to  tlesert  him.  He 
had  lived  too  long.  There  was  no  one  to  come  except 
me.  And  I,  strangely  enough,  was  a  Manhattan — 
a  kinsman  of  his  long  lost-Elizabeth.  Of  course,  if 
he  had  had  any  kindred  here,  it  would  have  been 
otherwise.  But  there  was  not  a  soul  to  whom  one 
could  .say,  "  Old  Beau  Billington  is  dying  at  last,  and 
the  tie  of  bloofl  makes  it  your  duty  to  seek  him  out 
and  watch  beside  him."  As  for  his  kindred  in  other 
cities  or  States,  no  one  knew  them.  And  if  any  had 
l)cen  found  there,  they  would  doubtless  have  been 
I)erfert  strangers  to  him,  the  children  and  grand- 
cliildren  of  vanished  cousins.  He  had  lived  too 
long! 

Often  during  the  days  that  followed,  while  I  sat 
lM,'side  his  arm-chair,  I  told  myself  that  there  was  in- 
tinitely  more  sadness  in  a  fate  like  his  than  in  having 
die<l  to<^)  early.  The  gods  had  never  loved  any 
human  life  of  which  they  were  willing  to  make  so 
lonely  and  deserted  a  wreck  as  this.  At  last,  one 
spring  evening,  at  about  six  o'clock,  I  chanced  to  be 
sitting  in  his  chamlter.  He  had  dozed  much  during 
the  day,  they  told  me;  but  I  fancied  that,  as  I  took 
his  liand  and  looked  into  his  hazel  eyes,  there  was  a 
more  intellectual  gleam  on  his  face  than  he  had 
shown  for  weeks  pa.sl.  A  window  was  open  near 
his  arm  chair;  the  air  was  bland  as  June  that  even- 
ing, though  as  yet  it  wa.s  only  early  May.  I  had 
brought  some  white  and  pink  roses,  and  had  set 
them  in  a  va.sc  on  the  table  at  his  side,  and  now  their 


428  EDGAR   FAWCETT. 

delicious  odor  blent  in  some  subtile  way  with  the 
serenity  of  the  cluunber,  the  peace  and  repose  of  its 
continual  occupant,  the  drowsy  hum  of  the  great 
city  as  it  ceased  from  its  dailj^  toil,  and  the  slant, 
vernal  afternoon  linlit. 

Suddenly  he  turned  and  looked  at  me;  and  I  at 
once  saw  a  striking  change  iu  his  face.  I  could  not 
have  explained  it;  I  simply  understood  it,  and  that 
was  all.  I  Ixjnl  over  his  chair,  taking  his  hand.  It 
occurs  to  me  now,  as  I  recall  what  happened,  that  I 
could  not  possibly  have  been  mistaken  in  the  single 
faintly-uttered  word  which  ap])eared  to  float  forth 
from  imder  his  snow-white  nmstache.  And  that 
word  (unless  I  curiously  underwent  some  delusion) 
was  "Elizabeth." 

The  next  instant  his  eyes  closed.  And  then,  only 
a  short  time  later,  I  stood  by  his  arm-chair  and  smelt 
the  roses  as  they  scented  the  sweet,  fresh  spring 
twilight  and  thought,  with  no  sense  of  death's  chill 
or  horror,  perhaps  there  is  a  blessing,  after  all,  in 
having  lived  too  long,  if  one  can  pass  away  at  the  end 
as  peacefully  as  "Old  Beau  Billington. "— yS(?CM5^ 
Silhouettes. 

CRITICISM. 

"  Crude,  pompous,  turgid,"  the  reviewers  said; 

"  Sham  passion  and  .sham  power  to  turn  one  sick! 
Pin-wheels  of  verse  that  sputtered  as  we  read — 

Rockets  of  rhyme  that  showed  the  falling  stick  I" 

But  while,  assaulted  of  this  buzzing  band, 
The  poet  quivered  at  their  little  stings. 

White  doves  of  sjTnpathy  o'er  all  the  land 
Went  flying  with  his  fame  beneath  their  wings! 

And  every  fresh  year  brought  him  love  that  cheers. 
As  Caspian  waves  bring  amber  to  their  shore. 

And  it  befell  that  after  many  years, 
Being  now  no  longer  young,  he  wrote  once  more. 

"  Cold,  classic,  polished,"  the  reviewers  said; 

"  A  book  you  scarce  can  love  howe'er  you  praise 
We  missed  the  old  careless  grandeur  as  we  read, 

The  power  and  passion  of  his  younger  days!" 


EDGAR  FAWCETT.  429 

sleep's  threshold. 
What  footstep  but  has  wandered  free  and  far 
Amid    that    Castle    of    Sleep   whose  walls  were 

planned 
By  no  terrestrial  craft,  no  human  hand, 
With  towers  that  point  to  no  recorded  star  ? 
Here  sorrows,  memories  and  remorses  are, 
Roaming  the  long  dim  rooms  or  galleries  grand; 
Here  the  lost  friends  our  spirits  yet  demand 
Gleam  through  mysterious  doorways  left  ajar. 
But  of  the  uncovmted  throngs  that  ever  win 
The  halls  where  slumber's  dusky  witcheries  rule, 
Who,  after  wakening,  may  reveal  aright 
By  what  phantasmal  means  he  entered  in? — 
What  porch  of  cloud,  what  vapory  vestibule, 

WTiat  stairway  quarried  from  the  mines  of  night? 
— Song  and  Story. 

INDIAN    SCMMEK. 

Dulled  to  a  drowsy  fire,  one  hardly  sees 
The  sun  in  heaven,  where  this  broad  smoky  round 
Lies  ever  brooding  at  the  horizon's  bound; 

And  through  the  gaunt  knolls,  on  monotonous  leas, 

Or  through  the  damp  wood's  troops  of  naked  trees. 
Rustling  the  brittle  ruin  along  the  ground. 
Like  sighs  from  souls  of  perished  hours,  resound 

The  melancholy  melodies  of  the  breeze! 
So  ghostly  and  strange  a  look  the  blurred  world 

wears, 
Viewed  from  this  flowerless  garden's  dreary  squares. 

That  now,  while  tliese  weird  vaporous  days  exist, 
It  would  not  seem  a  marvel  if  where  we  walk, 
We  met,  dim-glimmering  on  its  thorny  stalk, 

Some  pale  intangiljle  rose  with  leaves  of  mist. 
— Song  and  Sttjry. 

GOLD. 

No  spirit  of  air  am  I,  but  one  whose  birth 
Was  deep  in  mouldy  darkness  of  mid-earth. 

Yet  where  my  yellow  raimcnt.s  choose  to  shine, 
What  power  is  more  magnificent  than  mine? 

In  hall  or  hut,  in  highway  or  in  street,' 
Obodiciit  millions  grovel  at  my  feet. 


430  HENRY  FAWCETT. 

The  loftiest  pride  to  me  its  tribute  brings; 
I  gain  the  lowly  vassalage  of  kings! 

How  many  a  time  have  I  made  honor  yield 
To  me  its  mighty  and  immaculate  shield  1 

How  often  has  virtue,  at  my  potent  name, 
Robed  her  chaste  majesty  in  scarlet  shame! 

How  often  has  burning  love,  within  some  breast, 
Frozen  to  treachery  at  my  cold  behest! 

Yet  ceaselessly  my  triumph  has  been  blent 
With  pangs  of  overmastering  discontent. 

For  always  there  are  certain  souls  that  hear 
My  stealthy  whispers  with  indifferent  ear. 

Pure  souls  that  deem  my  smile's  most  bland  excesv 
For  all  its  lavish  radiance,  valueless! 

Rare  souls,  from  my  imperious  guidance  free, 
Who  know  me  for  the  slave  that  I  should  be ! 

Grand  souls,  that  from  my  counsels  would  dissent, 
Though  each  were  tempted  with  a  continent! 
— Romance  and  Bevery. 

FAWCETT,  Henry,  an  English  statesman 
and  author,  born  in  1833,  died  in  1884.  He 
graduated  v?ith  high  mathematical  honors  at 
Trinity  Hall,  Cambridge,  in  1856.  Tv7o  years 
afterwards,  while  out  shooting,  he  was  de- 
prived, by  an  accident  of  the  sight  of  both 
eyes.  In  1863  he  published  a  Manual  of  Politi- 
cal Economy,  and  in  the  same  year  he  was 
elected  Professor  of  Political  Economy  in  the 
University  of  Cambridge.  He  became  a 
member  of  Parliament  in  1865,  and  in  1868 
was  re-elected.  The  Economic  Position  of 
the  British  Laborer  was  published  by  him  in 
1866,  revised  edition  of  the  Manual  of  Politi- 
cal Economy,  with  additional  chapters  on 
National  Education  and  the  Poor  Laws  and 
their  Infl^ience  on  Pauperism,  in  1869,  Pauper- 
ism, its  Causes  and  Remedies,  in  1871,  and  a 


HENRY  FAWCETT.  431 

collection  of  his  Speeches  in  1873.     In  1880 
he  was  appointed  Postmaster-General. 

MiLLiCENT  Garrett  Fawcett,  author,  bom 
in  1847,  became  the  wife  of  Henry  Fawcett, 
and  was  of  great  assistance  to  him  in  his 
work.  She  published  a  Political  Economy 
f<yr  Beginners  in  1870,  and  Tales  in  Political 
Economy,  in  1874.  A  volume  of  Essays  on 
Political  Economy,  the  joint  work  of  her  hus- 
band and  hereelf,  appeared  in  1872. 

COMPCLSORT  EDUCATrON. 

However  strong  may  be  the  objections  to  the  gen- 
eral principle  of  State  intervention,  yet  an  exception 
can  be  justly  made  in  favor  of  compulsory  educa- 
tion. Ignorance  is  an  evil  which  will  not  cure  itself; 
coercion  must  be  applied  in  order  to  eradicate  it. 
Moreover  interference  on  behalf  of  children  rests 
entirely  on  different  grounds  from  interference  on 
behalf  of  grown-up  people.  There  is  a  constant  danger 
that  the  latter  may  be  encouraged  to  rely  too  little 
upon  their  own  efforts,  and  too  much  upon  the  help 
obtained  from  others;  the  former,  however,  have  no 
power  to  help  themselves.  If  the  parent  neglects  his 
duty  to  his  children,  they  may  suffer  an  irreparable 
injury  which  they  have  no  power  to  ward  off;  the 
State  consequently  becomes  their  natural  and  proper 
protector.  In  order,  therefore,  to  justify  compulsory 
education,  it  is  only  necessary  to  show  that  a  child 
suffers  a  grave  injury  if  he  is  permitted  to  grow  up 
in  ignorance.  A  few  words  will  suflTice  to  indicate 
the  nature  and  extent  of  the  injury  thus  inllicted. 
In  the  first  place,  it  is  obvious  that  ignorance  greatly 
limits  the  area  of  enjoyment;  it  cuts  a  man  off  from 
many  of  tiie  truest  and  most  lasting  pleasures;  all 
literature,  all  philosophy,  and  all  science  are  closed 
to  him;  many  things  which  to  one  who  is  educated 
are  blessings  fruitful  of  good,  often  become  to  one 
who  is  ignorant  positive  misfortunes.  Thus,  one  of 
the  grcjilcst  rey)roachefl  against  our  present  industrial 
economy,  is  that  it  yields  so  little  leisure  to  those  who 
live  by  diiily  toil.     Leisure  may  be  a  priceless  boon 


433  FRANCIS  FAWKES. 

to  those  who  can  properly  use  it,  l)iit  spiire  time 
haugs  so  heavily  upon  those  who  are  able  lo  read,  that 
iu  order  lo  get  rid  of  it  they  ol'ten  liave  uo  other  re- 
source but  the  public-house.  The  uneducated  have 
also  to  pass  through  life  with  <;rippled  powers;  they 
have  uot  a  fair  chance  of  contending  iu  that  struggle 
for  existence  upon  which  all  have  to  embark  who 
are  obliged  to  earn  their  own  livelihood.  Few,  if  any, 
industrial  operations  are  so  entirely  mechanical  that 
a  man  will  perform  them  equally  well  whether 
his  mental  powers  have  been  developed,  or  have  been 
j)erinitted  to  remain  dormant.  Ignorance,  therefore, 
takes  awa.y  a  considerable  pari  of  the  power  which 
an  individual  possesses  to  acquire  the  means  of 
living. — Pauperism:  Its  Causes  and  Remedies. 

FAWKES,  Francis,  an  English  poet,  born 
in  1721,  died  in  1777.  He  was  educated  at 
Cambridge,  entered  into  Holy  Orders,  became 
successively  curate  of  Bramham,  Croydon, 
vicar  of  Orpington,  rector  of  Hayes,  and, 
finally,  one  of  the  chaplains  to  the  Princess  of 
Wales.  He  published  Bramham  Park,  a  Poem 
(1745),  a  volume  of  Poems  and  Translations 
(1760),  and  Partridge  Shooting,  a  Poem  (1767). 
His  translations  from  Anacreon,  Bion,  Mu- 
sseus,  Theocritus,  and  other  minor  Greek 
poets,  were  highly  esteemed.  His  best  original 
poem  is  the  following  convivial  song: 

THE  BROWN   JUG. 

Dear  Tom,  this  brown  jug  that  now  foams  with  mild 

ale — 
In  which  I  will  drink  to  sweet  Nan  of  the  vale — 
Was  once  To])y  Fillpot,  a  thirsty  old  soul, 
As  e'er  drank  a  bottle,  or  fathomed  a  bowl; 
In  bousing  a])OUt  'twas  his  praise  to  excel, 
And  among  jolly  topers  he  bore  off  the  bell. 

It  chanced  as  in  dog-days  he  sat  at  his  ease. 
In  his  flower-woven  arbor,  as  gay  as  you  please, 
With  a  friend  and  a  pipe  puffing  sorrows  away. 
And  with  honest  old  stingo  was  soaking  his  clay, 


THEODORE   SEDGWICK   FAY.         433 

His  breath-doors  of  life  on  a  sudden  were  shut, 
And  he  died  full  as  big  as  a  Dorchester  butt. 

His  body  when  long  in  the  grouud  it  had  lain, 

And  time  into  clay  had  resoh'ed  it  again, 

A  potter  found  out  in  its  covert  so  snug, 

And  with  part  of  fat  Toby  he  formed  this  brown  jug, 

Now  sacred  to  friendship,  and  mirth,  and  mild  ale. 

So  here's  to  my  lovely  sweet  Nan  of  the  vale! 

FAY,  Theodore  Sedgwick,  an  American 
author,  born  in  New  York,  in  1807.  He  was 
admitted  to  the  bar  in  1828,  but  devoted  him- 
self to  literature,  becoming  one  of  the  editors 
of  the  New  York  Mirror.  From  1837  to  1853 
he  was  Secretary  of  the  American  Legation  at 
Berlin,  and  subsequently  Minister  Resident  in 
Switzerland.  Among  his  writings  are :  Dreams 
and  Reveries  (1832),  Norman  Leslie  (1835), 
Sidney  Clifton  (1839),  Tlie  Countess  Ida  (1840), 
Hoboken  (1843),  Robert  Rueful  (1844),  Ulric, 
or  the  Voices,  a  Poem  (1851),  and  two  works 
on  Geography  (1867,  1873). 

ON  THE   RHINE. 

Oh  come,  gentle  pilgrim  from  the  far-distant  strand, 

(Jorae  ga7.e  on  the  pride  of  the  old  German  laud. 

On  that  vision  of  nature,  that  \ision  divine, 

Of  the  past  and  the  present,  the  exquisite  Rhine. 

As  sfift  as  a  smile,  and  as  sweet  as  a  song, 

Its  famous  old  billows  roll  murmuring  along. 

From  its  source  on  the  mount  whence  it  tla-shes  in  the 

sea. 
It  flashes  with  beauty  as  bright  as  can  be. 
With  the  azure  of  heaven  its  first  waters  flow. 
And  it  leaps  like  an  arrow  esciiped  from  the  bow; 
While  reflef;fing  the  glories  its  hillsides  that  crown, 
It  then  sweeps  in  grand<^ur  by  castle  and  town. 
And  when  from  the  red  gleaming  lowers  of  Mayence, 
Kncbantrd  iliou'rt  lK;rnc,  in  bewildering  tnince, 
Hy  death-bre.itliing  ruin,  by  life  giving  wine, 
liy  thy  dark  frowning  turrets,  old  Khrcnljrcitstein! 
To  wliere  tlie  half  magic  (Jathedral  looks  down 
On  tlie  crowds  at  its  base  of  the  ancient  (;o]()gne; 
Wliile  in  ra])1nre  thy  dazzled  and  Wijndering  ev<'8 
Scarce  follow  the  j)ictiire«,  as  bright,  as  they  rise, 
28 


434         THEODORE  SEDGWICK   FAY. 

As   the   dream   of    thy  youth,  which    Ihou  vainly 

wouldst  stay. 
But  they  tioat,  from  thy  longings,  like  shadows  away. 
Thou  wilt  tind  ou  the  l)auks  of  the  wonderful  stream 
Full  many  a  spot  that  an  Eden  doth  seem. 
And  thy  bo.som  will  ache  with  a  secret  despair. 
That  thou  canst  not  inliabit  a  mansion  so  fair; 
And  fain  thou  wouldst  linger  eternity  there. 
—  Ulric,  or  the  Voices. 

A  WEARIED  NOBLEMAN. 

The  young  Lord  D yawned.  Why  did  the  young 

lord  yawn?  He  had  recently  come  into  ten  thousand 
u  year.  His  home  was  a  palace.  His  sisters  were 
angels.  His  cousin  was  in  love  with  him.  He  him- 
self was  an  Apollo.  His  horses  might  have  drawn 
the  chariot  of  Phiebus,  but  in  their  journey  around 
the  globe  would  never  have  crossed  above  grounds 
more  Eden-like  than  his.  Around  him  were  streams, 
lawns,  groves,  and  fountains.  He  could  hunt,  fish, 
ride,  read,  flirt,  swim,  drink,  muse,  write,  or  lounge. 
All  the  appliances  of  affluence  were  at  his  command. 

The  young  Lord  D was  the  admiration  and  the 

envy  of  all  the  country.  The  young  Lord  D 's  step 

sent  a  palpitating  flutter  through  many  a  lovely 
bosom.     His  smile  awakened  many  a  dream  of  bliss 

and  wealth.     The  Lady  S ,  that  queenly  woman, 

with  her  majestic  l^earing,  and  her  train  of  dying 
adorers,  grew  lovelier  and  livelier  beneath  the  spell 
of  his  smile;  and  even  Ellen  B ,  the  modest,  beauti- 
ful creature,  with  her  large,  timid,  tender  blue  eyes, 
and  her  pouting  red  lips  —  that  rosebud  —  siglied 
audibly,  only  the  day  before,  when  he  left  the  room 
— and  yet — and  yet — the  young  Lord  D yawned. 

It  was  a  rich,  still  hour.  The  afternoon  sunlight 
overspread  all  nature.  Earth,  sky,  lake,  and  air  were 
full  of  its  dying  glory,  as  it  streamed  into  the  apart- 
ment where  they  were  .sitting,  through  the  foliage  of 
a  magnificent  oak,  and  the  caressing  tendrils  of  a 
profuse  vine  that  half  buried  the  veranda  beneath 
its  heavy  masses  of  foliage. 

"  I  am  tired  to  death,"  said  the  sleepy  lord. 

His  cousin  Rosalie  sighed. 


THEODORE   SEDGWICK  FAY.         435 

"  The  package  of  papers  from  Loudon  is  full  of 
news,  and—"  murmured  her  sweet  voice,  timidly. 

"I  hate  news." 

"  The  poetry  in  the  New  Monthly  is — " 

"  You  set  my  teeth  on  edge.  I  have  had  a  surfeit 
of  poetry." 

"  Ellen  B is  to  spend  the  day  with  us  to-mor- 
row. " 

Rosalie  lifted  her  liazel  eyes  full  upon  his  face. 

"Ellen  B ?"  drawled  the  youth;  "  she  is  a  child, 

a  pretty  child.     I  shall  ride  over  to  Lord  A 's. " 

Rosalie's  face  betrayed  that  a  mountain  was  off  her 
heart. 

"  Lord  A starts  for  Italy  in  a  few  weeks,"  said 

Rosalie. 

"Happy  dog!" 

"  He  will  be  delighted  with  Rome  and  Naples." 

"  Rome  and  Naples, "echoed  Lord  D ,  in  a  mus- 
ing voice. 

"  Itiily  is  a  delightful,  heavenly  spot,"  continued 
his  cousin,  an-vious  to  lead  him  into  conversation. 

"  So  I'm  told,'  said  Lord  D ,  abstractedly. 

"It  is  the  garden  of  the  world,"  rejoined  Rosalie. 

Lord  D opened  his  eyes.  Heevidenth' was  just 

struck  with  an  idea.  Young  lords  with  ten  thousand 
a  year  are  not  often  troubled  with  ideas.  He  sprang 
from  his  seat.  He  paced  the  apartment  twice.  His 
countenance  glowed.     His  eyes  sparkled. 

"  Rose—" 

"  Cousin — " 

What  a  beautiful  break.  Rose  trembled  to  the 
heart.     Could  it  be  possible  that  he  was— 

He  took  her  hand.  lie  kis.scd  it  eagerly,  earnestly, 
and  enthusiastically. 

She  blushed  and  turned  away  her  face  in  graceful 
confusion. 

"R^>se!" 

"  Dear,  dear  cousin!" 

"  I  have  made  up  my  mind." 

"Charles!" 

"  To  morrow? — " 

"  Heavens!" 

"  I  will  start  for  Italy."— T'A^  Countest  Ida. 


4;36  THE  FEDERALIST. 

FEDERALIST,  The,  a  scries  of  85  political 
essays  published  between  October,  1787,  and 
August,  1788,  in  two  New  York  newspapers. 
The  Independent  Journal  and  The  New  York 
Packet,  besides  a  few  in  The  Daily  Advertiser. 
It  was  doubtful  whether  the  newly-drafted 
Constitution  for   the  United    States    would 
receive  the  ratification  of  the  State  of  New 
York.    John  Jay,  Alexander  Hamilton,  and 
James  Madison  concerted  to  write  a  series  of 
essays  explaining  the  intent  of  the  proposed 
Constitution,  and  urging  its  ratification  by  the 
State  of  New  York.     No.  1,  which  was  intro- 
ductory to  the  series,  was  written  by  Hamil- 
ton; Jay  followed  with  Nos.  2,  3,  4,  5,  issued 
in  rapid   succession,    when   he    received  an 
injury   which    disqualified   liim    for  mental 
exertion  for  several  months.     He,  however, 
recovered  in  time  to  write  No,  64,  when  the 
proposed  series  was  drawing  to  a  close.     These 
papers  were  all  addressed  "  To  the  People  of 
the  State  of  New  York,  "and  bore  the  common 
signature  of  "Publius."    They   were  recog- 
nized as  an  authoritative  exposition  of  the  prin- 
ciples and  intent  of  the  Constitution,  and  as 
the  ablest  advocate  of  its  adoption.    They  were 
first  put  forth  in  a  separate  volume  in  1788 ; 
several  editions  of  which,  with  some  slight 
coiTections,  appeared  from  time  to  time ;  up  to 
1852,  there  were  in  all  about  twenty  editions 
issued.     In  1863  Mr.  Henry  Dawson  published 
the  commencement  of  a  critical  edition,  which 
was  to  consist  of  two  large  volumes ;  but  only 
the  first  volume  was  printed.     He  undertook 
to    reproduce  the    essays    precisely  as  they 
originally   appeared  in  the   newspapers.    A 
year  later  Mr.  John  C.  Hamilton  put  forth 
another  critical  edition,  in  which  he  adopted 
the  somewhat  modified  text  which  had  the 
sanction  of  at  least  Jay  and  Madison.     In  1886 


THE   FEDERALIST.  437 

Mr.  Henry  Cabot  Lodge  edited  a  complete 
edition  of  the  works  of  Alexander  Hamilton, 
in  six  volumes;  The  Federalist  constituting 
Vol.  VI.  He  follows  the  original,  not  the 
amended  text. 

There  is  a  question  as  to  the  authorship  of 
a  portion  of  these  essays.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  five  of  them  were  written  bj'  Jay ;  fifty- 
three  by  Hamilton ;  twelve  by  Madison ;  and 
three  by  Hamilton  and  Madison  conjointly. 
There  remain  twelve,  the  authorship  of  which 
is  claimed  both  for  Hamilton  and  Madison. 
Mr.  Lodge,  after  carefully  weighing  all  evi- 
dence upon  this  point,  comes  to  this  conclu- 
sion :  ' '  The  outcome  of  it  all  is,  that  the  evi- 
dence in  regard  to  the  twelve  disputed  num- 
bers is  so  conflicting  that,  although  the 
balance  is  strongly  in  Hamilton's  favor,  the 
best  which  can  be  done  is  to  present  the  plain 
facts,  and  aU  the  arguments,  and  then  leave 
every  one  to  draw  their  conclusions  to  suit 
themselves.  No  one  is  entitled  to  assign  the 
disputed  numbers  to  either  Hamilton  or  Madi- 
son with  absolute  confidence.  They  were 
surely  written  by  one  or  the  other ;  and  with 
that  uncertainty  we  must  fain  be  content." 

DANGERS  FROM  FOREIGN   POWERS. 

I  have  a-ssigned  several  reasons  why  the  safety  of 
the  people  would  be  best  secured  by  union  against 
the  danger  it  may  lie  exposed  to  by  juxt  causes  of 
war  given  to  other  nations;  and  those  reasons  show 
that  such  causes  would  not  only  be  more  rarely  given, 
but  would  also  be  more  easily  accommodated  by  a 
National  government  than  either  ))y  the  Slate  govern- 
ments or  the  proposed  Confederacies.  But  the  safety 
of  the  people  <jf  America  against  dangers  from  foreign 
force  (lepends  not  otdy  on  their  forl)earingtogive  just 
causes  of  war  to  other  nations,  but  also  on  their  plac- 
ing and  continuing  thcms^-lves  in  such  a  situation  as 
not  to  invite  hostility  or  insult;  for  it  need  not  be 


438  THE  FEDERALIST. 

observed  that  there  are  pretended  as  well  as  just 
causes  of  war.  .  .  . 

The  people  of  America  are  aware  that  inducements 
to  war  may  arise  from  various  circumstances;  and 
that  whenever  such  inducements  may  lind  fit  time 
and  opportunity  for  operation,  pretenses  to  color  and 
justify  them  will  not  be  wanting.  Wisely,  therefore, 
do  they  consider  union  and  a  good  National  govern- 
ment as  necessary  to  put  and  keep  them  in  such  a  situ- 
ation as,  instead  of  inviting  war,  will  tend  to  repress 
and  discourage  it.  That  situation  consists  in  the  best 
possible  state  of  defense,  and  necessarily  depends  on 
the  government,  the  arms,  and  the  resources  of  the 
country. 

As  the  safety  of  the  whole  is  the  interest  of  the 
whole,  and  cannot  be  provided  for  without  govern- 
ment— either  one  or  more,  or  many — let  us  inquire 
whether  one  good  government  is  not,  relative  to  the 
object  in  question,  more  competent  than  any  other 
given  number  whatever. 

One  government  can  collect  and  avail  itself  of  the 
talents  and  experience  of  the  ablest  men  in  whatever 
part  of  the  Union  they  may  be  found.  It  can  move 
on  Tiniform  principles  of  policy.  It  can  harmonize, 
assimilate,  and  protect  the  several  parts  and  members, 
and  extend  the  benefit  of  its  forcsiglit  and  precautions 
to  each.  In  the  formation  of  treaties  it  will  regard 
the  interests  of  the  wliole,  and  the  particular  interests 
of  the  parts  as  connected  with  that  of  the  whole.  It 
can  apply  the  resources  and  power  of  the  whole  to 
the  defense  of  any  particular  part,  and  that  more 
easily  and  expeditiously  than  State  governments  or 
separate  Confederacies  can  possibly  do,  for  want  of 
concert  and  unity  of  system.  It  can  place  the  mili- 
tia under  one  plan  of  discipline,  and  by  putting  their 
officers  in  a  proper  line  of  subordination  to  the  chief 
magistrate,  will  in  a  manner  consolidate  them  into 
one  corps,  and  thereby  render  them  more  efficient 
than  if  divided  into  thirteen,  or  into  three  or  four 
distinct  independent  bodies. 

What  would  the  militia  of  Britain  be  if  the  English 
militia  obeyed  the  government  of  England,  if  the 
Scotch  militia  obeyed  the  government  of  Scotland, 


THE  FEDERALIST.  439 

and  if  the  Welsh  militia  obeyed  the  government  of 
Wales  ?  Suppose  au  invasion:  Would  those  three 
governments  (if  they  agreed  at  all)  be  able  with  all 
their  respective  forces  to  operate  against  the  enemy  so 
eflfectually  as  the  single  government  of  Great  Britain 
can  do  ? 

We  have  heard  much  of  the  fleets  of  Britain;  and 
if  we  are  wise,  the  time  may  come  when  the  fleets 
of  America  may  engage  attention.  But  if  one  Na- 
tional government  had  not  so  regulated  the  naviga- 
tion of  Britain  as  to  make  it  a  nurserj'  of  seamen — if 
one  National  government  had  not  called  forth  all  the 
national  means  and  materials  for  forming  fleets,  their 
prowess  and  their  thunder  would  never  have  been 
celebrated.  Let  England  have  its  na^^gatioa  and 
fleet  ;  let  Scotland  have  its  navigation  and  fleet;  let 
Wales  have  its  navigation  and  fleet ;  let  Ireland  have 
its  navigation  and  fleet: — let  these  four  of  the  constit- 
uent parts  of  the  British  empire  be  under  four  inde- 
pendent governments,  and  it  is  easy  to  perceive  bow 
soon  they  would  each  dwindle  into  comparative 
insignificance. 

Apply  these  facts  to  our  own  case.  Leave  America 
dividetl  into  thirteen— or,  if  you  please,  into  three  or 
four — independent  governments :  what  armies  could 
they  raise  and  -pay,  what  fleets  could  they  ever  hope 
to  have  ?  If  one  was  attacked  would  the  others  fly 
to  its  succor,  and  spend  their  blood  and  money  in  its 
defense  ?  Would  there  be  no  danger  of  their  behig 
flattered  into  neutrality  by  specious  promises,  or 
seduced  by  a  too  great  fondness  for  peace,  to  decline 
hazarding  their  tranquillity  and  present  safety  for  the 
sake  of  neighbors  of  whom  they  perhaps  have  been 
jealous,  and  whose  importance  they  are  content  to 
sec  diminished  ?  Although  such  conduct  would  not 
})e  wise,  it  would  nevertheless  be  natural.  The  his- 
tory of  the  States  of  Greece,  and  other  countries, 
alKJunds  with  such  instanct;8  ;  and  it  isnotim|)rol)al)le 
that  what  has  so  oft<'n  happened  would,  under  similar 
circumstanccH,  happen  again. 

But  admit  that  they  might  be  willing  to  help  llie 
invaded  St;il(;  or  Confederacy.  How,  and  when,  and 
in  what  pro|w>rti()n,  sliall  aids  of  men  and  money  l)C 


4-10  THE  FEDERALIST 

afforded?  Who  shall  command  the  allied  armies,  and 
from  which  of  the  associates  shall  he  receive  his 
orders  ?  Who  shall  settle  the  terms  of  peace;  and  in 
case  of  (lisputi's  what  umpire  shall  decide  hetween 
them,  and  compel  acquiesceuce?  Various  difficulties 
and  inconveniences  would  be  inseparable  from  such  a 
situation  ;  whereas  one  government,  watching  over 
the  general  and  common  interests,  combining  and  di- 
recting the  powers  and  resources  of  the  whole,  would 
be  free  from  all  these  embarrassments,  and  conduce 
far  more  to  the  safety  of  the  people. 

But  whatever  may  be  our  situation — whether  firmly 
united  under  one  National  government,  or  split  into 
a  number  of  Confederacies — certain  it  is  that  foreign 
nations  will  know  and  view  it  exactly  as  it  is ;  and 
they  will  act  towards  us  accordingly.  If  they  see 
that  our  National  government  is  efficient  and  well  ad- 
ministered, our  trade  prudently  regulated,  our  militia 
properly  organized  and  disciplined,  our  resources  and 
finances  discreetly  managed,  our  credit  re-established, 
our  people  free,  contented,  and  united — they  will  be 
much  more  disposed  to  cultivate  our  friendship  than 
to  provoke  our  resentment.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
they  find  us  either  destitute  of  an  effectual  govern- 
ment (each  State  doing  right  or  wrong  as  to  its  rulers 
may  seem  convenient),  or  split  into  thr^e  or  four  inde- 
pendent, and  probably  discordant.  Republics  or  Con- 
federacies, one  inclining  to  Britain,  another  to  France, 
and  a  third  to  Spain— and  perhaps  played  off  against 
each  other  by  the  three — what  a  poor  pitiful  figure 
will  America  make  in  their  eyes!  How  liable  would 
she  become,  not  only  to  their  contempt,  but  to  their 
outrage;  and  how  soon  would  dear-bought  experience 
proclaim  that  when  a  people  or  a  family  so  divide,  it 
never  fails  to  be  against  themselves.  .  .  .  Let  candid 
men  judge  then  w'hethcr  the  division  of  America  into 
any  given  numljer  of  independent  sovereignties  would 
tend  to  secure  us  against  the  hostilities  and  improper 
interference  of  foreign  nations. — Tlie  Federalist,  No. 
4.— Jay. 


THE  FEDERALIST.  441 


OBJECTIONS   URGED   AGAINST   THE   CONSTITUTION. 

A  patieut  who  finds  bis  disorder  daily  growing 
woi-se,  and  that  an  efficacious  remedy  can  no  longer 
Ije  delayed  without  extreme  danger— after  coolly  re- 
volving his  istuation  and  the  character  of  different 
physicians— .selects,  and  calls  in  such  of  them  as  he 
judges  most  capable  of  administering  relief,  and  best 
entitled  to  his  confidence.  The  physicians  attend; 
the  ca.se  of  the  patient  is  carefully  examined;  a  con- 
sultidion  is  held:  they  are  unanimously  agreed  that 
the  symptoms  are  critical;  but  that  the  case,  with 
proper  and  timely  relief,  is  so  far  from  being  desperate 
that  it  may  be  made  to  Issue  in  an  improvement  of 
his  constitution.  They  are  equally  unanimous  in 
prescribing  the  remedy  by  which  this  happy  effect  is 
to  l>e  produced.  The  prescription  is  no  sooner  made 
known,  however,  than  a  number  of  persons  interpose, 
and,  without  denying  the  reality  or  danger  of  the 
disorder,  assure  the  patient  that  the  prescription  will 
be  poison  to  his  constitution,  and  forbid  him,  under 
pain  of  certain  death,  to  make  use  of  it.  Might  not 
the  patient  reasonably  demand,  before  he  ventured  to 
follow  this  advice,  that  the  authors  of  it  should 
at  lea.st  agree  among  tliemselves  on  some  other  rem- 
edy to  be  substituted?  And  if  he  found  them 
differing  as  much  from  one  another  as  from  his 
first  counselors,  would  lie  not  act  prudently  in  trying 
the  cxi)eriment  unanimouslj-  recommended  by  the 
latter,  ratlier  than  in  hearkening  to  tho.se  who  could 
neither  deny  the  necessity  of  a  speedy  remedy,  nor 
agree  in  proposing  one? 

Such  a  patient,  and  in  such  a  .situation,  is  America 
at  this  moment.  She  b:i.s  been  sensible  of  her  malad}'. 
She  hjis  obtained  a  regular  and  unanimous  advice 
from  men  of  her  own  deliberate  choice.  And  she  is 
warned  by  others  against  following  this  advice,  under 
I)ain  of  the  most  fatal  con.sequences.  Do  the  moni- 
tors deny  the  reality  of  lier  danger?  No.  Do  they 
deny  the  necessity  of  .some  speedy  and  powerful  rem- 
edy? No.  Are  they  agreed —are  any  two  of  them 
ajfreed— in  their  objections  to  the  remedy  proposed,  or 


442  THE  FEDERALIST. 

in  the  proper  one  to  be  substituted?    Let  them  speak 
for  themselves. 

This  one  tells  us  that  the  proposed  Constitution 
ought  to  be  rejected,  because  it  is  not  a  Confederation 
of  the  States,  but  a  government  over  individuals. 
Another  admits  that  it  ought  to  l)e  a  government  over 
individuals  to  a  certain  extent,  but  by  no  means  to 
the  extent  proposed.  A  third  docs  not  object  to  the 
government  over  individuals,  as  to  the  extent  proposed, 
but  to  the  want  of  a  Bill  of  Rights.  A  fourth  concurs 
in  the  absolute  necessity  of  a  Bill  of  Rights,  but  con- 
tends that  it  ought  to  be  declaratory  not  of  the  per- 
sonal rights  of  individuals,  but  of  the  rights  reserved 
to  the  States  in  their  political  capacity.  A  fifth  is  of 
opinion  that  a  Bill  of  Rights  of  any  sort  would  be 
superfluous  and  misplaced,  and  that  the  plan  would 
be  unexceptionable  but  for  the  fatal  power  of  reg- 
ulating the  times  and  places  of  election.  An  ob- 
jector in  a  large  State  exclaims  loudly  against  the  un- 
reasonable equality  of  representation  in  the  Senate. 
An  objector  in  a  small  State  is  equally  loud  against 
the  dangerous  inequality  in  the  House  of  Representa- 
tives. From  this  quarter  we  are  alarmed  with  the 
amazing  expense  from  the  number  of  persons  who  are 
to  administer  the  new  government.  From  another 
quarter — and  sometimes  from  the  same  quarter  on 
another  occasion — the  cry  is  that  Congress  will  be  but 
a  shadow  of  a  representation,  and  that  the  govern- 
ment would  be  far  less  objectionable  if  the  number 
and  the  expense  were  doubled.  A  patriot  in  a  State 
that  does  not  import  or  export,  discerns  insuperable 
objections  against  the  power  of  direct  taxation.  The 
patriotic  adversary  in  a  State  of  great  exports  and  im- 
ports is  not  less  dissatisfied  that  the  whole  burthen  of 
tax&s  may  be  thrown  upon  consumption.  This 
politician  discovers  in  the  Constitution  a  direct  and 
irresistible  tendency  to  monarchy;  that  is  equally 
sure  it  will  end  in  aristocracy.  Another  is  puzzled 
to  say  which  of  these  shapes  it  will  ultimately  assume, 
but  sees  clearly  it  must  be  one  or  other  of  them; 
whilst  a  fourth  is  not  wanting  who,  with  no  less 
confidence,  affirms  that  the  Constitution  is  so  far  from 
having  a  bias  towards  either  of  these  dangers,  that 


THE  PEDERALISt.  443 

the  weight  on  that  side  will  not  be  sufficient  to  keep 
it  upright  aud  firm  agaiust  its  opposite  propensities. 
With  another  class  of  adversaries  to  the  Constitu- 
tion the  language  is,  that  the  legislative,  executive 
and  judiciary  departments  are  intermixed  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  contradict  all  the  ideas  of  regular 
government,  and  all  the  requisite  precautious  in  favor 
of  liberty.  Whilst  this  objection  circulates  in  vague 
and  general  expressions,  there  are  not  a  few  who 
lend  their  sanction  to  it.  Let  each  one  come  forward 
with  his  particular  explanation,  and  scarcely  any  two 
of  them  are  exactly  agreed  upon  the  subject.  In  the 
eyes  of  one,  the  junction  of  the  Senate  with  the 
President  in  the  responsible  function  of  appointing  to 
offices,  instead  of  vesting  this  executive  power  in  the 
Executive  alone,  is  the  vicious  part  of  the  organiza- 
tion. To  another,  the  exclusion  of  the  House  of  Rep- 
resentatives, whose  numbers  alone  could  be  a  due 
security  against  corruption  aud  partiality  in  the  exer- 
ci.se  of  such  a  power,  is  equally  obnoxious.  With 
another,  the  admission  of  the  President  into  any 
share  of  a  power  which  must  ever  be  a  dangerous  en- 
gine in  the  hands  of  the  executive  magistrate,  is  an 
unpardonable  violation  of  the  maxims  of  republican 
jealousy. 

No  part  of  the  arrangement,  according  to  some,  is 
more  inadmissible  than  the  trial  of  impeachments  by 
the  Senate,  which  is  alternaU'ly  a  member  both  of 
the  legislative  and  executive  departments,  when  this 
power  so  evitlently  belonged  to  the  judiciary  depart- 
ment We  concur  fully,  reply  others,  in  the  objec- 
tion to  this  part  of  the  plan;  but  we  can  never  agree 
that  a  reference  of  impeachments  to  the  judiciary  au- 
thority would  Ik-  an  amendment  of  the  error;  our 
principal  dislike  to  the  orgunizjition  arises  from  the 
extensive  p«)wers  already  lodged  in  that  department. 
Even  among  the  zealous  patrons  of  a  Council  of 
HtaU',  the  most  irretf)ncilabl«  variance  is  discovered 
concerning  the  mode  in  which  it  ought  to  be  consti- 
tnt«-<l.  The  demand  of  one  gentleman  is  that  tlK- 
(Council  should  consist  of  a  small  number,  to  be  ap 
pointed  by  tin;  most  numerous  bnuicli  of  llie  legisla- 
ture.    Another  would   i)ref»r  a  larger  number,  and 


444  THE  FEDERALIST. 

considers  it  as  a  fuudameutal  condition  that  the 
appointment  should  be  made  by  the  President  him- 
self. 

As  it  can  give  no  imibnige  to  the  writers  against 
the  plan  of  the  Federal  Constitution,  let  us  suppose 
that,  as  they  are  the  most  zealous,  so  they  are  also  the 
most  sagacious  of  those  who  think  the  late  Couven 
tion  were  unequal  to  the  task  assigned  them,  and  that 
a  wiser  and  better  plan  might  and  ought  to  be  substi- 
tuted. Let  us  further  suppose  that  their  country 
■should  concur  both  in  this  favorable  opinion  of  their 
merits,  and  in  their  unfavorable  opinion  of  the  Con- 
vention; and  should  accordingly  proceed  to  form 
them  into  a  second  Convention,  with  full  powers,  and 
for  the  express  purpose  of  revising  and  remoulding 
the  work  of  the  first.  Were  the  experiment  to 
be  seriously  made— though  it  requires  more  effort  to 
view  it  seriously  even  in  fiction — I  leave  it  to  be  de- 
cided by  the  sample  of  opinions  just  exhibited 
whether,  with  all  their  enmity  to  their  predeces- 
sors, they  would  in  any  one  point  depart  so  widely 
from  their  example,  as  in  the  discord  and  ferment 
that  would  mark  their  own  deliberations;  and  whether 
the  Constitution  now  before  the  public  would  not  stand 
as  fair  a  chance  for  immortality  as  Lycurgus  gave  to 
that  of  Sparta,  by  making  its  change  depend  on  his 
own  return  from  exile  and  death,  if  it  were  to  be 
immediately  adopted,  and  were  to  continue  in  force, 
not  until  a  better,  but  until  another  should  be  agreed 
upon  by  this  new  assembly  of  lawgivers. 

It  is  a  matter  both  of  wonder  and  regret  that  those 
who  raise  so  many  objections  against  the  new  Con- 
stitution should  never  call  to  mind  the  def(!Cts  of  that 
which  is  to  be  exchanged  for  it.  It  is  not  necessary 
that  the  former  should  be  perfect;  it  is  sufficient  that 
the  latter  should  be  more  imperfect.  No  man  would 
refuse  to  give  brass  for  silver  or  gold,  because  the 
latter  had  some  alloy  in  it.  No  man  would  refuse  to 
quit  a  shattered  and  tottering  habitation  for  a  firm 
and  commodious  builiiing,  because  the  latter  had  not 
a  porch  to  it;  or  because  some  of  the  rooms  might  be 
a  little  larger  or  .smaller,  or  the  ceiling  a  little  higher 
or  lower  than  his  fancy  would  have  planned  them. 


THE  FEDERALIST.  445 

But,  waiviiig  illustrations  of  tliis  sort,  is  it  not  mani- 
fest that  most  of  the  capital  objections  urged  against 
the  new  system  lie  with  tenfold  weight  again>t  the 
existing  Confederation?  Is  an  indetiuite  power  to 
raise  money  dangerous  in  the  hands  of  a  Federal  Gov- 
ernment? The  present  Congress  can  make  requisi- 
tions to  any  amount  they  please;  and  the  States  are 
constitutionally  bound  to  furnish  them.  They  can 
emit  bills  of  credit  as  long  as  they  will  pay  for  the 
paper;  they  can  borrow  both  abroad  and  at  home, 
as  long  as  a  shilling  will  be  lent  Is  an  indetinite 
power  to  raise  troops  dangerous?  The  Confederation 
gives  to  Congress  that  power  also:  and  they  have  al- 
ready begun  to  make  use  of  it.  Is  it  improper  and 
un-safe  to  intermix  the  different  powers  of  government 
in  the  same  body  of  men?  Congress — a  single  body 
of  men — are  the  sole  depository  of  all  the  Federal 
powers.  Is  it  particularly  dangerous  to  give  the  keys 
of  the  treasiu"y  and  the  command  of  the  army  into  the 
same  hands?  The  Confederation  places  them  both 
in  the  hands  of  Congress.  Is  a  Bill  of  Rights  essential 
to  liberty?  The  Confederation  has  no  Bill  of  Rights. 
Is  it  an  objection  against  the  new  Constitution  that  it 
empowers  the  Senate,  with  the  concurrence  of  the 
Executive,  to  make  treaties  which  are  to  be  the  laws 
of  the  land?  The  existing  Congress,  without  any 
.such  control,  can  make  treaties  which  they  them- 
selves have  declared,  and  most  of  the  Suites  have 
recognized,  to  be  the  supreme  law  of  the  land.  Is  the 
importation  of  .slaves  permitted  by  the  new  Constitu- 
tion for  twenty  years?  By  the  old  it  is  permitted 
forever. 

I  shall  Im.' told  that  however  dangerous  this  mixture 
of  powers  may  Ixi  in  theory,  it  is  rendered  harmle.s.s 
by  the  dependence  of  Congress  on  the  States  for  \hv 
means  of  carrying  them  into  practice;  that,  however 
large  the  ma.ss  tA  i)owers  may  be,  it  is  in  fact  a  lifeless 
raa.s.s.  Then  I  say,  in  the  lirsl  place,  that  the  Con- 
federation is  chargeable  with  the  still  greater  folly  of 
declaring  certain  i)owers  in  the  Federal  Government 
to  Ik;  absolutely  nece.s«iry,  and  at  the  same  time 
r(;ndering  them  absolutely  nugatory;  and,  in  the  next 
jilace,  that  if  the  union  is  to  continue,  ami  no  l)elter 


446  THE  FEDERALIST. 

government  be  substituted,  effective  power  must 
either  be  granted  to  or  assumed  by  the  existing  Con- 
gress; in  either  of  which  events  the  contrast  just 
stated  will  hold  good.  But  this  is  not  all.  Out  of 
this  lifeless  mass  has  already  grown  an  excrescental 
power  which  tends  to  realize  all  the  dangers  that  can 
be  apprehended  from  a  defective  construction  of  the 
supreme  government  of  the  union.  .  .  . 

Congress  have  undertaken  to  form  new  States;  to 
erect  temporary  governments;  to  appoint  officers  for 
them;  and  to  prescribe  the  conditions  on  which  such 
States  shall  be  admitted  into  the  Confederacy.  All 
this  has  been  done;  and  done  without  the  least  color 
of  constitutional  authority.  Yet  no  blame  has  been 
whispered;  no  alarm  has  been  sounded.  A  great 
and  independent  fund  of  revenue  [the  public  lands] 
is  passing  into  the  hands  of  a  single  body  of  men,  who 
can  raise  troops  to  an  indefinite  number,  and  appro- 
priate money  to  their  support  for  an  indefinite  period 
of  time.  And  yet  there  are  men  who  have  not  only 
been  silent  spectators  of  this  [)rospect,  but  who  are 
advocates  for  the  system  which  exhibits  it;  and  at 
the  same  time  urge  against  the  new  system  the  objec- 
tions which  we  have  heard.  Would  they  not  act 
with  more  consistency  in  urging  the  establishment  of 
the  latter,  as  no  less  necessary  to  guard  the  union 
against  the  future  powers  and  resources  of  a  body 
constructed  like  the  existing  Congi'ess,  than  to  save 
it  from  the  dangers  threatened  by  the  present  impo- 
tency  of  that  assembly  ? 

I  mean  not  by  anything  here  said  to  tJirow  censure 
on  the  measures  which  have  been  pursued  by  Con- 
gress. I  am  sensible  that  they  could  not  have  done 
otherwise.  The  public  interest,  the  necessity  of  the 
case,  imposed  upon  them  the  task  of  overleaping 
their  constitutional  limits.  But  is  not  the  fact  an 
alarming  proof  of  the  danger  resulting  from  a  govern- 
ment which  does  not  possess  regular  powers  com- 
mensiirate  to  its  objects?  if  dissolution,  or  usurpa- 
tion, is  the  dreadful  dilemma  to  which  it  is  continu- 
ally exposed. — TJie  FederalM,  No.  38.— Madison. 


THE  FEDERALIST.  447 


PRESIDENTIAL   RE-ELIGIBILITY. 

With  a  positive  duration  of  considerable  extent,  I 
connect  the  circumstance  of  re-eligibility.  The  first 
is  necessary  to  give  the  officer  himself  the  inclination 
and  the  resolution  to  act  his  part  well,  and  to  the 
community  time  and  leisure  to  observe  the  tendency 
of  his  measures,  and  thence  to  form  an  experimental 
estimate  of  their  merits.  The  last  is  necessary  to  en- 
able the  people,  when  they  see  reason  to  approve  of  his 
conduct,  to  continue  him  in  the  station,  in  order  to 
prolong  the  utility  of  his  talents  and  virtues,  and  to 
secure  to  the  government  the  advantage  of  perma- 
nency in  a  wise  system  of  administration. 

Nothing  appears  more  plausible  at  first  sight,  nor 
more  ill-founded  upon  close  inspection,  than  a  scheme 
which,  in  relation  to  the  present  point,  has  had  some 
respectable  advocates— I  mean  that  of  continuing  the 
chief  magistrate  in  office  for  a  certain  time,  and  then 
excluding  him  from  it,  either  for  a  limited  period  or 
for  ever  after.  This  exclusion,  whether  temporary  or 
perpetual,  would  have  nearly  the  same  effects;  and 
these  effects  would  be  for  the  most  part  rather  perni- 
cious than  salutary. 

One  ill  effect  of  the  exclusion  would  be  a  diminu- 
tion of  the  inducements  to  good  behavior.  There 
are  few  men  who  would  not  feel  much  less  zeal  in 
the  di.scharge  of  a  duty,  when  they  were  con.scious 
that  the  advantage  of  the  station  with  which  it  waa 
connected  must  be  relinquished  at  a  determinate 
period,  than  when  they  were  permitted  to  entertain  a 
hope  of  obtaining  by  meriting  a  continuance  of  them. 
Tliis  position  will  not  be  disputed  so  long  as  it  is  ad- 
mitted that  the  desire  of  reward  is  one  of  the  strong- 
est incentives  of  human  conduct;  or  that  the  l)e.st 
security  for  the  fidelity  of  mankind  is  to  make  inter- 
eat  coincide  with  duty.  Even  the  love  of  fame— the 
ruling  passion  of  the  noblest  mind.s — which  would 
prompt  a  man  to  plan  and  undertake  extensive  and 
ardiious  enterprises  for  the  public  benefit,  requiring 
considerable  time  to  mature  and  perfect  tliem,  if  he 
could  flatter  himself  with  Ihc  j)r()spect  of  lu'ing  al- 
lowed to  finish  what  he  had  begun,  would,  on  the 


4118  THE   FEDERALIST. 

contrary,  deter  bim  from  the  undertaking,  when  he 
foresaw  that  he  must  quit  the  scene  before  he  could 
accomplish  the  work,  and  must  coimnil  that,  together 
with  his  own  reputation,  to  hands  which  might  be 
unequal  or  unfriendly  to  the  task.  The  most  to  be 
expected  from  the  generality  of  men  in  such  a  situa- 
tion is  the  negative  merit  of  not  doing  harm,  instead 
of  the  positive  merit  of  doing  good. 

Another  ill  effect  of  the  exclusion  would  be  the 
temptation  to  sordid  views,  to  peculation,  and  in 
some  instances  to  usurpation.  An  avaricious  man 
who  might  happen  to  till  the  office,  looking  forward 
to  a  time  when  he  must  at  all  events  yield  up  the 
advantages  which  he  enjoyed ,  would  feel  a  propen- 
sity, not  easy  to  be  resisted  by  such  a  man,  to  make 
the  best  use  of  his  opportunities  while  they  la.sted  ; 
and  might  not  scruple  to  have  recourse  to  the  most 
corrupt  expedients  to  make  the  harvest  as  abundant 
as  it  was  transitory;  though  the  same  person  proba- 
bly, with  a  different  prospect  before  him,  might  con- 
tent himself  with  the  regular  emoluments  of  his 
station,  and  might  even  be  unwilling  to  risk  the  con- 
sequences of  an  abu.se  of  his  opportunities.  His 
avarice  might  be  a  guard  upon  his  avarice.  Add  to 
this  that  the  same  man  might  be  vain  or  ambitious  as 
well  as  avaricious.  And  if  he  could  expect  to  pro- 
long his  honors  by  his  good  conduct,  he  might  hesi- 
tate to  sacrifice  his  appetite  for  them  to  his  appetite 
for  gain.  But  with  the  prospect  before  him  of  ap- 
proaching an  inevitable  annihilation,  his  avarice 
would  be  likely  to  get  the  victory  over  his  caution, 
his  vanity,  or  his  ambition. 

An  ambitious  man,  too,  finding  himself  seated  on 
the  summit  of  his  country's  honors,  looking  forward 
to  the  time  at  which  he  must  descend  from  the  ex- 
alted eminence  forever,  and  reflecting  that  no  exertion 
of  merit  on  his  part  could  save  him  from  the  unwel- 
come reverse,  would  be  much  more  violently  tempted 
to  embrace  a  favorable  conjuncture  for  attempting 
the  prolongation  of  his  power  at  every  personal  haz- 
ard, than  if  he  had  the  probability  of  answering  the 
same  end  by  doing  his  duty. 

Would  it  promote  the  peace  of  the  community,  or 


THE  FEDERALIST.  449 

the  stability  of  the  government,  to  have  half  a  dozen 
men  who  had  credit  enough  to  raise  themselves  to 
the  seat  of  the  supreme  magistracy,  wandering  among 
the  people  like  discontented  ghosts,  and  sighing  for  a 
place  which  they  were  destined  never  more  to  pos- 
sess ? 

A  third  ill  effect  of  the  exclusion  would  be  the  de- 
priving the  community  of  the  advantage  of  the  experi- 
ence  gained  by  the  chief  magistrate  in  the  exercise  of 
his  office.  That  exiJerience  is  the  parent  of  wisdom 
is  an  adage  the  truth  of  which  is  recognized  by  the 
wisest  as  well  as  the  simplest  of  mankind.  SVhat 
more  desirable  or  more  essential  than  this  quality  in 
the  governors  of  nations  ?  Where  more  desirable  or 
more  essential  than  in  the  first  magistrate  of  a  nation  ? 
Can  it  be  wise  to  put  this  desirable  and  essential  qual- 
ity under  the  ban  of  the  Constitution  ;  and  to  declare 
that  the  moment  it  is  acquired,  its  possessor  shall  be 
compelled  to  abandon  the  station  in  which  it  was  ac- 
quired, and  to  which  it  is  adapted  ?  This,  neverthe- 
less, is  the  precise  import  of  all  those  regulations 
which  exclude  men  from  serving  their  coimtry,  by 
the  choice  of  their  fellow  citizens,  after  they  have,  by 
a  course  of  service,  fitted  themselves  for  doing  it 
•with  a  greater  degree  of  utility. 

A  fourth  ill  effect  of  the  exclusion  would  be  the 
banishing  men  from  stations  in  which,  in  certain 
emergencies  of  the  State,  their  presence  might  be  of 
the  greatest  moment  to  the  public  interest  or  safety. 
There  is  no  nation  which  has  not,  at  one  period  or 
another,  cxperieiiced  an  aljsolute  necessity  of  the 
.services  of  particular  men  in  particular  situations; 
perhaps  it  would  not  bo  too  strong  to  say,  to  the  jires- 
crvalion  of  il.s  political  existence.  IIow  unwi.se, 
therefore,  must  Ix,'  every  such  self-denying  ordinanct; 
as  .serves  to  prohibit  a  nation  from  making  use  of  its 
own  citizens,  in  the  manner  best  suited  to  its  ex- 
igencies and  circumstances  !  Without  supposing  the 
jKirsonal  essentiality  of  the  man,  it  is  evident  that 
a  change  of  the  chief  magixtrate  at  the  breaking  out 
f)f  a  war,  or  any  similar  crisis,  for  another  even  of 
(■f|ual  nifTit,  would  at  all  times  l)e  detrimental  to  tin 
community;  inasmuch  as  it  would  substitute  incx 
29 


450  THE  FEDERALIST. 

pericncc  to  experience,  ami  would  tend  to  unhinge 
and  set  utloat  the  already  settled  train  of  the  admin- 
istration. 

A  fifth  ill  effect  of  the  exclusion  would  be  that  it 
would  operate  as  a  Constitutional  interdiction  of  sta- 
bility in  tlie  administration.  By  inducing  the  neces- 
sity of  a  change  of  men  in  the  first  ofiice  of  the  nation, 
it  would  necessarily  lead  to  a  mutability  of  measures. 
It  is  not  generally  to  be  expected  that  men  will  vary 
and  measures  remain  uniform.  The  contrary  is  the 
usual  course  of  things.  And  we  need  not  be  appre- 
hensive that  there  will  be  too  much  .stability  while 
there  is  even  the  option  of  changing;  nor  need  we 
desire  to  prohibit  the  people  from  continuing  their 
confidence  where  they  think  it  may  be  safely  placed; 
and  where,  l)y  constancy  on  their  part  they  may  o])vi- 
ate  the  fatal  inconveniences  of  fluctuating  councils 
and  a  variable  policy. 

These  are  some  of  the  disadvantages  which  would 
flow  from  the  principle  of  exclusion.  They  apply 
most  forcibly  to  the  scheme  of  a  perpetual  exclusion, 
but  when  we  consider  that  even  a  partial  one  would 
always  render  the  re-admission  of  the  per.son  a  re- 
mote and  precarious  object,  the  observations  which 
have  been  made  will  apply  nearly  as  fully  to  one  case 
as  to  another. 

What  are  the  advantages  promised  to  counter- 
balance the  evils  ?  They  are  represented  to  be: 
1.  Greater  independence  in  the  magistrate;  2.  Greater 
security  to  the  people.  Unless  the  exclusion  be  per- 
petual, there  will  be  no  pretense  to  infer  the  first 
advantage.  But  even  in  that  case,  may  he  have  no 
object  beyond  his  present  station  to  which  he  may 
sacrifice  his  independence  ?  May  he  have  no  connec- 
tions, no  friends,  for  whom  he  may  sacrifice  it  ? 
May  he  not  be  less  willing  by  a  firm  conduct  to  make 
personal  enemies,  when  he  acts  under  the  impression 
that  a  time  is  fast  approaching,  on  the  arrival  of 
which  he  not  only  viny  but  must  be  exposed  to  their 
resentment  upon  an  equal,  perhaps  upon  an  inferior 
footing  ?  It  is  not  an  easy  point  to  determine  whether 
his  independence  would  be  most  promoted  or  im- 
paired by  such  an  aiTangement. 


OWEN  FELTHAM.  451 

As  to  the  secoud  supposed  advantage,  there  is  still 
greater  reason  to  entertain  doubts  concerning  it,  es- 
pecially if  the  exclusion  were  to  be  perpetual.  In 
this  case,  as  already  intimated,  a  man  of  irregular 
ambition— of  whom  alone  there  could  be  reason  in 
any  case  to  entertiiin  apprehension — would  with  in- 
finite reluct<xnce  yield  to  the  necessity  of  taking  his 
leave  for  ever  of  a  post  in  which  his  passion  for  power 
and  pre-eminence  had  acquired  the  force  of  habit. 
And  if  he  had  been  fortunate  or  adroit  enough  to  con- 
ciliate the  good-will  of  the  people,  he  might  induce 
them  to  consider  as  a  very  odious  and  unjustifiable 
restraint  upon  themselves  a  provision  which  was  cal- 
culated to  debar  them  of  the  right  of  giving  a  fresh 
proof  of  their  attachment  to  a  favorite.  There  may 
be  conceived  circumstances  in  which  this  disgust  of 
the  people,  seconding  the  thwarted  ambition  of  such  a 
favorite,  might  occision  greater  danger  to  liberty 
than  could  ever  reasonably  be  dreaded  from  the  pos- 
sibility of  a  perpetuation  in  office,  by  the  voluntary 
suffrages  of  the  community,  exercising  a  Constitu- 
tional privilege. 

There  is  an  excess  of  refinement  in  the  idea  of  dis- 
abling the  people  to  continue  in  office  men  wlio  had 
entitled  themselves,  in  their  opinion,  to  approbation 
and  confidence;  the  advantages  of  which  are  at  best 
speculative  and  equivocal,  and  are  overbalanced  by 
disadvantages  far  more  certain  and  decisive. — Tlie 
Federalist,  No.  72.— Hamilton. 

FELTHAM,  Owen,  an  English  moralist, 
bom  about  1609,  died  about  1677.  He  was  sec- 
retary to  the  Efirl  of  Thomond,  under  whoso 
roof  he  wrote,  at  the  ago  of  eighteen,  a  little 
volume  of  Resolves,  Divine,  Mural,  and  Politi- 
cal. This  became  very  poymlar,  and  during 
his  lifetime  at  least  nine  editions  were  isstied, 
each  containing  large  additions.  To  his  latest 
editions  were  appended  Lusoria,  a  cdllection 
of  forty  poems.  St.'veral  later  editions  of  tli(! 
RejiolvPH  hav<!  beon  j)riiit<'(l,  Hh'  last  in  IKK). 
He  w.'iH  also  the  author  of  several  minor  works 
in  prose  and  verse. 


453  OWEN  FELTHAM. 

LIMITATION   OP   HUMAN   KNOWLEDGE. 

Learning  is  like  a  river  whose  heail  being  far  in  the 
l;xnd,  is  at  tirst  rising  little,  and  easily  viewed;  but  still 
as  you  go,  it  gapeth  with  a  wider  bank,  not  without 
pleasure  and  delighti'ul  winding,  while  it  is  on  both 
sides  set  with  trees,  and  the  beauties  of  various 
flowers.  But  still  the  further  you  follow  it,  the 
deeper  and  the  broader  'tis;  till  at  last  it  inwaves 
itself  in  the  uufathomed  ocean;  there  you  see  more 
water,  but  no  shore — no  end  of  that  liquid,  fluid 
vastuess.  In  many  things  we  may  soimd  Nature,  in 
the  shallows  of  her  revelations.  We  may  trace  her 
to  her  second  causes:  but.  beyond  them,  we  meet 
with  nothing  but  the  puzzle  of  the  soul,  and  the  dazzle 
of  the  mind's  dim  eyes.  While  we  speak  of  things  that 
are,  that  we  may  dissect,  and  have  power  and  means 
to  find  the  causes,  there  is  some  pleasure,  some  cer- 
tainty. But  when  we  come  to  metaphysics,  to  long- 
buried  antiquity,  and  unto  unrevealed  divinity,  we 
are  in  a  sea,  which  is  deeper  than  the  short  reach  of 
the  line  of  man.  Much  may  be  gained  by  studious 
inquisition;  but  more  will  ever  rest,  which  man  can- 
not discover. — Resolves. 

MEDITATION. 

Meditation  is  the  soul's  perspective  glass;  whereby, 
in  her  long  remove,  she  discern eth  God,  as  if  he  were 
nearer  hand.  I  persuade  no  man  to  make  it  his 
whole  life's  business.  We  have  bodies  as  well  as 
souls;  and  even  this  world,  while  we  are  in  it,  ought 
somewhat  to  be  cared  for.  As  those  states  are  likely 
to  flourish  where  execution  follows  sound  acJvise- 
ments,  so  is  man  when  contemplation  is  seconded  by 
action.  Contemplation  generates;  action  propagates. 
Without  the  first,  the  latter  is  defective;  without  the 
last,  the  first  is  but  abortive  and  embryous.  St.  Ber- 
nard compares  contemplation  to  Rachel,  which  was 
the  more  fair;  but  action  to  Leah,  which  was  the 
more  fruitful.  I  will  neither  always  be  bu.sy  and 
doing,  nor  ever  shut  up  in  nothing  but  thought.  Yet 
that  whicli  some  would  call  idleness,  I  will  call  the 
sweetest  part  of  my  life,  and  that  is,  my  thinking.— 
Resolves. 


OWEN  FELTHAM.  453 

NO   MAN   CAN    SEEM   GOOD   TO   ALL. 

I  never  yet  knew  any  man  so  bad,  but  some  have 
thought  bim  honest  and  afforded  him  love;  nor  ever 
any  so  good,  but  some  have  thought  him  evil  and 
hated  him.  Few  are  so  stigmatical  as  that  they  are 
not  honest  to  some ;  and  few,  again,  are  so  just,  as 
that  they  seem  not  to  some  unequal;  either  the  igno- 
rance, the  envy,  or  the  partiality  of  those  that  judge, 
do  constitute  a  various  man.  Nor  can  a  man  in  him- 
self always  appear  alike  to  all.  In  some,  nature  hath 
invested  a  disparity;  in  some,  report  hath  fore-blinded 
judgment;  and  in  some,  accident  is  the  cause  of  dis- 
posing us  to  love  or  hate.  Or,  if  not  these,  the  varia- 
tion of  the  bodies'  humors,  or,  perhaps,  not  any  of 
these.  The  soul  is  often  led  by  secret  motions,  and 
loves  she  knows  not  why.  There  are  impulsive  pri- 
vacies which  iu"ge  us  to  a  liking,  even  against  the 
parliamental  acts  of  the  two  houses,  reason  and  the 
common  sense;  as  if  there  were  some  hidden  beauty, 
of  a  more  magnetic  force  than  all  that  the  eye  can 
see;  and  this,  too,  more  powerful  at  one  time  than 
another.  Undiscovered  influences  plea.<:e  us  now, 
with  what  we  would  sometimes  contemn.  I  have  come 
to  the  same  man  that  hath  now  welcomed  me  with  a 
free  expression  of  love  and  courtesy,  and  another 
time  hath  left  me  unsaluted  at  all;  yet,  knowing  him 
well,  I  have  been  certain  of  his  sound  affection;  and 
have  found  this  not  an  intended  neglect,  but  an  indis- 
posetlness,  or  a  mind  seriou.sly  busied  within.  Occa- 
sion reins  the  motions  of  the  stirring  mind.  Like 
men  that  walk  in  their  sleep,  we  are  led  about,  we 
neither  know  whither  nor  how. — Resolves. 

AGAINST   READINESS   TO   TAKE   OFFENSE. 

We  make  ourselves  more  injuries  than  are  offered 
us;  they  many  times  pass  for  wrongs  in  our  own 
thoughts,  that  were  never  meant  so  by  the  heart  of 
him  that  sp(  aketh.  The  apprehension  of  wrong  hurts 
more  than  the  sharpest  part  of  the  wrong  done.  So, 
by  falsely  making  ourselves  patients  of  wrong,  we 
iKJcome  the  true  and  first  actors.  It  is  not  good,  in 
matters  of  disconrt/'sy,  to  dive  into  man's  mind,  Ih.'- 
yond  his  own  comment;  nor  to  Htir  u{)on  a  doubtful 


454  FENELON. 

indignity  without  it,  unless  we  have  proofs  that  carry 
weight  and  conviction  with  them.  Words  do  some- 
times tiy  from  tlie  tongue  that  the  heart  did  neither 
hatch  nor  harbor.  While  we  think  to  revenge,  an  in- 
jury, we  many  times  begin  one;  and  after  that,  repent 
our  misconceptions.  In  things  that  may  have  a 
double  sense,  it  is  good  to  think  the  better  was  in- 
tended; so  shall  we  still  both  keep  our  friends  and 
quietness.  — Resolves. 

F^NELON,  FRANgois  de  Salionao  de  la 
MoTHE,  a  French  prelate  and  author,  born 
at  Perigord  in  1651,  died  at  Cambray  in  1715. 
He  was  the  son  of  Pons  de  Salignac,  Count  de 
la  Mothe.  At  the  age  of  twelve  he  entered 
the  University  of  Cahors,  and  finished  his 
philosophical  studies  in  the  College  du  Plessis, 
at  Paris.  The  attention  which  he  attracted 
aroused  the  anxiety  of  his  uncle,  who  had  as- 
sumed the  charge  of  his  education,  and  who 
hastened  to  remove  him  to  the  theological 
seminary  of  St.  Sulpice.  He  wished  to  devote 
himself  to  mission-work  in  Canada;  but  his 
uncle  refused  consent  to  the  project.  He  then 
gave  himself  to  work  as  a  preacher  and  cate- 
chist  in  the  parish  of  St.  Sulpice,  until  his  ap- 
pointment as  Superior  of  the  Nouvelles  Catho- 
liques,  a  community  established  for  the  pro- 
tection and  instruction  of  female  converts 
from  Protestantism.  At  the  request  of  the 
Duchess  of  Beauvilliers  he  wrote  a  treatise 
On  the  Education  of  Girls,  which  became  an 
elementary  work  of  high  repute  among  the 
upper  classes  of  France.  After  the  revoca- 
tion of  the  Edict  of  Nantes,  Fenelon,  was  ap- 
pointed head  of  a  mission  among  the  Protes- 
tants of  Poitou  and  Saintonge,  then  in  a 
dangerous  state  of  irritation.  On  his  presen- 
tation to  the  king,  before  setting  out  on  his 
mission,  he  asked  that  all  troops  should  be 
withdrawn  from  the  districts,  and  that  he 


FfiNELON.  455 

might  choose  his  co-workers.  Under  his  in- 
fluence all  irritation  soon  subsided. 

On  his  return  to  Paris,  he  was  appointed 
preceptor  of  the  King's  grandsons,  the  Duke 
of  Burgundy,  the  heii'-apparent  to  the  crown, 
and  the  Dukes  of  Anjou  and  Berry.  The 
Duke  of  Burgundy  was  haughty,  arrogant, 
and  unfeeling  to  the  last  degree. 

To  the  training  of  this  ungoverned  character 
Fenelon  brought  his  rare  patience,  tact,  high 
principle,  and  deep  religious  feeling.  Under 
his  care  the  Prince  grew  up  to  a  promising 
early  manhood,  from  which  were  drawn  the 
happiest  auguries  for  his  reign.  For  the  use 
of  the  princes  Fenelon  wrote  his  Fables,  the 
Dialogues  of  the  Dead,  Directions  for  the  Con- 
science of  a  King,  Abridgment  of  the  Lives  of 
Ancient  Philosophers,  and  the  Adventures  of 
Teleniachiis,  embodying  the  principles  which 
he  made  the  groundwork  of  his  royal  pupils' 
education.  For  five  yeai's  his  services  were 
unrecognized  by  the  King,  his  only  means 
of  support  being  the  proceeds  of  a  small  living 
bestowed  upon  him  by  his  uncle,  the  Bishop 
of  Salat. 

In  1694,  probably  through  the  influence  of 
Madame  de  Maintenon,  the  abbacy  of  St.  Val- 
ery  was  given  him.  In  this  year  he  address(Hl 
an  anonymous  letter  to  the  King,  Louis  XIV.. 
setting  forth  the  manifold  abuses  of  his  reign. 
It  is  not  probable  that  Louis  suspected  the 
authorship  of  the  letter;  for  in  the  following 
year  he  raised  Fenelon  to  the  Archbishopric 
of  Cambray.  Fenelon  accepted  the  promo- 
tion on  the  condition  that  he  should  be  per- 
mitted to  devote  nine  montlis  of  the  year  to 
the  dvities  of  the  archbiKhopric,  giving  only 
three  months  to  the  care  of  the  education  of 
the  princes.  He  also  resigned  the  abbacy  of 
St.  Valery. 


456  F^NELON. 

Fenelon  was  not  long  to  enjoy  the  royal 
favor.  He  had  some  years  before  become  ac- 
quainted with  Madame  Guyon,  and  was 
strongly  attracted  by  the  doctrine  of  "Quiet- 
ism" of  which  she  was  the  eloquent  supporter. 
The  upshot  of  the  matter  was  that  the  teach- 
ings of  Madame  Guyon  were  denounced  by  the 
ecclesiastical  authorities.  Fenelon,  about  the 
time  of  his  elevation  to  the  Archiepiscopal  See 
of  Catabray,  became  involved  in  the  contro- 
versy which  ensued ;  and  at  length  wrote  the 
Explication  des  Maximes  des  Saints  sur  la 
Vie  Interieur.  The  French  prelates,  notable 
among  whom  was  Bossuet,  took  strong  ground 
against  the  Maxims.  Fenelon  was  deprived  of 
his  place  as  preceptor  in  the  royal  family,  and 
was  ordered  to  retire  to  his  See  of  Cambray. 
The  teachings  of  Fenelon  were  laid  before  Pope 
Innocent  III.,  who  submitted  the  matter  to 
the  College  of  Cardinals,  who  drew  up  a  list  of 
twenty-three  articles  as  worthy  of  condemna- 
tion, and  their  decision  was  sanctioned  by  the 
Pope.  Fenelon  yielded  imhesitatingly  to  this 
decision  of  the  highest  ecclesiastical  author- 
ity ;  but  he  was  not  restored  to  favor  at  court. 
Just  about  this  time  was  printed  his  Adven- 
tures of  Telemachus,  which  he  had  written 
many  years  before  for  the  amusement  and  in- 
struction of  his  royal  pupils.  Some  one  who 
had  the  manuscript  for  copying  sold  it  to  a 
publisher,  by  whom  it  was  surreptitiously 
printed  in  1699.  Louis,  not  unnaturally,  con- 
ceived the  work  to  be  a  satire  upon  himself  and 
his  Court,  and  ordered  every  copy  to  be  de- 
stroyed ;  and  Fenelon  was  ordci'ed  to  confine 
himself  strictly  to  his  own  diocese.  Here  the 
remaining  fifteen  years  of  his  life  were  spent 
in  the  exercise  of  every  virtue.  The  works  of 
Fenelon  embrace  many  subjects:  theology, 
philosophy,  literature,  history,  oratory,  spirit- 


PllNELON.  467 

uality.  They  have  been  collected  in  twenty 
octavo  volumes.  His  lettei-s  are  many  and 
interesting.  Telemachus  has  been  translated 
into  nearly  all  the  languages  of  Europe. 
After  Telemachns  his  Demonstration  of  the  Ex- 
istence of  God  is  his  most  important  work. 

ANCIENT  TYRE. 

Near  this  delightful  coast,  the  island  on  which 
Tyre  is  built  emerges  from  the  sea.  The  city  seems 
to  float  upon  the  waters,  and  looks  like  the  sovereign 
of  the  deep.  It  is  crowded  with  merchants  of  every 
nation,  and  its  inhabitants  are  themselves  the  most 
eminent  merchants  of  the  world.  It  appears,  at  first, 
not  to  be  the  city  of  any  particular  people,  but  to  be 
common  to  all  as  the  centre  of  their  commerce. 
There  are  two  large  moles,  which,  like  two  arms 
stretched  out  into  the  sea,  embrace  a  spacious  harbor, 
which  is  a  shelter  from  every  wind.  The  vessels  in 
this  harbor  are  so  numerous  as  almost  to  hide  the 
water  in  which  they  float ;  and  the  masts  look  at  a 
distance  like  a  forest.  All  the  citizens  of  Tyre  apply 
themselves  to  trade;  and  their  wealth  does  not  render 
them  impatient  of  that  labor  by  which  it  is  increased. 
Their  city  alx)unds  with  the  finest  linen  of  Egypt, 
and  cloth  that  has  been  doubly  dyed  with  the  TjTian 
purple— a  color  which  has  a  lustre  that  time  itself  can 
scarce  diminish,  and  which  they  frequenlly  heighten 
by  embroidery  of  gold  and  .silver.  The  commerce  of 
the  Phoenicians  extends  to  the  Straits  of  Gades  ;  they 
have  even  entered  the  vast  ocean  by  which  the  world 
is  encircled,  and  made  long  voyages  upon  the  Red 
Sea  to  i.slands  whicli  are  unknown  to  the  rest  of  man- 
kind, from  whence  they  bring  gold,  perfumes,  and 
many  animals  that  are  to  be  found  in  no  other 
country.   .  .  . 

"By  what  mean.s,"  said  I  to  Narbal,  "have  the 
Phtt-nicians  monopolized  the  commerce  of  the  world, 
and  enriched  themselves  at  the  expen.se  of  every  other 
nation  ?" 

"  Y<jii  see  the  means,"  answered  Narbal;  "the 
situation  of  Tyre  renders  it  more  fit  for  commerce 


458  P^NKLON. 

than  any  other  place;  ami  the  iuventiou  of  uavigation 
is  the  peculiar  {!:lory  of  our  country,  if  the  accounts 
are  to  be  believed  that  are  trausnjilted  to  us  from  the 
most  remote  antiiiuily,  the  Tyriaiis  rendered  the 
waves  subservient  to  their  purpose  long  before  Typhis 
and  the  Argonauts  became  the  boast  of  Greece ;  they 
were  the  tirst  who  detied  the  rage  of  the  billows  and 
the  tempest  on  a  few  floating  planks,  and  fathomed 
the  abysses  of  the  ocean.  They  reduced  the  theories 
of  Eg^TJtian  and  Babylonian  .science  to  practice,  regu- 
lating their  course,  where  there  was  no  landmark,  by 
the  stiirs  ;  and  they  brought  innumerable  nations  to- 
gether which  the  sea  had  separated.  The  Tyrians 
are  ingenious,  persevering  and  laborious  ;  they  have, 
besides,  great  manual  dexterity,  and  are  remarkable 
for  temperance  and  frugality.  The  laws  are  executed 
with  the  most  scrupulous  punctuality;  and  the  people 
are,  among  themselves,  perfectly  unanimous  ;  and  to 
strangers  they  are,  above  all  others,  friendly,  courteous, 
and  faithful.  Such  are  the  means,  nor  is  it  necessary 
to  seek  for  any  other,  by  which  they  have  subjected 
the  sea  to  their  dominion,  and  included  every  nation 
in  their  commerce.  But  if  jealousy  and  faction 
should  break  in  among  them;  if  they  should  be 
seduced  by  pleasure  or  by  indolence  ;  if  the  great 
should  regard  labor  and  economy  with  contempt,  and 
the  manual  arts  should  no  longer  be  deemed  honor- 
able; if  public  faith  should  not  be  kept  with  the 
stranger,  and  the  laws  of  a  free  commerce  should  be 
violated  ;  if  manufactures  should  be  neglected,  and 
those  sums  spared  which  are  necessary  to  render 
every  commodity  perfect  of  its  kind,  that  power 
which  is  now  the  object  of  your  admiration  would 
soon  be  at  an  end," 

"But  how,"  said  I,  "can  such  a  commerce  be 
established  at  Ithaca  ?  " 

"  By  the  same  means,"  said  he,  "  that  I  have  estab- 
lished it  here.  Receive  al  1  strangers  with  readiness  and 
hospitality  ;  let  them  find  safety,  convenience,  and 
liberty  in  your  ports;  and  be  careful  never  to  disgust 
them  by  avarice  or  pride.  He  that  would  succeed  in 
a  project  of  gain  must  never  attempt  to  gain  too 
much  ;  and  upon  proper  occasions  must  know  how 


FENELON.  459 

to  lose.  Endeavor  to  gain  the  good-will  of  foreigners; 
rather  suffer  some  injury  then  offend  them  by  doing 
justice  to  yourself,  and  especially  do  not  keep  them 
at  a  distance  by  a  haughty  behavior.  Let  the  laws 
of  trade  be  neither  complicated  nor  burdensome;  but 
do  not  violate  them  yourself,  nor  suffer  them  to  be 
violated  with  impunity.  Always  punish  fraud  with 
severity;  nor  let  even  the  negligence  or  prodigality 
of  a  tnider  escape;  for  follies  as  well  as  vice  effectu- 
ally ruin  trade,  bv  ruining  those  who  carry  it  on. 
But  above  all,  never  restrain  the  freedom  of  com- 
merce, by  rendering  it  subservient  to  your  own  im- 
mediate gain;  the  pecuniary  advantages  of  commerce 
should  be  left  wholly  to  those  by  whose  labor  it  sub- 
sists, lest  this  labor,  for  want  of  a  sufficient  motive, 
should  cease;  there  are  more  than  equivalent  advan- 
tages of  another  kind,  which  must  necessarily  result 
to  the  prince,  from  the  wealth  which  a  free  commerce 
will  bring  into  his  state  ;  and  commerce  is  a  kind  of 
spring,  which  to  divert  from  its  natural  channel  is 
to  lose.  There  are  but  two  things  which  invite  for- 
eigners, profit  and  conveniency  ;  if  you  render  com- 
merce less  convenient,  or  less  gainful,  they  will  in- 
8ea>jibly  forsake  you  ;  and  those  that  once  depart  will 
never  return,  becaiLsc  other  nations,  taking  advantage 
of  your  impnulence,  will  invite  them  to  their  ports, 
and  a  habit  will  soon  be  contracted  of  trading  with- 
out you. 

"  It  must,  indeed,  be  confessed,  that  the  glory  even 
of  Tyre  has  for  some  time  been  obscured.  O  my 
dear  Telemachus,  hadst  thou  beheld  it  before  the 
reign  of  Pygmalion,  how  much  greater  would  have 
been  thy  astonishment.  The  remains  of  Tyre  only 
are  now  to  be  wen  ;  ruins  which  have  yet  tlie  appear- 
ance of  magriiticence,  but  will  shortly  be  mingleil 
with  the  dust.  ()  unhappy  Tyre  !  to  what  a  wret<;h 
art  thou  sulijf.'cled  ;  thou,  to  whom,  as  to  the  sovereign 
of  the  world,  the  wa  so  lal*-]}-  rolled  the  tribute  of 
every  nation!  Boih  strangers  and  subjects  are  equally 
dreaded  by  Pygmalion  ;  and  instead  of  throwing 
ofK-n  our  ports  to  traders  of  the  most  remote  countries, 
like  his  prf'<lcfesw)rH,  without  any  stipulfilioii  or  Iri- 
(jiiiry,  he  demands  an  exact  account  of  tiie  iiurnber 


460  F^NELON. 

of  vessels  that  arrive,  the  countries  to  which  they  be- 
long, the  name  of  every  person  on  board,  the  manner 
of  their  trading,  the  species  and  value  of  their  com- 
modities, and  the  time  they  are  to  continue  upon  his 
coast ;  but  this  is  not  the  worst,  for  he  puts  in  practice 
all  the  little  artifices  of  cunning  to  draw  the  foreign 
merchants  into  some  breach  of  his  innumerable  regu- 
lations, that  under  the  appearance  of  justice  he  may 
confiscate  their  goods.  He  is  perpetually  harassing 
those  persons  whom  lie  imagines  to  be  most  wealthy  ; 
and  increasing,  under  various  pretences,  the  incum- 
brances of  trade,  by  multiplying  taxes.  .  .  .  And 
thus  commerce  hinguishcs  ;  foreigners  forget,  by  de- 
grees, the  way  to  Tyre,  with  which  they  were  once 
so  well  acquainted;  and  if  Pygmalion  persists  in  a  con- 
duct so  impolitic  and  so  injurious,  our  glory  and  our 
power  will  be  transferred  to  some  other  nation.which 
is  governed  upon  better  principles." — Telemachus — 
Transl.  of  Hawksworth. 

SIMPLICITY. 

Simplicity  consists  in  a  just  medium,  in  which  we 
are  neither  too  much  excited,  nor  too  much  composed. 
The  soul  is  not  carried  away  l)y  outward  things,  so 
that  it  cannot  make  all  necessary  reflections  ;  neither 
does  it  make  those  continual  references  to  self,  that 
a  jealous  sense  of  its  own  excellence  multiplies  to 
infinity.  That  freedom  of  the  soul,  which  looks 
straight  onward  in  its  path,  losing  no  time  to  reason 
upon  its  steps,  to  study  them,  or  to  contemplate  those 
that  it  has  already  taken,  is  true  simplicity. 

The  first  step  in  the  progress  of  the  soul  is  disen- 
gagement from  outward  things,  that  it  may  enter 
into  itself  and  contemplate  its  true  interests ;  this  is  a 
wise  self-love.  The  second  is,  to  join  to  this  the  idea 
of  God  whom  it  fears  ;  this  is  tne  feeble  beginning  of 
true  wisdom  ;  but  the  soul  is  still  fixed  upon  itself: 
it  is  afraid  that  it  does  not  fear  God  enough:  it  is  still 
thinking  of  itself.  These  anxieties  about  ourselves 
are  far  removed  from  that  peace  and  liberty,  which 
a  true  and  simple  love  inspires  ;  but  it  is  not  yet  time 
for  this  ;  the  soul  must  pass  through  this  trouble;  this 
operation  of  the  Spirit  of  God  in  our  hearts  comes  to 


FI:NEL0N.  461 

us  gradually  ;  we  approach  step  by  step  to  this  sim- 
plicity. 

In  the  third  and  last  state  we  begin  to  think  of 
God  more  frequently,  we  think  of  ourselves  less,  and 
insensibly  we  lose  ourselves  in  him.  The  more  gentle 
and  docile  the  soul  is,  the  more  it  advances  in  this 
simplicity.  It  does  not  become  blind  to  its  own  de- 
fects and  unconscious  of  its  imperfections  ;  it  is  more 
than  ever  sensible  of  them  ;  it  feels  a  horror  of  the 
slightest  sin  ;  it  sees  more  clearly  its  own  corruption; 
but  this  sensibility  does  not  arise  from  dwelling  upon 
itself,  but  by  the  light  from  the  presence  of  God  we 
see  how  far  removed  we  are  from  infinite  purity. 
Thus  simplicity  is  free  in  its  course,  since  it  makes 
no  preparation;  but  it  can  only  belong  to  the  soul 
that  is  purified  by  a  tnie  penitence.  It  must  be  the 
fruit  of  a  perfect  renunciation  of  self  and  an  unreserved 
love  of  God.  But  though  they  who  become  penitents, 
and  tear  themselves  from  the  vanities  of  the  world, 
make  self  the  object  of  thought,  yet  they  must  avoid 
an  exce."'sive  and  unquiet  occupation  with  them.selves, 
such  as  would  trouble,  and  em])arrass,  and  retard 
them  in  their  progress.  Dwelling  too  much  upon 
self  produces  in  weak  minds  u.seless  scruples  and 
superstition,  and  in  stronger  minds  a  presumptuous 
wisdom.  Both  are  contrary  to  true  simplicity,  which 
is  free  and  direct,  and  gives  it.self  up  without  reserve 
and  with  a  generous  self  forgetful ness  to  the  Father  of 
spirits.  How  free,  how  intrepid  are  the  motions, 
how  glorious  the  progress  that  tiie  soul  makes  when 
delivered  from  all  low,  and  interested,  and  unquiet 
cares. 

If  we  desire  that  our  friends  be  simple  and  free 
with  us,  disencumbered  of  self  in  their  inliniaey  with 
us,  %vill  it  not  please  God,  who  is  our  truest  friend, 
that  we  should  surrender-  our  souls  to  him,  witliout 
fear  or  resctrve,  in  that  holy  and  sweet  connnunion 
with  himself  whieh  he  allows  us  ?  It  is  the  .sim- 
plicity whirli  is  tlie  perfection  of  the  true  children 
of  God.  Tills  Is  the  end  that  we  must  have  in  view, 
and  to  which  we  must  i)e  contiiuially  advancing. 
This  deliveranee  of  the  soul  from  all  u.seless,  and 
selfish,  and  uiuniict  cares,  brings  to  it  a  peace  and 
freedom  that  are  unspeakable    .  .  . 


463  FfiNELON. 

But  some  will  sjiy,  "  Must  we  never  think  of  self  ? 
We  need  not  practice  this  constraint;  in  trying  to  he 
simple  we  may  lose  simplicity.  What  then  must  we 
do  ?  "  Make  no  rule  ahout  it,  but  feel  satisfied  that 
you  affect  nothing.  When  you  are  disposed  to  speak 
of  yourself  from  vanitj^  you  can  only  repress  this 
strong  desire  by  thinking  of  God,  or  of  what  you  are 
called  upon  by  him  to  do.  Simplicity  does  not  con- 
sist in  false  shame  or  false  modesty  any  more  than  in 
pride  or  vaih-glory.  When  vanity  would  lead  to 
egotism,  we  have  only  to  turn  from  self  ;  when,  on 
the  contrary,  there  is  a  necessity  of  speaking  of  our- 
selves, we  must  not  reason  too  much  about  it,  we 
must  look  straight  at  the  end.  "  But  what  will  they 
think  of  me  ?  They  will  think  I  am  boasting  ;  I  shall 
be  suspected  in  speaking  so  freely  of  my  own  con- 
cerns." None  of  these  unquiet  reflections  should 
trouble  us  for  one  moment.  Let  us  speak  freely,  in- 
genuously, and  simply  of  ourselves,  when  we  are 
called  upon  to  speak.  It  is  thus  that  St.  Paul  spoke 
often  in  his  epistles.  What  true  greatness  there  is  in 
speaking  with  simplicity  of  one's  self!  Vain-glory  is 
sometimes  hidden  under  an  air  of  modesty  and  re- 
serve. People  do  not  wish  to  proclaim  their  own 
merit,  but  they  would  be  very  glad  that  others  should 
discover  it.  As  to  the  matter  of  speaking  against 
ourselves,  I  do  not  either  blame  or  recommend  it. 
When  it  arises  from  true  .simplicity,  and  that  hatred 
with  which  God  inspires  us  of  our  sins,  it  is  admi 
rable,  and  thus  I  regard  it  in  many  holy  men.  But 
usually  the  surest  and  most  simple  way  is  not  to  speak 
unnecessarily  of  one's  self,  either  good  or  evil. — 
Transl.  of  Eliza  L.  Follen. 

FREEDOM   OF   THE   WILL. 

Another  mystery  that  I  bear  within  me,  and  that 
renders  me  incomprehensible  to  myself,  is  that  on 
the  one  hand  I  am  free,  and  on  the  other,  dependent 
Independence  is  the  supreme  perfection.  The  Creator 
must  be  the  cause  of  all  the  modifications  of  His 
creation.  The  being  who  is  dependent  for  his  ntiture 
must  be  so  for  all  its  operations.  Thus  God  is  the 
cause  of  all  the  combinations  and  movements  of 


FENELON.  46B 

everytliing  in  the  universe.  It  is  He  who  has  created 
ail  that  is.  But  I  am  free,  and  I  cauuul  doubt  it ;  I 
have  an  intimate  and  immovable  conviction  that  I 
am  Iree  to  will,  or  not  to  will.  There  is  within  me  a 
power  of  election,  not  only  to  will  or  will  not,  but  to 
decide  between  different  objects.  This  is  in  itself  a 
proof  of  the  immateriality  of  my  soul.  What  is  ma- 
terial, corporeal,  caimot  choose;  it  is,  on  the  contrary, 
governed  by  fixed  laws,  that  are  called  physical,  that 
are  necessary,  invincible,  and  contrary  to  what  I  call 
liberty.  In  saying,  then,  that  I  am  free,  I  say  that 
ray  will  is  fully  in  my  power,  and  that  God  leaves 
me  to  u.se  it  as  I  am  disposed  ;  that  I  am  not  deter- 
mined by  a  law  like  other  beings,  but  I  will  of  my- 
self. I  conceive  that  if  the  Supreme  Being  were  be- 
forehand to  inspire  me  with  a  will  to  do  right,  I  have 
the  power  to  rejett  the  inspiration,  however  great  it 
might  be,  to  frustrate  its  effect,  and  to  refuse  my 
consent.  I  conceive,  also,  that  when  I  reject  his  in- 
spiration to  do  right,  I  have  actually  the  power  not 
to  reject  it,  just  as  I  have  the  power  to  open  or  shut 
my  eyes.  Outward  things  may  solicit  me  by  all  that 
is  most  captivating,  the  most  powerful  and  affecting 
arguments  may  be  presented  to  inlluence  me,  the 
Supreme  Being  may  touch  my  heart  with  the  most 
persuasive  inspiration  ;  but  I  still  remain  free  to  will 
or  not  to  will.  It  is  this  exemption  from  all  restraint 
and  from  all  necessity,  this  empire  over  my  own 
actions,  that  makes  me  inexcusable  when  I  will  what 
is  evil,  and  praiseworthy  when  I  will  what  is  good. 
This  is  the  foundation  of  all  merit  and  demerit ;  it 
is  this  that  makes  the  justice  of  reward  or  punish- 
ment. Hence  it  is  that  we  exhort,  reprove,  menace, 
or  promise.  This  is  the  foundation  of  all  govern- 
ment, of  all  instruction,  and  of  all  rules  of  conduct. 
Everj'thing  in  human  life  ])riiigs  us  to  this  conclu- 
sion, that  there  is  ncHliing  over  wliich  wc  have  .such 
entire  control,  as  our  own  wills;  and  that  we  have 
this  free  will,  this  power  of  election,  Ix-twecn  two 
things  equally  in  our  reach.  It  is  this  trulii  llial  the 
shepherds  sing  among  the  mountains,  thiit  mi-rcliants 
anil  anisiiiis  take  for  granted  in  tiieir  negotiations, 
that  the  actor  repre.«euLs  on  the  stuge  ;  the  magistrate 


464  SIR  JOHN  FENN. 

recognizes  it  in  his  decisions,  and  learned  doctow 
teach  it  in  tlieir  schools  ;  il  is  what  no  man  of  sense 
can  seriously  doubt.  This  truth  imprinted  on  our 
hearts  is  acknowledged  in  the  practice  of  those  philos- 
ophers who  attempt  to  overthrow  it  by  their  chimer- 
ical speculations.  The  internal  evidence  of  this  truth 
is  like  that  we  have  of  those  first  principles,  which 
have  no  need  of  demonstration,  and  by  which  we 
prove  other  truths  less  certain. —  Trand.  of  Eliza  L. 

FOLLEN. 

FENN,  Sir  John,  an  English  antiquary, 
born  in  1739,  died  in  1794.  He  was  a  country- 
gentleman  of  Norfolkshire.  He  has  a  claim 
to  a  place  in  literary  history  mainly  on  ac- 
count of  having  edited  a  large  series  of  family 
papers  known  as  The  Paston  Letters,  written 
by  various  persons  of  rank  and  consequence 
during  the  reigns  of  Hem-y  VI.,  Edward  IV., 
and  Richard  III.  (1420-1485.)  The  first  publi- 
cation of  these  letters  was  in  1787,  in  two 
quarto  volumes;  a  third  and  fourth  volume 
appeared  in  1789 ;  in  1823  a  fifth  volume  was 
added,  bringing  the  correspondence  down  to 
1509.  The  Paston  Letters  have  been  several 
times  reprinted;  the  most  convenient  form 
being  in  "  Bohn's  Antiquarian  Library"  (2 
vols.  1849).  A  new  and  greatly  enlarged  edi- 
tion, under  the  care  of  James  Gairdner,  was 
published  in  1872-75.  The  following  letter,  by 
Dame  Agnes  Paston  (1458),  shows  the  way  in 
which  gentlewomen  f o  that  day  wrote  the 
English  language: 

DAME  PASTON'B  LETTER  OF  INSTRUCTIONS. 

Erands  to  London  of  Augnes  Paston  the  xxviii  day  of 
.Tenure,  the  yer  of  Kyng  Henry  the  Sext,  xxxvi. 
To  prey  Grenefeld  to  send  me  feythfully  word,  by 
wrytyn,  who  Clement  Paston  hath  do  his  dever  in 
lernying.  And  if  he  bathe  nought  do  well,  nor  wyll 
nought  amend,  prey  hym  that  he  wyll  trewly  be- 
lassch  hym,  tyl  he  wyll  amend;  and  so  ded  the  las-t 


SIR  JOHN  FENN.  465 

maystr,  and  the  best  that  ever  he  had,  att  Caum- 
brage.  And  sey  Grenefeld  that  if  he  wyll  take  up  on 
hym  to  brynge  hym  in  to  good  rewyll  and  leinyng, 
that  I  may  verily  know  he  doth  hys  dever,  I  wyll 
geve  h}Tn  x  marcs  for  hj's  labor;  for  I  had  lever  he 
wer  fayr  beryed  than  lost  for  defaute. 

Item,  to  se  who  many  gownys  Clement  bathe;  and 
the  that  be  bar,  late  hem  be  reysyd.  He  hath  achort 
grene  gowne,  and  achort  musterdevelers  gowne,  wer 
never  reysyd;  and  achort  blew  gowne  that  was  reysyd, 
and  mad  of  a  syde  gowne,  when  I  was  last  in  London; 
and  a  syde  russet  gownie,  furryd  with  bevyr,  was  mad 
this  tyme  ii  yer;  and  a  syde  murry  gowne  was  mad 
this  tyme  twelmonth. 

Item,  to  do  make  me  vi  sponys,  of  viii  ounce  of 
troy  wyght,  well  facyond,  and  dubbyl  gylt. 

And  say  Elyzabct  Paston  that  she  must  use  hyr 
selfe  to  werke  redyly,  as  other  gentji women  done, 
and  sumwhat  to  help  hyr  selfe  ther  with. 

Item,  to  pay  the  Lady  Pole  xxvis.  \iii(/.  for  hyr 
bord. 

And  if  Grenefeld  have  do  wel  hys  dever  to  Clement, 
or  wyll  do  hys  dever,  geffe  hym  the  nobyll. — The 
Paaton  Ijttters. 

William  de  la  Pole,  Duke  of  Suffolk,  had 
been  sentenced  to  banjsbnient  from  England. 
The  vessel  in  which  he  embarked  was  boarded 
by  an  English  cruiser,  and  the  Duke  was  mur- 
dered. [See  Sliakespeare,  King  Henry  the 
Sixth,  Part  II.]  The  following  farewell  letter 
to  his  son  was  written  by  Suffolk  on  the 
morning  of  his  embarkation,  April  3(i,  1450. 
The  spelling  is  here  conformed  to  modem 
usages. 

THE  DUKE  OP  BUFFOLK's   FAREWELL  LETTER  TO  ni8 
BON. 

My  dear  and  only  well-beloved  son— I  beseech  our 
Lortl  in  lieaven,  the  Maker  of  all  the  world,  U)  bless 
you,  and  to  send  you  ever  grace  U)  love  Him  and  to 
dnad  Him;  to  the  which  as  far  us  a  father  may 
charge  his  child,  I  both  charge  you  and  pray  yuu  to 
80 


466  SIR  JOHN  PENN. 

set  all  spirits  and  wits  to  do,  and  to  know  His  holy 
laws  aud  conunaudinents,  by  the  which  ye  shall  with 
His  great  mercy  pass  all  the  great  tempests  and 
troubles  of  this  wretched  world.  And  that  also  wit- 
tingly, ye  do  nothing  for  love  nor  dread  of  any  earthly 
creature  that  should  displease  Him.  And  thus  as  any 
frailty  makelh  you  to  fall,  beseecheth  His  mercy  soon 
to  call  you  to  Him  again  with  repentance,  satisfac- 
tion, aud  contrition  of  your  heart  never  more  in  will 
to  offend  Him. 

Secondly,  next  Him,  above  all  earthly  thing,  to  be 
true  liegeman  in  heart,  in  will,  in  thought,  in  deed, 
unto  the  king  our  aldermost  high  ;uid  dread  sovereign 
lord,  to  whom  both  ye  and  I  be  so  much  bound  to; 
charging  you  as  father  can  and  may,  rather  to  die 
than  be  the  contrary,  or  to  know  anything  that  were 
against  the  welfare  or  prosperity  of  his  most  royal 
person,  but  that,  as  far  as  your  body  and  life  may 
stretch,  ye  live  and  die  to  defend  it,  and  to  let  his 
Highness  have  knowledge  thereof  in  all  the  haste  ye 
can. 

Thirdly,  in  the  same  wise,  I  charge  you,  my  dear 
son,  alway,  as  ye  be  bounded  by  the  commandment 
of  God,  to  do,  to  love,  to  worship  your  lady  and 
mother,  and  also  that  ye  obey  alway  her  command- 
ments, and  to  believe  her  counsels  and  advices  in  all 
your  works,  the  which  dreaded  not,  but  shall  be  best 
and  tniest  to  you.  And  if  any  other  body  would  stir 
you  to  the  contrary,  to  flee  the  counsel  in  any  wise, 
for  ye  shall  find  it  naught  and  evil. 

Furthermore,  as  far  as  father  may  and  can,  I  charge 
you  in  any  wise  to  flee  the  company  and  counsel  of 
proud  men,  of  covetous  men,  and  of  flattering  men, 
the  more  especially  and  mightily  to  withstand  them, 
and  not  to  draw  nor  to  meddle  with  them,  with  all 
your  might  and  power.  And  to  draw  to  you  and  to 
your  company  good  and  virtuous  men,  and  such  as 
be  of  good  conversation,  and  of  truth,  and  by  them 
shall  ye  never  be  deceived,  nor  repent  you  of.  More- 
over, never  follow  your  own  wit  in  no  wise,  but  in  all 
your  works,  of  such  folks  as  I  write  of  above,  asketh 
your  advice  and  counsel,  and  doing  thus,  with  the 
mercy  of  God,  ye  shall  do  right  well,  and  live  in 


CORNELIUS  GEORGE  FENNER.       467 

right  much  worship  and  great  heart's  rest  and  ease. 
And  I  will  be  to  jou  as  good  lord  and  father  as  my 
heart  can  think. 

And  last  of  all,  as  heartih'  and  as  lovingly  as  ever 
father  blessed  his  child  in  earth,  I  give  you  the  bless- 
ing of  our  Lord  and  of  me,  which  of  his  infinite 
mercy  increase  you  in  all  virtue  and  good  living. 
And  that  your  blood  may,  by  His  grace,  from  kindred 
to  kindred  multiply  in  this  earth  to  His  service,  in 
such  wise  as,  after  the  departing  from  this  wretched 
world  here,  ye  and  they  may  glorify  Him  eternally 
among  His  angels  in  heaven. 

Written  of  mine  hand  the  day  of  my  departing 
from  this  land.  Your  true  and  lo\ing  father. — The 
Paaton  Letters. 

FENNER,  CoRNELros  George,  an  Ameri- 
can clergyman  and  poet,  born  at  Providence, 
R.  I.,  in  1822;  died  at  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  in 
1847.  The  year  before  his  early  death  he 
published  a  little  volume  entitled  Poems  of 
Many  Moods. 

GULF-WEED. 

A  weary  weed,  tossed  to  and  fro, 

Drearily  drenched  in  the  ocean  brine 
Soaring  high  and  sinking  low. 

Lashed  along  without  will  of  mine; 
Sport  of  tbe  six^om  of  Ibc  surging  s-a, 

Flung  on  the  foam  afar  and  anear; 
Mark  my  manifold  mystery; 

Growth  and  grace  in  their  place  appear. 

I  bear  round  berries  gray  and  red, 

Rootless  anfl  rover  though  I  be; 
My  spangled  leaves,  when  nicely  spread, 

Arborcsce  a.s  a  trunkless  tree; 
Corals  curious  coat  me  o'er, 

White  and  hard  in  apt  array; 
'Mid  the  wild  waves'  nide  \iproar, 

Gracefully  grow  \,  niglit  and  day. 

Heart.s  there  are  on  the  sounding  shore, 

Somelliing  whispers  .soft  to  me. 
ReKflcjis  and  roaming  for  evermore, 

Like  this  weary  wee<l  of  I  lie  sea; 


168  ADAM  FERGUSON. 

Bear  they  yet  on  each  beating  breast 
The  eternal  type  of  the  wondrous  whole: 

Growth  unfolding  amid  unrest, 
Grace  informing  with  silent  soul, 

FERGUSON,  Adam,  a  Scottish  philosopher 
and  historian,  born  in  1724,  died  in  1816.  He 
was  educated  at  the  University  of  St.  An- 
drew's, and  commenced  the  study  of  theology 
at  Edinburgh ;  but  in  1745,  when  he  had  com- 
pleted only  half  of  the  course,  he  was  selected, 
on  account  of  his  knowledge  of  the  Gaelic 
language,  to  act  as  chaplain  to  a  Highland 
regiment,  with  which  he  went  to  the  Low 
Countries.  He  retained  this  position  until 
1754,  when  he  determined  to  devote  himself 
to  literai'y  pursuits.  In  1757  he  became  con- 
spicuous by  a  pamphlet  on  The  Morality  of  the 
Stage,  a  defense  of  his  friend  and  fellow-cler- 
gyman, John  Homes,  who  had  been  sharply 
censured  for  having  written  the  tragedy  of 
Douglas.  In  1759  he  was  elected  Professor  of 
Natural  Philosophy,  and  in  1764  of  Moral 
Philosophy,  in  the  Univei'sity  of  Edinburgh. 
In  1778  he  went  to  America  as  secretary  to  a 
commission  appointed  to  negotiate  a  peace 
with  the  revolted  colonies;  his  chair  in  the 
University  being  filled  during  his  year's 
absence  by  Dugald  Stewart,  who  became 
Ferguson's  successor  after  his  resignation  in 
1785,  Ferguson's  principal  works  are :  Essay 
'on  the  History  of  Civil  Society  (1767),  Insti- 
tutes of  Moral  Philosophy  (1769),  The  Progress 
and  Termination  of  the  Roman  Republic 
(1783),  and  Principles  of  Moral  and  Political 
Science,  being  a  revision  of  his  lectures  at  the 
University  (1792). 

DEVELOPMENT   OF   CIVIL   SOCIETY. 

Mankind  have  twice  within  the  compass  of  history 
nscended  from  rude  beginnings  to  very  high  degrees 


ADAM   FERGUSON.  469 

of  refinement  In  every  age,  whether  destined  by  its 
temporary  disposition  to  build  or  to  destroy,  they 
have  left  the  vestiges  of  an  active  and  vehement 
spirit.  The  pavement  and  the  ruins  of  Rome  are 
buried  in  dust,  shaken  from  the  feet  of  barbarians, 
who  trod  with  contempt  on  the  refinements  of  luxury, 
and  spurned  those  arts  the  use  of  which  it  was  re- 
served for  the  posterity  of  the  same  people  to  discover 
and  to  admire.  The  tents  of  the  wild  Arab  are  even 
now  pitched  among  the  luins  of  magnilicent  cities; 
and  the  waste  fields  which  border  on  Palestine  and 
Syria  are  perhaps  become  again  the  nursery  of  infant 
nations.  The  chieftain  of  an  Arab  tribe,  like  the 
founder  of  Rome,  may  have  already  fixed  the  roots 
of  a  plant  that  is  to  flourish  in  some  future  period,  or 
laid  the  foundations  of  a  fabric  that  will  attain  to  its 
grandeur  in  some  distant  age. 

Great  part  of  ^Yfrica  has  been  always  unknown; 
but  the  silence  of  fame,  on  the  subject  of  its  revolu- 
tions, is  an  argument,  where  no  other  proof  can  be 
found,  of  weakness  in  the  genius  of  its  people.  The 
torrid  zone,  everywhere  round  the  globe,  however 
known  to  the  geographer,  has  furnished  few  materials 
for  history;  and  though  in  many  places  supplied  with 
the  arts  of  life  in  no  contemptible  degree,  has  nowhere 
matured  the  more  important  projects  of  political  wis- 
dom, nor  inspireil  the  virtues  which  are  connected 
with  freedom,  and  which  are  required  in  the  conduct 
of  civil  affairs.  It  was  indeed  in  the  torrid  zone  that 
mere  arts  of  mechanism  and  manufacture  were  found, 
among  the  inhabitants  of  the  new  world,  to  have 
made  the  greatest  advance;  it  is  in  India,  and  in  the 
regions  of  this  hemisphere  which  are  visited  by  the 
vertical  sun,  that  the  arts  of  manufacture  and  the 
practice  of  commerce  are  of  the  greatest  antiquity, 
and  have  survived,  with  the  smallest  diminution,  the 
ruins  of  time  and  the  revolutions  of  empire.  The 
sun,  it  seems,  which  ripens  the  pine  apple  and  the 
tnnijirind,  inspires  a  degree  of  mildness  thai  can  even 
a.s.sunge  the  rigors  of  (Ies|W)lical  govcrnnunt  :  and 
such  is  the  cfTect  of  a  gentle  and  pacific  dis|)()silion  in 
the  natives  of  the  Hiisl,  that  no  (onqufst,  ni)  irruption 
of    barbarians,  tcnniiiates,  as    they  did    among   the 


470  SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

stubborn  natives  of  Europe,  by  a  total  destruction  of 
what  the  love  of  ease  and  of  pleasure  had  produced. 

Man,  in  the  i^erfcction  of  his  natural  faculties,  is 
quick  and  delicate  in  his  sensibility;  extensive  and 
various  in  his  imaginations  and  reflections;  attentive, 
penetrating,  and  subtle  in  what  relates  to  his  fellow - 
creatures;  firm  and  ardent  in  his  purposes;  devoted 
to  friendship  or  to  enmity;  jealous  of  his  independ- 
ence and  his  honor,  which  he  will  not  relinquish  for 
safety  or  for  profit;  under  all  his  corruptions  or  im- 
provements, he  retains  his  natural  sensibility,  if  not 
his  force;  and  his  commerce  is  a  blessing  or  a  curse, 
according  to  the  direction  his  mind  has  received. 
But  under  the  extremes  of  heat  or  of  cold,  the  active 
range  of  the  human  soul  appears  to  be  limited ;  and 
men  are  of  inferior  importance,  either  as  friends  or  as 
enemies.  In  the  one  extreme,  they  are  dull  and  slow, 
moderate  in  their  desires,  regular  and  pacific  in  their 
manner  of  life;  in  the  other,  they  are  feverish  in  their 
passions,  weak  in  their  judgments,  and  addicted  by 
temperament  to  animal  pleasure.  In  both,  the  heart 
is  mercenary,  and  makes  important  concessions  for 
childish  bribes ;  in  both,  the  spirit  is  prepared  for 
servitude ;  in  the  one,  it  is  subdued  by  fear  of  the 
future;  in  the  other,  it  is  not  roused  even  by  its  sense 
of  the  present. — History  of  Civil  Society. 

FERGUSON,  Sir  Samuel,  an  Irish  lawyer 
and  poet,  born  at  Belfast  in  1810.  He  was  ed- 
ucated at  Trinity  College,  Dublin ;  was  admit- 
ted to  the  Irish  Bar  in  1838,  and  to  the  Inner 
Bar  in  1859.  He  was  appointed  Deputy  Keeper 
of  the  Public  Records  of  Ireland  in  1867,  and 
in  1878  received  the  honor  of  knighthood  on 
account  of  his  antiquarian  and  literary  merits. 
Besides  numerous  contributions,  in  verse  and 
prose,  to  Blackicood  and  the  Dublin  Univer- 
sity Magazine,  he  has  published  Lays  of  the 
Western  Gael  (1865),  Cougal,  a  Poem  (1872), 
Poems  fl880),  and  Shaksperian  Brevities 
(1882). 


SIR   SAMUEL   FERGUSON.  471 


THE  FORGING  OP  THE  ANCHOR. 

Come  see  the  Dolphin's  Auchor  forged;  'tis  at  a  white 
heat  now, 

The  bellows  ceased,  the  flames  decreased;  though  on 
the  forge's  brow 

The  little  flames  still  fitfully  play  through  the  sable 
mound; 

And  fitfully  you  still  may  see  the  grim  smiths  rank- 
ing round, 

All  clad  in  leather  panoply,  their  broad  hands  only 
bare; 

Some  rest  upon  their  sledges  here,  some  work  the 
windlass  there. 

The  windlass    strains  the  tackle  chains,  the  black 

mound  heaves  below. 
And  red  and  deep  a  hundred  veins  burst  out  at  every 

throe; 
It  rises,  roars,  rends  all  outright — O  Vulcan,  what  a 

glow ! 
Tis  blinding  white,  'tis  blasting  bright,  the  bright 

sun  shines  not  so! 
The  high  sun  sees  not,  on  the  earth,  such  fiery,  fear- 
ful show; 
The  roof-ribs  swarth,  the  candeut  hearth,  the  ruddy 

lurid  row 
(Jf  smiths  that  stand,  an  ardent  band,  like  men  be- 
fore the  foe; 
As  quivering  through  his  fleece  of  flame  the  sailing 

monster  slow 
Sinks  on  the  anvil— all  about  the  faces  fiery  grow. 
"Hurrah!"  they  shout;  "  leap  out— leap  out!"  bang, 

bang  the  sledges  go; 
Hurrah!  the  jetted  lightnings  are  hissing  high  and 

low; 
A  hailing  fount  of  fire  is  struck  at  every  swashing 

blow; 
The  leathern  mail  rebounds  the  hail;  the  rattling  cin 

dcrs  strow 
The  ground  around;  at  every  bound  the  sweltering 

fountiiins  flow; 
And  thick  and  loud  the  swinking  crowd,  at  every 

stroke,  pant  "  Ho!" 

Leap  out,  leap  out,  my  masters!  leap  out,  and  lay  on 

load! 
Let's  forge  a  gcKidly  Anchor,  a  bower  tliick  and  broad. 
For  a  heart  of  oak  is  hanging  on  every  lilow,  I  IkhIc. 
And  I  see  the  good  sliij)  riding,  all  in  a  perilous  road; 


473  SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

The  low  reef  roaring  on  her  lee,  the  roll  of  ocean 
poured 

From  stem  to  stern,  sea  after  sea,  the  mainmast  by 
the  board; 

The  bulwalks  down,  the  rudder  gone,  the  boats  stove 
at  the  chains  ! 

But  courage  still,  brave  mariners,  the  bower  still  re- 
mains; 

And  not  an  inch  to  flinch  he  deigns,  save  where  ye 
pitch  sky  high. 

Then  moves  his  head,  as  though  he  said,  "  Fear  noth- 
ing— here  am  l!" 

Swing  in  your  strokes  in  order,  let  foot  and  hand 

keep  time; 
Your  blows  make  music  sweeter  far  than  any  stee- 
ple's chime! 
But  while  ye  swing  your  sledges,  sing;  and  let  the 

burden  be: 
"  The  Anchor  is  the  Anvil-King,  and  royal  craftsmen 

we!" 
Strike  in,  strike  in;  the  sharks  begin  to  dull  their 

rustling  red  ! 
Our  hammers  ring  with  sharper  din,  our  work  will 

soon  be  sped; 
Our  Anchor  soon  must  change  his  bed  of  fiery  rich 

array. 
For  a  hammock  at  the  roaring  bow,  or  an  oozy  couch 

of  clay: 
Our  Anchor  soon  must  change  the  lay  of  merry 

craftsmen  here, 
For  the  Yo-heave-o,  and  the  Heave-away,  and  the 

sighing  seaman's  cheer. 
When  weighing  slow,  at  eve  they  go,  far,  far,  from 

love  and  home; 
And  sobbing  sweethearts,  in  a  row,  wail  o'er  the  ocean 

foam. 
In  livid  and  obdurate  gloom,  he  darkens  down  at  last: 
A  shapely  one  he  is,  and  strong  as  e'er  from  cat  was 

cast. 
O  trusted  and  trustworthy  guard,  if  thou  hadst  life 

like  me, 
What  pleasure  would  thy  toils  reward  beneath  the 

deep  green  sea! 
O  deep  sea  diver,  who  might  then  behold  such  rights 

as  thou  ? 
The  hoary  monsters'  palaces  !    Methinks  what  joys 

'twere  now 
To  go  plump  plunging  down  amid  the  assembly  of 

the  whales. 
And  feel  the  charmed  sea  round  me  boil  beneath  their 

scourging  tails  I 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON.  47lJ 

Then  deep  in  tonglc-woods  to  fight  the  fierce  sea-uni- 

coru. 
And  send  him  foiled  and  bellowing  back,  for  all  his 

ivory  horn; 
To  leave  the  subtle  wonder-fish,  a  bony  blade  forlorn; 
And  for  the  ghastly -grinning  shark,  to  laugh  his  jaws 

to  scorn; 
To  leap  down   on  the  kraken's  back,   where,  'mid 

Norwegian  isles. 
He  lies,  a  lubber  anchorage,  for  sudden  shallowed 

miles, 
The  snorting,  like  an  under-sea  volcano,  off  he  rolls. 
Meanwhile  to  swing,   a-buffeting  the  far-astonished 

shoals 
Of  his  black  browsing  ocean-calves;  or  haply  in  his 

cove, 
Shell-strown,  and  consecrate  of  old  to  some  Undine's 

love. 
To  find  the  long-haired  mermaidens;  or  hard  by  icy 

lands, 
To  wrestle  with  the  sea-serpent  upon  cerulean  sands. 

O  broad-anned  Fisher  of  the  deep  !  whose  sports  can 

equal  thine? 
The  dolphin  weighs  a  thousand  tons  that  tugs  the 

cable  line; 
And  night  by  night  'tis  thy  delight,  thy  glory  day  by 

dJiy, 
Through  sable  sea  and  breaker  white,  the  giant  game 

to  play. 
But,  simmer  of  our  little  sports  !  forgive  the  name  I 

gave: 
A  fisher's  joy  is  to  destroy — thine  office  is  to  save. 

O  lodger  in  the  sea-king's  halls  !  couldst  thou  but  un 

derstand 
Whose  be  the  white  bones  by  thy  side,  or  who  that 

dripping  band, 
Slow  swaying  in  the  heaving  waves,  that  round  about 

thee  bciwl, 
Which  sounds  like  breakers  in  a  dream,  l)lcssing  their 

ancient  friend — 
Oh,  couldst  thou  know  what  heroes  glide,  with  larger 

steps  round  Ihee, 
Thine  iron  siiie  would  swell  with  pride;  fhou'dst  leap 

within  tiie  sea  ! 

Give  honor  to  tlicir  nifniorio<*  who  left  the  pleasant 
stranfl, 

To  shcrl  their  blood  so  freely  for  the  love  of  Father- 
land— 


474  ROBERT   FP^RGUSSON. 

Who  left  their  chance  of  quiet  age  and  grassy  church- 
yard grave 

So  freely,  for  a  restless  bed  amid  the  tossing  wave — 

Oh,  though  our  Anchor  may  not  be  all  I  have  fondly 
sung. 

Honor  him  for  thek  memory,  whose  bones  he  goes 
among. 

FERGUSSON,  Robert,  a  Scottish  poet,  born 
in  1750,  died  in  1774.  He  was  a  copying  clerk 
in  a  lawyer's  office,  and  was  wont  to  relieve 
the  monotony  of  his  daily  labor  by  writing 
verse  and  in  conviviality.  The  doings  of  a 
social  club  to  which  he  belonged,  and  in  which 
his  fine  voice  made  him  a  favorite,  are  cele- 
brated in  Auld  Reekie,  the  best  of  his  poems. 
In  1773  a  collection  of  his  poems  was  published. 
He  had  already  manifested  symptoms  of 
mental  disease ;  these  were  aggravated  by  a 
fall  by  which  his  head  was  injured,  and  he 
was  placed  in  a  public  asylum,  where  he  died 
a  maniac  on  the  day  before  he  had  completed 
his  twenty-foui'th  year.  A  copy  of  his  poems 
fell  into  the  hands  of  Burns,  and  had  much  to 
do  in  shaping  the  bent  of  his  poetical  genius. 
Burns  thus  apostrophises  his  precursor : 

"  Oh  thou  my  elder  brother  in  misfortune. 
By  far  my  elder  brother  in  the  muses. 
With  tears  I  pity  thy  unhappy  fate." 

Several  of  the  poems  of  Bums  were  evi- 
dently suggested,  both  in  matter  and  manner, 
by  those  of  Fergusson.  In  1787  Burns  sought 
out  the  unmarked  grave  of  Fergusson  in  the 
Canongate  burying-ground,  and  caused  a 
memorial-stone  to  be  placed  by  it,  upon  one 
side  of  which  is  this  inscription:  "By  special 
grant  of  the  managers  to  Robert  Burns,  who 
erected  this  stone,  this  burial-place  is  to  re- 
main forever  sacred  to  the  memory  of  Robert 
Fergusson," 


ROBERT  FERGUSSON.  475 

AN   EDIKBURGH    SUNDAY. 

Ou  Sunday,  here  an  altered  scene 
O'  men  and  manners  meets  our  een. 
Ane  wad  maist  trow,  some  people  chose 
To  change  their  faces  wi'  their  clo'es, 
And  fain  wad  gar  ilk  neighbor  think 
They  thirst  for  guidness  as  for  drink; 
But  there  's  an  unco  dearth  o'  grace. 
That  has  nae  mansion  but  the  face, 
And  never  can  obtain  a  part 
In  benraost  corner  of  the  heart. 
Why  should  religion  mak  us  sad 
If  good  frae  virtue  's  to  be  had? 
Na:  rather  gleefu'  turn  your  face, 
Fonsake  hypocrisy,  grimace; 
And  never  hae  it  understood 
You  tleg  mankind  frae  being  good. 

In  afternoon,  a'  brawly  buskit, 
The  joes  and  lasses  lo'e  to  frisk  it. 
Some  tak  a  great  delight  to  place 
The  modest  bon-grace  ower  the  face; 
Though  you  may  see,  if  so  inclined, 
The  turning  o'  the  leg  behind. 
Now,  Comely-Garden  and  the  Park 
Refresh  them,  after  forenoon's  wark: 
Newhaven,  Leitli,  or  Canonmills, 
Supply  them  wi'  their  Sunday's  gills; 
Where  writers  aften  spend  their  pence, 
To  stock  their  heads  wi'  drink  and  sense. 

While  danderiu'  cits  delight  to  stray, 
To  Castle-hill  or  public  way. 
Where  they  nae  other  purpose  mean, 
Than  that  fool  cause  o'  being  seen, 
Let  me  to  Arthur's  seat  pursue, 
Where  bonny  pastures  meet  the  view, 
And  nioiiy  a  wild-lorn  scene  accrues, 
Befitting  Willie  Siiakespeare's  muse 
If  Fancy  there  would  join  the  thrang. 
The  dese-rt  rocks  and  liills  amang. 
To  echoes  we  should  lilt  and  play, 
And  gie  to  inirtii  the  livclang  day. 

Or  should  some  cankered  biting  shower 
The  day  and  a"  her  sweeLs  «letlowcr, 


476     SUSAN  EDMONDSTON  PERKIER. 

To  llolyrood  bouse  let  me  stray, 
And  gie  to  musing  a'  the  day; 
Lamenting  what  auld  Scotland  knew, 
Bien  days  for  ever  frae  her  view. 
O  Hamilton,  for  shame!  the  Muse 
Would  pay  to  thee  her  eoulhy  vows, 
Gin  ye  wad  tent  the  humt)Ie  stram, 
And  gie  's  our  dignity  again! 
For,  oh,  wae  's  me!  the  thistle  springs 
In  domicile  o'  ancient  kings. 
Without  a  patriot  to  regret 
Our  palace  and  our  ancient  state. 
— Auld  Reekie. 

FERRIER,  Susan  Edmondston,  a  Scottish 
novelist,  bom  at  Edinburgh  in  1782,  died 
there  in  1854.  Her  father,  James  Perrier,  was 
for  a  time  one  of  the  Clerks  of  the  Court  of 
Sessions  with  Sir  Walter  Scott.  She  herself 
was  an  intimate  friend  of  the  author  of 
Waverly,  and  contributed  much  to  relieve  the 
sadness  which  overclouded  the  later  years  of 
his  life.  She  wrote  only  three  novels:  Mar- 
riage (1818),  The  Inheritance  (1824),  and  Des- 
tiny (1831.)  These  novels  were  all  published 
anonymously,  and  by  many  the  authorship 
was  attributed  to  Scott.  Thus  in  the  Noctes 
Ambrosiance  (Nov.  1826),  the  Ettrick  Shep- 
herd is  made  to  say :  "  I  aye  thocht  that  The 
Inheritance  was  written  by  Sir  Walter  as 
weel's  Marriage,  till  it  spunked  out  that  it 
was  written  by  a  leddy. "  Sir  Walter  was  wont 
to  give  Miss  Ferrier  a  high  place  among  the 
novelists  of  the  day.  In  his  diary  for  March 
27,  1826,  after  speaking  of  a  new  novel  which 
he  had  been  reading,  he  says:  "The  women 
do  this  better.  Edgeworth,  Perrier,  Austen, 
have  all  given  portraits  of  real  society  far 
superior  to  anything  man — vain  man — has 
produced  of  the  like  nature." 


SUSAN   EDMONDSTON   FERRIER.      477 

MISS   VIOLET   MACSHAKE. 

As  80on  as  she  recognized  her  grand  nephew,  Mr. 
Douglas,  she  welcomed  bim  with  much  cordiality, 
shook  him  long  and  heartil\by  the  band,  patted  bim 
on  the  back,  looked  into  bis  face  with  much  seeming 
satisfaction;  and,  in  short,  gave  all  the  demonstra- 
tions of  gladness  usual  with  gentlewomen  of  a  cert^iin 
age.  Her  pleasure,  however,  appeared  to  be  rather 
an  impromptu  than  a  habitual  feeling;  for.  as  the  sur- 
prise wore  off,  her  visage  resumed  its  harsh  and 
sarcastic  expression,  and  she  seemed  eager  to  etface 
any  agreeable  impression  her  reception  might  have 
excited. 

"  And  wha  thought  o'  seein'  ye  enoo?"  said  she,  in 
a  quick  gabbling  voice;  "  what's  brought  you  to  the 
toon?  Are  you  come  to  spend  your  honest  faither's 
siller  ere  he's  weel  cauld  in  bis  grave,  puir  man?" 

Mr.  Douglas  explained  that  it  was  upon  account 
of  his  niece's  health. 

"  Health!"  rei^eated  she  with  a  sardonic  smile;  "  it 
wad  mak  an  ool  laugh  to  hear  the  wark  that's  made 
aboot  young  fowk's  health  noo-a-days.  I  wonder 
what  ye  're  a'  made  o',"  grasping  Mary's  arm  in  her 
great  bony  hand— "  a  wheen  puir  feckless  windle- 
straes— ye  maun  awa'  to  Ingland  for  your  healths. 
Set  ye  up!  I  wonder  what  cam'  o'  the  losses  i'  my 
time  that  bute  [behoved]  to  bide  at  hame  ?  And 
whilk  o'  ye,  I  sud  like  to  ken,  '11  e'r  leive  to  see 
ninety-sax,  like  me?    Health!  he!  he!" 

Mary,  glad  of  a  prelen.se  to  indulge  the  mirth 
the  old  lady's  manner  and  appearance  had  excite<l, 
joined  most  heartily  in  the  laugh. 

"Tak  aff  yer  bannct,  bairn,  an'  let  me  see  your 
face;  wha  ran  tell  what  like  ye  are  wi'  tiiiit  snule  o' 
a  thing  on  your  head?"  Then  after  taking  an  accu- 
rate survey  of  her  fare,  she  pushed  aside  her  ix-lisse. 
"Weel.  it's  ae  mercy  I  see  ye  liae  neitlier  the  red 
hcJid  nor  the  muciiie  c\iit.«  o'  the  Dougla-ses.  I 
kenna  wbulbcr  your  faitlicr  ha.s  them  or  no.  I  ne'er 
set  een  on  liim:  neitlier  him  nor  liis  braw  U-ddy 
thought  it  wortli  tiicir  wliile  to  si^er  after  me:  but  I 
was  at  nae  loss,  l)y  a'  accounts." 

"You  have  nr)t  asked  after  any  of  your  Olenfem 


478      SUSAN  EDMONDSTON  FERRIER. 

friends,"  said  Mr.  Douglas,  hoping  to  touch  a  more 
sympathetic  corI. 

"  Time  cneugh — wull  ye  let  me  draw  my  breath, 
man— fowk  canna  say  awthing  at  ance.  An'  ye  but 
to  hae  an  Inglish  wife  tu,  a  Scotch  lass  wadna  ser'  ye. 
Au'  yer  wean  I'se  warran'  it's  ane  o'  the  warld's 
wonders — it's  been  unco  lang  o'  comin' — he,  he!" 

"  He  hi's  begun  life  imder  very  melancholy 
auspices,  poor  fellow!"  said  Mr.  Douglas,  in  allusion 
to  his  father's  death. 

"An'  wha's  faut  was  that?  I  ne'er  heard  tell  o' 
the  like  o^t,  to  hae  the  birn  kirsened  an'  its  grand- 
father deein'!  But  fowk  are  naither  born,  nor 
kirsened,  nor  do  they  wad  or  dee  as  they  used  to  do — 
awthing's  changed." 

"  You  must,  indeed,  have  witnessed  many  changes," 
observed  Mr.  Douglas,  rather  at  a  loss  how  to  utter 
anything  of  a  conciliatory  nature. 

"  Changes! — wee!  a  wat  I  sometimes  wimder  if  it's 
the  same  warld,  an'  if  it's  my  ain  heed  that's  upon 
my  shoothers." 

"  But  with  these  changes  you  must  also  have  seen 
many  improvements?"  said  Mary,  in  a  tone  of  diflS- 
dcnce. 

"  Impruvements?"  turning  sharply  around  upon 
her;  "  what  ken  ye  about  impruvements,  bairn?  A 
bonny  impruvement,  or  ens  no,  to  see  tyleyors  and 
sclaters  leavin'  whar  I  mind  jcwks  and  yer  Is.  An' 
that  great  glowerin'  New  Toon  there,"  pointing  out 
of  her  windows,  "  whar  I  used  to  sit  an'  luck  oot  at 
bonny  green  parks,  an'  see  the  coos  milket,  and  the 
bits  o'  bairnies  rowin'  and  tumlin',  an'  the  la.sses 
trampin'  i'  their  tubs — what  .see  I  uoo  but  stane  an' 
lime,  an'  stoor  an'  dirt,  an'  idle  cheels  an'  dinkit  oot 
madams  prancin'.     Impruvements,  indeed!" 

Mary  found  she  was  not  likely  to  advance  her 
uncle's  fortune  by  the  judiciousness  of  her  remarks, 
therefore  prudently  resolved  to  hazard  no  more.  Mr. 
Douglas,  who  was  more  au  fait  to  tlie  prejudices  of 
old  age,  and  who  was  always  amused  with  her  bitter 
remarks,  when  they  did  not  touch  himself,  en- 
couraged her  to  continue  the  conversation  by  some 
observation  on  the  prevailing  manners.  


SUSAN   EDMONDSTON   FEKRIER.      479 


ilainers!"  repeated  she,  with  a  contemptuous 
i;  "what  ca  ye'  maiuers  noo,  for  I  dinna  ken? 
ane  gangs  bang  intill   their  neebor's  hoos,  and 

cot  o't,  as  it  war  a  chyngehoos;  an' as  for  the 
ter  o't,  he's  no  o'  sae  muckle  vaalu  as  the  flunky 
,  his  chyre.  I'  my  grandfather's  time,  as  I  hae 
1  him  tell,  ilka  maister  o'  a  family  had  his  ain 
in  his  ain  hoos,  ay!  an'  sat  wi'  his  hat  on  his 
afore  the  best  o'  the  land,  an'  had  his  ain  dish 
ras  ay  helpit  first,  and  keepit  up  his  owthority 

man  sude  du.  Paurents  war  paurents  than — 
IS  dardna  set  up  their  gabs  afore  them  than  as 

du  noo.  They  ne'er  presumed  to  say  their 
«  war  their  ain  i'  thae  days— wife  and  servants, 
ners  an'  childer,  a  trummelt  i'  the  presence  o' 

heed. " 

Te  a  long  pinch  of  snuff  caused  a  pause  in  the 
ady's  haningue.  Mr.  Douglas  availed  himself 
e  opportunity  to  rise  and  take  leave, 
^o,  whafs  takin'  ye  awa',  Archie,  in  sic  a  hurry? 
oon  there,"  laj'ing  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  "an' 
ye,  an'  talc  a  glass  o'  wine  an'  a  bit  breed;  or 
)e,"  turning  to  Marj-,  "  ye  wad  rather  hae  a  drap 
I  to  warm  ye?  What  gar.s  ye  look  sae  blae, 
I?    I'm  sure  it's  no  cauld;  but  ye're  ju.st  like  the 

ye  gang  a'  skiltin'  about  the  streets  half-naked, 
han  ye  maun  sit  an'  birsle  yoursels  afore  the 
,t  hame." 

e  had  now  shuffled  along  to  the  further  end  of 
oom,  and  opening  a  press,  took  out  wine  and  a 
ful  of  various-shaped  articles  of  bread,  which 
landed  to  Mary. 

:Iae,  bairn— tak  a  cookie — tak  it  up— what  are 
foiired  for!     it'll  no  bite  ye.     Here's  t'  ye.  Glen 

an'  your  wife  an'  your  wean;  puir  tead,  it's  no 
1  very  chancy  oot.set,  weel  a  wat. " 
le  wine  being  drank,  and  the  cookies  discu.sscd, 
Douglas  made  another  atteini)t  Ut  withdraw,  but 
lin. 
!^anna  ye  sit  still  a  wee,  man,  an'  let  me  specr 

my  auld  freens  at  Glenfern?  IIoo's  Grizzy,  an' 
y,  an'  Nicky? — aye  workin'awa'al  the  peels  an' 
drogs— he,  he  I     I   ne'er  swallowed  a   pevl   nor 


#vv% 


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t:  ji  ii 


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1 


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Wk' 


480     SUSAN  EDMONDSTON  FERRIER. 

gicd  a  doit  for  drogs  a'  my  days,  au'  see  an  ony  o' 
them  '11  riu  a  race  wi'  me  wbau  they're  naur  five- 
score." 

Mr.  Douglas  here  paid  some  compliments  upon  her 
appearance,  which  were  pretty  graciously  received; 
and  added  that  he  was  the  bearer  of  a  letter  from  his 
aunt  Grizzy,  which  he  would  send  along  with  a  roe- 
buck and  brace  of  moor-game. 

"Gin  your  roebuck's  nae  better  than  your  last, 
atweel  it's  no  worth  the  sendin';  poor  dry  fissinless 
dirt,  no  worth  the  chowin';  weel  a  wat  I  begrudged 
my  teeth  on't.  Your  muirfowl  war  nae  that  ill, 
but  they  're  no  worth  the  carry  in';  they  're  doug 
cheap  i'  the  market  enoo,  so  it's  nae  great  com- 
pliment. Gin  ye  had  brought  me  a  leg  o'  gude 
mutton,  or  a  cauler  sawmont,  there  would  hae  been 
some  sense  in  't;  but  ye're  ane  o'  the  fowk  that'll 
ne'er  harry  yoursel'  wi'  your  presents;  it's  but  the 
pickle  powther  they  cost  ye,  an'  I  'se  warran'  ye  're 
thinkin'  mair  o'  your  ain  diversion  than  o'  my 
stamick  wan  ye  're  at  the  shootin'  o'  them,  puir 
beasts. " 

Mr.  Douglas  had  borne  the  various  indignities 
levelled  against  himself  and  his  family  with  a  phil- 
osophy that  had  no  parallel  in  his  life  before,  but  to 
this  attack  upon  his  game  he  was  not  proof.  His 
color  rose,  his  eyes  flashed  fire,  and  something  re- 
sembling an  oath  burst  from  his  lips  as  he  strode  in- 
dignantly toward  the  door. — Ma/rriage. 


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