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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 
FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 


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ALDEN'S  CYCLOPEDIA 


Uniyersal  Literature 


PRKSENTHfO 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  NOTICES,  AND  SPECIMENS 

FROM  THE  WRITINGS  OF  EMINENT  AUTHORS 

OF  ALL  AGES  AND  ALL  NATIONS 


VOL.  VIII 


NKW  YORK 
JOHN    B.     ALDEN,     PUBLISHER 

1887 


Copyright.  1887. 

BY 

THE  PROVIDENT  BOOK  CO. 


CONTENTS    OF   VOL.    VIII. 


PAGE. 

Ferriera  [fair-r^'e-ra],  Antonio,  {Port.,  1528-1.5G9.)— 
Semi-Chorus  in  Ignes  de  Castro.— The  Lament  of  Dom 
Pedro  for  Igrnes,         -  -  -  -  -  -      1 

Fei-erbach  [foi'er-bach].  Ludwig  Andreas,  {Germ.,  1804 
-I87i.)— Reason,  "Will,  Affection.— Man's  Nature  his 
sole  Object  of  Consciousness.         -  -  -  -      5 

Fel'illet  [fuh'yay].  Octave,  {Ft.,  1813-  .)— A  Rustic 
Love-letter,      -  -  -  -  -  -  -    10 

FiCHTE  [flh'teh],  JoHANN  GoTLiEB,  {Germ.,  1762-1814.)— 
Fichte's  Philosophical  Theory.— The  Intellectual  De- 
velopment of  the  Human  Race. — Integrity  in  Study,    13 

Field,  Henry  JIabtyk.  (Amer.,  1823-  .)— Blarney  Cas- 
tle. Ireland  —In  the  Desert,  -  -  -  -    27 

Fiel'dino.  Henry,  (Enrjl.  1707-17.^4.)— The  Maiden's 
Choice.— Parting  with  his  Wife  and  Children.— Mr. 
Paitri(lge«sees  Garrick  in '■  Hamlet,"      -  -  -    32 

Fields,  JAME.S  Thomas  (,-lmer.,  1817-1881.)— Ballad  of  the 
Tempest. — T\w  I.,ast  of  Thackeray.  —  Dirge  for  a 
Young  Girl.- If  I  werea  Boy  a<:aiiL— Agassiz,  -    40 

FiGiiER  [fee'gya],  Imvis  Guillaume,  {FY.,  1819-  .)— 
Glaciers,  .  -  .  .  -  -    50 

Fioi-ERo'A,  Francisco  de,  {Span.  15.50-1621.)  —  On  the 
Death  of  Garcilaso,  -  -  -  -  -    53 

Filica-ja  [fee-lee-ca'ya]  Vincenzo  da,  Utal.,  1643-1707.)  - 
Sonnet  to  Italy.— The  Siege  of  Vienna,    -  -  -    54 

Fin'lay,  George,  {Brit.,  1790-1875.)— The  Vicissitudes  of 
Nations,  ......  53 

FiN'LEY,  John,  (^j/ier,  1797-1866.)— Bachelor's  Hall,  -  60 
Fiudl-si  [fwr-doo'see],   AnuL  Kasim,  {Pera.,  940-1020.)— 

The  Death  of  Soli  rah, 61 

FiKENzroLA   [fee  ren-thu-o'la],  Agnouj,  {Itnl.,  1493-1.545.) 

Upon  Himself,  -  -  -  -  -  -    74 

Fish'er,  Georoe  p.,  {Amrr.,  18d7-        .) — An  InflniU;  and 

AbmAutv  Being,  -  -  .  -  -  -    75 

Fis'HKit.  .John,  (EikjI.,  1459-1.^15.)— The  Pious  Countess  of 

Kichiiiond,        -  -  -  -  -  -  -    78 

FiHK,  Wilbur,  {Amcr.,  1792-1«38.)-Sea-Slckne88,  -        80 

FiHKR,  .loHN,  (Amer.,  1842-        .)— The  Scientific  Moaning 

of  the  Word  "  Force."- The  Early  Scttlen*  of  New 

Kiigland,  -  -  -  -  .  -  .84 

Fitzokr'ai.d.  Percy   Hktherington  (ICngl.,  18.^1-        .)— 

GoJflMmllirs  Comedy,  -  -        -  -  -    68 

Flaumarion   (darn  iriii'reon],   Camii.lk     {Fr.    18(2-        .) 

—  IiiflLiteSimce,         -  -  -  -  -  -    OJ 


(;841>87 


I  CONTENTS. 

FLAT'DKnT  [flo-bair],  GrsTAVE,  {Fi:,  1821-1880.)-Under  the 
Walls  o(  Carthage,    -  -  -  -  •  -94 

Fletcii'eu,  Andrkw,  (Scot.,  1053-17 16.)— Statoof  Scotland 
in  1698, -  -    98 

Fletch'er,  Giles,  (Engl.,  1584-1023.)— The  Sorceress  of 
Vain  Delight, 100 

Fletch'ek.  John.    See  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  -  102 

Fletch'er,  John  William,  (Stviss.-Engl.,  1729-1785.)— 
Trivial  Sins, ia3 

Fletcii'er,  Maria  Jane  (Jewsrury),  (Engl.,  1800-1833.)— 
Birth-day  Ballad, 106 

Fletc'h'kr,  Phineas,  (Kngl.,  1 583-1 GG5.)— The  Decay  of 
Human  Greatness,    -  -  -  -  .  107 

Flint,  Timothy,  (Anier.,  1780-1.S40.)— The  Shores  of  the 
Ohio  in  1815, 109 

Fol'len,  Adolf  Ludwio,  (Germ.,  1794-1855.) — Bliicher's 
Ball,       -  - Ill 

Fol'len,  Charles,  (Germ.-Amer.,  1796-1840.) — The  Prov- 
ince of  the  Psychologist,     .....  112 

Fol'len,  Eliza  Lee  (.Cadot),  (Amer.,  1787-1860.)— Charac- 
teristics of  Charles  Follen.— Evening,      -  -  -  115 

FoNBLANQUE  [fon-hlank'],  Albany  William,  {Engl.,  1797- 
1872.)— Daily  Habits  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington.— Le- 
gal Fictions.— The  Irish  Church,  1835,    -  -  .118 

FONTENELLE  [fojlt-ncl  |,  BERNARD  LE  BOUVIER  DE,  (Fr.,  10.57- 

1757.)— Concerning  the  World  iiuthe  Moon,        -  -120 

FoNviELLE  [foji-vyel],  Wilfrid  de,  (i^-.,  1828-       .)— Ter- 
restrial Waterspouts,  .....  133 
FooTE,  Mary  (Hallock),  (4nier.,  1847-       .)— Coming  into 

Camp, 134 

FooTE,    Samuel,  (Engl.,  1720-1777.)— Charlotte,  Serjeant 
Circuit,  and  Sir  Luke  Limp,  ....  136 

ji^ORBES,  Edward,  (Engl.,  181.5-1854.)    ....  142 

Ford,  John,  (Engl,  1.586-1640.)- Calantha  and  Penthea,      143 
Ford,  Hichard,  (Engl.,  1796^1858,)— Spain  and  the  Span- 
iards in  im),    -  -  -  -  -  -  -  117 

FoRs'TBR.  John,  (Bwfiri.,  1812-1876.)- Swift  and  his  Biog- 
laphers.— The  Literary  Profession  and  the  Law  of 
Copyright,       -  .  -  -  -  -  -  150 

Forsyth   [fore-siihC],  Jo.seph,    (Engl,   176:j-lS15.)— The 

Italian  Vintage.— The  Colosseum  in  180.3,  -  -153 

foBT'E.scL'E,  Sir  John,  (Engl,  1.S95-1485.)— The  Commons 
and  the  Kingdom,     ......  igg 

For'tcne,  Robert,  (Brit.,  1813-1880.)— Chinese  Thieves,      158 

Fos'coLO,  NicoLO  Uoo,  (Ital,  1778-1827.) — The  Sepul- 
chres, -  -  -  -  -  -  .161 

Fos'ter,  .John,  (Engl,  1770-1843.)— Changes  in  Life  and 

Ofiinions,  .......  ]C7 

Fos'ter.  Stephen  Collin.s,  (Ainer.,  1826-1864.)— Old  Folks 
ftt  Home,         -  -  .  .  .  ,  -  17i) 


co^'TE^'Ts.  i 

-     _  PAGE. 

FouQrE  [foo-kay].  Baron  de  la  Motte,  (Ger.,  1777-1843.) 
—How  Undine  came  to  the  Fisherman.— The  Mar- 
riage and  death  of  Huldebrand.— The  Burial  of  Hul- 
debrand,  •--....  1-3 

Fourier  [foo-re-ay],  Francois  Chari.js  Marie,  (Ft.,  1773- 
1837. >— Affinities  in  Friendship.— The  Univei-sal  Side- 
real Language, jgo 

Fox,  Charub  James,  (Engl,  174ft-1806.)— Abolition  of  the 
Slave-Trade.— Motion  for  the  Abolition  of  the  Slave- 
Trade.— r.,etter  to  the  Electors  of  Westminster.-  Exe- 
cution of  the  Duke  of  Monmouth.— Plans  of  James  II.  188 

Fox,  Georok.  (Engl..  1634-1690.^— Fox's  Visions.— Mal- 
treatment at  Ulverstone.  —  Interview  with  Oliver 
Cromwell.— A  Waft  of  Death,       -  -  -  .200 

FOXE.  John.  (Eiigl.,  1J17-1587.)-  Original  Title  of  the  Book 
of  Martyrs.— The  Martyrdom  of  William  Hunter.- 
The  Death  of  Anne  Buleyn,  -  -  .  .205 

Francil'lon,  Robert  Edward,  (Engl.,  1&41-  .)— A  Per- 
sistent Ixiver,    -         -  .  .  .  .  -  211 

Fban'cis.  John  Wakefield,  (Anier.,  1780-1S61.)— Recol- 
lections of  Philip  Freneau — Death  Scene  of  Gouver- 
neur  Morris,    --.....  215 

Fr.4n'ci8,    Sir   Philip,    (Brit.,    1740-1818.)  —  Junius  to 

George  III.,     -  .  -  .  .  .  .217 

Frank'lin,  Benjamin,  (Amer.,  1706-1790.)-Early  Practice 
in  Ojmpositiou.  —  First  Entry  into  Philadelphia.  — 
Teetotalism  in  London.— Religi.. us  Views  at  One-and- 
Twenty.— Speech  in  Favor  of  Daily  Public  Prayers.— 
His  Epitaph  for  Himself.  —  His  Dying  Opinion  of 
Christianity.— Poor  Richards  Almanac— The  Chief 
Tax-(iatlierer.  -Sloth  and  Industrj-.  —  FrugaUty.— 
Buying  Superfluities.  —  Character  of  Whitefleld.  — 
Paying  to^)  dear  for  the  Whistle.— Paper  :  a  Poem.— 
Sidi  Mehemet  on  Algerine  Piracy,  -  -  -  223 

Fha'8er,  JAME.S  Baillie,  {Scot.,   1783-1850.)— A    Persian 

Town.-  Meeting  of  Warriors  in  the  De.sert,       -  -  243 

Freeman,  Edward  Auolstus,  (Engl.,  1823-  .)— Signifi- 
cance of  the  Norman  Compiest.— Comparative  Mag- 
nitude of  the  Conquest.— Death  of  William  the  Con- 
queror —The  Study  of  OrtM-k  and  Latin,  -  -247 
Freiliorath  (fri'lc-grut],  Ferdinand,  (Germ.,  1810-1870.) 
-My  Themes. -Sand-Songs.— The  Lion's  Ride.— The 
Sheik  of  Mount  Sinai  —The  Emigrants,  -  .  256 
FaftMONT.  [fray  mrm],  Je.hsie  Be.sto.n.  (Amrr.,  1824-  .) 
—How  Frr-montH  Second  Expe<lition  was  savefl.— An 
Irm  in  the  Tyrol,  --....  267 
FRiMONT  [fray-m(m],  John  Charlm.  (Amer.,  1813-  .)_ 
8cop«?  of  the  "  MemoliH."  —  Carson,  Owens,  and 
Ciofley.-A  Herd  of  Buffaloes. -A  Fight  with  BulTa- 
loew.-Flrst  Gliini)s.>  of  th.-  It/M-ky  Mountains.  -On 
the  Summit  of  the  RfM;ky  Mounlains.  The  (inat  Sail 
Lake  Valley  in  I8»3.-An  Exploit  of  Curw.n  and 
Oodey.- Preparing  the  Report  of  the  Second  Erpe- 


6  CONTENTS. 

PAGB. 

dition.— The  Treaty  of  Couenga.— Retrospective  and 
Prospective,    -  -  -  -  -  -  -  S71 

Frknkau  [freno'],  Phiup,  (Amer.,  1753-1R32.)— Advice  to 
Authors.— Directions  for  Coiirtsliip.— The  Early  New 
EiiKlanders. — Tlie  Dutcli  and  the  Englisli  in  New 
York.— The  Battle  of  Stoningtoii,  Conn.,  August,  1814. 
—The  Wild  Honeysuckle.— May  to  April,  -  -  293 

Frkre  [freer],  .John  HooKriAM,  (F/ngl.,  1769-1846.)— An 
Exploit  of  the  ("id.— King  Arthur  and  his  Round 
Table.— King  Arthur's  P'east  at  Carlisle.- Sir  Laun- 
celot,  Sir  Tristram,  and  Sir  Gawain. — The  Marauding 
Giants.— The  Monks  and  the  Giants.- The  Close  of 
the  War, 30J 

Frkytaq  [fry'tag],  Gustav,  (Ocrni.,  1816-  .)— The  Bur- 
den of  a  Crime,  ......  3J7 

Froissaht  [frwah-sar],  Jean,  (Fr.,  1337-1410.) -King  Ed- 
ward III.  and  the  Countess  of  Salisbury. — A  Duel  for 
Life  or  Death.— The  Abdication  of  King  Richard  II. 
of  England, 322 

Fboth'ingiiam.  Nathaniel  Lanodon,  {Amer.,  1793-1870.) 
—The  Sight  of  the  Blind.— The  McLean  Asylum  for 
the  Insane,       -  -  -  -  -  -  -  338 

Froth'ingham,  Octavius  Brooks,  (Amer.,  1822-  .)— 
The  Beliefs  of  Unbelievers.— Theodore  Parker,      -        340 

Froude  [froodj,  Jamks  Anthony,  (Engl.,  1818-  .)— 
Characttir  of  Henry  VIII.— E.\ecution  of  Mary,  Queen 
of  Scots.— The  White  Terrace,  Lake  Tarawara,  New 
Zealand.— The  Devil's  Hole. — Lunch- Time. —The  Pink 
Terrace,  Lake  Tarawara. — England  and  her  Colonies. 
— Erasmus  in  England,        .....  34G 

Fcl'ler,  Andrkw.  (Knr/L,  1754-181.5.)— Mr.  Fuller  and  Mr. 
Diver.— Call  to  the  Ministry. — Doctrinal  Views. —In- 
scription upon  Fuller's  Monument,  -  -  -  3G5 

Ful'ler,  Margaret.     See  Ossoli,  Margaret  Fuller.         370 

FUL'LER,  Thomas,  (.B(ir/Z.,  1608-1661.)- The  Good  School- 
master.— On  Books. — Henry  de  Essex,  Standard- 
Bearer  to  Henry  H.— Miscellaneous  Aphorisms,  -  371 

Ful'lerton,  Lady  Gkorgiana,  {Engl.,  1812-1885.)— A 
Child  of  the  Wilderness, 376 

Fur'ness,  Horace  Howard,  (ISK-  .)  —  The  "  Fir.st 
Folio "  of  Shakespeare,        ....  .  3;'8 

Fur'ness,  William  Hbnry,  {Amer.,  1802-  .)— The  Per- 
sonal Presence  of  Jesus.— A  Single  Eye.  —Eternal 
Light, -  -  -  380 

Fusina'to,  Arnoldo,  {Ital.,  1817-       .)— Venice  in  1849,        383 

Gaird'ner.  James,  {Engl.,  1828-  .)— The  True  Character 
of  Richard  III.— The  Coronation  of  Richard  III.— 
Richard  III.  after  the  Murder  of  His  Nephews.— Per- 
sonal Appearance  of  Richard  HI.,  -  -  -385 

Gall,  Richard,  {Scot.,  1776-1800.)  — Farewell  to  Bonny 
Pood, 393 


CONTENTS.  7 

PAGE. 

Gal'lagher,  William  D.,  (Am^.,  1808-  .)— Two  Years. 
— Immortal  Youth.— Early  Autumn  in  the  West,         -  393 

Galt,  John,  (Scot.,  1779-1839.*— Installation  of  Rev.  Micah 
Balwhidder. — Lawrie  Todd's  Second  Marriage,  -  396 

Gal'tox.  Francis,  (En t^r,  1823-  .)— Reckoning  among 
the  Damaras,  ......  40;} 

Gam'bold,  John,  (Brtt.,  d.   1771.)— The  Mystery  of  Life,  405 

Gan'nett,  William  Channing,  (.Amer.,  1840-  :) — Listen- 
ing for  God,  ...--.  406 

Garcao  [gar-thao],  Pedro  Antonio,  (Port.,  1734-1772.) — 
Dido,  a  Cantata,         -  -  -  -  -  -  407 

Gar'diner,  Sami'el  Rawson,  lEnoL,  1S39-  .)— The  Pro- 
jected Anglo-Spanish  Alliance. — James  I.  and  the 
Spanish  Ambassador. — Negotiations  for  the  Marriage. 
—Character  of  Prince  Charles  of  England.— The  In- 
fanta Maria  of  Spain. — Prince  Charles  tries  to  woo 
the  Infanta,    -  -  -  -  -  -  -  409 

Gar'rison,  William  Lloyd,  (Amer..  1804-1879.)— The  Les- 
sons of  Independence  Day. — Freedom  of  the  Mind. — 
The  Guiltless  Prisoner. — To  Benjamin  Lundy,  -  420 

Garth,  Sir  Samuel.  (Eiujl.,  1G70-1719.)— The  College  of 
Physicians,      .--.-..  426 

Gascoionk  [gas-koin'l,  George,  (Engl,  1535-1577.)  — 
Ladies  of  the  Court.— The  Lullabies,       -  -  -  428 

Gas'kell,  Elizabeth  Cleghorn,  (Engl.,  1810-1865.)  — 
Green  Hej's  Fields,  Manchester.  —  A  Diffei'ence  of 
Opmion. — Miss  Matty's  Confidences. — The  Minister,      4:30 

Ga-sparin.  [gaspa-ra/i],  Agenor  Etienne,  (Fr.,  1810-1871.) 
—Tried  and  Finn,      -  -  -  -  -  -440 

Gasparin  [ga.s-pa-ra»i],  Valerie,  (Ft.,  1815-  .)— Behind 
a  Veil. -October, 443 

Gal-'des,  John,  (Engl,  1605-1662.)  —  From  the  "  EikOn 
Ba.silik6." 444 

Gal-tier  [go-tya],  TnfeopHiLE,  (Fr.,  1811-1872.*— The  TiJLoy&l 
Sepulchres  of  Thebes. — The  Close  of  Day.— The  First 
Smile  of  Spring. — Departure  of  the  Swallows. —Look- 
ing Upward,     -------  447 

Gay,  John,  (Engl,  1688 -17.32.) -Walking  the  Streets  of 
London.— The  Hare  witU  Many  friends.— Black-Eyed 
Susan,  .......  454 

Gay,  Marie  Sophie,  (Fr.,  1776-1832.)— New  Year's  Gifts  in 
France,  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  460 

Gay,  Sydney  Howard,  (Amer.,  1814-  .)— The  Mound- 
Builders  of  AnuTica,  -  .  -  .  .  4(n 

Gavarre  [gfc'-ar-ray').  CirARLKS  Aktiu'r,  (Amer.,  1805- 
.) — Orik'hi  of  till-  History  of  Louisiana.  Progress 
of  the  Work.— Close  r>f  the  Ilistijrical  lA-ctiires.- The 
Aborigines  of  L<>uiHiana.— Death  of  De  Soto.— Iber- 
ville and  Bienville. -The  Deulh  lied  of  Philip  IL  of 
Spain, 468 


CYCLOPEDIA 


OP 


TJNTYERSAL    LITERATURE. 


FERRIEIKA,  ANTO>no,  a  Portuguese 
poet  and  dramatist,  boru  in  1528,  died  in 
1569.  He  became  a  professor  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Coimbra,  and  subsequently  held 
a  high  position  at  court.  He  wrote  many 
sonnets,  odes,  and  epigrams.  His  greatest 
■work  is  the  tragedy  of  Ignes  de  Castro^ 
composed  in  the  antique  manner,  with  a 
chorus  of  Coimbrian  women. 

SEMI-CHORUS    IN    lUNES    DE    CASTRO. 

When  first  young  Love  was  born, 
Earth  was  with  life  imbued ; 
The  sun  acquired  his  beams,  the  stars  their  Ugbt, 
Heaven  shone  in  Nature's  morn  ; 
And,  by  the  light  subdued, 
Darkness  revealed  long-hidden  charms  to  sight; 
And  she  the  rosy-hued, 
Who  rules  heaven's  fairest  sphere, 
Daugliter  of  Ocean  rude, 
She  to  the  world  gave  Love,  her  offspring  dear. 

'Tis  Love  adorns  our  earth 
With  verdure  and  soft  dews; 
With  colors  docks  the  flowers,  with  leaves  the 
Turns  war  to  peace  and  mirth  ;      [groves ; 
O'er  harshness  softness  strews ; 
And  melts  a  thousand  hates  in  thousand  loves. 
Incessant  he  renews 
The  lives  stern  Death  consumes, 
Anrl  gives  the  brilliant  hues 
In  which  eartjj'a  beauteous  picture  ever  blooms. 
t 


ANTONIO  FERRIEIRA.— 3 

The  raging  of  liis  flames 

'Twere  cowardice  to  fear; 

For  Love  is  soft  and  tender  as  a  child ; 

His  rage  entreaty  tames ; 

And  passion's  starting  tear 

He  kisses  from  the  eyes,  tenderly  mild. 

Within  his  quiver  hear 

The  golden  arrows  ring ; 

Tlie  deadly  shafts  appear, 

But  love-fraught,  love-impelled,  their  flight  they 

T  1    •  ,  fwing. 

Love  sounds  m  every  lay,  ^ 

In  every  tuneful  choir ; 

Tempestuous  winds  are  lulled  by  his  sweet  voice ; 

Sorrow  is  chased  away  ; 

And  in  his  genial  fire 

The  limpid  streams,  the  hills  and  vales  rejoice. 

Love's  own  harmonious  lyre 

In  heaven  is  heard  to  sound ; 

And  while  his  flames  inspire 

Thy   heart,   thou,   Castro,    by  Love's   God   art 

crowned. 

Transl.  in  For.  Quart.  Review. 

THE    LAMENT    OF    DOM    PEDRO    FOR    IGNES. 

Dom  Pedro. — What  should  I  say  ?   What  do  1 
What  shriek  or  groan  ? 
O  fortune  !     O  barbarity  !     O  grief ! 

0  mine  own  Dona  Ignes !     O  my  soul ! 

And  art  thou  slain  ?     Hath  Death  the  audacity 
To  touch  thee  ?     Do  I  hear  it,  and  survive  ? 

1  live,  and  thou  art  dead  !     0  cruel  Death  ! 
My  life  thou'st  slain,  and  yet  I  am  not  dead ! 
Open,  thou  earth,  and  swallow  me  at  once ! 
Burst,  burst  away,  my  soul,  from  this  evil  body, 
Whose  weight  by  force  detains  thee  ! 

0  mine  own  Dona  Ignes !     0  my  soul ! 
My  love,  my  passion,  my  desire,  my  care. 
Mine  only  hope,  my  joy  ;  and  art  thou  murdered? 
They've  murdered  thee !    Thy  soul,  so  innocent, 
So  beautiful,  so  humble,  and  so  holy, 
Has  left  its  home !     Thy  blood  has  drenched 
their  swords ! 


ANTONIO  FERRIEIRA.-8 

Thy  blood !     What  cruel  swords  I     What  cruel 

hands ! 
How  could  they  move  against  thee  ?   Those  hard 

weapons, 
How  had  they  strength  or  edge,  turned  against 

thee? 
How,  cruel  king,  couldst  thou  allow  the  deed  ? 
Mine  enemy — not  father — eneniv  ! 
Wherefore  ihiis  murder  me  ?     Ye  savage  lions, 
Ye  tigers,  serpents !   why,  if  for  my  blood 
Athirst,  glutted  ye  not  on  me  your  rage  ? 
Me  had  you  slain,  I  might  survive.     IBarbarians, 
Wherefore  not  murder  me  ?    If  wronged  by  me, 
Mine  enemies,  why  not  on  me  revenge 
Your  wrongs  ?     She  had  not  wronged  you — that 

meek  lamb. 
Innocent,  beautiful,  sincere,  and  chaste ; 
But  you,  as  rancorous  enemies,  would  slay  me — 
Not  in  my  life,  but  soul.     Ye  lieavons  that  saw 
Such  monstrous  cruelty,  how  fell  ye  not  ? 
Ye  mountains  of  Coimbra,  'neath  your  rocks. 
Why  overwhelmed  ye  not  such  ministers? 
Why  trembles  not  the  earth  ?     Why  opens  not  ? 
Wherefore  supports  it  such  barbarity  ? 

Messenger. — My    lord,  for    weeping    there    is 

ample  leisure ; 
But  what  can  tears  'gainst  death  ?     I  pray  thee 

now 
Visit  the  corse,  and  render  it  due  honors. 

Dom   Pedro. — Sad    honors!     Other    honors, 
Lady  mine, 
I  had  in  store  for  thee — honors  thy  due.  .  .  . 
llow  look  upon  those  eyes,  forever  closed? 
Upon  those  tresses  now  not  gold,  but  blood? 
Upon  tliose  hands,  so  cold  and  livid  now, 
That  used  to  be  so  white  and  delicate? 
On  that  fair  bosom,  pierced  with  cruel  wounds? 
Upon  that  form,  so  often  in  mine  arms. 
Clasped,  living,  beautiful,  now  dead  and  cold? 
How  shall  I  see  tlic  picdifcs  of  our  loves? 
O  cruel  father,  didst  thou  not  in  them 
Behold  thy  son  ?    Thou  hear'st  not,  my  beloved  1 
I 


ANTONIO  PERRIEIRA.-4 

I  ne'er  sliall  see  thee  morel     Throughout  thd 

world 
Shall  never  find  thee  1 — Weep  my  griefs  with  me, 
All  you  who  hear  me !    Weep  with  me  ye  rocks, 
Since  in  men's  hearts  dwells  such  barbarity  I 
And  thou,  Coinibra,  shroud  thyself  forever 
In  melancholy  !     Ne'er  within  thy  walls 
Be  laughter  heard,  or  aught  save  tears  and  sighs ! 
Be  thy  Mondego's  waters  changed  to  blood ! 
Withered  thy  trees,  thy  flowers  !    Help  me  to  call 
Upon  Heaven's  justice  to  avenge  my  woes ! — 
I  slew  thee,  Lady  mine  !    'Twas  I  destroyed  thee  1 
With  death  I  recompensed  thy  tenderness  1 
But  far  more  cruelly  than  thee  they  slew 
Will  I  destroy  myself,  if  I  avenge  not 
Thy  murder  with  unheard-of  cruelties ! 
For  this  alone  does  God  prolong  my  life ! — 
With  mine  own  hands  their  breasts  I'll  open; 

thence 
I'll  tear  out  the  ferocious  hearts  that  durst 
Conceive  such  cruelty :  then  let  them  die  ! 
Thee,  too,  I'll  persecute,  thou  Icing,  my  foe ! 
Quickly  shall  wasting  fires  work  ravages 
Amidst   thy  friends,  thy  kingdom!     Thy  slain 

friends 
Shall  look  on  others'  deaths,  whose  blood  shall 

drown  [stream, 

The  plains,  with  whose   blood  shall  the  rivers 
For  hers  in  retribution !     Slay  me  thou. 
Or  fly  my  rage  !     No  longer  as  my  father 
Do  I  acknowledge  thee !     Thine  enemy 
I  call  myself — thine  enemy  !     My  father 
Thou'rt  not — I  am  no  son — I'm  an  enemy  ! — 
Thou,  Ignez,  art  in  heaven !     I  remain 
Till  I've  revenged  thee ;  then  I  there  rejoin  theel 
Here  shalt  thou  be  a  queen,  as  was  thy  due; 
Thy  sons  shall,  only  as  thy  sons,  be  princes. 
Thine  innocent  body  shall  in  royal  state 
Be  placed  on  high  !     Thy  tenderness  shall  be 
Mine  indivisible  associate. 
Until  I  leave  with  thine  my  weary  body, 
And  my  soul  hastes  to  rest  with  thine  for  ever  1 
Transl.  in  Blackwood' $  Magazine. 


LUDWIQ  ANDREAS  FEUERBACH.— 1 

FEUERBACH,  Ludwig  Andreas,  a 
German  philosophical  writer,  born  in  1804; 
died  in  1872.  After  studying  theology  for 
two  years  in  the  University  of  Heidelberg, 
he  went,  in  1824,  to  Berlin  to  attend  the 
lectures  of  Hegel:  The  following  year  he 
abandoned  theology  for  philosophy,  of  which 
in  1828  he  became  a  teacher  in  the  Univer- 
Bity  of  Erlangen.  His  first  work,  Thouglds 
on  Death  and  Immortality^  was  published 
anonymously  in  1830.  In  this,  as  in  his  later 
Works,  he  combated  the  doctrine  of  immor- 
tality. His  peculiarities  of  manner  inter- 
fered with  his  success  in  teaching,  and  at 
length  he  relinquished  the  profession,  mar- 
ried, and  settled  in  the  Castle  of  Brucksberg, 
a  residence  which  formed  part  of  his  wife's 
dower.  He  had  already  written  a  History 
of  Modern  Philosophy  (1833),  Alelard  and 
rleloise,  or  the  Writer  and  the  Man  (1834), 
a  Description^  Explanation,  and  Criticism 
of  the  Philosophy  of  Leihnitz  (1837),  and 
Pierre  Bayle  (1838).  The  Critique  of  He- 
gel  followed  in  1839,  and  The  Essence  of 
Christianity,  his  most  important  work,  in 
1841.  In  this  work  he  claims  to  set  forth  a 
new  philosophy,  resting  "  not  on  an  Under- 
standing per  se,  on  an  absolute  nameless 
understanding,  !)elonging,  one  knows  not  to 
whom,  but  on  the  understanding  of  man, 
though  not  on  that  of  man  enervated  by 
speculation  and  dogma."  He  argues  that 
man's  highest  good  consists  in  resembling 
that  ideal  humanity  which,  created  by 
man  himself,  is  called  God.  Among  his 
works  not  already  mentioned  are  Grund- 
sdtze  der  Philotiophii'.  der  Zuknnft  (1834), 
Da^  Wesen  der  7i  el l<ji on  (184G-51),  llieo- 
gonie  (1857),  and  Gottheit,  Erciheit,  und 
UnsteiMiclikeit  (1866). 


LUDWlG  ANCrEAS  FEUERl3ACtt.-3 

REASON,  WILL,  AFFECTION. 

What,  then,  is  the  nature  of  man,  of  which  he 
is  conscious,  or  what  constitutes  tlie  specific  dis- 
tinction, the  proper  humanity  of  man?  Reason, 
Will,  Affection.  To  a  complete  man  belong  the 
power  of  Thought,  the  power  of  Will,  the  power 
of  Affection.  The  power  of  Thought  is  tlie  light 
of  the  intellect,  the  power  of  Will  is  energy  of 
character,  the  power  of  Affection  is  love.  Reason, 
love,  force  of  will  are  perfections — the  perfections 
of  the  human  being — nay,  more,  they  are  abso- 
lute perfections  of  being.  To  will,  to  love,  to 
think,  are  the  highest  powers,  are  the  absolute 
nature  of  man  as  man,  and  the  basis  of  his  exist- 
ence. Man  exists  to  think,  to  love,  to  will.  Now 
that  which  is  the  end,  the  ultimate  aim,  is  also 
the  true  basis  and  principle  of  a  being.  But 
what  is  the  end  of  reason  ?  Reason.  Of  love  ? 
Love.  Of  will?  Freedom  of  the  Will.  We 
think  for  the  sake  of  thinking ;  love  for  the  sake 
of  loving  ;  will  for  the  sake  of  willing — i.e.,  that 
we  may  be  free.  True  existence  is  thinking, 
loving,  willing  existence.  That  alone  is  true, 
perfect,  divine,  which  exists  for  its  own  sake. 
But  such  is  love,  such  is  reason,  such  is  will. 
The  divine  trinity  in  man,  above  the  individual 
man,  is  the  unity  of  reason,  love,  will.  Reason, 
Will,  Love,  are  not  powers  which  a  man  possesses, 
for  he  is  nothing  without  them  ;  he  is  what  he  is 
only  by  them  ;  they  are  the  constituent  elements 
of  his  nature,  which  heneither  has  nor  makes,  the 
animating,  determining,  governing  powers — 
divine,  absolute  powers — to  which  he  can  oppose 
no  resistance. 

How  can  the  feeling  man  resist  feeling,  the 
loving  one  love,  the  rational  one  reason  ?  Who 
has  not  experienced  the  overwhelming  power  of 
melody  ?  And  what  else  is  the  power  of  melody 
but  the  power  of  feeling  ?  Music  is  the  language 
of  feeling;  melody  is  audible  feeling — feeling 
communicating  itself.  Who  has  not  experienced 
the  power  of  love,  or  at  least  heard  of  it  ?   Which 


LUDWIG  ANDREAS  FEUERBACH.— 3 

is  the  stronger — love  or  the  individual  man  ?  Is 
it  man  that  possesses  love,  or  is  it  not  much  rather 
love  that  possesses  man  ?  When  love  impels  a 
man  to  suffer  death  even  joyfully  for  the  beloved 
one,  is  this  death-conquering  power  his  own  indi- 
vidual power,  or  is  it  not  rather  the  power  of 
love  ?  And  who  that  ever  truly  thought  has  not 
experienced  that  quiet,  subtle  power — the  power 
of  thought  ?  When  thou  sinkest  into  deep 
reflection,  forgetting  thyself  and  what  is  around 
thee,  dost  thou  govern  reason,  or  is  it  not  reason 
which  governs  and  absorbs  thee  ?  Scientific 
enthusiasm — is  it  not  the  most  glorious  triumph 
of  intellect  over  thee  ?  The  desire  of  knowledge 
— is  it  not  a  simply  irresistible  and  all-conquering 
power?  And  when  thou  suppressest  a  passion, 
renouncest  a  habit,  achievest  a  victory  over  thy- 
self, is  this  victorious  power  thine  own  personal 
power,  or  is  it  not  rather  the  energy  of  will,  the 
force  of  morality,  which  seizes  the  mastery  of 
thee,  and  fills  thee  with  indignation  against  thy- 
self and  thine  individual  weakness? — Essence  of 
Christianity. 

man's  nature  his  sole  object  of  conscious- 
ness. 

Man  is  nothing  without  an  object.  The  great 
models  of  humanity,  such  men  as  reveal  to  us 
what  man  is  capable  of,  have  attested  the  truth 
of  this  proposition  by  their  lives.  They  had  only 
one  dominant  passion — the  realization  of  the  aim 
which  was  the  essential  object  of  their  activity. 
But  the  object  to  which  a  subject  essentially, 
necessarily  relates  is  nothing  else  than  this  sub- 
ject's own,  but  objective,  nature.  If  it  be  an 
object  common  to  several  individuals  of  the 
same  species,  but  under  various  conditions,  it  is 
still,  at  least  as  to  the  form  under  which  it 
presents  itself  to  each  of  them  according  to 
their  respective  modifications,  their  own,  but 
objective,  nature 

In  the  object  which  he  contemplates,  therefore, 
man  becomes  acquainted  with  himself;  conscious- 


LUDWIG  ANDREAS  FEUERBACH.— 4 

ncss  of  the  objective  is  the  self-consciousness  of 
man.  We  know  the  man  by  the  object,  by  his 
conception  of  what  is  external  to  himself  ;  in  it 
his  nature  becomes  evident;  this  object  is  his 
manifested  nature,  his  true  objective  ego.  And 
.  this  is  true,  not  merely  of  spiritual,  but  also  of 
sensuous  objects.  Even  the  objects  which  are 
most  remote  from  man,  because  they  are  objects 
to  him,  and  to  the  extent  that  they  are  so,  are 
revelations  of  human  nature.  That  he  sees  them 
and  so  sees  them  is  an  evidence  of  his  own  nature. 
The  animal  is  sensible  only  of  the  beam  which 
immediately  affects  life  ;  while  man  perceives  the 
ray,  to  him  physically  indifferent,  of  the  remoter 
star.  Man  alone  has  purely  intellectual,  disinter- 
ested joys  and  passions ;  the  eye  of  man  alone 

keeps  theoretic  festivals 

The  absolute  to  man  is  his  own  nature.  The 
power  of  the  object  over  him  is  therefore  the 
power  of  his  own  nature.  Thus  the  power  of 
the  object  of  feeling  is  the  power  of  feeling  itself  ; 
the  power  of  the  object  of  the  intellect  is  the  power 
of  the  intellect  itself ;  the  power  of  the  object  of 
the  will  is  the  power  of  the  will  itself.  The  man 
who  is  affected  by  musical  sounds  is  governed  by 
feeling ;  by  the  feeling,  that  is,  which  finds  its 
corresponding  element  in  musical  sounds.  But 
it  is  not  melody  as  such,  it  is  only  melody  preg- 
nant with  meaning  and  emotion,  which  has 
power  over  feeling.  Feeling  is  only  acted  on  by 
that  which  conveys  feeling,  i.e.,  by  itself,  its  own 
nature.  Thus  also  the  will ;  thus,  and  infinitely 
more,  the  intellect.  Whatever  kind  of  object, 
therefore,  we  are  at  any  time  conscious  of,  we 
are  always  at  the  same  time  conscious  of  our  own 
nature ;  we  can  affirm  nothing  without  affirming 
ourselves.  And  since  to  will,  to  feel,  to  think,  are 
perfections,  essences,  realities,  it  is  impossible 
that  intellect,  feeling,  and  will  should  feel  or  per- 
ceive themselves  as  limited,  finite  powers,  i.e.,  as 
worthless,  as  nothing.  For  finiteness  and  noth- 
ingness are  identical ;  finiteness  is  only  a  euphem- 
ism  for  nothingness.      Finiteness  is  the  meta- 


LUDWIG  ANDREAS  FEUERBACH.— 5 

physical,  the  theoretical — nothingness  the  patho- 
logical, practical  expression.  What  is  finite  to 
the  understanding  is  nothing  to  the  heart. 

But  it  is  impossible  that  we  should  be  conscious 
of  will,  feeling,  and  intellect  as  finite  powers,  be- 
cause every  perfect  existence,  every  original 
power  and  essence,  is  the  immediate  verification 
and  aflirmation  of  itself.  It  is  impossible  to 
love,  will,  or  think,  without  perceiving  these  ac- 
tivities to  be  perfections — impossible  to  feel  that 
one  is  a  loving,  willing,  thinking  being  without 
experiencing  an  infinite  joy  therein.  Conscious- 
ness consists  in  a  being  becoming  objective  to 
itself ;  hence  it  is  nothing  apart,  nothing  distinct 
from  the  being  which  is  conscious  of  itself.  How 
could  it  otherwise  become  conscious  of  itself? 
It  is,  therefore,  impossible  to  become  conscious 
of  a  perfection  as  an  imperfection,  impossible  to 
feel  feeling  limited,  to  think  thought  limited. 
— Essence  of  Christianity. 


OCTAVE  FEUILLET.— 1 

FEUILLET,  Octave,  a  French  novelist 
and  dramatist,  born  at  Saint  L6,  in  1812. 
He  distinguished  liimself  at  the  college  of 
Louis-le-Grand,  in  Paris,  where  he  was  edu- 
cated. He  began  his  literary  work  with 
part  of  a  romance  entitled  Le  Grand  Vieil- 
lard,  to  which  two  other  authors  also  con- 
tributed. It  was  the  beginning  of  a  life  of 
constant  literary  activity.  Both  as  drama- 
tist and  novelist  he  has  been  successful,  and 
he  has  contributed  many  articles  to  news- 
papers and  reviews.  In  1862,  he  was  elected 
a  member  of  the  French  Academy.  Among 
his  dramatic  works  are  Za  Nuit  Terrible 
(1845),  La  Crise  (1848),  Le  Pour  et  le  Con- 
tre  (1849),  Dellla  (185T),  Mojitjoye  (1863), 
La  Belle  au  Bois  Dormant  (1865),  Le  Cas 
de  Conscience  (1867),  and  Le  Sphinx  (1874). 
Among  his  novels  are  Punchinello  (1846), 
Onesta  (1848),  Redemption  (1849),  Bellah 
(1850),  Le  Cheveu  Blanc  (1853),  Le  Roman 
d'u7i  Jeune  ILomme  Paimre  (1858),  ILis- 
toire  de  Sihylle  (1862),  Monsieur  de  Ca- 
mo7's  (1867),  Un  Mariage  dans  le  Monde 
(1875),  Le  Journal  dhine  Femnie  (1878), 
and  La  Morte^  translated  under  the  title  of 
Aliette,  Many  of  these  novels  have  been 
rendered  into  English.  The  most  popular 
of  his  works  has  been  Le  Roinan  dhcn 
Jeune  ILomme  Pauvre^  which  has  been 
translated  into  many  languages.  The  Story 
of  Sihylle  has  also  had  great  popularity. 

A    RUSTIC    LOVE-LETTER. 

In  the  middle  of  an  unusually  laborious  ascent 
a  voice  cried  suddenly  from  the  roadside,  "  Stop, 
if  you  please !"  And  a  tall,  bare-legged  girl, 
holding  a  distaff  in  her  hand,  and  wearing  the 
antique  costume  and  ducal  cap  of  the  peasants  of 
the  district,  quickly  crossed  the  ditch ;  she  up- 


OCTAVE  FEUILLET .— 2 

set  some  terrified  sheep,  whose  shepherdess  she 
seemed  to  be,  settled  herself  on  the  step,  and 
showed  us,  in  the  frame  of  the  carriage  window, 
her  brown,  composed,  and  smiling  face.  "  Ex- 
cuse me,  ladies,"  she  said,  in  the  short,  melodi- 
ous accents  which  characterize  the  speech  of  the 
people  of  the  country;  "would  you  be  so  kind 
as  to  read  me  that  ?''  and  she  drew  from  her 
bosom  a  letter  folded  in  the  old  fashion. 

"  Read  it,  sir,"  said  Mile.  Laroque,  laughing ; 
"  and  read  it  aloud,  if  it  is  possible." 

I  took  the  letter,  which  was  a  love-letter.  It 
was  very  minutely  addressed  to  Mile.  Christine 

Oyadec,  borough  of  ,  commune  of   , 

farm  of  .     The  writing  was  that  of  a  very 

uncultivated  hand,  but  one  that  seemed  sincere. 
The  date  proclaimed  that  Mile.  Christine  had 
received  the  missive  two  or  three  weeks  before. 
Apparently  the  poor  girl,  not  being  able  to  read, 
and  not  wishing  to  reveal  her  secret  to  the  ridi- 
cule of  her  neighbors,  had  waited  till  some  pass- 
ing stranger,  both  benevolent  and  learned,  should 
come  and  give  her  the  key  to  the  mystery  which 
had  lurked  in  her  bosom  for  a  fortnight.  Her 
■widely- opened  blue  eye  was  fi.ved  on  me  with  a 
look  of  irrepressible  eagerness,  while  I  painfully 
deciphered  the  slanting  lines  of  the  letter,  which 
•was  conceived  in  the  following  terms: 

"  Mademoiselle,  this  is  to  tell  you  that  since 
the  day  when  we  spoke  together  on  the  moor 
after  vespers,  my  mind  lias  not  clianged,  and 
that  I  am  anxious  to  learn  yours.  My  heart. 
Mademoiselle,  is  all  yours,  as  I  desire  that  yours 
should  be  all  mine;  and,  if  that  is  the  case,  you 
may  be  vorv  sure  and  certain  that  there  is  not  a 
more  loving  soul  on  earth  or  in  heaven  than  your 

friend ,  who  docs  not  sign ;  but  you  know 

very  well  who,  Mademoiselle." 

"  Why,  you  don't  know  who,  do  you,  Made- 
moiselle Christine?"  said  I,  giving  her  back  the 
letter. 

"  Very  possibly,"  slic  said,  showing  lior  wliite 
teeth,  and  gravely  shaking  her  young  head,  ra- 


OCTAVE  FEUILLET.— 3 

diant  with  happiness.  "  Thank  you,  ladies ;  and 
you,  sir." 

She  jumped  down  from  tne  step,  and  soon 
disappeared  in  the  underwood,  flinging  towards 
the  sky  the  joyous  notes  of  a  Breton  soflg.  Mnie. 
Laroque  liad  followed  with  evident  delight  all 
the  details  of  this  pastoral  scene,  which  sweetly 
flattered  her  chimera;  she  smiled — she  dreamed 
in  the  presence  of  that  happy,  barefooted  girl — 
she  was  charmed.  Still,  when  Mile.  Oyadec  was 
out  of  sight,  a  strange  idea  suddenly  came  into 
Mme.  Laroque's  thoughts.  It  was  that,  after  all, 
she  would  not  have  done  so  much  amiss  to  give 
the  shepherdess  a  five-franc  piece,  besides  her 
admiration.   "  Alain  1"  she  cried,  "  call  her  back  !" 

"What  for,  mother?"  said  Mile.  Marguerite, 
eagerly,  who  had  hitherto  seemed  to  pay  no  at- 
tention to  the  occurrence. 

"  Why,  my  child,  perhaps  the  girl  does  not 
understand  altogether  what  pleasure  I  should 
find,  and  she  herself  ought  to  find,  in  running 
about  barefoot  in  the  dust.  In  any  case  I  think 
it  fitting  to  leave  her  something  to  remember  me 
by." 

"  Money  !"  returned  Mile.  Marguerite.  "  Oh  ! 
mother,  don't  do  that !  Don't  mix  up  money 
with  the  child's  happiness  !" 

This  expression  of  a  refined  feeling  "which  poor 
Christine,  by  the  way,  would  perhaps  not  have 
immensely  appreciated,  did  not  fail  to  astonish 
me,  coming  from  the  mouth  of  Mile.  Marguerite, 
who  does  not  generally  pique  herself  on  this 
quintessence.  I  even  thought  that  she  was  jok- 
ing, although  her  face  showed  no  inclination  to 
merriment.  However  that  might  be,  her  caprice, 
joke  or  no  joke,  was  taken  very  seriously  by  lier 
mother,  and  it  was  enthusiastically  decided  that 
the  idyl  should  be  left  with  its  innocence  and 
bare  feet. — The  Romance  of  a  Poor  Young  Man, 


JOHANN  GOTTLIEB  FICHTE.— 1 

FICHTE,  JoHANN  Gottlieb,  a  German 
philosopher,  born  in  17G2;  died  in  1814.  He 
was  the  son  of  a  poor  weaver,  and  owed  his 
education  to  a  wealthy  nobleman,  the  Baron 
von  Miltitz.  He  studied  theology  at  Jena, 
Leipsie,  and  A^ittenberg;  and  afterwards 
became  a  tutor  in  several  private  families,  in 
which  capacity  he  was  not  successful.^  In 
1790  he  took  up  his  residence  at  Leipsie, 
where  he  turned  his  liand  to  any  kind  of 
literary  work.  Here  he  became  personally 
acquainted  with  Kant,  of  whose  philosophy 
he  was  already  an  ardent  admirer ;  and  soon 
after  put  forth  anonymously  his  Essay  to- 
wards a  Critique  of  ^ all  Revelation,  which 
was  by  many  attributed  to  Kant  himself. 
His  prospects  now  began  to  brighten.  In 
1794,  through  the  influence  of  Goethe,  he 
was  made  Professor  of  Philosophy  in  the 
University  of  Jena,  and  began  a  series  of 
lectures  on  Wisseiischaftslehre  ("The  Sci- 
ence of  Knowledge").  But  after  five  years 
some  of  his  teachings  aroused  opposition  on 
account  of  tlieir  alleged  atheistical  tendency, 
and  Fichte  was  constrained  to  resign  his 
professorship.  During  his  stay  at  Jena  he 
had  fairlv  formulated  his  metaphysical  sys- 
tem. Tfie  leading  principles  of  this  system 
are  thus  presented  by  Prof.  Adamson  in  the 
EncyclopcBdia  Britannica: 

fichte's  philosophical  theory. 

Philosophy  is  to  Fichte  the  re-thinking  of  ac- 
tual cognition,  tlic  tlicor;/  of  kno\vle(l<rc,  the  cmn- 
plete,  systoiinitic  exposition  of  the  principles 
whicli  lie  at  the  basis  of  all  reasoned  cognition. 
It  traces  the  necessary  acts  by  which  the  cogni- 
tive consciousness  comes  to  be  what  it  is,  hotli 
in  form  and  content.  Not  that  it  is  a  natural  his- 
tory or  even  a  pheiiojiicnolor/i/  of  consciousness ; 
only  in  the  later  writings  did  Fichto  adopt  even 
II 


JOHANN  GOTTLIEB  FICHTE.— 2 

the  genetic  method  of  expression ;  it  is  the  com- 
plete statement  of  the  pm"e  principles  of  the 
understanding  in  their  rational  or  necessary  order. 
But  if  complete,  this  Wisscnschaftdehre  ("  Theory 
of  Science")  must  he  ahle  to  deduce  the  whole 
organism  of  cognition  from  certain  fundamental 
actions,  themselves  unproved  and  incapable  of 
proof  ;  only  thus  can  we  have  a  system  of  reason. 
From  these  primary  axioms  the  whole  body  of 
necessary  thoughts  must  be  developed,  and,  as 
Socrates  would  say,  the  argument  itself  will  indi- 
cate the  path  of  the  development. 

Of  such  primitive  principles,  the  absolutely 
necessary  conditions  of  possible  cognition,  only 
three  are  tliinkable : — one,  perfectly  uncondi- 
tioned both  in  form  and  matter;  a  second,  uncon- 
ditioned in  form  but  not  in  matter ;  a  third, 
unconditioned  in  matter  but  not  in  form.  Of 
these,  evidently  the  first  must  be  the  fundamen- 
tal ;  to  some  extent  it  conditions  the  other  two  ; 
though  these  cannot  be  deduced  from  it  or  proved 
by  it.  The  statement  of  these  principles  forms 
the  introduction  to  the  Wissenschaftslehre. 

The  method  which  Fichte  first  adopted  for 
stating  these  axioms  is  not  calculated  to  throw  full 
light  upon  them,  and  tends  to  exaggerate  the  ap- 
parent airiness  and  unsubstantiality  of  his  deduc- 
tion. They  may  be  explained  thus:  The  primitive 
condition  of  all  intelligence  is  that  the  Ego  shall 
posit,  affirm,  or  be  aware  of  itself.  The  Ego  is 
the  Ego.  Such  is  the  first  pure  act  of  conscious 
intelligence,  that  by  which  alone  consciousness 
can  come  to  be  what  it  is.  It  is  what  Fichte 
called  a  "  Deed-act"  [Thathandlunri)\  we  cannot 
be  aware  of  the  process — the  Ego  is  not  until  it 
has  affirmed  itself — but  we  are  aware  of  the 
result,  and  can  see  the  necessity  of  the  act  by 
which  it  is  brought  about.  The  Ego  then  posits 
itself  as  real.  What  the  Ego  posits  is  real.  But 
in  consciouaness  there  is  equally  given  a  primi- 
tive act  of  op-positing,  or  contra-positing,  for- 
mally distinct  from  the  act  of  position,  but  mate- 
rially determined,  in  so  far  as  what  is  op-posited 


JOHANN  GOTTLIEB  FICHTE.-3 

must  be  the  negative  of  what  is  posited.  The 
non-Ego — not,  be  it  noticed,  the  world  as  we 
know  it — is  op-posed  in  consciousness  to  the  Ego. 
The  Ego  is  not  the  non-Ego.  How  this  act  of 
op-positing  is  possible  and  necessary,  only  be- 
comes clear  in  the  practical  philosophy,  and  even 
there  the  inherent  difBculty  leads  to  a  higher 
view.  But  third,  we  have  now  an  absolute  an- 
tithesis to  our  original  thesis.  Only  the  Ego  is 
real,  but  the  non-Ego  is  posited  in  the  Ego.  The 
contradiction  is  solved  in  a  higher  synthesis, 
which  takes  up  into  itself  the  two  opposites. 
The  Ego  and  non-Ego  limit  one  another;  and, 
as  limitation  is  negation  of  part  of  a  divisible 
quantum,  in  this  third  act  the  divisible  Ego  is 
op-posed  to  a  divisible  non-Ego. 

From  this  point  onwards  the  course  proceeds 
by  the  method  already  made  clear.  We  progress 
by  making  explicit  the  oppositions  contained  in 
the  fundamental  synthesis,  by  uniting  these  oppo- 
sites, anal}'^ing  the  new  synthesis,  and  so  on, 
until  we  reach  an  ultimate  pair.  Xow,  in  the 
synthesis  of  the  third  act  two  principles  may  be 
distinguished: — (1)  The  non-Ego  determines 
the  Ego  ;  (2)  The  Ego  determines  the  non-Ego. 
As  determined  the  Ego  is  theoretical,  as  deter- 
mining it  is  practical  ;  ultimately  the  opposed 
principles  must  be  united  by  showing  how  the 
Ego  is  both  determining  and  determined. 

From  Jena  Fichte  went  to  Berlin,  where 
by  his  writings,  and  particularly  by  his  lec- 
tures, he  exerted  a  powerful  influence  on 
the  public  mind.  Two  of  his  courses  of 
lectures  are  worthy  of  special  mention  :  Tlie 
Grundzi'ige  des  fjefjenwartigen  Zcitalters 
("Characteristics  of  the  Present  Age")  and 
the  ^Vewn  dcH  GeUlirien  (''The  Isaturc  of 
the  Scholar"].  These  have  been  admirably 
translated  into  English  by  AVilliam  Smith. 
Aniong  the  works  of  Fichte  written  after 
his  removinf;  to  Berlin  arc  the  Bestimmnng 
des  Menscnen   (''  Tlie  Vocation  of  Man  ) 


JOIIANN   GOTTLIEB  FICHTE.— 4 

and  the  Anweisung  zum  Seligen  Leben 
("The  Way  to  a  Blessed  Life").  The  clos- 
ing years  of  Fichte's  life  were  devoted  to 
labors  of  a  quite  practical  political  and  social 
character.  In  tlie  Autumn  of  1813  the  hos- 
pitals at  Berlin  were  filled  with  the  sick  and 
wounded  from  the  campaign  against  Napo- 
leon. Among  the  most  devoted  of  the  vol- 
untary nurses  in  the  hospitals  was  the  wife 
of  Fichte.  She  was  seized  with  a  severe  at- 
tack of  "  hospital  fever,"  from  which,  how- 
ever, she  recovered  ;  but  on  the  very  day  on 
which  she  was  pronounced  to  be  convales- 
cent, Fichte  himself  was  stricken  down  by 
the  same  infectious  disease,  which  proved 
fatal  on  January  27,  1814. 

A  complete  edition  of  the  Works  of 
Fichte,  including  several  posthumous  writ- 
ings, was  published  in  13  vols.,  l"845-46 ; 
second  edition  1862 ;  by  his  son,  Immandel 
Hekmai^  Fichte  (1Y96-1878),  himself  a 
voluminous  writer  upon  philosophical  and 
theological  subjects. 

THE  INTELLECTUAL  DEVELOPMENT  OF   THE  HUMAN 
RACE. 

A  philosophical  picture  of  the  Present  Age  is 
what  we  have  promised  in  these  lectures.  But 
that  view  only  can  be  called  philosophical  which 
refers  back  to  the  multiform  phenomena  that  lie 
before  us  in  experience  to  the  unity  of  one  com- 
mon principle,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  from  that 
one  principle  can  deduce  and  completely  explain 
these  phenomena.  The  mere  Empiricist  who 
should  undertake  a  description  of  the  Age, 
would  seize  upon  some  of  its  most  striking  phe- 
nomena just  as  they  present  themselves  to  casual 
observation,  and  recount  these,  without  having 
any  assured  conviction  that  he  had  understood 
them  all,  and  without  being  able  to  point  out  any 
other  connection  between  them  than  their  co- 
existence in  one  and  the  same  time.     The  Fhi- 


JOHANN  GOTTLIEB  FICHTE.— 5 

losopher  who  should  propose  to  himself  the  task 
of  such  a  description,  would,  independently  of 
all  experience,  seek  out  an  Idea  of  the  Age 
(which  in  its  own  form — as  Idea — cannot  be 
directly  apparent  in  experience),  and  would  ex- 
hibit, as  the  necessary  phenomena  of  the  Age, 
the  form  in  which  this  Idea  would  come  to  man- 
ifest itself  in  experience;  and  in  so  doing  he 
would  distinctly  exhaust  the  circle  of  these  phe- 
nomena, and  bring  them  forth  in  necessary  con- 
nection with  each  other,  through  the  common 
Idea  which  lay  9t  the  bottom  of  them  all.  -The 
former  would'be  the  Chronicler  of  the  age  ;  the 
latter  would  have  made  a  History  of  it  a  possible 
thing. 

In  the  first  place,  if  the  Philosopher  must  de- 
duce from  the  Unity  of  his  presupposed  principle 
all  the  possible  phenomena  of  experience,  it  is  ob- 
vious that  in  the  fulfilment  of  this  purpose  he 
does  not  require  the  aid  of  experience  ;  that  in 
following  it  out  he  proceeds  merely  as  a  Philoso- 
pher, confining  himself  strictly  within  the  limits 
which  that  character  imposes  upon  him,  paying 
no  respect  whatever  to  experience,  and  thus  ab- 
solutely a  priori  to  describe  Time  as  a  whole,  and 
at  all  its  possible  Epochs.  It  is  an  entirely 
different  question  whether  the  present  time  be 
actually  characterized  by  the  phenomena  that  are 
deduced  from  the  principle  which  he  may  lay 
down,  and  thus  whether  the  Age  so  pictured  by 
the  speaker  be  really  the  present  Age — should  he 
maintain  such  a  position,  as  we,  for  example, 
shall  maintain  it.  On  this  part  of  the  subject 
every  man  must  consult  for  himself  the  experi- 
ence of  his  life,  and  compare  it  with  the  history 
of  the  Past  as  well  as  his  antici[)ati()ns  of  the 
Future;  for  here  the  business  of  the  Philosopher 
is  at  an  end,  and  that  of  an  Observer  of  the  world 
and  of  men  begins. 

Every  particular  Epoch  of  Tinic — as  wc  have 

alrcafly'hiuted— isthe  fundamental  Idea  of  apar- 

ticular    Age.       Tlicse  Epochs   and   fundamental 

ldca.s  of  particular   ages,  however,  can   only  be 

11 


JOHANN  GOTTLIEB  I^ICHTE.— 6 

thoroughly  understood  by  and  through  each  other, 
and  by  moans  of  tlieir  relations  to  Universal 
Time.  Hence  it  is  clear  that  the  Philosopher,  in 
order  to  be  able  rightly  to  characterize  any  indi- 
vidual Age,  and,  if  he  will,  his  own,  must  have  d 
priori  understood  and  thorouglily  penetrated  into 
the  signification  of  Universal  Time  and  all  its  pos- 
sible Epochs 

The  life  of  Mankind  on  this  Earth  stands  here 
in  place  of  the  One  Universal  Life,  and  Earthly 
Time  in  place  of  Universal  Time.  Strictly 
speaking,  and  in  the  highest  speculation.  Human 
Life  on  Earth,  and  Earthly  Time  itself,  are  but 
necessary  Epochs  of  the  One  Time  and  of  the 
One  Eternal  Life  ;  and  this  Earthly  Life,  with  all 
its  subordinate  divisions,  may  be  deduced  from 
the  fundamental  Idea  of  the  Eternal  Life  already 
accessible  to  us  here  below.  It  is  our  present 
voluntary  limitation  alone  which  forbids  us  to 
undertake  this  strictly  demonstrable  deduction, 
and  permits  us  here  only  to  declare  the  fun- 
damental Idea  of  this  Earthly  Life,  requesting 
every  hearer  to  bring  this  Idea  to  the  test  of  his 
own  sense  of  truth,  and,  if  he  can,  to  approve  it 
thereby. 

Life  of  Mankind  on  Earth,  we  have  said,  and 
Epochs  of  this  Life.  We  speak  here  only  of  the 
progressive  Life  of  the  Race,  not  of  the  Individ- 
ual. The  Idea  of  a  ^Yorld-Plan  is  thus  implied 
in  our  inquiry,  which,  however,  I  am  not  at  this 
time  to  deduce  from  tlie  absolute  source  indicated 
above,  but  only  to  point  out.  I  say,  therefore — 
and  thus  lay  the  foundation  of  our  intended  edi- 
fice— The  End  of  the  Life  of  Mankind  on  Earth 
is  this  :  That  in  this  Life  they  may  order  all 
their  relations  with  Freedom  according  to  Reason. 

With  Freedom,  I  have  said  ; — their  own  Free- 
dom— the  Freedom  of  Mankind  in  their  collective 
capacity — as  a  Race.  And  this  Freedom  is  the 
first  accessory  condition  of  our  fundamental  prin- 
ciple which  I  intend  at  ])resent  to  pursue,  leaving 
the  other  conditions,  which  may  likewise  need 
explanation,  until  the  subsequent  lectures.     This 


JOHANN  GOTTLIEB  FICHTE.— 7 

Freedom  must  become  apparent  in  the  col- 
lective consciousness  of  the  Race ;  it  must  appear 
there  as  the  proper  Freedom  of  the  Race — as  a 
true  and  real  fact — the  product  of  the  Race  dur- 
ing its  Life,  and  proceeding  from  its  Life,  so  that 
the  absolute  existence  of  the  Race  itself  is  neces- 
sarily implied  in  the  existence  of  this  fact  and 
product  thus  attributed  to  it.  If  a  certain  person 
has  done  something,  it  is  unquestionably  implied 
in  that  fact  that  the  person  has  been  in  existence 
prior  to  the  deed,  in  order  that  he  might  form 
the  resolution  so  to  act,  and  also  during  the  ac- 
complishment of  the  deed,  in  order  that  he  might 
carry  his  previous  resolution  into  effect;  and 
every  one  would  accept  the  proof  of  non-existence 
at  a  particular  time,  as  a  proof  of  non-activity  at 
the  same  time.  In  the  same  way — if  Mankind,  as 
a  Race,  has  done  something,  and  appeared  as  an 
actor  in  such  a  deed,  this  act  must  necessarily 
imply  the  existence  of  the  Race  at  a  time  when 
the  act  had  not  yet  been  accomplished. 

As  an  immediate  consequence  of  this  remark, 
the  Life  of  Mankind  upon  our  Earth  divides  itself, 
according  to  the  fundamental  Idea  which  we  have 
laid  down,  into  two  principle  Epochs  or  Ages  : — 
the  one  in  which  the  Race  exists  and  lives  with- 
out as  yet  having  ordered  its  relations  with  Free- 
dom according  to  Reaaon;  and  the  other,  in 
which  this  Voluntary  and  Reasonable  arrange- 
ment lias  been  actually  accomplished. 

To  begin  our  farther  inquiry  with  the  first 
Epoch : — It  does  not  follow,  because  the  Race 
had  not  yet,  by  its  own  free  act,  ordered  its  rela- 
tions according  to  Reason,  that  therefore  these 
relations  are  not  ordered  by  Reason  ;  and  hence 
the  one  assertion  is  by  no  means  to  be  confounded 
with  the  other.  It  is  possible  that  Reason  of 
itself,  by  its  own  power,  and  without  tiic  co-op- 
peration  of  Ininian  Frecdoiii,  may  have  dcter- 
rained  and  ordered  the  relations  of  Mankind. 
And  so  it  is  in  reality.  Reason  is  the  first  law  of 
tlie  Life  of  a  Race  of  Men,  as  of  all  Spiritual  Life; 
and  in  this  sense,  and  in  no  other,  shall  the  word 


JOHANN  GOTTLlfeB  FICHTE.-8 

"  Reason  "  be  used  in  these  lectures.  Without 
the  living  activity  of  this  law  a  Race  of  Men 
could  never  have  come  into  existence ;  or,  even 
if  it  could  be  supposed  to  have  attained  to  being, 
it  could  not,  without  this  activity,  maintain  its 
existence  for  a  single  moment.  Hence,  where 
Reason  cannot  as  yet  work  Freedom,  as  in  the 
first  Epoch,  it  acts  as  a  law  or  power  of  Nature, 
and  thus  may  be  visibly  present  in  consciousness 
and  active  there,  only  without  insight  into  the 
grounds  of  its  activity  ;  or,  in  other  words,  may 
exist  as  mere  Feeling — for  so  we  call  Consciousness 
without  this  insight.  In  short,  to  express  this  in 
common  language : — Reason  acts  as  blind  Instinct, 
where  it  cannot  as  yet  through  Free  Will.  It 
acts  thus  in  the  first  Epoch  of  the  Life  of  Mankind 
upon  Earth ;  and  this  first  Epoch  is  thereby  more 
closely  characterized  and  more  strictly  defined. 

By  means  of  the  stricter  definition  of  the  first 
Epoch  we  are  also  enabled,  by  contrast,  more 
strictly  to  define  the  second.  Instinct  is  blind — 
a  Consciousness  without  insight.  Freedom,  as  the 
opposite  of  Instinct,  is  thus  seeing  and  clearly 
conscious  of  the  grounds  of  its  activity.  But  the 
sole  ground  of  this  free  activity  is  Reason.  Free- 
dom is  thus  conscious  of  Reason,  of  which  In- 
stinct was  unconscious.  Hence  between  the  do- 
minion of  Reason  through  mere  Instinct,  and  the 
dominion  of  the  same  Reason  through  Freedom, 
there  arises  an  intermediate  condition — the  Con- 
sciousness or  Knowledge  of  Reason. 

But  further : — Instinct  as  a  blind  impulse  ex- 
cludes Knowledge ;  hence  the  birth  of  Knowl- 
edge presupposes  a  liberation  from  the  compul- 
sive power  of  Instinct  as  already  accomplished ; 
and  thus  between  the  dominion  of  Reason  as  In- 
stinct and  that  of  Reason  as  Knowledge  there  is 
interposed  a  third  condition — that  of  Liberation 
from  Reason  as  Instinct. 

But  how  could  Humanity  free  itself,  or  even 
wish  to  free  itself,  from  that  Instinct  which  is  the 
law  of  its  existence,  and  rules  it  with  beloved  and 
unobtrusive  power  ?     Or  how  could  the  one  Rea- 


JOHANN  GOTTLIEB  FICHTE.— 9 

son  which,  while  it  speaks  in  Instinct,  is  likewise 
active  in  the  impulse  towards  Freedom — how 
could  this  same  Reason  come  into  conflict  and 
opposition  with  itself  in  human  life  ?  Clearly, 
not  directly ;  and  hence  a  new  medium  must  in- 
tervene between  the  dominion  of  Reason  as  In- 
stinct and  the  impulse  to  cast  off  that  dominion. 
This  medium  arises  in  the  following  way : — 
The  results  of  Reason  as  Instinct  are  seized  upon 
by  the  more  powerful  individuals  of  the  Race — 
in  whom,  on  this  very  account,  that  Instinct 
speaks  in  its  loudest  and  fullest  tones,  as  the  nat- 
ural but  precipitate  desire  to  elevate  the  whole 
race  to  the  level  of  their  own  greatness — or, 
rather,  to  put  themselves  in  the  room  and  place 
of  the  Race — and  by  them  it  is  changed  into  an 
external  ruling  Author itj/,  upheld  through  out- 
ward constraint;  and  then  among  other  men 
Reason  awakens  in  another  form — as  the  impulse 
towards  Personal  Freedom,  wliich,  although  it 
never  opposes  the  mild  rule  of  the  inward  In- 
stinct which  it  loves,  yet  rises  in  rebellion  against 
the  pressure  of  a  stran'^er  Instinct  which  has 
usurped  its  rights,  and  in  this  awakening  it 
breaks  the  chains — not  of  Reason  as  Instinct  it- 
self— but  of  the  Instinct  of  foreign  natures  clothed 
in  the  garb  of  external  power.  And  thus  the 
change  of  the  individual  Instinct  into  a  compul- 
sive Authority  becomes  the  medium  between  the 
dominion  of  Reason  as  Instinct,  and  the  libera- 
tion from  that  dominion. 

And  tinally,  to  complete  this  enumeration  of 
the  necessary  divisions  and  Epochs  of  the  Earth- 
ly Life  of  our  liaco  : — We  have  said  that  through 
liberation  from  the  dominion  of  Reason  as  In- 
stinct, the  Knowledge  of  Reason  becomes  pos- 
sible. By  the  laws  of  this  Knowledge,  all  the 
relations  of  Mankind  must  be  ordered  and  ^\- 
tiicX^iXhy  their  own  free  act.  But  it  is  obvious 
that  mere  cognizance  of  the  law,  which  is  never- 
theless all  that  Knowledge  of  itself  can  give  us, 
is  not  fiufKcient  for  the  attainment  of  this  pur- 
pose, but  that  there  is  also  needed  a  peculiar 


JOHANN  GOTTLIEB  FICHTE.— 10 

practical  capacity,  which  can  only  be  thoroughly 
acquired  by  use :  in  a  word,  Art.  This  Art  of 
orderiuij^  the  whole  relations  of  Mankind  accord- 
ing to  that  Reason  which  has  already  been  scien- 
tifically comprehended — (for  in  this  higher  sense 
we  shall  always  use  the  word  "Art"  when  we 
employ  it  without  explanatory  remark) — this  Art 
must  be  universally  applied  to  all  the  relations  of 
Mankind,  and  manifested  therein,  until  the  Race 
become  a  perfect  image  of  its  everlasting  arche- 
type in  Reason  : — and  then  shall  the  purpose  of 
this  Earthly  Life  be  attained,  its  end  become  ap- 
parent, and  Mankind  enter  upon  the  higher 
spheres  of  Eternity. —  Characteristics  of  the  Pres- 
ent Age.     Transl.  of  William  Smith. 

INTEGRITY    IN    STUDY. 

He  who  is  to  become  a  True  Scholar,  so  that 
in  him  the  Divine  Idea  of  the  world  may  attain 
to  such  a  measure  of  clearness  and  influence  over 
the  surrounding  world  as  is  possible  in  his  cir- 
cumstances, must  be  laid  hold  of  by  the  Idea 
itself  through  its  own  inherent  power,  and  by  it 
be  urged  forward  unceasingly  towards  the 
wishcd-for  end.  If  the  Student  be  really  in- 
spired by  the  Idea — or,  what  is  the  same  thing, 
if  he  possesses  Genius  and  true  talent — he  is 
already  far  above  all  our  counsels.  Genius  will 
fulfil  its  vocation  in  him  without  our  aid,  and 
even  without  his  own  concurrence. 

But  the  I'rogressive  Scholar  can  never  deter- 
mine for  himself  whether  or  not  he  possesses 
Genius  in  our  sense  of  the  term  ;  nor  can  any 
one  else  determine  it  for  him.  Hence  there  is 
nothing  left  for  him  but  with  sincere  and  perfect 
Integrity  so  to  act  as  if  Genius,  which  must  ulti- 
mately come  to  light,  lay  now  concealed  within 
him.  True  Genius,  when  present,  manifests  it- 
self precisely  in  the  same  way  as  does  this  Integ- 
rity in  Study.  Both  assume  the  same  form,  and 
cannot  be  distinguished  the  one  from  the  other. 
The  Honest  Schohir  is  to  us  the  only  True 
Scholar.  The  two  ideas  flow  into  each  other. 
n 


JOHANN  GOTTLIEB  FICHTE.-ll 

Integrity  in  the  abstract  is  itself  a  Divine 
Idea ;  it  is  the  Divine  Idea  in  its  most  general 
form,  embracing  all  men.  Hence,  like  the  Idea 
itself,  it  acts  by  its  own  inherent  power.  It 
forms  itself — as  we  said  before  of  Genius — with- 
out aid  from  the  personal  feeling  of  the  individ- 
ual— nay,  annihilating  his  self-love  as  far  as  pos- 
sible— into  an  independent  life  in  man,  irresisti- 
bly urging  him  forward,  and  pervading  all  his 
thoughts  and  actions.  His  actions,  I  say  ; .  for 
the  very  idea  of  Integrity  is  an  immediately  prac- 
tical idea,  determining  the  outward,  visible,  free 
doings  of  the  man ;  whereas  the  influence  of 
Genius  is,  in  the  first  place,  internal — affecting 
spiritual  insight.  He  who  truly  possesses  Genius 
must  be  successful  in  his  studies.  To  him  light 
and  knowledge  will  spring  up  on  all  sides  from 
the  objects  of  his  contemplation.  He  who  pos- 
sesses Integrity  in  Study,  of  him  this  success 
cannot  be  so  surely  predicted ;  but  should  it  not 
follow,  he  will  at  least  be  blameless,  for  he  will 
neglect  nothing  within  his  power  which  may 
enable  him  to  attain  it;  and  even  if  he  be  not  at 
last  a  sharer  in  the  triumph,  he  shall  at  all  events 
have  deserved  to  be  so. 

We  have  said  that  the  honest  Man  in  general 
looks  upon  his  free  personal  life  as  unalterably 
determined  by  the  eternal  thought  of  God.  The 
honest  Student  in  particnlar  looks  upon  himself 
as  designed  by  the  thought  of  God  to  this  end — 
that  the  Divine  Idea  of  the  constitution  of  the 
world  may  enter  his  soul,  shine  in  him  with 
steady  lustre,  and  through  him  maintain  a  defi- 
nite influence  upon  the  surrounding  world.  Thus 
does  he  conceive  of  his  vocation ;  for  in  this  lies 
the  essential  Nature  of  the  Scholar;  so  surely  as 
he  has  entered  upon  his  studies  with  Integrity, 
that  is,  with  the  persuasion  that  God  has  given  a 

f)urpose  to  his  life,  and  that  he  must  direct  all 
lis  free  actions  towards  the  fulfilment  of  that 
purpose — so  surely  has  he  made  the  supposition 
that  it  is  the  Divine  Will  that  he  should  become 
a   Scholar,     It   matters   not   whether   wo   havo 


JOHANN  GOTTLIEB  PICHTE.— 13 

chosen  this  condition  for  ourselves,  with  freedom 
and  foresiglit,  or  others  have  chosen  it  for  us, 
placed  us  in  the  way  of  preparation  for  it,  and 
closed  every  other  condition  of  life  against  us. 
How  could  any  one,  at  the  early  age  at  which 
this  choice  of  a  condition  usually  occurs,  and  in 
most  cases  must  occur,  have  attained  the  mature 
wisdom  by  which  to  decide  for  himself  whether 
or  not  he  is  possessed  of  the  as  yet  untried  and 
undeveloped  capacity  for  knowledge  ?  "When  we 
come  to  exercise  our  own  understanding,  the 
choice  of  a  condition  is  already  made.  It  has 
been  made  without  our  aid,  because  we  were  in- 
capable at  the  time  of  rendering  any  aid  in  the 
matter;  and  now  we  cannot  turn  back — a  neces- 
sity precisely  similar  to  the  unalterable  conditions 
under  which  our  freedom  is  placed  by  the  Divine 
Will.  If  an  error  should  occur  in  the  choice 
thus  made  for  us  by  others,  the  fault  is  not  ours; 
we  could  not  decide  whether  or  not  an  error  had 
been  committed,  and  could  not  venture  to  pre- 
suppose one.  If  it  has  occurred,  then  it  is  our 
business,  so  far  as  in  us  lies,  to  correct  it.  In 
any  case,  it  is  the  Divine  Will  that  every  one,  in 
the  station  where  he  has  been  placed  by  neces- 
sity, should  do  all  things  which  properly  belong 
to  that  station.  We  have  met  together  to  study; 
hence  it  is  assuredly  the  Divine  Will  that  we 
consider  ourselves  as  Students,  and  apply  to  our- 
selves all  that  is  comprehended  in  that  idea. 

This  thought,  with  its  indestructible  certainty, 
enters  and  fills  the  soul  of  every  honest  Stu- 
dent:— this  namely — "  I,  this  sent,  this  expressly 
commissioned  individual,  as  I  may  now  call  my- 
self— am  actually  here,  have  entered  into  exist- 
ence for  this  cause  and  no  other,  that  the  eternal 
counsel  of  God  in  this  universe  may  through  me 
be  seen  of  men  in  another  hitherto  unknown 
light,  may  be  made  clearly  manifest,  and  shine 
forth  with  inextinguishable  lustre  over  the  world  ; 
and  this  phase  of  the  Divine  Thought,  thus 
bound  up  with  my  personality,  is  the  only  true 
living  being  within  me ;  all  else,  though  looked 


JOSANN  GOTTLIEB  FICHTE.— iS 

upon  even  by  myself  as  belonging  to  my  being, 
is  dream,  shadow,  nothing ; — this  alone  is  imper- 
ishable and  eternal  within  me  ;  all  else  shall  again 
disappear  in  the  void  from  which  it  has — seem- 
ingly, but  never  really — come  forth."  This 
thought  tills  his  whole  soul,  whether  or  not  it  be 
itself  clearly  conceived,  expressed,  wished,  or 
willed,  is  referred  back  to  it  as  to  its  first  con- 
dition, can  only  be  explained  by  it,  and  only 
considered  possible  on  the  supposition  of  its 
truth. 

Through  this  fundamental  principle  of  all  his 
thoughts,  he  himself,  and  Knowledge,  the  object 
of  his  activity,  become  to  him,  before  all  other 
things,  honorable  and  holy.  He  himself  becomes 
honorable  and  holy.  Not,  by  any  means,  that  he 
dwells  with  self-complacent  pride  on  the  superi- 
ority of  his  vocation — to  share  in  some  degree 
the  counsel  of  God,  and  reveal  it  to  the  world — 
over  other  less  distinguished  callings,  invidiously 
weighing  them  against  each  other,  and  thus 
esteeming  himself  as  of  more  value  than  other 
men.  If  one  form  of  human  destiny  appears  to 
be  superior  to  another,  it  is  not  because  it  offers 
a  better  field  for  personal  distinction,  but  because 
in  it  the  Divine  Idea  reveals  itself  with  greater 
clearness.  The  individual  man  has  no  particular 
value  beyond  that  of  faithfully  fulfilling  his 
vocation,  whatever  that  may  be ;  and  of  this  all 
can  partake,  irrespective  of  the  different  natures 
of  their  callings. 

Moreover,  the  Progressive  Scholar  does  not 
even  know  whether  he  shall  attain  the  proper 
end  of  his  studies — the  possessicm  of  the  Idea; 
nor,  therefore,  if  that  noble  vocation  be  really 
his.  lie  is  only  bound  to  supj)()se  the  possibility 
of  it.  The  Perfect  Scholar — oi  whom  we  do  not 
now  speak — when  he  has  the  completed  result  in 
his  possession,  can  then  indeed  with  certainty 
know  his  vocation  ;  but  even  in  him  the  cravings 
of  the  Idea  f(ir  more  extended  jnanifestation  still 
continue,  and  shall  continue  while  life  endures; 
80  that  he  siiall  never  have  time  to  muse  over  the 
superiority  of  his  vocation,  even  were  such  mus- 
» 


JOHANN  GOTTLIEB  FICIITE.— 14 

ings  not  utterly  vain  in  tliemsclves.  All  pride  is 
founded  on  what  wo  think  we  arc — are  in  settled 
and  perfect  being;  and  thus  pride  is  in  itself 
vain  and  contradictory  ;  for  that  which  is  our 
true  being — that  to  which  endless  growth  belongs 
— is  precisely  that  to  which  we  have  not  yet  at- 
tained. Our  true  and  underived  being  in  the 
Divine  Idea  always  shows  itself  as  a  desire  of 
progress;  and  hence  as  dissatisfaction  with  our 
present  state.  And  thus  the  Idea  makes  us  truly 
modest,  and  bows  us  down  to  the  dust  before  its 
majesty.  By  his  pride  itself,  the  proud  man 
shows  that — more  than  any  one  else — he  lias 
need  of  humility;  for  while  lie  thinks  of  liiinsclf 
that  he  is  something,  |ie  shows  by  his  pride  that 
he  is  really  notliing. 

Hence,  in  the  thought  to  which  we  gave  utter- 
ance, the  Student  is  holy  and  honorable  to  him- 
self above  everything  else — not  in  respect  to 
what  he  is,  but  of  what  he  ought  to  be,  and  what 
he  evermore  must  strive  to  become.  The  peculiar 
self-abasement  of  a  man  consists  in  this — when 
he  makes  himself  an  instrument  of  a  temporary 
and  perishable  purpose,  and  deigns  to  spend  care 
and  labor  on  something  else  than  the  Imperish- 
able and  the  Eternal.  In  this  view,  every  man 
should  be  honorable  and  holy  to  himself — and  so 
too  sliould  the  Scholar 

And  so  does  his  own  person  ever  become  holier 
to  him  through  the  holiness  of  Knowledge ;  and 
Knowledge  again  holier  through  the  holiness  of 
his  person.  His  whole  life,  however  unimportant 
it  may  outwardly  seein,  has  acquired  an  inward 
meaning — a  new  significance.  Whatever  may  or 
may  not  flow  from  it,  it  is  still  a  god-like  life. 
And  in  order  to  become  a  partaker  in  this  life, 
neither  the  Student  of  science  nor  the  follower 
of  any  other  human  pursuit  needs  peculiar  talents, 
but  only  a  living  and  active  Integrity  of  purpose, 
to  which  the  thought  of  our  high  vocation  and  of 
our  allegiance  to  an  Eternal  Law,  with  all  that 
flows  from  these,  will  be  spontaneously  revealed. 
—  The  Nature  of  the  Scholar.  Transl.  of 
William  Smith. 


HENRY  MARTYX  FIELD.— 1 

FIELD,  Henky  Martyn,  an  Ainerican 
clergyman  and  journalist,  born  at  Stock- 
bridore,  IMass.,  in  1S22.  He  is  a  son  of  Da- 
vid Dudley  Field  (1781-1S67),  for  more 
than  sixty  years  minister  at  Haddam,  Conn., 
and  at  Stockbridge,  Mass.  Four  of  tlie 
sons  of  David  Dudley  Field  have  attained 
eminence:  David  Dudley,  born  in  1805, 
prominent  as  a  lawyer  and  publicist;  Ste- 
phen Johnson,  born  in  1815,  a  lawyer  and 
jurist,  since  1803  one  of  the  Justices  of  the 
Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States;  Cy- 
rus West,  born  in  1819,  who  had  more 
than  any  other  man  to  do  with  the  success 
of  the  Atlantic  Telegraph.  Henry  M. 
Field  studied  at  Williams  College  ;  in  1842 
became  pastor  of  a  church  in  St.  Louis,  in 
1851  of  a  church  at  West  Springfield,  Mass., 
and  in  1854  became  editor,  and  subsequently 
proprietor,  of  the  New  York  Evangelist, 
He  has  several  times  visited  Europe  and 
the  East.  In  1875-76  he  made  a  twelve 
months'  tour  around  the  world  :  from  Kew 
York  to  Great  Britain  ;  thence  to  Constanti- 
nople. Egypt,  India,  China,  and  Japan,  re- 
turning l)y  way  of  California.  Soon  after 
his  return  he  published  an  acccount  of  this 
journey  in  two  volumes,  entitled  respec- 
tively :  From  the  Lakes  of  Killarney  to  the 
Golden  Horn,  and  From  E<}ypt  to  Japan 
(1876,1877).  He  has  also  written  :  The  Irish 
Confederates  and  the  liehellion  of  1798 
(1851),  Summer  PidnreKfrom  Copenliafjen 
to  Venice  (1859),  Jlistoi'ij  of  the  Atlantic 
Telegraph  (1860),  Amomj  the  llohj  U'dU 
and  On  the  Desert  (1883). 

nLAHNEV   fASTLE,   IRELAND. 

What  fihall  he  naid  of  tlm  first  sitflit  of  a  ruin  ? 
Of  coiirsf   it  was  Jilanicy   CaKtlc,  which   is  iioar 
Cork,    and   famous  for   its  Blarney    Stone.     A 
11 


HENRY  MARTYN  FIELD. -2 

lordly  castle  indeed  it  must  have  been  in  the 
days  of  its  pride,  as  it  still  towers  up  a  hun- 
drcd'feet  and  more,  and  its  walls  are  eight  or  ten 
feet  thick ;  so  that  it  would  have  lasted  for  ages 
if  Cromwell  had  not  knocked  some  ugly  holes 
through  it  a  little  more  than  two  hundred  years 
ago.  But  still  the  tower  is  beautiful,  being  cov- 
ered to  the  very  top  with  ivy,  which  in  England 
is  the  great  beautifierof  whatever  is  old,  clinging 
to  the  mouldering  wall,  covering  up  the  huge 
rents  and  gaps  made  by  the  cannon-balls,  and 
making  the  most  unsightly  ruins  lovely  in  their 
decay.  We  all  climbed  to  the  top,  where 
hangs  in  air,  fastened  by  iron  clamps  in  its 
place,  the  famous  Blarney  Stone,  which  is  said  to 
impart  to  whoever  kisses  it  the  gift  of  eloquence 
which  will  make  one  successful  in  love  and  in 
life.  As  it  was,  only  one  pressed  forward  to 
snatch  this  prize  which  it  held  out  to  our  em- 
brace   

Before  leaving  this  old  castle — as  we  shall  have 
many  more  to  see  hereafter — let  me  say  a  word 
about  castles  in  general.  They  are  well  enough 
as  ruins,  and  certainly,  as  they  are  scattered  about 
Ireland  and  England,  they  add  much  to  the  pic- 
turesqueness  of  the  landscapes,  and  will  always 
possess  a  romantic  interest.  But  viewed  in  the 
sober  light  of  history  they  are  monuments  of  an 
age  of  barbarism,  when  the  country  was  divided 
among  a  hundred  chiefs,  each  of  whom  had  his 
stronghold,  out  of  which  he  could  sally  to  attack 
his  less  powerful  neighbors.  Everything  in  the 
construction — the  huge  walls,  with  narrow  slits  for 
windows  through  which  the  archers  could  pour 
arrows,  or  in  later  times  the  nuisketeers  could 
shower  balls  on  their  enemies;  the  deep  moat 
surrounding  it;  the  drawbridge  and  portcullis — 
all  speak  of  a  time  of  universal  insecurity,  when 
danger  was  abroad,  and  every  man  had  to  be 
armed  against  his  fellow.  As  a  place  of  habita- 
tion, such  a  fortress  was  not  much  bcttei'  than  a 
prison.  The  chieftain  shut  himself  in  behind 
massive  walls,  under  huge  arches  where  the  sun 

89 


HENRY  MARTYN  FIELD.— 3 

could  never  penetrate,  wliere  all  was  dark  and 
gloomy  ;is  a  sepulchre.  I  know  of  a  cottage  in 
New  England,  on  the  crest  of  one  of  the  Berk- 
shire Hills,  open  on  ever}-  side  to  light  and 
air,  kissed  by  the  rising  and  the  setting  sun,  in 
which  there  is  a  hundred  times  more  of  real  com- 
fort than  could  have  been  in  one  of  these  old 
castles,  where  a  haughty  baron  passed  his  exist- 
ence in  gloomy  grandeur,  buried  in  sepulchral 
gloom. 

And  to  what  darker  purposes  were  these  castles 
sometimes  applied  !  Let  one  go  down  into  the 
passages  underneath,  dark,  damp,  and  cold  as  the 
grave,  in  which  prisoners  and  captives  were 
buried  alive.  One  cannot  grope  his  way  into 
these  foul  subterranean  dungeons  without  feeling 
that  these  old  castles  are  the  monuments  of  sav- 
age tyrants;  that  if  these  walls  could  speak  they 
would  tell  many  a  tale,  not  of  knightly  chivalry, 
but  of  barbarous  cruelty  that  would  curdle  the 
blood  with  liorror.  These  things  take  away 
somewhat  of  the  charm  wliifli  ^Valter  Scott  has 
thrown  about  those  old  "gallant  knights,"  wlio 
were  often  no  better  than  robber  chiefs ;  and  I 
am  glad  that  Cromwell  with  his  cannon  battered 
their  strongholds  about  their  ears.  Let  those 
relics  remain,  covered  with  ivy,  and  picturesque 
as  ruins,  but  let  it  never  be  forgotten  that  they 
are  tlie  fallen  monuments  of  an  age  of  barbarism, 
of  terror,  and  of  cruelty. — From  Killarney  to  the 
Golden  Horn. 

IN'    THE    DESERT. 

And  now  we  are  approaching  tlie  border  line 
between  Asia  and  Africa.  It  is  an  invisible  line; 
no  snow-cap[)ed  mountains  divide  the  mighty 
continents  which  wore  the  seats  of  the  most  an- 
cient civilization;  no  sea  Hows  between  them. 
The  Rod  Sea  terminates  over  seventy  miles  from 
the  Mediterranean  ;  even  the  Suez  Canal  does 
not  divide  Asia  and  Afrioa,  for  it  is  wholly  in 
Egypt,  Nothing  marks  where  Africa  ends  and 
Asia  begins  but  a  line  in  the  desert,  covered  by 


HENRY  MARTYN  FIELD.— 4 

driftiiiijj  siiiuls.  And  j'ct  there  is  something  wliieli 
strangely  toiiclics  tlie  iinaj^ination  as  we  move 
forward  in  the  twiliglit,  with  the  sun  behind  us 
setting  over  Afriea,  and  before  us  tlie  black 
night  coining  on  over  the  whole  continent  of 
Asia. 

But  what  can  one  say  of  the  desert?  The 
subject  seems  as  barren  as  its  own  sands.  Life 
in  the  desert  ?  There  is  no  life ;  it  is  the  very 
realm  of  death,  where  not  a  blade  of  grass  grows, 
nor  even  an  insect's  wing  flutters  over  the  miglity 
desolation;  the  only  objects  in  motion  the  clouds 
that  flit  across  the  sky,  and  cast  tlieir  shadoAvs  on 
the  barren  waste  below;  and  tlie  only  sign  that 
man  has  ever  passed  over  it,  the  bleaching  bones 
that  mark  the  track  of  caravans.  But  as  we 
look,  behold  "a  wind  cometh  out  of  the  Nortli," 
and  stirring  the  loose  sand,  whirls  it  into  a  column 
which  moves  swiftly  towards  us  like  a  ghost,  as 
if  it  said,  "  I  am  the  Spirit  of  the  I)cscrt !  Man, 
wherefore  comest  thou  here  ?  Pass  on  !  If  thou 
invadest  long  mv  realm  of  solitude  and  silence,  I 
will  make  thy  gi'ave  !" 

AVe  shall  not  linger;  but  only  "tarry  for  a 
night,"  to  question  a  little  the  mystery  that  lies 
hidden  beneath  these  drifting  sands.  We  look 
again,  and  we  see  shadowy  forms  coming  out  of 
the  whirlwind — great  actors  in  history,  as  well  as 
figures  of  the  imagination.  Tlie  horizon  is  filled 
with  moving  caravans  and  marching  armies.  An- 
cient con(|uerors  pass  this  way  for  centuries  from 
Asia  into  Africa, and  back  again — the  wave  of  con- 
quest flowing  and  reflowing  from  the  valley  of  the 
Tigris  to  the  valley  of  the  Nile.  As  w^e  leave 
the  Land  of  Goslien  we  hear  behind  us  the  tramp 
of  the  Israelites  beginning  their  march  ;  and  as  the 
night  closes  in,  we  see  in  another  quarter  of  the 
horizon  the  Wise  Men  of  the  East  coming  from 
Arabia,  following  their  guiding  star,  which  leads 
them  to  Bethlehem,  where  Christ  was  born. 
And  so  the  desert  which  was  dead  becomes 
alive  ;  a  whole  living  world  starts  up  from  the 
sands,  and  glides  into  view,  appearing  suddenly 


HENRY  MARTY N  FIELD.— 5 

like  Arab  horsemen,  and  then  vanishing  as  if  it 
had  not  been,  and  leaving  no  hole  in  the  sands  any 
more  than  is  left  by  a  wreck  that  sinks  in  the 
ocean.  But  like  the  sea  it  has  its  passing  life, 
which  has  a  deep  human  interest.  And  not  only 
is  there  a  life  of  the  desert,  but  a  literature 
which  is  the  expression  of  that  life ;  a  history 
and  a  poetry  which  take  their  color  from  these 
peculiar  forms  of  nature ;  and  even  a  music  of 
the  desert,  sung  by  the  camel-drivers  to  the  slow 
movement  of  the   caravan,  its  plaintive  cadence 

keeping  time  to  the  tinkhng  of  the  bells 

A  habitat  so  peculiar  as  the  desert  must  pro- 
duce a  life  as  j)eculiar.  It  is  of  necessitv  alonclv 
life.  The  dweller  in  tents  is  a  solitary  man  with- 
out any  fixed  ties  or  local  habitation.  Whoever 
lives  in  the  desert  must  live  alone,  or  with  few 
companions,  for  there  is  nothing  to  support  ex- 
istence. It  must  also  he  a  nomadic  life.  If  the 
Arab  camps  with  his  flocks  and  herds  in  some 
green  spot  beside  a  spring,  yet  it  is  only  for  a 
few  days,  for  in  that  time  his  sheep  and  cattle 
have  consumed  the  scanty  herbage,  and  he  must 
move  on  to  some  new  resting-place.  Thus  the 
life  of  the  desert  is  a  life  always  in  motion.  The 
desert  has  no  settled  population,  no  towns  or  vil- 
lages, where  men  arc  born,  and  grow  up,  and  live 
and  die.  Its  only  "  inhabitants"  are  the  "  stran- 
gers and  pilgrims,"  tliat  come  alone  or  in  cara- 
vans, and  pitch  their  tents,  and  tarrrv  for  a  night, 
and  are  gone. — From  Egypt  to  Jajmn. 

81 


HENRY  FIELDING.-l 

FIELDING,  Henry,  an  English  novel- 
ist, dramatist,  and  essayist,  born  in  1707, 
died  in  1754.  Ho  was  of  an  ancient  family 
which  could  trace  its  descent  from  the  same 
stock  as  the  imperial  house  of  Hapsburg. 
After  distinguishing  himself  at  Eton,  he 
was  sent  to  the  University  of  Leyden  ;  but 
he  led  so  expensive  a  life  that  liis  not  over- 
rich  father  was  obliged  to  recall  him  in  his 
twentieth  year.  His  father  promised  him 
an  allowance  of  £200  a  year,  "  which," 
said  Fielding,  "  anybody  might  pay  who 
would."  He  took  up  his  residence  in  Lon- 
don, and  began  writing  for  the  stage,  hisiirst 
comedy.  Love  in  Several  Masks,  being  pro- 
duced while  he  was  yet  a  minor.  In  his 
twenty-seventh  year  he  married  Miss  Crad- 
dock,  who  had  a  fortune  of  only  £1,500. 
He  retired  to  a  small  estate  worth  about 
£200  a  year  which  he  had  inherited  from 
his  mother,  resolving  to  amend  his  loose 
way  of  life.  He  gave  up  writing  for  the 
stage,  and  ap])lied  himself  closely  to  literary 
studies.  But  his  income  was  insufficient 
for  his  profuse  expenses,  and  in  three  years 
he  fell  mto  bankruptcy.  He  went  back  to 
London,  entered  himself  as  a  student  at 
the  Inner  Temple,  and  in  due  time  was 
called  to  the  bar.  But  repeated  attacks  of 
gout  prevented  him  from  travelling  the  cir- 
cuit, and  con)pelled  him  to  fall  back  to  his 
pen  for  support.  He  wrote  comedies  and 
farces  for  the  theatre ;  essays,  poems,  and 
squibs  for  periodicals,  and  even  produced  an 
elaborate  ti'eatise  on  Crown  Law.  The  en- 
tire number  of  his  dramatic  pieces  was 
alxjut  thirty  ;  but  the  only  ones  which  have 
kept  the  stage  is  his  burlesque,  Tom  Thumb 
the  Great,  produced  at  twenty-three,  and 
The  Miser  (an  adaptation  from  the  French), 


HENRY  FIELDING.— 3 

three  years  later.  Among  the  poems  of 
Fielding  the  following  is  abont  the  only 
one  worth  reproducing  : 

THE    maiden's    choice. 

Genteel  in  personage, 
Conduct  and  equipage  ; 
Noble  by  heritage, 

Generous  and  free ; 
Brave,  not  romantic ; 
Learned,  not  pedantic ; 
Frolic,  not  frantic — 

This  must  he  be. 

Honor  maintaining, 
Meanness  disdaining, 
Still  entertaining. 

Engaging  and  new ; 
Neat,  but  not  finical ; 
Sage,  but  not  cynical ; 
Never  tyrannical — 

But  ever  true. 

Fielding  did  not  discover  wherein  his 
true  strength  lay  until  he  had  reached 
the  age  of  thirty-four,  when  (in  1742)  ap- 
peared his  first  novel,  Joseph  Andrews, 
which  wa.s  begun  as  a  burlesque  upon 
Richardson's  Pameht,  but  which  grew  into 
something  of  a  far  higher  order.  Shortly 
after  the  publication  of  this  novel,  his  wife 
died.  He  was  sincerely  attached  to  her, 
and  mourned  her  deeply  ;  but  in  a  few 
months  he  consoled  himself  by  marrying 
her  maid.  In  174:3  he  put  forth  three  vol- 
umes of  Miscellanies,  including  the  Journey 
from  this  World  to  the  Next,  and  soon 
after  the  great  prose  satire.  The  Jlistonj  of 
Jonathan  Wild.  In  1740  appeared  the 
second  of  his  novel.-,  and  the  best  of  all, 
Tom  Jones,  or  the  History  of  a  Koundllng, 
which  some  have  styled  "the  greatest  of  all 
compositions  of  its  class."     ilc  had  by  his 


HENRY  FIELDING.— 3 

pen  (lone  good  service  to  the  Wliig  party  of 
his  day,  and  in  1749,  when  liis  constitution 
had  completely  broken  down,  he  received 
the  appointment  of  Acting  Magistrate  for 
Westminster.  The  emoluments  of  this  of- 
fice were  small;  and  the  duties,  which  were 
not  onerous,  seem  to  have  been  performed 
with  great  ability.  In  1752  was  published 
his  third  novel.  The  History  of  Amelia,  in 
which  he  attempts  to  portray  the  virtues  of 
his  first  wife,  and  the  reckless  conduct  of 
his  own  early  years.  His  health  gave  way 
wholly  ;  dropsy,  with  which  he  had  long 
been  troubled,  assumed  an  aggravated  form  ; 
he  was  induced  to  make  a  voyage  to  Portu* 
gal,  in  the  hope  of  being  benefited  by  a  mild- 
er climate.  He  sailed  in  the  summer  of  1754, 
but  died  in  two  months  after  reaching  Lis- 
bon. Few  authors  have  been  so  warmly 
praised  by  famous  critics  as  Fielding  has 
been.  Perhaps  the  most  genial  of  all  of  these 
eulogies  is  pronounced  by  Thackeray  in  his 
English  Humorists  of  the  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury. 

During  his  voyage  to  Lisbon  Fielding 
kept  a  journal,  which,  though  he  was  suffer- 
ing the  utmost  pain,  and  was  obliged  to  be 
continually  tapped,  shows  that  his  intellect 
was  as  vigorous,  and  his  affections  as  warm 
as  they  had  ever  been. 

PARTING    WITH    HIS    WIFE    AND    CHILDREN. 

Wednesday,  June  26,  1754. — On  this  day  the 
most  melancholy  sun  I  had  ever  beheld  arose, 
and  found  me  awake  at  my  house  at  Fordhook. 
By  the  light  of  tliis  sun  I  was,  in  my  own  opin- 
ion, last  to  behold  and  take  leave  of  some  of 
those  creatures  on  whom  I  doted  with  a  mother- 
like  fondness,  guided  by  nature  and  passion,  and 
uncured  and  unhardened  by  all  the  doctrine  of 
that  philosophical  school  where  I  had  learned  to 


HENRY  FIELDING.— 4 

bear  pains  and  despise  death.  In  this  situation,  as 
I  could  not  conquer  nature,  I  submitted  entirely 
to  her,  and  she  made  as  great  a  fool  of  me  as  she 
had  ever  done  of  any  woman  whatsoever ;  under 
pretence  of  giving  me  leave  to  enjoy,  she  drew 
me  into  suffering  the  company  of  my  little  ones 
during  eight  hours  ;  and  I  doubt  whether  in  that 
time  I  did  not  undergo  more  than  in  all  my  dis- 
temper. At  twelve  precisely  my  coach  was  at 
the  door,  which  was  no  sooner  told  me  than  I 
kissed  my  children  round,  and  went  into  it  with 
some  little  resolution.  My  wife,  who  behaved 
more  like  a  heroine  and  philosopher,  though 
at  the  same  time  the  tenderest  mother  in  the 
world,  and  my  eldest  daughter,  followed  me ;  some 
friends  went  with  us,  and  otliers  here  took  their 
leave ;  and  I  lieard  my  behavior  applauded,  with 
many  murmurs  and  praises  to  which  I  well 
knew  I  had  no  title  ;  as  all  other  such  philoso- 
phers may,  if  they  have  any  modesty,  confess  on 
the  like  occasions. — Journal  of  Voyage  to  Lisbon. 

MR.    PARTRIDGE    SEES    GARRICK    IN    "HAMLET," 

In  the  first  row,  then,  of  1h"  first  gallery,  did 
Mr.  Jones,  Mrs.  Miller,  i  t  youngest  daughter, 
and  Partridge,  take  tlieir  places.  Partridge  im- 
mediately declared  it  was  the  finest  place  he  had 
ever  been  in.  When  the  first  music  was  plaved, 
he  said  "  It  was  a  wonder  how  so  many  fiddlers 
could  play  at  one  time  without  putting  one  an- 
other out."  While  the  fellow  was  lighting  the 
upper  candles,  he  cried  out  to  Mrs.  Miller : 
"  Look,  look,  madam  ;  the  very  picture  of  the 
man  in  the  end  of  the  common-prayer  book,  be- 
fore the  gtmpowder  treason  service."  Nor  could 
he  help  observing,  with  a  sigh,  when  all  the  can- 
dles were  lighted:  "That  here  were  candles 
enougli  burnt  in  one  night  to  keep  an  honest 
poor  family  for  a  whole  twelvemonth." 

As  soon  as  the  play,  which  was  Hamht,  Prince 
of  Denmark,  began,  Partriflgc  was  all  attention, 
nor  did  he  break  silence  till  the  entrance  of  the 
ghost ;  upon  which    he  asked  Jones :     "  What 

M 


HENRY  t'lELWNO.-S 

tnan  that  was  in  the  strange  dress ;  something," 
said  he,  "  Uke  what  1  liave  seen  in  a  picture. 
Sure  it  is  not  armor,  is  it  T'  Jones  answered: 
"  That  is  the  ghost."  To  which  Partridge  replied, 
with  a  smile  :  "  Persuade  me  to  that,  sir,  if  you 
can.  Thougli  I  can't  say  I  ever  exactly  saw  a 
ghost  in  my  life,  yet  I  am  certain  I  should  know 
one  if  I  saw  him  better  than  that  comes  to.  No, 
no,  sir ;  ghosts  don't  appear  in  such  dresses  as 
that  neither." 

In  this  mistake,  wliich  caused  mucli  laughter 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Partridge,  he  was  suffered 
to  contimie  till  tlie  scene  between  the  ghost  and 
Hamlet,  when.  Partridge  gave  that  credit  to  Mr. 
Garrick  which  he  liad  denied  to  Jones,  and  fell 
into  so  violent  a  trembling  that  his  knees  knocked 
against  each  other.  Jones  asked  him  what  was 
the  matter,  and  whether  he  was  afraid  of  the 
warrior  upon  the  stage.  "0  la !  sir,"  said  he, 
"  I  perceive  now  it  is  what  you  told  me.  I  am 
not  afraid  of  anything,  for  I  know  it  is  but  a  play  ; 
and  if  it  was  really  a  ghost,  it  could  do  one  no 
harm  at  such  a  distance,  and  in  so  much  company  ; 
and  yet  if  I  was  frightened,  I  am  not  the  only 
person."  "  Why,  who,"  cries  Jones,  "  dost  thou 
take  to  be  such  a  coward  here  beside  thyself  ?  " 
"  Nay,  you  may  call  me  a  coward  if  you  will ; 
but  if  that  little  man  there  upon  the  stage  is  not 
frightened,  I  never  saw  any  man  frightened  in 
my  life.  Ay,  ay  ;  go  along  with  you !  Ay,  to 
be  sure !  Who's  fool,  then  ?  W^ill  you  ?  Lud 
have  mercy  upon  such  foolhardiness !  Whatever 
happens,  it  is  good  enough  for  you.  Follow  you  ! 
rd  follow  the  devil  as  soon.  Nay,  perhaps  it  is 
the  devil — for  they  say  he  can  put  on  what  like- 
ness he  pleases.  Oh  !  here  he  is  again.  No  fur- 
ther !  No,  you  have  gone  far  enough  already  ; 
further  than  Fd  liave  gone  for  all  the  king's 
dominions."  Jones  offered  to  speak,  but  Partridge 
cried :  "  Hush,  hush,  dear  sir ;  don't  you  hear 
him  ?"  And  during  the  whole  speecli  of  the  ghost, 
he  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  partly  on  the  ghost, 
and  partly  on  Hamlet,  and  with  his  mouth  open  ; 


fiENRY  FIELDIXG.-6 

the  same  passions  which  succeeded  each  other  in 
Hamlet  succeeding  likewise  in  him. 

When  the  scene  was  over,  Jones  said  :  "  Why, 
Partridge,  you  exceed  my  expectations.  You  en- 
joy the  play  more  than  I  conceived  possible." 
"  N'ay,  sir,"  answered  Partridge,  "  if  you  are  not 
afraid  of  the  devil,  I  can't  help  it ;  but,  to  be 
sure,  it  is  natural  to  be  surprised  at  such  things, 
though  I  know  there  is  nothing  in  them :  not 
that  It  was  the  ghost  that  surprised  me  neither ; 
for  I  should  have  known  that  to  have  been  only 
a  man  in  a  strange  dress ;  but  when  I  saw  the 
little  man  so  frightened  himself,  it  was  that  which 
took  hold  of  me." 

"  And  dost  thou  imagine  then.  Partridge," 
cries  Jones,  "  that  he  was  really  frightened  ? " 
"  Nay,  sir,"  said  Partridge,  "  did  not  you  your- 
self observe  afterwards,  when  he  found  it  was 
his  own  father's  spirit,  and  how  he  was  murdered 
in  the  garden,  how  his  fear  forsook  him  by  de- 
grees, and  he  was  struck  dumb  with  sorrow,  as 
it  were,  just  as  I  should  have  been  had  it  been 
my  own  case.  But  hush  !  O  la  !  what  noise  is 
that  ?  There  he  is  again.  Well,  to  be  certain, 
though  I  know  there  is  nothing  at  all  in  it,  I  am 
glad  I  am  not  down  yonder  where  those  men 
are."  Then  turning  his  eyes  again  upon  Ham- 
let :  "  Ay,  you  may  draw  your  sword ;  what  sig- 
nifies a  sword  against  the  power  of  the  devil  ? " 

During  the  second  act,  Partridge  made  very 
few  remarks.  He  greatly  admired  the  fineness 
of  the  dresses  ;  nor  could  he  help  observing  upon 
the  king's  countenance.  "  Well,"  said  he,  "  how 
people  may  be  deceived  by  faces!  Nulla  fde^ 
fronti  is,  I  find,  a  true  saying.  Who  would  think, 
by  looking  in  the  king's  face,  that  he  had  ever 
committed  a  munler  <"  He  then  inquired  after 
the  ghost;  but  Jones,  who  intended  he  should 
be  surprised,  gave  him  no  other  satisfaction  than 
"  that  he  might  possibly  see  him  again  soon,  and 
in  a  flash  of  fire." 

Partridge  sat  in  fearful  expectation  of  this; 
and  now,  when  the  ghost  made  his  next  appear- 


HENRY  FIELDING.—'}' 

ance,  Partridge  cried  out :  "  There,  sir,  now  *, 
what  say  you  now  ?  is  lie  frightened  now  or  no  ? 
As  much  frightened  as  you  think  me,  and,  to  be 
sure,  nobody  can  lielp  some  fears,  I  would  not 
be  in  so  bad  a  condition  as — what's  liis  name  ? 
Squire  Hamlet — is  there,  for  all  the  world.  Bless 
mc !  what's  become  of  the  sj)irit  ?  As  I  am  a 
living  soul,  I  thought  I  saw  him  sink  into  the 
earth."  "  Indeed  you  saw  right,"  answered 
Jones.  "  Well,  well,"  cries  Partridge,  "  I  know 
it  is  only  a  play  ;  and  besides,  if  there  was  any- 
thing in  all  this,  Madam  Miller  would  not  laugh 
so  ;  for,  as  to  you,  sir,  you  would  not  be  afraid, 
I  believe,  if  the  devil  was  here  in  person. 
There,  there  ;  ay,  no  wonder  you  are  in  such  a 
passion ;  shake  the  vile  wicked  wretch  to  pieces. 
If  she  was  my  own  mother,  I  should  serve  her  so. 
To  be  sure  all  duty  to  a  mother  is  forfeited  by 
such  wicked  doings.  Ay,  go  about  your  busi- 
ness ;  I  hate  the  sight  of  you." 

Our  critic  was  now  pretty  silent  till  the  play 
which  Hamlet  introduces  before  the  king.  This 
he  did  not  at  first  understand,  till  Jones  explained 
it  to  him  ;  but  he  no  sooner  entered  into  the 
spirit  of  it,  than  he  began  to  bless  himself 
that  he  had  never  committed  murder.  Then 
turning  to  Mrs.  Miller,  he  asked  her :  "  If  she 
did  not  imagine  the  king  looked  as  if  he  was 
touched ;  though  he  is,"  said  he,  "  a  good  actor, 
and  doth  all  he  can  to  hide  it.  Well,  I  would  not 
have  so  much  to  ansjver  for  as  that  wicked  man 
there  hath,  to  sit  upon  a  much  higher  chair  than 
he  sits  upon.  No  wondw  he  ran  away  ;  for 
your  sake  I'll  never  trust  an  innocent  face 
again." 

The  grave-digging  scene  next  engaged  the  at- 
tention of  Partridge,  who  expressed  much  sur- 
prise at  the  number  of  skulls  thrown  upon  the 
stage.  To  which  Jones  answered  :  "  That  it  was 
one  of  the  most  famous  burial  places  about 
town."  "  No  wonder,  then,"  cries  Partridge, 
•'  that  the  place  is  haunted.  But  I  never  saw  in 
my  life  a  worse  grave-digger.     I  had  a  sexton 


HENRY  FIELDING.— 8 

when  I  was  clerk  that  should  have  dug  three 
graves  while  he  is  digging  one.  The  fellow 
handles  a  spade  as  if  it  was  the  first  time  he  had 
ever  had  one  in  his  hand.  Ay,  ay,  you  may  sing. 
You  had  rather  sing  than  work,  I  believe."  Upon 
Hamlet's  taking  up  the  skull,  he  cried  out: 
"  Well !  it  is  strange  to  see  how  fearless  some 
men  are  :  I  never  could  bring  myself  to  touch  any- 
thing belonging  to  a  dead  man  on  any  account. 
He  seemed  frightened  enough  too  at  the  ghost, 
I  thought.     Nemo  omnibus  hoi-is  sapit." 

Little  more  worth  remembering  occurred  at  the 
plav;  at  the  end  of  which  Jones  asked  him  which 
of  the  players  he  had  liked  best.  To  this  he 
answered,  with  some  appearance  of  indignation  at 
the  question  :  "The  king,  without  doubt."  "In- 
deed, Mr.  Partridge,"  says  Mrs.  Miller,  "  you  are 
not  of  the  same  opinion  with  the  town ;  for  they 
are  all  agreed  that  Hamlet  is  acted  by  the  best 
plaver  who  ever  was  on  the  stage." 

"  He  the  best  player !"  cries  Partridge,  with  a 
contemptuous  sneer ;  "  why,  I  could  act  as  well 
as  he  myself.  I  am  sure  if  I  had  seen  a  ghost,  I 
should  have  looked  in  the  very  same  manner,  and 
done  just  as  he  did.  And  then,  to  be  sure,  in 
that  scene,  as  you  called  it,  between  him  and  his 
mother,  where  you  told  me  he  acted  so  fine,  why, 
Lord  help  me!  any  man — that  is,  any  good  man 
— that  had  such  a  mother,  would  have  done  ex- 
actly the  same.  I  know  you  arc  only  joking  with 
mc  I  but,  indeed,  madam,  though  I  was  never  at 
a  play  in  London,  yet  I  have  seen  acting  before 
in  the  country  :  and  the  king  for  my  money  ;  he 
speaks  all  his'  words  distinctly,  half  as  loud  again 
as  the  other.  Anybody  may  see  he  is  an 
actor." — Tom  Jones. 


JAMES  THOMAS  FIELDS. -1 

FIELDS,  James  Thomas,  an  American 

Sublisher  and  author,  boru  at  Portsmouth, 
r.  II.,  December  31,  1817,  died  at  Boston, 
April  20,  1881.  Ho  was  educated  at  the 
High  School  in  his  native  town.  At  the 
age  of  seventeen  he  went  to  Boston,  and 
was  employed  in  a  bookstore.  A  year  after, 
he  delivered  the  anniversary  poem  before 
the  Boston  Mercantile  Library  Association, 
the  oration  being  delivered  by  Edward 
Everett.  He  had  barely  reached  his  major- 
ity when  he  became  a  partner  in  the  house 
in  which  he  was  employed,  the  title  of 
which  in  18-14  became  Ticknor  and  Fields, 
and  in  1864  Fields,  Osgood  and  Co.  In  1870 
he  withdrew  from  the  business,  and  devoted 
himself  to  lecturing  and  other  literary  occu- 
pations. Among  the  important  enterprises 
in  which  Mr.  Fields  was  personally  engaged, 
was  a  Complete  Collection  of  the  Works  of 
De  Quincey,  in  20  volumes,  completed 
in  1858.  In  1860  the  Atlantic  Magazine, 
which  had  been  estalilished  several  years, 
passed  into  the  hands  of  Ticknor  and  Fields, 
Mr.  Fields  for  some  time  acting  as  Editor. 
He  visited  Europe  several  times,  and  was 
personally  intimate  with  nearly  every  prom- 
inent American  and  English  author.  His 
published  writings  are  not  numerous.  They 
include  three  small  volumes  of  Poems 
(1849,  1854,  1858),  Yesterdays  with  Au- 
thors (1871),  and  Underbrush  (1877). 

BALLAD    OF    THE    TEMPEST. 

We  were  crowded  in  tlie  cabin,  not  a  soul  would 

dare  to  sleep ; 
It  was  midniglit  on  the  waters,  and  a  storm  was 

on  the  deep. 
'Tis  a  fearful  thing  in  Winter  to  be  shattered  by 

the  blast, 
And  to  hear  the  rattling  trumpet  thunder,  "  Cut 

away  the  mast !" 


JAMES  THOMAS  FIELDS.— 3 

So  we  shuddered  there  in  silence,  for  the  stoutest 

held  his  breath, 
While    the    hungry    sea   was   roaring,   and    the 

breakers  talked  of  Death. 

As  thus  we  sat  in  darkness,  each  one  busy  in  his 

prayers, 
"  We  are  lost !"  the  captain  shouted  as  he  stag' 

gered  down  the  stairs. 
But  his  little  daughter  whispered,  as  she  took  his 

icy  hand: 
"  Isn't  God  upon  the  ocean  just  the  same  as  on 

the  land  T' 
Then  we  kissed  the  little  maiden,  and  we  spoke 

in  better  cheer, 
And  we  anchored  safe  in  harbor  when  the  morn 

was  shining  clear. 

THE    LAST    OF    THACKERAY. 

I  parted  with  Thackeray  for  the  last  time  in 
the  street,  at  midnight,  a  "few  months  before  his 
death.  The  Cornhill  Magazine,  under  his  editor- 
ship, having  proved  a  very  great  success,  grand 
dinners  were  given  every  month  in  honor  of  the 
new  venture.  We  had  been  sitting  late  at  one 
of  these  festivals,  and  as  it  was  getting  towards 
morning,  I  thought  it  wise,  as  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned, to  be  moving  homeward  before  the  sun 
rose.  Seeing  my  intention  to  withdraw,  he  in- 
si.sted  on  driving  me  in  his  brougham  to  my 
lodgings.  When  we  reached  the  outside  door  of 
our  host,  Thackeray's  servant,  seeing  a  stranger 
with  his  master,  touched  his  hat,  and  asked 
where  he  should  drive  us.  It  was  then  between 
one  and  two  o'clock — time  certainly  for  all 
decent  diners-out  to  be  at  rest.  Thackeray  put 
on  one  of  his  most  quizzical  expressions,  and  said 
to  John,  in  answer  to  his  (juestion,  "I  think  we 
will  make  a  morning  call  on  the  Lord  Bishop  of 
London."  John  knew  his  master's  (juips  and 
cranks  too  well  ti;  suppose  he  was  in  earnest,  so 
I  gave  him  mv  adclress,  and  we  went  on. 

When  we  reached  my  lodgings  the  clocks 
were  striking  two,  and  the  early  morning  air  was 

41 


JAMES  THOMAS  FIELDS.— 3 

raw  and  piorciiiu;.  Opposiiifj  all  my  entreaties 
for  leavc-takiiij:;  in  the  carriage,  he  insisted  upon 
gettinj^  out  on  the  sidewalk,  and  escorting  me  up 
to  my  door,  saying,  witli  a  mock-heroic  protest 
to  the  heavens  above  us,  tliat  "  It  would  be 
shameful  for  a  full-blooded  Britislier  to  leave  an 
unprotected  Yankee  friend  exposed  to  ruffians 
wlio  prowl  about  the  streets  with  an  eye  to  plun- 
der." Then  giving  nic  a  gigantic  embrace,  he 
sang  a  verse  of  which  lie  knew  me  to  be  very 
fond  ;  and  so  vanished  out  of  my  sight  tlie  great- 
hearted author  of  Pcndcnnis  and  Vanity  Fair. 
But  I  tliink  of  him  still  as  moving,  in  liis  own 
stately  way,  up  and  down  tlie  crowded  thorough- 
fares of  London,  dropping  in  at  the  Garrick,  or 
sitting  at  the  window  of  the  Atheufpum  Club, 
and  watcliing  the  stupendous  tide  of  life  that  is 
ever  moving  past  in  tliat  wonderful  city. 

Thackeray  was  a  master  in  every  sense,  liaving, 
as  it  were,  in  himself  a  double  quantity  of  being. 
Robust  humor  and  lofty  sentiment  alternated  so 
strangely  in  him  that  sometimes  he  seemed  like 
the  natural  son  of  Rabelais,  and  at  others  he  rose 
up  a  very  twin  brother  of  the  Stratford  Seer. 
There  was  nothing  in  him  amorphous  and  uncon- 
sidered. Whatever  lie  chose  to  do,  Avas  always 
perfectly  done.  There  was  a  genuine  Thackeray 
flavor  in  everything  he  was  willing  to  say  or  to 
write.  He  detected  with  unerring  skill  the  good 
or  the  vile  wherever  it  existed.  lie  had  an  un- 
erring eye,  a  firm  understanding,  and  abounding 
truth.  "  Two  of  his  great  master  powers,"  said 
the  chairman  at  a  dinner  given  to  him  many 
years  ago  in  Edinburgh,  "are  satire  and  sympa- 
thy." George  Brinley  remarked  that  "  he  could 
not  have  painted  Vanity  Fair  as  he  has,  unless 
Eden  had  been  shining  in  his  inner  eye."  He 
had,  indeed,  an  awful  insight,  with  a  world  of 
.solemn  tenderness  and  simplicity  in  his  compo- 
sition. Those  who  heard  the  same  voice  that 
withered  the  memory  of  King  George  the  Fourth 
repeat  "  The  spacious  firmament  on  high,"  have 
a  recollection  not  easily  to  be  blotted  from  th^ 


JAMES  THOMAS  FIELDS.— 4 

tnind ;  and  I  have  a  kind  of  pity  for  all  who 
were  born  so  recently  as  not  to  have  heard  and 
understood  Thackeray's  Lectures.  But  they  can 
read  him,  and  I  beo-  of  them  to  try  and  appre- 
ciate the  tenderer  phase  of  his  genius  as  well  as 
the  sarcastic  one.  He  teaches  many  lessons  to 
voung  men ;  and  here  is  one  of  them,  which  I 
quote  memoriter  from  Barry  Lyndon :  "  Do  you 
not,  as  a  boy,  i-eniember  waking  of  bright  sum- 
mer mornings  and  finding  your  mother  looking 
over  you?  Ilad  not  the  gaze  of  her  loving  eyes 
stolen  into  your  senses  long  before  you  awoke, 
and  cast  over  your  slumbering  spirit  a  sweet  spell 
of  peace,  love,  and  fresh-springing  joy?" 

Thackeray  was  found  dead  in  his  bed  on 
Christmas  morning,  18G3,  and  he  probably  died 
without  pain.  His  mother  and  his  daughters 
were  sleeping  under  the  same  roof  when  he 
passed  away  alone.  Dickens  told  me  that,  look- 
ing on  him  as  he  lay  in  his  cotfin,  he  wondered 
that  the  figure  he  had  known  in  life  as  one  of 
such  a  noble  presence  could  seem  so  shrunken 
and  wasted.  But  there  had  been  years  of  sor- 
row, years  of  labor,  years  of  pain,  in  that  now 
exhausted  life.  It  was  his  happiest  Christmas 
morning  when  he  heard  the  Voice  calling  him 
homeward  to  unbroken  rest. —  Yesterdays  with 
Authors. 

niltOE    FOR    A    VOUNO    GIRL. 

Underneath  the  sod  low-lying, 

l)ark  and  drear, 
Sleepeth  one  who  left,  in  dying, 

Sorrow  here. 

Yes,  they're  ever  bending  o'er  licr 

Eyes  that  weep ; 
Forms,  that  to  the  cold  grave  bore  her, 

N'igil.s  keep. 

When  the  summer  moon  is  shining 

Soft  and  fair, 
Krien<ls  she  hjved  in  tears  arc  twining 

Chaplcts  there. 

M 


James  Thomas  fields.-5 

Rest  in  peace,  thou  gentle  spirit, 

Tlironcd  above; 
Souls  like  thine  with  God  inherit 

Life  and  love. 

IF    I    WEUE    A    130Y    AGAlK. 

When  we  are  no  longer  young  we  look  back 
and  see  where  we  might  have  done  better  and 
learned  more;  and  the  things  we  have  neglected 
rise  up  and  mortify  us  every  day  of  our  lives. 
May  1  enumerate  some  of  the  more  important 
matters,  large  and  small,  that,  if  I  were  a  boy 
again,  I  would  be  more  particular  about  ? 

I  think  I  would  learn  to  use  my  left  hand  just 
as  freely  as  my  right  one,  so  that  if  anything 
happened  to  lame  either  of  them,  the  other 
would  be  all  ready  to  write  and  handle  things, 
just  as  if  nothing  had  occurred.  There  is  no 
reason  in  the  world  why  both  hands  should  not 
be  educated  alike.  A  little  practice  would  ren- 
der one  set  of  fingers  just  as  expert  as  the  other; 
and  I  have  known  people  who  never  thought, 
when  a  thing  was  to  be  done,  which  particular 
hand  ought  to  do  it,  but  the  hand  nearest  the 
object  took  hold  of  it,  and  did  it 

I  would  learn  the  art  of  using  tools  of  various 
sorts.  I  think  I  would  insist  on  learning  some 
trade,  even  if  I  knew  there  would  be  no  occasion 
to  follow  it  when  I  grew  up.  What  a  pleasure 
it  is  in  after  life  to  be  able  to  "  make  some- 
thing," as  the  saying  is! — to  construct  a  neat 
box  to  hold  one's  pen  and  paper;  or  a  pretty 
cabinet  for  a  sister's  library;  or  to  frame  a  fa- 
vorite engraving  for  a  Christmas  present  to  a 
dear,  kind  mother.  What  a  loss  not  to  know 
how  to  mend  a  chair  that  refuses  to  stand  up 
strong  only  because  it  needs  a  few  tacks  and  a 
bit  of  leather  here  and  there !  Some  of  us  can- 
not even  drive  a  nail  straight ;  and  should  we  at- 
tempt to  saw  off  an  obtrusive  piece  of  wood,  ten 
to  one  we  should  lose  a  finger  in  the  operation. 
It  is  a  pleasant  relaxation  from  books  and  study 
to  work  an  hour  every  day  in  a  tool-sliop ;  and 

44 


JAMES  THOMAS  FIELDS.— 6 

my  friend,  the  learned  and  lovable  Professor 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  finds  such  a  comfort  in 
"  mending  things,"  when  his  active  brain  needs 
repose,  that  he  sometimes  breaks  a  piece  of  fur- 
niture on  purpose  that  he  may  have  the  relief  of 
putting  it  together  again  much  better  than  it  was 
before.  He  is  as  good  a  mechanic  as  he  is  a 
poet 

I  think  I  would  ask  permission,  if  I  happened 
to  be  born  in  a  city,  to  have  the  opportunity  of 
passing  all  my  vacations  in  the  country,  that  I 
might  learn  the  names  of  trees  and  flowers  and 
birds.  We  are,  as  a  people,  sadly  ignorant  of 
all  accurate  rural  knowledge.  We  guess  at  many 
country  things,  but  we  are  certain  of  very  few. 
It  is  inexcusable  in  a  grown-up  person,  like  my 
amiable  neighbor  Simpkins,  who  lives  from  May 
to  November  on  a  farm  of  sixty  acres,  in  a  beau- 
tiful wooded  country,  not  to  know  a  maple  from 
a  beech,  or  a  bobolink  from  a  cat-bird.  He  once 
handed  me  a  bunch  of  pansies,  and  called  them 
violets;  and  on  another  occasion  he  mistook 
sweet-peas  for  geraniums.  What  right  has  a 
human  being,  while  the  air  is  full  of  bird-music, 
to  be  wholly  ignorant  of  the  performer's  name  ? 
When  we  go  to  the  opera,  we  are  fully  posted 
up  with  regard  to  all  the  principal  singers;  and 
why  should  we  know  nothing  of  the  owners  of 
voices  that  far  transcend  the  vocal  powers  of 
Jenny  Lind  and  Christine  Nillson  ? 

If  I  were  a  boy  again,  I  would  learn  liow  to 
row  a  boat  and  handle  a  sail ;  and,  above  all,  how 
to  become  proof  against  sea-sickness.  I  would 
conquer  that  malady  before  I  grew  to  be  fifteen 
years  old.  It  can  be  done,  and  ought  to  be  done 
in  youth;  for  all  of  us  arc  more  or  less  inclined 
to  visit  foreign  countries,  either  in  the  way  of 
business  or  mental  iniprovement — to  say  nothing 
of  plca.sure.  Fight  the  sea-sick  malady  long 
enough,  and  it  can  be  conquered  at  a  very  early 
age.  Charles  Dickens,  seeing  how  ill  his  first 
voyage  to  Aintiricu  made  him,  resolved  after  he 
got  back  to  England  to  go  into  a  regular  battle 


JAMES  THOMAS  FIELDS.-*? 

with  the  wiiuls  and  waves ;  and  never  left  ofE 
crossing  tlie  British  Channel,  between  Dover  and 
Calais,  in  severe  weather,  until  he  was  victor  over 
his  own  stomach,  and  could  sail  securely  after 
that  in  storms  that  kept  the  ravens  in  their  nests. 
"Where  there  's  a  will,  there  's  a  way,"  even  out 
of  ocean  troubles;  but  it  is  well  to  begin  early 
to  assert  supremacy  over  salt-water  difficul- 
ties   

If  I  were  a  boy  again  I  would  have  a  blank- 
book  in  which  I  could  record,  before  going  to 
bed,  every  day's  events  just  as  they  happened  to 
me  personally.  If  I  began  by  writing  only  two 
lines  a  day  in  my  diary,  I  would  start  my  little 
book,  and  faithfully  put  down  what  happened  to 
interest  me.  On  its  pages  I  would  note  down  the 
habits  of  birds  and  animals  as  I  saw  them ;  and 
if  the  horse  fell  ill,  down  should  go  the  malady 
in  my  book ;  and  what  cured  him  should  go 
there  too.  If  the  cat  or  the  dog  showed  any  pe- 
culiar traits,  they  should  all  be  chronicled  in  my 
diary  ;  and  nothing  worth  recording  should  escape 
me 

If  I  were  a  boy  again,  one  of  the  first  things  I 
would  strive  to  do  would  be  this :  I  would,  as 
soon  as  possible,  try  hard  to  become  acquainted 
with,  and  then  deal  honestly  with  my><clf ;  to 
study  up  my  own  deficiencies  and  capabilities: 
and  I  would  begin  early  enough,  before  faults 
had  time  to  become  habits.  I  would  seek  out 
earnestly  all  the  weak  spots  in  my  character,  and 
then  go  to  work  speedily  and  mend  them  with 
better  material.  If  I  found  that  I  was  capable 
of  some  one  thing  in  a  special  degree,  I  would 
ask  counsel  on  that  point  of  some  judicious 
friend  ;  and  if  advised  to  pursue  it,  I  would  de- 
vote myself  to  that  particular  matter,  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  much  that  is  foolishly  allowed  in  boy- 
hood   

If  I  were  a  boy  again,  I  would  school  myself 
into  a  habit  of  attention  oftener ;  I  would  let 
nothing  come  between  me  and  the  subject  in 
hand.     I  would  remember  that  an  expert  on  the 

4( 


JAMES  THOMAS  FIELDS.— 8 

ice  never  tries  to  skate  in  two  directions  at  once. 
One  of  our  great  mistakes  wliilc  we  are  young, 
is  that  we  do  not  attend  strictly  to  what  we  are 
about  just  then — at  that  particular  moment.  We 
do  not  bend  our  energies  close  enough  to  what 
we  are  doing  or  learning.  We  wander  into  a 
half-interest  only,  and  so  never  acquire  fully 
what  is  needful  for  us  to  become  master  of.  The 
practice  of  being  habitually  attentive  is  one  easily 
attained,  if  we  begin  early  enough.  I  often  hear 
grown-up  people  say.  "  I  couldn't  fix  my  atten- 
tion on  the  sermon  or  book,  although  I  wished 
to  do  so."  And  the  reason  is  that  a  hahit  of 
attention  was  never  formed  in  youth 

If  I  were  a  boy  again,  I  would  know  more 
about  the  history  of  my  own  country  tlian  is 
usual,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  witli  young  Americans. 
When  in  England  I  have  always  been  impressed 
with  the  minute  and  accurate  knowledge  con- 
stantly observable  in  young  P^nglish  lads  of  aver- 
age intelligence  and  culture  concerning  the  his- 
tory of  Great  Britain.  They  not  only  have  a 
clear  and  available  store  of  historical  dates  at 
band  for  use  on  any  occasion,  but  they  have  a 
wonderfully  good  idea  of  the  policy  of  govern- 
ment adopted  by  all  the  prominent  statesmen  in 

different  eras  down   to  the  present  time 

If  the  history  of  any  country  is  worth  an  earnest 
study,  it  is  surely  the  liistory  of  our  own  land; 
and  we  cannot  licgin  too  early  in  our  lives  to 
ma.ster  it  fully  and  completely.  What  a  confused 
notion  of  distinguished  Americans  a  1)oy  must 
have  to  replv,  as  one  did  not  long  ago  when  asked 
by  his  teacher,  "  Who  was  Washington  Irving?" 
"  A  General  in  the  Revolutionary  War,  Sir." .... 

If  I  were  a  boy  again,  I  would  strive  to  become 
a  fearless  person.  I  would  cultivate  courarfe  as 
one  of  the  liighest  achievements  of  life.  "  Noth- 
ing is  so  mild  and  tientle  as  courage,  nothing  is 
80  cruel  and  vindictive  as  cowardice,"  says  the 
wise  author  of  a  late  essay  on  "Conduct."  Too 
many  of  us  nowadays  are  overcome  l)y  fancied 
lions  in  the  wav,  that  never  existed  out  of  our 
own  brains.     Nothing  is   so  credulous  as  fear. 

4t 


JAMES  THOMAS  FIELDS.— 9 

Sonic  weak-minded  lioisee  are  forever  looking 
around  for  white  stones  to  shy  at ;  and  if  we  are 
hunting  for  terrors,  tlicy  will  be  sure  to  turn  up 
in  some  shape  or  other.  We  are  too  pi'one  to 
borrow  trouble,  and  anticipate  evils  tliat  may 
never  appear.  "  The  fear  of  ill  exceeds  the  ill 
we  fear."  Abraham  Lincoln  once  said  that  he 
never  crossed  Fox  River,  no  matter  how  high  the 
stream  was,  "until  he  came  to  it."  Dangers  will 
arise  in  any  career,  but  presence  of  mind  will 
often  conquer  the  worst  of  them.  Be  prepared 
for  any  fate,  and  there  is  no  harm  to  be  feared. 

If  I  were  a  boy  again,  I  would  look  on  the 
cheerful  side  of  everything;  for  everything  almost 
has  a  cheerful  side.  Life  is  very  much  like  a 
mirror;  if  you  smile  upon  it,  it  smiles  back  again 
on  you ;  but  if  you  frown  and  look  doubtful 
upon  it,  you  will  be  sure  to  get  a  similar  look  in 
return.  I  once  heard  it  said  of  a  grumbling,  un- 
thankful person,  "  He  would  have  made  an  un- 
commonly fine  sour  apple,  if  he  had  happened  to 
be  born  in  that  station  of  life."  Liner  sunshine 
warms  not  only  the  heart  of  the  owner,  but  all 
who  come  in  contact  with  it.  Indifference  begets 
indifference.  "  Who  shuts  love  out,  in  turn  shall 
be  shut  out  of  love." 

If  I  were  a  boy  again,  I  would  demand  of  my- 
self more  courtesy  towards  my  companions  and 
friends.  Indeed  I  would  rigorously  exact  it  of 
myself  towards  strangers  as  well.  The  smallest 
courtesies,  interspersed  along  the  rough  roads  of 
life,  are  like  the  little  English  sparrows  now  sing- 
ing to  us  all  winter  long,  and  making  that  season 
of  ice  and  snow  more  endurable  to  everybody. 
But  I  have  talked  long  enough,  and  this  shall  be 
my  parting  paragraph :  Instead  of  trying  so 
hard  to  be  happy,  as  if  that  were  the  sole  purpose 
of  life,  I  would,  if  I  were  a  boy  again,  try  still 
harder  to  deserve  happiness. —  Underbrush. 

AGASSIZ. 

Once  in  the  leafy  prime  of  spring,  when  blossoms 

whitened  every  thorn, 
I  wandered   through   the  vale  of  Orbe,  where 

Agassiz  was  born. 


JAI^IES  tho:mas  fields.— 10 

The  birds  in  boyhood  he  had  known  went  flitting 

through  the  air  of  May, 
And  happy  songs  he  loved  to  hear  made  all  the 

landscape  gay. 

I  saw  the  streamlet  from  the  hills  run  laughing 

through  the  valleys  green  ; 
And,  as  I  watched  it  run,  I  said,  "  This  his  dear 

eyes  have  seen  !" 
Far  cliffs  of  ice,  his  feet  had  climbed,  that  day 

outspoke  of  him  to  me ; 
The  avalanches  seemed  to  sound  the  name  of 

Agassiz ! 

And  standing  on  the  mountain  crag,  where  loos- 
ened waters  rush  and  foam, 

I  felt  that,  thcjugh  on  Cambridge  side,  he  made 
that  spot  my  home. 

And  looking  round  me  as  I  mused,  I  knew  no 
pang  of  fear  or  caro. 

Or  homesick  weariness,  because  once  Agassiz 
stood  there. 

I   walked   beneath    no    alit'ii    skies,   no    foreign 

heights  I  came  to  tread; 
For  everywhere  I  looked,  I  saw  his  grand  beloved 

head. 
His  smile  was  stamped  on  every  tree  ;  the  glacier 

shone  to  gild  his  name; 
And  every  image  in  the  lake  reflected  back  his 

fame. 

Great  keeper  of  the  magic  keys  that  could  un- 
lock the  magic  gates, 

Where  Science  like  a  monarch  stands,  and  sacred 
Knowledge  waits: — 

Thine  ashes  rest  on  .Xuburn's  banks:  thy  moni- 
ory  all  the  world  contains; 

For  thou  couldst  bind  in  hiniiaii  love  all  hearts 
in  golden  chains  I 

Thine  was  the  heaven-born  spell  that  sets  our 
warm  and  deep  affections  free: — 

WIkj  knew  thee  best  n)ust  love  thee  best,  and 
longest  mourn  for  thee! 


LOUIS  GUILLAUME  FIGUIER.— 1 

FIGUIEE,  Loiis  Guii.LAUME,  a  French 
scientific  writer,  born  in  1819.  He  studied 
medicine  under  his  uncle  Pierre  Oscar 
Fiffuier,  Professor  of  Oiiemistry  in  the 
School  of  Pharmacy  in  Montpellier,  and 
luivin^  taken  his  dejjree  of  M.I).,  went  to 
Paris  in  1842,  to  continue  his  studies.  Four 
years  Uiter  he  was  appointed  a  professor  in  the 
School  of  Pharmacy  in  his  native  town.  He 
afterwards  returned  to  Paris,  became  the  sci- 
entific editor  of  ZaPresse^aml  has  since  con- 
tributed numerous  articles  to  scientific  jour- 
nals.  Among  his  works  are  :  Expositiun  and 
History  of  the  jyrineipal  Mothrn  ScieiUiJic 
Discoveries  {l^hl-^2>),  History  of  the  Won- 
ders of  Modern  Times  (1859-60),  Lives  of 
Illnsirious  Savants  fro) n  Antiquity  to  the 
Nineteenth  Century\\^QQ),  The  World  he- 
fore  the  Deluge,  and  The  Yegetahle  World 
(1867),  The  Ocean  World,  and  The  Insect 

World  (1868),  Birds  and  Reptiles,  The 
Mammalia,  and  rrimitive  Man  (18T0\ 
and  TJte  Human  Race  (18T2).  Fignier  is 
the  editor  of  H Annee  Scientifque  et  In 

dustrielle. 

GLACIERS. 

The  fortunate  spectator  who  could  enibract 
with  a  bird's-eye  view,  or  from  the  chariot  of 
some  adventurous  aeronaut,  tlicwliole  of  the  vast 
Alpine  chain,  from  the  shores  of  the  Mediterra- 
nean to  those  of  the  Adriatic,  would  hehold 
nearly  every  shining  and  silent  peak  draped  in  a 
dazzling  robe  of  ice,  which  falls  over  the  vast 
body  of  each  mountain  like  a  kingly  shroud,  ex- 
cept when  broken  here  and  there  by  the  sharp 
points  of  rocks  too  precipitous  to  retain  the  de- 
scending snows.  Beneath,  far  beneath  these 
towering  crests,  he  would  mark  a  labyrinth  of 
narrow  valleys,  whose  inner  flanks  are  rude  with 
furrows  of  ice,  like  the  fringes  or  tatters  of  tlie 
silver  mantle  spread  about  the  summit.  He  would 


LOUIS  GUILLATBIE  FIGUIER.— 2 

perceive  that  these  long-  furrows  penetrate  to  the 
very  heart  of  the  fertile  regions  which  the  sons 
of  men  call  their  own.  If  he  removed  his  gaze 
from  the  centre  of  the  Alpine  mass,  secondary 
and  less  important  chains,  ramifying  in  every  di- 
rection, would  offer  him  the  same  spectacle  on  a 
smaller  scale.  And  if  his  wandering  glances  de- 
scended lower  still,  he  would  observe  that  the 
ice  and  snows  graduallv  disappear;  that  nature 
loses  its  savage  and  inhospitable  aspect ;  that  the 
contours  of  the  soil  grow  rounder  and  more  soft- 
ened ;  and  finally,  that  the  smiling  vegetation 
and  fairy-like  bloom  of  the  plains  replace  the 
desolate  monotonousness  of  the  bleak  tields  of 
snow. 

These  rivers  of  solidified  water,  which,  in  the 
Alps  are  found  wherever  the  mountain-summits 
rise  above  tlie  perpetual  snow-line,  and  which 
descend  into  the  valleys  far  below  that  boundary, 
perform  no  unimportant  part  in  Nature's  grand 
economy.  On  the  awakening  of  Sj)ring,  Nature 
too,  awakes ;  the  budding  trees  announce  and 
prepare  the  laughing  verdure  of  the  woods ; 
everywhere  the  gloom  of  Nature  disappears  be- 
fore the  genial  influence  of  A[)ril.  The  glaciers 
alone  resj»ond  not  to  the  warm  embraces  of  the 
.sun,  and  the  summer  heats  apparently  play  upon 
their  impa.'jsive  surfaces  without  producing  any 
impression.  But  when  we  reflect  that  these  long, 
motionless,  frozen  rivers  descend  unbrokenly 
from  the  region  of  eternal  snows,  we  easily  di- 
vine that  their  origin  must  besought,  no  less  than 
their  sustenance,  in  the  remote  recesses  of  the 
mountain-summits.  The  glaciers  are  the  advance- 
guards  despatclicd  from  the  inaccessible  heights 
where  reigns  Eternal  Winter;  they  are  the  emis- 
saries of  those  powers  of  frost  wiiich  clothe  in 
snow  and  ice  the  suj)rcme  elevations. 

The  snow  which  falls  on  the  loftier  mountains 
neviT  melts;  it  [)reserves  its  condition  of  solidity 
u[)on  all  rocks  whose  temperat\ire  never  rises  above 
zero.  The  masses  which  are  thus  accumulated  year 
after  year,  would  eventually,  one  might  say, 
hi 


LOUIS  GUILLAUME  FIGUIER.— 3 

threaten  the  very  sky ;  they  would  gather  in  ever- 
succeeding  strata  on  the  summits,  and  deprive  the 
phiins  of  the  benelit  of  their  waters  if  provident 
Nature  had  not  guarded  against  so  evil  a  result. 
And  it  guards  against  it  by  the  formation  of  gla- 
ciers. A  glacier  is  immovable  only  to  the  eye:  in 
reality  it  is  endowed  with  a  progressive  motion. 
This  motion  is  miraculously  slow,  and  in  this  very 
slowness  of  progression  rests  the  providential 
intention  of  the  phenomenon.  Little  by  little 
the  glaciers  advance  into  the  valleys;  there  they 
undergo  the  influence  of  the  mild  temperature  of 
Spring  and  Summer;  they  melt  away  at  their 
base ;  and  in  this  manner  create  inexhaustible 
springs  and  innumerable  water-courses.  Ascend 
the  bed  of  an  Alpine  torrent;  follow  it  up  the 
course  of  the  miry  ravine  which  encloses  it,  and 
you  will  come  upon  a  glacier.  A  glacier  is,  in  fact, 
neither  more  nor  less  than  a  vast  reservoir  of  con- 
gealed waters,  which  melt  very  slowly,  and  drag 
on  their  lingering  way  into  the  lower  valleys, 
where  they  form  a  rapid  stream,  or  broaden  into 
a  noble  river.  And  if  we  would  unveil  the  whole 
series  of  Nature's  operations  in  this  branch  of  her 
chemistry,  we  must  add  that,  in  the  plains  and 
the  valleys,  the  heat  of  the  sun,  evaporating  the 
water  of  brook  and  river,  returns  it  to  the  atmos- 
phere in  the  condition  of  vapor;  which,  after 
awhile,  descends  again  to  earth  in  the  form  of 
snow,  to  be  anew  converted  into  ice,  and  then 
into  vivifying  springs ;  accomplishing  thus  the 
most  complete  and  marvellous  circle  of  natural 
operations,  a  circle  everlasting,  which,  like  its 
Author,  has  neither  beginning  nor  end. — Earth 
and  Sea, 


FRANCISCO  DE  FIGUEROA.— 1 

FIGUEROA,  Francisco  de,  a  Spanish 
poet,  born  about  1550;  died  in  1621.  He 
was  a  soldier  by  profession,  and  passed  the 

freater  part  of  his  life  in  Italy  and  Flanders. 
K)pe  de  Yega  calls  him  ''the  divine  Fi- 
gueroa."  Cervantes  makes  him  and  his 
friend  Garcilaso  interlocutors  in  his  pastoral 
poem,  Galatea.  Of  Figueroa,  Mr.  Ticknor 
says:  "A  gentleman  and  a  soldier,  whose 
few  Castilian  poems  are  still  acknowledged 
in  the  more  choice  collections  of  his  native 
literature,  but  who  lived  so  long  in  Italy, 
and  devoted  himself  so  earnestly  to  the 
study  of  its  language,  that  he  wrote  Italian 
verse  -with  purity,  as  well  as  Spanish." 
Just  before  his  death  he  ordered  that  all  of 
his  poetical  works  should  be  burned ;  but 
copies  of  some  of  them  remained  in  the  hands 
of  his  friends,  and  so  escaped  destruction. 

ON    THE    DEATH    OF    GARCILASO. 

0  beauteous  scion  from  the  stateliest  tree 
That  e'er  in  fertile  mead  or  forest  grew, 
With  fresliest  bloom  adorned,  and  vigor  new, 

Glorious  in  form,  and  first  in  dignity  ! 

The   same  fell  tempest,  which   by   Heaven's 
decree 
Around  thy  parent  stock  resistless  blew, 
And  far  from  Tejo  fair  its  trunk  o'erthrew. 

In  foreign  clime  has  stripped  the  leaves  from 
thee. 
And  the  same  pitying  hand  has  from  the  spot 

Of  cheerless  ruin  raised  ye  to  rejoice, 
Where  fruit  immortal  decks  the  withered  stem. 

1  will  not,  like  the  vul{,far,  mourn  your  lot, 
Jiut  with  |)urc  incense  and  exulting  voice, 

Praise  your  high  worth,  and  consecrate  your  fame. 
2' rand,  of  Herbert, 

(9 


VINCENZO  DA  FILICAJA.— 1 

FI  Lie  A  J  A,  ViNCENZo  DA,  an  Italian 
poet,  born  at  Florence  in  1042 ;  died  tliere  in 
1707.  He  was  of  a  noble  family  and  stndied 
philosophy,  jurisprudence,  and  tlieoloi»;y, 
writing  poetry  only  by  way  of  relaxation.  Ills 
early  j)oenis  were  of  an  amatory  character,  but 
the  lady  to  whom  he  was  attached  died  young, 
and  he  resolved  thereafter  to  write  only  ujk)U 
sacred  or  heroic  themes.  After  the  raising 
of  the  Turkish  siege  of  Vienna  by  John 
Sobieski,  in  1685,  Filicaja.  celebrated  the 
triumph  of  the  Christian  arms  by  six  tri- 
umphal odes.  His  sonnet  to  Italy  is  es- 
teemed the  best  in  the  Italian  language. 

SONNET  TO  ITALY. 

Italia,  0  Italia!  hapless  thou 

Who  didst  the  fatal  gift  of  beauty  gain, 

A  dowry  frauglit  with  never-ending  pain — 
A  seal  of  sorrow  stamped  upon  thy  brow  : 

O  were  thy  bravery  more,  or  less  thy  charms ! 
Then  should  thy  foes — they  whom  thy  loveliness 
Now  lures  afar  to  conquer  and  possess — 

Adore  thy  beauty  less,  or  dread  thine  arms ! 
No  longer  then  shonkl  hostile  torrents  pour 

Adown  the  Alps;  and  Gallic  troops  be  laved 
In  the  red  waters  of  the  Po  no  more; 

Nor  longer  then,  by  foreign  courage  saved. 
Barbarian  succor  sliould  thy  sons  implore — 

Vanquished  or  victors,  still  by  Goths  enslaved. 
Transl.  in  U.  S.  Literary  Gazette. 

THE    SIEGE    OF    VIENNA. 

How  long,  O  Lord,  shall  vengeance  sleep, 
And  impious  pride  defy  thy  rod? 

How  long  thy  faithful  servants  weep, 

Scourged  by  the  tierce  barbaric  host? 
Where,  where,  of  thine  almighty  arm,  0  God, 

Where  is  the  ancient  boast? 
While  Tartar  brands  are  drawn  to  steep 

Thy  fairest  plains  in  Christian  gore. 
Why  slumbers  thy  dcvourinf;;  wrath. 
Nor  sweeps  the  offender  from  thy  path  ? 

M 


VINCEKZO   DA  FILICAJA.-2 

And  wilt  thou  lioar  tliy  sons  deplore 
Thy  temples  ritlod — shrines  no  more — 
Nor  burst  their  s>-alling-  chains  asunder, 
And  arm  thee  with  avenging  thunder? 

See  tiie  black  cloud  on  Austria  lower, 
Bio;  with  terror,  death  and  woe! 

Behold  the  wild  barbarians  pour 
In  riishiny  torrents  o'er  the  land  ! 
Lo !  host  on  host,  the  iiilidel  foe 
Sweep  along  the  Danube's  strand, 
And  darkly  serried  spears  the  light  of  day 
o'erpower  ! 

There  the  innumerable  swords, 
The  banners  of  the  East  unite  ; 
All  Asia  girds  her  loins  for  fight : 

The  Don's  barbaric  lords, 

Sarmatia's  liaughty  hordes. 
Warriors  from  Thrace,  and  many  a  swarthy  file 
Banded  on  Syria's  plains  or  by  the  Nile. 

Mark  the  tide  of  blood  that  fiows 
Within  Vienna's  proud  impcri;il  walls! 

Beneath  a  thousand  deadly  blows, 
Dismayed,  enfeeb!e<l,  sunk,  subdued, 
Austria's  <|ue('n  of  cities  falls. 
Vain  are  her  l«>fty  ramparts  to  elude 

The  fatal  triumph  of  her  foes; 
Lo  her  earth-fast  battlements 

(Quiver  and  shake;  hark  to  the  thrilling  cry 

Of  war  that  rends,  the  sky, 
Tlio  groans  of  death,  the  wild  laments, 
The  sob  of  trembling  innocents, 
Of  wildereil  matrons,  pressing  to  their  breast 
.\ll  which  they  feared  formostand  loved  the  best! 

Thine  everbistinix  hand 
Hxalt,  (>  Ijoril,  that  impious  man  may  learn 

How  frail  their  armor  to  withstand 
Thy  power — the  power  of  (Jod  supreme! 

Let  thy  consuming  vengeance  burn 
The  truiltv  nations  with  its  beam  ! 

I'.iiid  them  in  slavery's  iron  band, 
(.)r  as  tlie  seatten-d  dust  in  summer  flics 


VINCENZO  DA  FILICAJA.— 3 

Cliascd  by  the  rao'iiio;  blast  of  heaven 
lieforc  Thee  be  the  Thracians  driven? 
Let  trophied  cohiinns  by  the  Danube  rise, 
And  bear  the  insc'ri[)tion  to  the  skies: 
"  Warring  against  the  Christian  Jove  in  vain, 
Here  was  the  Ottoman  Typhauis  shiin  !".... 

If  Destiny  decree. 
If  Fate's  eternal  leaves  declare, 

That  Germany  shall  bend  the  knee 
Before  a  Turkish  despot's  nod, 
And  Italy  the  ^b)slem  ycdce  shall  bear, 

I  bow  in  meek  humility. 
And  kiss  the  holy  rod. 

Conquer — if  such  Thy  will — 
Conquer  the  Scythian,  while  he  drains 
The  noblest  blood  from  Europe's  veins, 
And  Havoc  drinks  her  hll  : 
We  yield  Thee  tremblino-  homage  still ; 
We  rest  in  Thy  command  secure  ; 
For  Thou  alone  art  just,  and  wise,  and  pure. 

But  shall  I  live  to  see  the  day 
When  Tartar  ploughs  Germanic  soil  divide, 

And  Arab  herdsmen  fearless  stray. 

And  watch  their  flocks  along  the  Ilhine, 
Where  princely  cities  now  o'erlook  his  tide  ? 

The  Danube's  towers  no  longer  shine, 
For  hostile  flame  has  given  them  to  decay : 

Shall  devastation  wider  spread 
Where  the  proud  ramparts  of  Vienna  swell, 
Shall  solitary  Echo  dwell, 
And  human  footsteps  cease  to  tread? 
O  God,  avert  the  omen  dread  ! 
If  Heaven  the  sentence  did  record, 
Oh,  let  Thy  mercy  blot  the  fatal  word ! 

Hark  to  the  votive  liymn  resounding 
Through  the^temple's  cloistered  aisles  1 

See,  the  sacred  shrine  surrounding. 

Perfumed  clouds  of  incense  rise  ! 
The  Pontiff  opes  the  stately  piles 

Where  many  a  buried  treasure  lies  ; 
With  liberal  hand,  rich,  full,  abounding. 

He  pours  abroad  the  gold  of  Rome  ; 


VlNCENZO   DA  FILICAJA.— 4 

He  summons  every  Christian  king 

Ao'ainst  the  Moslemin  to  bring 

Their  forces  leagued  for  Christendom  : 

The  brave  Teutonic  nations  come, 

And  warlike  Poles  like  thunderbolts  descend, 

Moved  by  his  voice  their  brethren  to  defend. 

He  stands  upon  the  Esquiline, 
And  lifts  to  heaven  his  holy  arm. 

Like  Moses,  clothed  in  power  divine 

While  faith  and  hope  his  strength  sustain. 
Merciful  God  I  has  prayer  no  charm 

Thy  rage  to  soothe,  thy  love  to  gain  ? 
The  pious  king  of  Judah's  line 

Beneath  thine  anger  lowly  bended, 
And  Thou  didst  give  him  added  years; 
The  Assyrian  Nineveh  shed  tears 
Of  humbled  pride  when  death  impended, 
And  thus  the  fatal  curse  forefended : 
And  wilt  Thou  turn  away  thy  face 
When  Heaven's  vicegerent  seeks  thy  grace  ? 

Sacred  fury  fires  my  breast, 
And  fills  my  laboring  soul. 

Ye  who  hold  the  lance  in  rest, 

And  gird  you  for  the  holy  wars. 
On,  on,  like  ocean  waves  to  conquest  roll, 

Christ  and  the  Cross  your  leading  star! 
Already  He  proclaims  your  prowess  blest : 

Sound  the  loud  trump  of  victory  ! 
Rush  to  the  combat,  soMiers  of  the  Cross! 
High  let  your  banners  triuiiij)hant]y  toss  : 
Fc^r  the  heathen  shall   perisli,  and  songs  of  the 

free 
Ring  through  the  heavens  in  jubilee! 
Why  delay  ye?     Bui;kle  on   the  sword  and  the 

targe. 
And  charge,  victorious  champions,  charge  ! 

Transl.  in  U.  S.  Literary  Gazette. 


GEORGE  FINLAY.-l 

FINLAY,  Gkokge,  a  British  historian 
born  in  1799;  died  at  Atliens,  Greece,  in 
1875.  At  the  age  of  twenty,  while  a  stu- 
dent at  G<)ttinojen,  he  be<i::an  to  interest  him- 
self especially  in  the  affairs  of  Greece.  In 
1823  he  resolved  to  go  to  that  country  in 
order  that  he  might  judge  for  himself  as  to 
the  likelihood  of  success  for  the  uprising  of 
the  Greeks  against  the  Turks.  Arriving  at 
Cephalonia  in  November,  he  had  some  in- 
tercourse with  Lord  Byron,  who  had  already 
eml)arked  in  that  enterprise.  In  1829,  when 
the  independence  of  Greece  had  been  se- 
cured, Mr.  Finlay  took  up  his  residence  in 
Attica ;  but  the  hopes  which  he  had  cher- 
ished of  the  regeneration  of  Hellas  were  not 
then  realized  ;  he  lost  all  his  fortune,  which 
he  had  invested  in  an  attempt  to  improve 
the  agricultural  condition  of  what  had  be- 
come his  adopted  land.  In  the  years  ensu- 
ing, during  a  part  of  which  he  acted  as  a 
newspaper  correspondent,  he  wrote  several 
works  relating  to  tlie  later  history  of  Greece. 
The  principal  of  those  are  :  The  Hellenic 
Kingdom  and  the  Greek  Nation  (1836), 
Greece  under  the  Romans  (1844,  second  ed- 
ition 1857),  The  History  of  the  Greek  and 
Byzantine  Emjnres  (1854),  The  History  of 
Greece  under  the  Othoman  and  Venetian 
Dominion  (1856),  and  The  History  of  the 
(rreek  Revolution  (1861).  A  new  edition  of 
Finlay's  greatest  work.  The  History  of  the 
Byzantine  and  Greek  Empires^  practically 
re-written,  and  with  many  additions  by 
the  Ilev.  II.  F.  Tozer,  was  brought  out  in 
1877. 

TUB     VICISSITUDES    OF    NATIONS. 

The  vicissituflcs  wliicli  tlie  jTrcat  masses  of 
the  nations  of  the  earth  have  inidor^one  in  past 
ages  have  hitherto  received  very  little  attention 

S8 


GEORGE  FINLAY.— 2 

from  historians,  who  have  adorned  their  pages 
with  the  records  of  kings,  and  the  personal    ex- 
ploits of  princes  and  great  men,  or  attached  their 
narrative  to  the  fortunes  of  the  dominant  classes, 
without  noticing  the  fate  of  the  people.     History, 
however,    continually    repeats    the    lesson    that 
power,  numbers,  and  the  highest  civilization  of 
an  aristocracy  are,  even  when  united,  insufficient 
to  insure  national  prosperity,  and  establish   the 
powers  of  the  rulers    on  so  firm  and  permanent  a 
basis  as  shall  guarantee  the  dominant  class  from 
annihilation.     On  the  other  hand,  it  teaches  us 
that  conquered  tribes,  destitute  of  all  these  ad- 
vantages, may  continue  to  perpetuate  their  ex- 
istence   in    misery    and    contempt.      It   is   that 
portion    only    of    mankind    which    eats    bread 
.raised  from  the  soil   by  the  sweat  of  its  brow, 
that   can    form    the    basis  of   a  permanent  na- 
tional   existence.     The  history    of   the  Romans 
and    of   the   Jews    illustrates    these  facts.     Yet 
even  the  cultivation  of  the  soil  cannot   always 
insure    a    race    from    destruction,    "  for    mata- 
bility    is    nature's    bane."     The    Thracian  race 
has  disappeared.       The   great   Celtic    race    has 
dwindled  away,  and  seems  hastening  to  complete 
absorption   in   the  Anglo-Saxon.     The  Hellenic 
race,  whose  colonies  extended  from  Marseilles  to 
Bactria,  and  from  the  Cimmerian  Bosphorus  to 
the  coast  of  Cyrenaica,  lias  become  extinct  in 
many  countries  where  it  once  formed  the  bulk  of 
the  population,  as  in  Magna  Gnccia  and  Sicily. 
On  the  other  hand,  mixed  races  have  arisen,  and, 
like    the    Albanians    and  Wallachians,  have    in- 
truded themselves   into   the  aneieat  seats  of  the 
Hellenes.      But  these  revolutions  and  changes  in 
the  p<>j)ulation  of  the  globe  imply  no  degradation 
of  mankind,  as  some  writers  a[)pear  t(^  think,  f(jr 
the  lioinans  and   English   afford   examples   that 
mixed    races    may    attain    as    high  a  degree  of 
physical   power  and   mental    superiority  as    has 
ever   been  reached  by  races  of  the  purest  blood 
in    ancient    or    modc.Tri    times. — History  of  the 
Oreck  and  Byzantine  Empires. 


JOHN  FINLEY.— 1 

FINLEY,  John,  an  American  poet,  born 
in  liockbridge  County,  Virginia,  in  1797 ; 
died  in  186G,  After  serving  an  apprentice- 
ship as  a  tanner  and  currier,  he  went  to 
Richmond,  Indiana,  of  wliich  place  he  was 
for  a  time  Mayor.  He  wrote  many  short 
poems,  which  appeared  in  the  newspapers. 
One  of  tliese,  Bachelor's  Hall,  was  for  a 
long  time  attributed  to  Thomas  Moore. 

bachelok's  hall. 
Bachelor's  Hall  ?  What  a  quare-looking  place  it 
is! 
Kape  me  from  sich  all  the  days  of  my  life ! 
Sure,  but  I  think  what  a  biu-niii'  disgrace  it  is 
Niver  at  all  to  be  gettiu'  a  wife. 

See  the  old  bachelor,  gloomy  and  sad  enough, 
Placing  his  tay kettle  over  the  fire  ; 

Soon   it   tips   over — Saint   Patrick !    he's    mad 
enough 
(If  he  were  present)  to  fight  with  the  Squire. 

There  like  a  hog  in  a  mortar-bed  wallowing. 

Awkward  enough,  see  him  knading  his  dough  ; 
Troth  !  if  the  bread  he  could  ate  widout  swallow- 

How  it  would  favor  his  palate,  you  know  ? 

His  meal  being  over,  the  table's  left  setting  so ; 

Dishes,  take  care  of  yourselves  if  you  can ! 
But  hunger  returns — then  he's  fuming  and  fret- 
ting so, 

Och  !   let  him  alone  for  a  baste  of  a  man. 

Pots,  dishes,   pans,   and  such    greasy    commodi- 
ities, 

Ashes  and  prata-skins  kiver  the  floor ; 
His  cupboard's  a  storehouse  of  comical  oddities, 

Sich  as  had  niver  been  neighbors  before. 

Late  in  the  night,  then,  he  goes  to  bed  shiver- 
inif : 

Niver  the  bit  is  the  bed  made  at  all  ! 
He  crapes,  like  a  tarrapin,  under  the  kivering: — 

Bad  luck  to  the  picter  of  Bachelor's  Hall, 

60 


FIRDUSI.— 1 

FLRDUSI  (Abul  Kasm),  a  Persian  poet, 
bom  about  940  ;  died  iu  10:20.  He  is  said  to 
have  been  the  son  of  a  gardener  on  the  do- 
main of  the  Governor  of  Tus.  He  was 
carefully  educated  in  the  Arabic  language 
and  literature,  the  Old  Persian,  and  the  his- 
tory and  traditions  of  his  country.  For 
many  years  he  cultivated  Ills  poetical  talents 
with  success,  and  at  length  conceived  the 
design  of  relating  in  an  epic  poem  the  his- 
tory (K  the  Persian  kings.  He  began  hia 
work  when  he  was  thirty-six  years  old. 
When  he  was  more  than  tifty,  he  went  to 
the  court  of  the  Sultan  Mahmud  ibn  Sa- 
buktagin,  drawn  thither  by  the  report  that 
the  monarch  had  directed  the  poets  at  his 
court  to  write  a  poetical  version  of  the  deeds 
of  the  ancient  kings.  For  some  time  Fir- 
dusi  remained  at  the  court  unnoticed  ;  but 
at  length  one  of  his  friends  presented  to 
Mahmud  tlie  poet's  version  of  the  battles  of 
Rustem  and  Isfendiyar.  The  Sultan  im- 
mediately a])pointed  him  to  complete  the 
)Shdh-]\Mme/i,  or  jBook  of'  t/ie  Kings,  gave 
him  the  name  of  Firdusi,  or  "  Paradise," 
and  commanded  his  treasurer  to  pay  him  a 
thousand  pieces  of  gold  for  every  thousand 
verses  of  tlie  poem.  The  poet  chose  to  wait 
until  the  work  was  complete,  and  receive  the 
entire  ])ayment  in  a  lump.  The  poem  was 
at  length  completed  in  00,000  verses. 
Mahmud  professed  himself  delighted,  and 
ordered  paymejit  to  be  made.  But  whetluu* 
through  the  j)arsimony  of  the  king,  or  the 
treachery  of  his  treasurer,  silver  was  substi- 
tuted for  gold  ;  the  i>oet  saw  his  splendid 
reward  dwindle  to  paltry  wages.  lie  was 
at  the  bath  when  the  nK)ney  was  brought  to 
him.  In  a  transport  of  disappointment  atjd 
rage,  he  immediately  divided  it  into  three 
equal  parts,  which  he  gave  to  the  keeper  of 


FIRDUSI.— 2 

the  bath,  the  seller  of  refreshments,  and  the 
slave  who  brought  the  money.  "  The  Sul- 
tan shall  know,"  said  he,  "  that  I  did  not 
bestow  the  labor  of  thirty  years  on  a  work 
to  be  rewarded  with  silver."  On  learning 
that  liis  gift  had  been  des})ised,  Mali  mud  re- 
proached tlie  treasurer,  who  conti'ived  to 
throw  the  blame  on  Firdusi,  and  so  inflamed 
the  Sultan's  rage  that  he  condemned  the 
poet  to  be  trampled  to  death  by  an  ele- 
phant on  the  following  morning.  lif  an- 
guish Firdusi  hastened  to  the  Sultan,  and 
besought  his  pardon.  It  was  reluctantly 
granted,  but  the  outraged  poet  fled,  flrst  giv- 
ing into  the  hands  of  the  king's  favorite  a 
sealed  paper  containing  a  bitter  satire  on 
Mahmud.  He  first  took  refuge  in  Mazen- 
deran,  and  afterward  at  Bagdad,  where  in 
honor  of  its  Caliph,  Al  Kader  Billah,  he 
composed  a  thousand  additional  verses  to 
the  Shah  Ndmeh.  He  also  wrote  Yiisd' 
and  ZuleiJca,  a  poem  of  9000  couplets.  He 
at  length  returned  to  his  native  town,  where 
it  is  said  that  he  lived  obscurely  until  his 
death. 

The  Shcih  Ndmeh  is  regarded  by  the  Ori- 
entals as  an  authority  in  the  ancient  history 
of  Persia  ;  but  there  are  in  it  no  pretensions 
to  true  history,  chronology  being  disregard- 
ed, and  some  of  the  kings  represented  as 
reigning  for  hundreds  of  years.  It  is  held 
in  as  high  estimation,  in  com])arison  with 
other  Oriental  poems,  as  are  the  works  of 
Homer  in  comparison  with  otlier  poems  of 
the  West.  Hence,  Firdusi  has  been  called 
the  Homer  of  the  East.  The  principal  hero 
is  Rustem,  the  son  of  Zal  and  lludabeh, 
who  in  his  eighth  year,  was  as  powerful  as 
any  hero  of  his  time.  Plis  exploits  in  early 
youth,  as  recorded  by  Firdusi,  were  the  mar- 
vel of  the  world.     The  story  of  Rustem  and 


FIRDUSI.— 3 

his  son  Sohriib   is   i-eo:arded   as   the   finest 
epi.^ode  of  the  ShdJi  A^aint/i. 

While  on  a  hnntino;  excursion  to  Tunin, 
ItiLsteiu,  overcome  with  fatigue  after  a  long 
day's  chase,  lay  down  and  fell  asleep.  His 
horse,  Kakush,  left  to  browse  near  him,  was 
captured  by  a  baud  of  Tartars,  and  led  away. 
On  waking  Rustem  traced  his  horse  by  his 
footprints  to  Samengan,  a  small  principality 
on  the  border  of  Tunin.  The  king  of 
Samengan  went  forth  to  meet  him,  begged 
that  the  hero  would  become  his  guest,  and 
promised  that  his  horse  should  be  restored 
to  him.  Rustem  accepted  the  king's  hospi- 
tality, and  was  entertained  at  a  feast,  while 
servants  were  sent  in  search  of  Rakush. 
After  the  feast  Rustem  was  shown  to  a 
handsome  sleeping  apartment.  In  the  night 
he  was  awakened  by  a  light  shining  across 
his  eyes.  On  opening  them  he  saw  a  beau- 
tiful girl  attended  by  a  female  slave  carry- 
ing a  lamp.  It  was  Tamineh,  the  king's 
daughter,  who  told  him  that  the  story  of 
his  wonderful  deeds  had  captivated  her 
heart,  and  that  she  had  long  before  resolved 
to  be  the  wife  of  no  other  man.  Her  beauty 
and  tenderness  instantly  won  his  love,  and 
he  sent  for  her  father,  and  asked  his  consent 
to  their  marriage.  It  was  given,  and  the 
marriage  was  solemnized. 

Rustem  could  spend  but  a  short  time  with 
his  bride.  On  parting  with  her  he  gave  her 
his  golden  bracelet,  telling  her  that  if  their 
fhild  should  be  a  daughter,  she  might  bind 
the  l)racelet  in  her  hair,  and  if  it  should  be 
a  son,  she  might  jilace  it  on  his  arm.  Ta- 
ininah  told  him  that  it  was  she  who  had 
caused  Rakush  to  be  stolen,  in  order  that  she 
might  obtain  a  horse  of  his  famous  breed. 
The  horse  was  restored  to  liustem,  and  he 
returned  to  his  king,  and  said  nothing  of  his 


FIRDUSI.— 4 

inarriage.  In  due  time  a  son  was  born  to 
Taraiueh  ;  but  when  her  husband  sent  her  a 
rich  present,  and  a  message  in  regard  to  tlie 
child,  she  so  feared  to  lose  it  that  she  re- 
plied that  it  was  a  daughter. 

She  named  the  boy  Sohnib,  and  spared 
no  pains  on  his  education.  When  he  was 
ten  3'ears  old,  she  told  liim  the  name  of  his 
father,  but  cautioned  him  against  revealing 
it  on  account  of  enemies.  One  day  he 
asked  her  for  a  suitable  war-horse,  and  found 
none  that  could  carry  him  until  he  tried  the 
foal  of  Rakush,  which  had  been  trained  in 
the  royal  stables.  He  now  announced  his 
intention  of  going  to  war  with  Kaiis,  then 
king  of  Persia,  and  securing  the  kingdom 
for  Rustem.  On  this,  Afrasiyab,  who  had 
always  borne  Rustera  malice  for  his  former 
defeat,  sent  a  message  to  Sohrab,  telling  him 
that  Kaiis  was  also  his  enemy,  and  asking  to 
join  him  against  the  king.  Sohrab  accepted 
bis  offer,  and  Afrasiyab  instructed  Human 
and  Barman,  the  leaders  of  his  Tartar  aux- 
iliaries, to  prevent  Rustem  and  Sohrab  from 
recognizing  each  other,  but  to  bring  them  to- 
gether in  battle,  when  Sohrab,  being  young- 
er and  stronger,  would  probably  vanquish 
his  father,  and  could  then  be  slain  by  the 
followers  of  Afrasiyab,  who  would  seize  the 
kingdom  for  himself.  Rustem  was  sum- 
moned by  Kaiis  to  drive  out  the  invaders 
of  Persia. 

Sohrab,  bent  on  discovering  his  father, 
questioned  Hujir,  but  was  deceived  by  him 
in  regard  to  his  father's  tent  aiid  horse. 
Rustem,  seeing  the  remarkable  likeness,  of 
the  young  prince,  only  fourteen  years  of  age, 
to  his  own  grandfather,  inquired  anxiously 
about  him  ;  but.  remembering  Tamineh's 
assertion  that  their  child  was  a  daughter, 
put  the  thought  of  kinship  aside,  and  went 

M 


FIRDUSI.— 5 

to  meet  Sohrab  in  single  combat.  The 
battle  was  fuught  on  three  successive  days, 
with  spears,  swords,  clubs,  bows  and  arrows, 
and  finally  by  wrestling.  Before  every 
struggle,  Sohrab,  who  instinctively  loved 
Eustem,  begged  the  champion  to  reveal  his 
name.  To  the  question,  "Art  thou  not 
Rustem  ? "  the  champion  replied,  "  I  am 
the  servant  of  Eustem."  For  two  days  the 
young  hero  had  the  advantage,  but  spared 
his  adversary.  On  the  third  day,  he  was 
thrown  by  Eustem,  who,  fearing  that  he 
could  not  hold  him,  drove  a  dagger  into  his 
side,  giving  him  a  mortal  wound.  While 
dying  Sohrab  revealed  his  identity  to  his 
father,  who  was  overwhelmed  with  anguish 
at  his  deed.  "We  give  large  space  to  an  ex- 
tract from  the  great  Persian  epic  : 

THE    DEATH    OF    SOHRAB. 

When    the  bright  dawn   proclaimed   the  ris- 
ing day, 

The  warriors  armed,  impatient  of  delay, 

But  first  Solirdb,  his  proud  confederate  nigh, 

Thus    wistful    spoke,    as  swelled    the  brooding 
sigh— 

"  Xow  mark  my  great  antagonist  in  arms  ! 

Ilis  noble  form  my  filial  bosom  warms; 

My  mother's  tokens  shine  conspicuous  here, 

And  all  the  proofs  my  heart  demands  appear; 

Sure  this  is  Kustem,  whom  my  eves  engage ! 

Shall  I,  0  grief  I  provoke  my  father's  rage? 

Offended  nature  then  would  curse  my  name, 

And  shuddering  nations  echo  with  mv  shame." 
He    ceased,    then    Human  :  "  Vain,    fantastic 
thought, 

Oft    have    1    been    where    Persia's    champion 
fought, 

And    thou    has    lieard    wliat    wonders    he    per- 
formed, 

When,  in  his  prime,  Mazinderdn  was  stormed ; 

That  horse  resembles  Rustem's,  it  is  true, 

But  not  80  strong  nor  beautiful  to  view." 

M 


FIRDUSI.-6 

Solu'cib  now  buckles  on  his  wiir-attire, 

His  heart  all  softness,  and  his  brain  all  lire; 

Around  his  lips  such  smiles  benignant  played, 

He  seemed  to  greet  a  friend,  as  thus  he  said  : 
"  Here  let  us  sit  together  on  the  plain. 

Here  social  sit,  and  from  the  tight  refrain ; 

Ask  we  from  Heaven  forgiveness  for  the  past. 

And  bind  our  souls  in  friendship  tliat  may  last ; 

Ours  be  the  feast — let  us  be  warm  and  free, 

For  powerful  instinct  draws  me  still  to  thee  ; 

Fain  would  my  heart  in  bland  affection  join, 

Then  let  thy  generous  ardor  eipial  mine  ; 

And  kindlv  sav  with  whom  I  now  contend — 

What    name    distinguished   boasts    my  warrior- 
friend  ? 

Thy  name  unfit  for  champion  brave  to  hide, 

Thy  name  so  long,  hjng  sought,  and  still  denied ; 

Say,  art  thou  Rustem  whom  I  burn  to  know  ? 

Ingenuous  say,  and  cease  to  be  my  foe ! " 

Sternly  the  mighty  champion  cried,  "Away  ! — 

Hence  with  thy  wiles — now  practised  to  delay; 

The  promised  struggle,  resolute  I  claim, 

Then  cease  to  move  me  to  an  act  of  shame." 
Sohrab  rejoined  :     "  Old   man  !   thou  wilt  not 
hear 

The  words  of  prudence  uttered  in  thine  ear ; 

Then,  Heaven  !  look  on." 

Preparing  for  the  shock. 

Each  binds  his  charger  to  a  neighboring  rock; 

And  girds  his   loins,  and   rubs   his  wrists,  and 
tries 

Their  suppleness  and  force  with  angry  eyes. 

And   now   they   meet — now  rise,   and   now   de- 
scend. 

And  strong  and  fierce  tlieir  sinewy  arms  extend : 

Wrestling  with  all  their  strength  they  grasp  and 
strain. 

And  blood  and  sweat  flow  copious  on  the  plain ; 

Like  raging  elephants  they  furious  close; 

Commutal    wounds    are    given,    and    wrenching 
blows. 

Sohrab   now  clasps    his    hands,    and    forward 
springs 


FIRDUSI.— 7 

Impatiently  and  round  the  champion  clings  ; 
Seizes  his  girdle  belt,  with  powers  to  tear 
The  very  earth  asunder  in  despair. 

Rustem,  defeated,  feels  his  nerves  give  way, 
And   thundering    falls.     Sohrab    bestrides    his 

prey : 
Grim  as  the  lion,  prowling  through  the  wood, 
Upon  a  wild  ass  springs,  and  pants  for  blood. 
His  lifted  hand  had  lopt  the  gory  head, 
But  Rustem,  quick,  with  crafty  ardor  said  : 
"  One  moment,   hold !   what,   are  our   laws   un- 
known ? 
A  chief  may  fight  until  he  is  twice  o'erthrown  ; 
The  second  fall  his  recreant  blood  is  spilt. 
These  are  our  laws :  avoid  the  menaced  guilt." 

Proud  of  his  strength,  and  easily  deceived, 
Tlie  wondering  youth  the  artful  tale  believed  ; 
Released  his  prey,  and  wild  as  wind  or  wave. 
Neglecting  all  the  prudence  of  the  brave. 
Turned   from   the  place,  nor  once  the  strife  re- 
newed. 
But  bounded  o'er  the  plain,  and  other  cares  pur- 
sued, 
As  if  all  memory  of  the  war  had  died. 
All  thoughts  of  him  with  whom  his  strength  was 

tried 

When  Rustem  was  relea.sed,  in  altered  mood 
lie    sought    the    coolness    of    the    murmuring 

flood  ; 
There  quenched  his  thirst  and  bathed  his  limbs, 

and  prayed. 
Beseeching  Heaven  to  yield  its  strengthening  aid. 
His  pious  [)raycr  indul-^ent  Heaven  ap[)roved, 
And   growing  strength    through    all    his    sinews 

moved  ; 
Such  as  erewhile  liis  towering  structure  knew, 
^^  hen  his  bold  arm  uriconqucred  demons  slew. 
Yet  in  his  jiiicn  no  coiitidcnce  appeared. 
No  ardent  hope  his  wounded  spirits  cheered. 

Again  tlioy  met.     A  glow  of  youthful  grace 
T)iffused  its  radiance  o'er  the  stripling's  face, 
And  whrn  he  saw  in  renovated  guise 
The  foe,  so  lately  mastered ;  with  surprise, 

•7 


FIRDUSI.— 8 

He   cried :  "  What !    rescued    from   tny   power 

again 
Dost  tliou  confront  nic  on  tlic  battle  plain  ? 
Or  dost  thou,  wearied,  draw  thy  vital  breath, 
And  seek  from  warrior  bold  the  shaft  of  death  ? 
Truth   has  no   charms  for   thee,  old  man  ;  even 

now. 
Some  further  cheat  may  lurk  upon  your  brow ; 
Twice  have  I  shown  thee  mercy,  twice  thy  age 
Ilath  been    thy    safety — twice    it   soothed    my 

rage." 
Then  mild  the  champion :  "  Youth  is  proud 

and  vain ! 
The  idle  boast  the  warrior  would  disdain  ; 
This  aged  arm  perhaps  may  yet  control 
The  wanton  fury  that  inflames  thy  soul." 

Again,  dismounting,  each  the  other  viewed' 
With    sullen    glance,  and    swift    the    fight    re- 
newed ; 
Clinched   front   to  front,    again    they   tug    and 

bend. 
Twist  their  broad  limbs  as  every  nerve  would 

rend ; 
With  rage  convulsive  Rustem  grasps  him  round  ; 
Bends  his  strong  back,   and  hurls  him  to    the 

ground ; 
Him  who  had  deemed  the  triumph  all  his  own ; 
But  dubious  of  his  power  to  keep  him  down. 
Like  lightning  quick  he  gives  the  deadly  thrust, 
And  spurns  the  stripling  withering  in  the  dust. 
Thus  as  his  blood  that  shining  steel  embrues, 
Thine  too  shall  flow  when  destiny  pursues  : 
For  when  she  marks  the  victim  of  her  power, 
A  thousand  daggers  speed  the  dying  hour. 
Writhing  with  pain  Sohrab  in  murmurs  sighed — 
And  thus  to  Rustem  ;  "  Vaunt  not  in  thy  pride  ; 
Upon  myself  this  sorrow  I  have  brought. 
Thou     but     the     instrument     of     fate — which 

wrought 
My  downfall ;  thou  art  guiltless — guiltless  quite ; 
O  had  I  seen  my  father  in  the  fight. 
My  glorious  father !     Life  will  soon  be  o'er  ; 
And  his  great  deeds  enchant  my  soul  no  more. 


FIRDUSL— 9 

Of  him  my  mother  gave  the  mark  and  sigilj 
For  him  I  sought,  and  wliat  an  end  is  mine  ! 
My  only  wish  on  earth,  my  only  sigh, 
Him  to  behold,  and  with  that  wish  I  dici 
But  hope  not  to  elude  his  piercing  sight, 
In  vain  for  thee  the  deepest  glooms  of  night-. 
Couldst  thou  through  ocean's  depths  for  refuge 

fly, 

Or  'midst  the  star-beams  track  the  upper  sky  ! 
Rustem,  with  vengeance  armed,  will  reach  thee 

there, 
His  soul  the  prey  of  anguish  and  despair." 

An  icy  horror  chills  the  champion's  heart, 
His  brain  whirls  round  with  agonizing  smart; 
O'er  his  wan  cheek  no  gushing  sorrows  flow, 
Senseless  he  sinks  beneath  the  weight  of  woe  ; 
Relieved  at  length,  with  frenzied  look,  he  cries : 
*'  Prove  thou    art   mine,   confirm    my  doubting 

eyes ! 
For  I  am  Rustem  !  "     Piercing  was  the  groan. 
Which  burst  from  his  torn  heart — as  wild  and 

lone, 
He  gazed  upon  him.     Dire  amazement  shook 
The  dying  youth,  and  mournful  thus  he  spoke : 

"  U  thou  art  Rustem,  cruel  is  thy  part, 
No  warmth  paternal  seems  to  fill  thy  heart; 
Else  hadst  thou  known  me  when,   with  strong 

desire, 
I  fondly  claimed  thee  for  my  valiant  sire ; 
Now  from  my  body  strip  the  shining  mail. 
Untie  these  bands  ere  life  and  feeling  fail ; 
And  on  my  arm  the  direful  proof  behold! 
Thv  sacred  bracelet  of  refulgent  gold! 
When  the  Unul  brazen  drums  were  lieard  afar. 
And,  echoing  round,    pr(jclaimcd    the    pending 

war, 
Whilst   parting   tears    my    mother's    eyes    o'er- 

flowed, 
This  mystic  gift  her  bursting  heart  bestowed  : 
•  Take  this,'  she  said,  '  thy  father's  token  wear, 
And  prfiinised  glory  will  reward  thy  care.' 
The  hour  is  come,  but  fraught  with  bitterest  woe, 
Wc  meet  in  blood  to  wail  the  fatal  blow." 
«• 


FIRDUSl.-lO 

The  loosened  mail  unfolds  the  bracelet  bright, 
Unhapj)}'  t:;it't!  to  lliistom's  'vvildered  sight, 
Prostrate  he  falls — "  l>y  my  unnatural  hand. 
My  son,  my  son  is  slain — and  from  the  land 
Uprooted."      Frantic,  in  the  dust,  his  hair 
He  rends  in  agony  and  deep  despair; 
The  western  sun  had  disap[)eared  in  gloom, 
And  still  the  champion  wept  his  cruel  doom  ; 
His  wondering  legions  marked  the  long  delay, 
And,  seeing  Rakush  riderless  astray, 
The  rumor  quick  to  Persia's  monarch  spread, 
And  there  described  the  mighty  Rustem  dead. 
Kaiis,  alarmed,  the  fatal  tidings  hears ; 
His  bosom  quivers  with  increasing  fears. 
"  Speed,  speed,  and  sec  what  has  befallen  to-day 
To    cause    these    groans    and  tears — what  fatal 

fray  ! 
If  he  be  lost,  if  breathless  on  the  ground, 
And    this    young    warrior    with    the    conquest 

crowned, 
Then  must  I,  humbled,  from  my  kingdom  torn. 
Wander  like  Jemshid,  through  the   world  for- 
lorn." 
The  army,  roused,  rushed  o'er  the  dusty  plain, 
Urged  by  the  monarch  to  revenge  the  slain ; 
"Wild  consternation  saddened  every  face, 
Tiis  winged  with  horror  sought  the  fatal  place. 
And  thus  beheld  the  agonizing  sight — 
The  murderous  end  of  that  unnatural  fight. 
Sohrab,  still  breathing,  hears  the  shrill  alarms, 
His  gentle  speech  suspends  the  clang  of  arms: 
"  My  light  of  life  now  Huttering  sinks  in  shade. 
Let  vengeance  sleep,  and  peaceful  vows  be  made. 
Beseech  the  king  to  spare  the  Tartar  host. 
For  they  are  guiltless,  all  to  them  is  lost ; 
I  led  them  on,  their  souls  with  glory  fired. 
While  mad  ambition  all  my  thoughts  inspired. 
In  search  of  thee,  the  world  before  my  eyes. 
War  was  my  clioice,  and  thou  my  sacred  prize ; 
With  thee,  my  sire!  in  virtuous  league  combined. 
No  tyrant  king  should  persecute  mankind. 
That  hope  is  past,  the  storm  has  ceased  to  rave, 
My  ripening  honors  wither  in  the  grave ; 

70 


FIRDUSL— 11 

Tbon  let  no  vengeance  on  my  comrades  fall, 

Mine  was  the  guilt,  and  mine  the  sorrow,  all. 

How  often  have  I  sought  thee — of  my  mind 

Figured  thee  to  my  sight — o'erjoyed  to  find 

My  mothers  token ;  disappointment  came, 

AVhen  thou  denied  thy  lineage  and  thy  name ; 

Oh  !  still  o'er  thee  my  soul  impassioned  hung, 

Still  to  my  father  fond  affection  clung ! 

But  fate,  remorseless,  all  my  hopes  withstood. 

And    stained    thy    reeking    hand    in    kindred 

blood." 

Uis  faltering  breath  protracted  speech  denied; 

Still  from  his  eyelids  flowed  a  gushing  tide : 

Through  Rustem's  soul  redoubled  horror  ran, 

lleart-rending    thoughts    subdued   the    mighty 

man. 

And  now,  at  last,  with  joy-illumined  eye, 

The  Zabul  bands  their  glorious  chief  descry ; 

But  when  they  saw^  his  pale  and  haggard  look, 

Knew  from  what  mournful  cause  he  gazed  and 

shook, 

With  downcast   mien   they  moaned   and  wept 

aloud ; 

While    Rustem    thus    addressed    the    weeping 

crowd : 

"  Here  ends  the  war !  let  gentle  peace  succeed 

Enough  of  death,  I— I  have  done  the  deed  !  " 

Then  to  his  brother,  groaning  deep,  he  said : 

"  0  what  a  curse  upon  a  parent's  head  ! 

But  go— and  to  the  Tartar  say— No  more 

Let  war  between  us  steep  the  earth  with  gore." 

Zvidra  flew,  and  wildly  spoke  his  grief 

To  crafty  Human,  the  Turanian  chief. 

Who,  with  dissembled  sorrow,  heard  him  tell 

The  dismal  tidings  which  he  knew  too  well  ; 

♦'  And  who,"  he  said,  "  has  caused  these  tears  to 

flow  ? 

Who,    l)iit    Hujir?     He  might  have  stayed  the 

blew; 

But  when  Sohicib  his  father's  banners  sought, 

He  still  denied  that  him  the  champion  fought: 

He  spread  the  ruin,  he  the  secret  knew, 

Hence  .should  hi.s  crime  receive  the  vengeance 

due ! " 

It 


FIRDUSI.-13 

Jiidra,  frantic,  breathed  in  Rustcm's  ear 
The  treachery  of  the  captive  chief  llujir ; 
Whose   headless    trunk    had  weltered   on    the 

strand, 
But  prayers  and  force  withheld  the  lifted  hand. 
Then  to  liis  dying  son  the  champion  turned, 
Remorse  more  deep  within  his  bosom  burned; 
A  burst  of  frenzy  lired  his  thrilling  brain  ; 
He  clinched  his  sword,  but  found  his  fury  vain ; 
The  Persian  chiefs  the  desperate  act  represt, 
And  tried  to  calm  the  tumult  in  his  breast. 
Thus  Gudarz  spoke  :     "Alas  !  wert  thou  to  give 
Thyself  a  thousand  wounds,  and  cease  to  live  ; 
What  would  it  be  to  him  thou  sorrowest  o'er  ? 
It   would    not   save  one    pang — then  weep  no 

more  ; 
For  if  removed  by  death,  0  say,  to  whom 
Has  ever  been  vouchsafed  a  diflferent  doom  ? 
All  are  the  prey  of  death — the  crowned,  the 

low. 
And  man,  through  life,  the  victim  still  of  woe." 

Then  Rustem :  "  Fly  !  and  to  the  king  relate 
The  pressing  horrors  which  involve  my  fate ; 
And  if  the  memory  of  my  deeds  e'er  swayed 
His  mind,  0  supplicate  his  generous  aid  ; 
A  sovereign  balm  he  has  whose  wondrous  power 
All  wounds  can  heal  and  fleeting  life  restore; 
Swift  from  his  tent  his  potent  medicine  bring." 

But  mark  the  malice  of  the  brainless  King! 
Hard  as  the  flinty  rock  he  stern  denies 
The  healthful  draught,  and  gloomy  thus  replies  : 
"Can  I  forgive  his  foul  and  slanderous  tongue? 
The  sharp  disdain  on  me  contemptuous  flung? 
Scorned  'midst  my  army  by  a  shameless  boy. 
Who  sought  my  throne,  my  sceptre  to  destroy  ! 
Nothing  but  mischief  from  liis  heart  can  flow, 
Is  it  then  wise  to  cherish  such  a  foe  ? 
The  fool  who  warms  his  enemy  to  life. 
Only  prepares  for  scenes  of  future  strife." 

Gudarz,  returning,  told  the  hopeless  tale — 

And  thinking  Rustem's  presence  might  prevail ; 

w 


FIRDUSI.— 13 

The  champion    rose,  but    ere   he   reached   the 

throne, 
Sohrab  had  breathed  the  last  expiring  groan. 

Now  keener  anguish  racked  the  father's  mind, 
Reft  of  his  son,  a  murderer  of  his  kind ; 
His  guilty  sword  distained  with  filial  gore ; 
He  beat  his  burning  breast,  his  hair  he  tore; 
The  breathless  corse  before  his  shuddering  view. 
A  shower  of  ashes  o'er  his  head  he  threw ; 
"  In  my  old  age,"  he  cried,  "  what  have  I  done  ? 
Why  have  I  slain  my  son,  my  innocent  son  ? 
Why  o'er  his  splendid  dawning  did  I  roll 
The  clouds  of  death,  and  plunge  my  burning  soul 
In  agony  ?     My  son  I  from  heroes  sprung  ; 
Better  these  hands  were  from  my  body  wrung  ; 
And  solitude  and  darkness,  deep  and  drear. 
Fold  me  from  sight  than  hated  linger  here. 
But  when  his  mother  hears  with  horror  wild, 
That  I  have  shed  the  life-blood  of  her  child, 
So  nobly  brave,  so  dearly  loved,  in  vain. 
How  can  her  heart  that  rending  shock  sustain?" 

Xow  on  a  bier  the  Persian  warriors  place 
The  breathless  vouth,  and  shade  his  pallid  face; 
And  turning  from  that  fatal  field  away. 
Move   toward   the   champion's    home    in    long 

array. 
Then  Rustem,  sick  of  martial  pomp  and  show, 
Himself  the  spring  of  all  this  scene  of  woe. 
Doomed  to  the  flames  the  pagantry  he  loved, 
Shield,  spear,  and  mace,  so  oft  in  battle  proved; 
Xow  lost  to  ail,  encompassed  by  despair  ; 
His  bright  pavilion  crackling  blazed  in  air; 
The  sparkling  throne  the  ascending  column  fed ; 
In  smoking  fragments  fell  the  golden  bed; 
The  raging  fire  red  glimmering  died  away, 
And  all  the   warrior's  pride  in  dust  and  ashes 

lay. 

Translation  of  J.  Atkinson. 


AGNOLO  FIRENZUOLA.— 1 

FIRENZUOLA,  Agnolo,  an  Italian  poet, 
born  in  1493,  died  about  1545.  lie  studied 
at  Siena  and  Perugia ;  entered  npon  an  ec- 
clesiastical career,  and  finally  became  an 
Abate.  His  habits,  however,  were  extremely 
loose,  and  his  constitution  was  broken  down 
in  middle  life.  He  translated  into  Italian 
the  Golden  Ass  of  Apuleius,  and  \vrote 
original  poems,  most  of  which  are  of  a  ques- 
tionable character,  and  also  several  works  in 
prose.  All  his  writings  are,  esteemed 
models  of  style,  and  are  cited  as  authorities 
in  the  vocabulary  of  the  Accademia  della 
Ci'usca.  None  of  his  writings  were  pub- 
lished until  several  years  after  his  death. 
They  have  since  been  frequently  reprinted. 
The  latest  edition,  in  two  volumes,  appeared 
at  Florence  in  184S. 

UPON  HIMSELF, 

0  thou,  whose  soul  from  the  pure  sacred  stream, 

Ere  it  was  doomed  this  mortal  veil  to  wear, 
Bathed  by  the  gold-haired  god,  emerged  so  fair, 

That  thou  like  him  in  Delos  born  didst  seem ! 

If  zeal  that  of  my  strength  would  wrongly  deem, 
Bade  me  thy  virtues  to  the  world  declare, 
And  in  my  highest  flight,  struck  with  despair, 

I  sunk  unequal  to  such  lofty  theme : 
Alas !  I  suffer  from  the  same  mishap 

As  the  false  offspring  of  the  bird  that  bore 
The  Phryaian  stripling  to  the  Thunderer's  lap  : 

Forced  in  the  sun's  full  radiance  to  gaze 
Such  streams  of  light  on  their  weak  vision  pour, 

Their  eyes  are  blasted  in  the  furious  blaze. 
Transl.  in  the  London  Magazine. 


GEORGE  PARK  FISHER.— i 

FISHER,  George  Park,  an  American 
clerg3'niau  and  author,  born  at  Wrentliam, 
Mass.,  in  1S27.  He  graduated  at  Brown 
University,  in  1S47,  studied  theology  at 
Yale,  Andover,  and  Halle.  On  his  return 
from  Germany  in  1854  he  was  appointed 
Professor  of  Divinity  at  Yale,  and  in  1861 
Professor  of  Ecclesiastical  History  in  the 
Yale  Divinity  School.  In  18G6  he  became 
one  of  the  editors  of  tlie  New  Englander. 
He  is  the  author  of  Essays  on  the  Super- 
natural Origin  of  Christianity  (1865),  A 
History  of  the  Reformation  (1873), 
Grounds  of  Thelstic  and  Ciiristian  Be- 
liefs The  ney inn 'nigs  of  Christianity^  Dis- 
cussions in  History  and  Theology,  Faith 
and  Rationalism,  The  Christian  Religion, 
and  Outlines  of  Universal  History  (1886.) 

AN  INFINITE  AND  ABSOLUTE  BEING. 

It  is  objected  to  the  belief  that  God  is  per- 
sonal, that  pcrsonaHty  impHes  liiiiitation,  and  that, 
if  personal,  God  could  not  be  infinite  and  abso- 
lute. "  Infinite,"  (and  the  same  is  true  of  "  abso- 
lute") is  an  adjective,  not  a  substantive.  When 
used  as  a  noun,  preceded  by  the  definite  article, 
it  signifies,  not  a  Being,  but  an  abstraction. 
When  it  stands  as  a  predicate,  it  means  that  the 
'subject,  be  it  s|)ace,  time,  or  some  fjuality  of  a 
being,  is  witiioiit  limit.  Tiius,  when  I  afHrm  that 
space  is  infinite,  I  express  a  positive  perception, 
or  thought.  I  mean  not  only  that  imagination 
can  set  no  bounds  to  space,  but  also  that  this 
inability  is  owing,  not  to  any  defect  in  the  imagi- 
nation or  conr.-ptive  faculty,  but  to  the  nature 
of  the  ohjcct.  U'hcn  I  say  that  (UA  is  infinite 
in  power,  1  m<an  that  he  caji  do  all  things  which 
are  objects  of  power,  or  that  his  power  is  incapa- 
ble of  increase.  N'<»  amount  of  power  can  he 
added  to  the  power  of  which  he  is  i)osse»sed.  It 
is  only  when  "the  Infinite"  is  taken  as  the  syn- 
onym of  the  sum  of  all  existence,  that  personality 
w 


GEORGE  PARK  FISHER.-2 

is  made  to  be  incompatible  \v\i\x  God's  infinitude. 
No  such  conception  of  liim  is  needed  for  the 
satisfaction  of  tlie  reason  or  the  lieart  of  man. 
Enouoli  tliat  he  is  the  ground  of  the  existence  of 
all  beings  outside  of  himself,  or  the  creative  and 

sustaining  power 

An  absolute  being  is  independent  of  all  other 
beings  for  its  existence  and  for  the  full  realization 
of  its  nature.  It  is  contended  that,  inasmuch  as 
self-consciousness  is  conditioned  on  the  distinction 
of  the  £(/o  from  tlie  non-Ego,  the  subject  from  the 
object,  a  personal  being  cannot  have  the  attribute 
of  self-existence,  cannot  be  absolute.  Without 
some  other  existence  than  himself,  a  being  cannot 
be  self-conscious.  The  answer  to  this  is,  that  the 
premise  is  an  unwarranted  generalization  from 
what  is  true  in  the  case  of  the  human,  finite 
personality  of  man,  which  is  developed  in 
connection  with  a  body,  and  is  only  one  of 
numerous  finite  personalities  under  the  same  class. 
To  assert  that  self-consciousness  cannot  exist 
independently  of  such  conditions,  because  it  is 
through  them  that  I  come  to  a  knowledge  of 
myself,  is  a  great  leap  in  logic.  The  proposition 
that  man  is  in  the  image  of  God  does  not  neces- 
sarily imply  that  the  divine  intelligence  is  subject 
to  the  restrictions  and  infirmities  that  belong  to 
the  human.  It  is  not  implied  that  God  ascertains 
truth  by  a  gradual  process  of  investigation  or  of 
reasoning,  or  that  lie  deliberates  on  a  plan  of 
action,  and  casts  about  for  the  appropriate 
means  of  executing  it.  These  limitations  arc 
characteristic,  not  of  intelligence  in  itself,  but  of 
finite  intelligence.  It  is  meant  that  he  is  not  an 
impersonal  principle  or  occult  force,  but  is  self- 
conscious  and  self-determining.  Nor  is  it  asserted 
that  he  is  perfectly  comprehensible  by  us.  It 
is  not  pretended  that  we  are  able  fully  to  think 
away  the  limitations  which  cleave  to  us  in  onr 
character  as  dependent  and  finite,  and  to  frame 
thus  an  adequate  conception  of  a  person  infinite 
and  absolute.  Nevertheless,  the  existence  of 
Buch  a  person,  whom  we  can  apprehend  if  not 
I* 


GEORGE  PARK  FISHER.— 8 

comprehend,  is  verified  to  our  minds  by  sufficient 
evidence.  Pantheism,  with  its  imminent  Abso- 
lute, void  of  personal  attributes,  and  its  self- 
developing  universe,  postulates  a  deity  limited, 
subject  to  change,  and  reaching  self-consciousness 
- — if  it  is  ever  reached — only  in  men.  And 
Pantheism,  by  denying  the  free  and  responsible 
nature  of  man,  maims  the  creature  whom  it 
pretends  to  deify,  and  annihilates  not  only  mo- 
ralitv,  but  religion  also,  in  any  proper  sense  of 
the  term. 

The  citadel  of  Theism  is  in  the  consciousness 
of  our  own  personality.  "Within  ourselves  God 
reveals  himself  more  directly  than  through  any 
other  channel.  He  impinges,  so  to  speak,  on  the 
soul  which  finds  in  its  primitive  activity  an  inti- 
mation and  implication  of  an  unconditioned 
Cause  on  whom  it  is  dependent — a  Cause  self- 
conscious  like  itself,  and  speaking  with  holy 
authority  in  conscience,  wherein  also  is  presented 
the  end  which  the  soul  is  to  pursue  through  its 
own  free  self-determination — an  end  which 
could  only  be  set  by  a  Being  both  intelligent  and 
holy.  The  yearning  for  fellowship  with  the  Be- 
inff'thus  revealed — indistinct  though  it  be,  well- 
nigh  stifled  by  absorption  in  finite  objects  and  in 
the  vain  quest  for  rest  and  joy  in  them — is  insep- 
arable from  human  nature.  There  is  an  unappeas- 
able thirst  in  the  soul  when  cut  off  from  God.  It 
seeks  for  "  living  water." — Grounds  of  Theisiic 
and  Christian  Belief. 


JOHN  FISHER.— 1 

FISHER,  John,  an  Englisli  clergyman, 
born  in  1459  ;  beheaded  in  1535.  In  1504 
he  was  made  Bishop  of  Rochester,  and  is 
supposed  to  have  been  the  author  of  the 
treatise  Assertio  Septem  Saci'mnentoruin^ 
for  which  Henry  VIII.  obtained  the  title 
of  "Defender  of  tlie  Faith."  When  in 
1531  the  claim  of  spiritual  supremacy  was 
broached  for  the  king,  Fisher  refused  to 
acknowledge  it.  Three  years  later  he  re- 
fused to  take  the  oath  of  allegiance,  and  was 
committed  to  the  Tower,  his  bishopric  be- 
ing declared  vacant.  Soon  after  he  was 
beheaded  upon  charge  of  denying  the  king's 
supremacy.  Fisher  wrote  several  contro- 
versial works,  sermons,  and  devotional 
treatises.  A  copious  Biography  of  him  ap- 
peared in  1854.  One  of  his  sermons, 
preached  in  1509,  was  in  honor  of  the  Count- 
ess of  Richmond,  the  mother  of  King 
Henry  YIL,  in  which  he  gives  a  picture  of 
a  pious  lady  of  high  rank. 

THE    PIOUS    COUNTESS    OF    RICHMOND. 

Her  sober  temperance  in  meats  and  drinks  was 
known  to  all  them  that  were  conversant  with 
her,  wherein  she  lay  in  as  great  weight  of  herself 
as  any  person  might,  keeping  alway  her  strait 
measure,  and  offending  as  little  as  any  creature 
might :  eschewing  banquets,  rere-suppors,  juiceries 
betwixt  meals.  As  for  fasting,  for  age  and  feeble- 
ness, albeit  she  were  not  bound,  yet  those  days 
that  by  the  Church  were  appointed,  she  kept  them 
diligently  and  seriously,  and  in  especial  the 
holy  Lent  throughout,  that  she  restrained  her 
appetite  till  one  meal  of  fish  on  the  day ;  besides 
her  other  peculiar  fasts  of  devotion,  as  St.  An- 
thony, St.  Mary  Magdalene,  St.  Catharine,  with 
other;  and  throughout  all  the  year,  the  Friday 
and  Saturday  she  full  truly  observed.  As  to 
hard  clothes  wearing,  she  had  her  shirts  and 
girdles  of  hair,  which,  when  she  was  in  health, 

18 


JOHN  FISHER.— 2 

every  week  she  failed  not  certain  days  to  wear, 
sometime  the  one,  sometime  the  other,  that  full 
often  her  skin,  as  I  heard  her  say,  was  pierced 
therewith In  prayer,  every  day  at  her  up- 
rising, which  commonly  was  not  long  after  five  of 
the  clock,  she  began  certain  devotions,  and  so 
after  them,  with  one  of  her  gentlewomen,  the 
matins  of  Our  Lady  ;  then  she  came  into  her 
closet,  where  then  with  her  chaplain  she  said  also 
matins  of  the  day ;  and  after  that  daily  heard 
four  or  five  masses  upon  her  knees ;  so  continuing 
in  her  prayers  and  devotions  unto  the  hour  of 
dinner,  which  of  the  eating- day  was  ten  of  the 
clock,  and  upon  the  fasting- day  eleven.  After 
dinner  full  truly  she  would  go  her  stations  to 
three  altars  daily  ;  daily  her  dirges  and  commen- 
dations she  wouKi  say,  and  her  even-songs  before 
supper,  both  of  the  day  and  of  Our  Lady,  beside 
many  other  prayers  and  psalters  of  David 
throughout  the  year;  and  at  night  before  she 
went  to  bed,  she  failed  not  to  resort  unto  her 
chapel,  and  there  a  large  quarter  of  an  hour  to 
occupy  her  devotions.  No  marvel,  through  all  this 
long  time  her  kneeling  was  to  lier  painful,  and  so 
painful  that  many  times  it  caused  in  her  back 
pain  and  disease.  And  yet,  nevertheless,  daily 
when  she  was  in  health,  she  failed  not  to  say  the 
crown  of  Our  Lady,  which  after  the  manner  of 
Rome  containeth  sixty  and  three  aves,  and  at 
every  ave  to  make  a  kneeling.  As  for  medita- 
tion, she  had  divers  books  in  French,  wherewith 
she  would  occupy  herself  when  she  was  weary  of 
prayer.  Wlierefore  divers  she  did  translate  out 
of  the  French  into  English.  Her  marvellous 
weeping  they  can  bear  witness  of,  wliich  here 
before  have  heard  her  confession,  wliieli  be  divers 
and  many,  and  at  many  seasons  in  the  year, 
lightly  every  third  day.  Can  also  record  the 
same  those  that  were  present  at  any  time  when 
she  was  houshilde,  [received  tlic  sacrament  of  the 
Lord's  SuppcrJ  which  was  full  nigh  a  dozen 
timesevery  year,  what  floods  of  tears  there  issued 
forth  of  her  eyes  ! 


WILBUR  FISK.-l 

FISK,  Wilbur,  an  American  clergyman 
and  educator,  born  at  Brattleboro,  Vt.,  in 
1792  ;  died  at  Middletown,  Conn.,  in  1838. 
He  graduated  at  Brown  University  in  1815, 
and  entered  upon  the  study  of  law  ;  but  in 
1818  he  entered  the  itinerant  ministry  of 
the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  and  five 
years  later  was  made  Presiding  Elder  of  the 
Vermont  District.  In  1826  he  became 
Principal  of  an  Academy  at  Wilbraham, 
Mass.,  of  which  lie  was  one  of  the  found- 
ers. The  Wesley  an  University  at  Middle- 
town,  Conn.,  was  founded  in  1832 ;  and 
Mr.  Fisk,  who  had  declined  several  import- 
ant educational  positions,  was  chosen  as  first 
President  of  the  new  institution.  In  1835- 
36,  on  account  of  impaired  health  he  made 
a  tour  in  Europe.  During  his  absence  he 
was  elected  a  Bishop  of  the  Methodist 
Church,  but  declined  the  position.  His 
principal  works  are :  Sermons  and  Lectures 
On  Univei'salism^  Reply  to  Pierpont  on  the 
Atonement^  The  Calvinistic  Controversy, 
and  Travels  in  Europe.  His  Life  has  been 
written  by  Kev.  Joseph  Holdich  (1842.) 

SEA-SICKNESS. 

If  I  supposed  that  any  sketch  of  this  disease 
would  produce  even  the  premonitory  symptoms 
upon  my  readers,  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart 
to  inflict  the  misery  upon  one  of  the  sons  of 
Adam — except  on  the  physicians  ;  nor  even  upon 
them,  except  in  hope  that  it  would  put  them 
upon  e-xtra  exertions  to  find  a  cure.  On  board 
the  steamboat  which  conveyed  us  down  to  Sandy 
Hook  an  eminent  physician  suggested  and  sanc- 
tioned the  theory,  which  I  believe  has  gained 
extensive  authority  with  the  faculty,  and  certainly 
seems  very  plausible,  and  accords  well  with  many 
of  the  symptoms,  that  the  disease  is  the  inversion 
of  the  peristaltic  motion  of  the  digestive  muscles 
through  the  stomach  and  viscera. 


Wilbur  fisk.— 2 

Alas !  what  a  picture  of  this  distressing  dis- 
order. Only  conceive  the  unpleasant  sensation 
which  this  unnatural  action  must  produce — the 
loathing,  the  shrinking  back,  and  the  spasmodic 
action  of  all  the  digestive  organs.  And  when 
this  system  of  "  internal  agitation"  is  begun,  it 
is  increased  by  its  own  action.  The  spasm  in- 
creases the  irritation,  and  the  irritation  increases 
the  susceptibility  to  spasmodic  action,  until  the 
coats  of  the  stomach  and  all  the  abdominal  vis- 
cera are  convulsed.  The  sensations  produced, 
however,  are  not  those  of  pain,  as  we  commonly 
use  the  term,  but  of  loathing — of  sickness — of 
death-like  sickness — until  nature  is  wearied,  and 
the  poor  sufferer  feels  that  life  itself  is  a  burden. 
He  is  told  that  he  must  not  give  up  to  it ;  he 
must  keep  about,  take  the  air,  and  drive  it  off. 
At  first  he  thinks  that  he  will — he  believes  that 
he  can ;  and,  perhaps,  after  the  first  complete 
action  of  his  nausea,  feels  relieved,  and  imagines 
that  he  has  conquered;  but  another  surge  comes 
on,  and  rolls  him  and  his  vessel  a  few  feet  up- 
ward ;  and  again  she  sinks,  and  he  with  her :  but 
not  all  of  him.  His  body  goes  down  with  the 
vessel,  as  it  is  meet  that  it  should,  according  to 
the  laws  of  gravitation  ;  but  that  which  his  body 
contains  cannot  make  ready  for  so  speedy  a  de- 
scent. The  contained  has  received  an  impetus 
upward,  and  it  keeps  on  in  this  direction ;  while 
the  container  goes  down  with  the  ship.  The  re- 
sult may  be  readily  inferred. 

But  even  then  the  worst  is  still  to  come. 
When  the  upward  a<'tion,  the  distressing  nausea, 
the  convulsive  ret(;hing  continue,  the  deeper 
secretions  are  disturl)ed,  and  the  mouth  is  liter- 
ally filled  with  "gall  and  bitterness."  All  objects 
around  you  now  lose  their  interest;  the  sea  has 
neither  beauty  nor  sublimity;  the  roaring  of  the 
wave  is  like  the  wail  of  death  ;  the  careering  of 
the  ship  before  the  wind,  "like  a  thing  of  life," 
is  but  the  hastening  and  ag.'ravation  of  agony. 
Your  sympathy,  if  not  lost,  is  paralyzed.  Your 
dear  friend — perhaps  the  wife  of  your  bosom — 

61 


WILBUR  FISK.— 3 

is  suflEering  at  the  same  time ;  but  you  have  not 
the  moral  courage,  if  you  have  the  heart,  to  go 
to  her  assistance.  And  even  that  very  self,  which 
is  so  absorbing  and  cxchisive,  seems,  by  a  strange 
paradox,  hardly  so  interesting  as  to  be  worth  an 
existence. 

If  the  theory  of  the  inversion  of  the  peristaltic 
motion  be  true,  it  may  yet  be  a  curious,  and  per- 
haps not  unprofitable  physiological  in<juiry. 
What  are  the  intermediate  links  between  the 
motion  of  the  vessel — which  is  evidently  the 
primurn  mobile  of  all  the  agitation — and  this  in- 
verted action  of  the  digestive  organs?  Is  this 
latter  the  eflEect  of  a  previous  action  upon  the 
nervous  system  ?  Is  it  the  eSect  of  sympathy 
between  the  brain  and  the  stomach  ?  If  a  nerv- 
ous derangement  is  a  prior  link,  are  the  nerves 
wrought  upon  by  the  imagination?  and  if  so, 
through  what  sense  is  the  imagination  affected  ? 
Is  it  through  the  general  feelings  of  the  frame — 
the  entire  system — or  is  it  chiefly  through  the 
organ  of  sight?  I  have  not  skill  or  knowledge 
sufficient  to  answer  these  questions.  I  cannot 
but  think,  however,  that  the  eye  has  much  to  do 
in  this  matter.  If  you  look  at  the  vessel  in  mo- 
tion, it  seems  to  increase  the  difficulty ;  and 
hence,  while  under  the  influence  of  the  disease, 
you  cannot  bear  to  look  on  anything  around  you, 
but  are  disposed  to  close  the  windows  of  the 
soul,  and  give  yourself  up  to  dark  and  gloomy 
endurance. 

One  of  the  social — or  rather  a7?ii-social — con- 
comitants of  this  disease  is  that  it  excites  but 
little  pity  in  those  around  you  who  are  not  suf- 
fering. One  tells  you,  "  It  Avill  do  you  good  !" 
This  is  the  highest  comfort  you  get.  Another 
assures  you  that  "  it  is  not  a  mortal  disease,"  and 
that  "you  will  feel  a  great  deal  better  when  it  is 
over."  Another  laughs  you  in  the  face,  with 
some  atrocious  pleasantry  about  "  casting  up  ac- 
counts," or  "  paying  duties  to  Old  Neptune."  A 
"searching  operation,"  this  paying  custom  to  the 
watery  king.     If  his  Majesty  demanded  but  a 


WILBUR  FISK.— 4 

large  percentage  of  your  wares,  it  might  be  tol- 
erable ;  but  he  takes  all  you  have ;  he  searches 
you  through  and  through. 

Wearied  out  at  length,  you  throw  yourself 
into  your  berth,  where,  by  keeping  in  a  horizon- 
tal position,  and  sinking  into  the  stupor  of  a  mere 
oyster  existence,  you  find  the  only  mitigation  of 
vour  suffering.  But  here  too  you  have  painful 
annoyances.  Is  it  cold :  your  extremities  be- 
come numb  and  icy ;  the  system,  as  in  the  chol- 
era, has  all  the  heat  and  action  within,  while  the 
entire  surface  is  torpid,  and  the  extremities  are 
cold  as  death.  Is  it  hot :  you  have  a  sense  of  suf- 
focation for  the  want  of  air ;  you  open  your  eyes, 
and  see  the  white  drapery  of  your  bed  waving, 
and  in  a  moment  you  anticipate  the  fanning  of 
the  breeze.  Xo,  no  I  that  waving  motion  is  not 
from  the  zephyr;  it  is  from  the  same  baleful  agi- 
tation that  is  the  source  of  all  your  distress. 

To  this  hour  I  can  scarcely  think  of  the  wav- 
ing of  that  white  drapery  in  the  stagnant  air  of 
my  state-room  without  associating  with  it  the 
idea  of  a  ghostly  visitant  in  the  hour  of  mid- 
night, flapping  his  sepulchral  wing  about  the 
bed  of  agony,  and  boding  ill  to  the  sufferer. 
Again  you  close  your  eyes.  You  think  of  home 
— of  land  an V where — of  the  terra  frma  beds  of 
the  lower  animals,  even  of  the  worst  accommo- 
dated among  them — the  horse  or  the  swine — 
and  you  feel  that  their  lodgment  would  be  a 
Paradise  compared  with  your  billow-tossed 
couch.  But  all  is  in  vain,  and  you  find  no 
other  alternative  but  to  give  yourself  up  to  pas- 
sive endurance.  And  such  endurance !  You 
listen  to  the  bell  dividing  off  the  hours — and 
you  feel  that  Time,  like  the  slow  fires  of  savage 
torments,  has  slackened  his  pace  to  prolong  your 
Huffcrings.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  T  have  been  de- 
scribing what  I  have  actually  felt,  in  a  greater  or 
less  degree,  with  ofcasional  iiiterrujitions,  for  fif- 
teen davs  during  my  voyage  to  Eurojic. —  Truvvts 
in  Europe. 


JOHN   FISKE.— 1 

FISKE,  John,  an  American  author,  born 
at  Hartford,  Conn.,  in  1842.  He  was  edu- 
cated at  Harvard  University,  and  at  the 
Dane  Law  School,  from  which  he  graduated 
in  1865.  In  1809  he  was  appointed  Lec- 
turer on  Philosophy  at  Harvard,  in  1870 
Tutor  in  History,  and  in  1872  Assistant 
Librarian,  which  office  he  held  until  1879. 
He  has  published  Myths  and  Myth-makers 
(1872),  Outlines  of  Cosmic  Philosophy 
(1874),  The  Unseen  World  (1876),  Bar- 
winism  and  Other  Essays  (1879),  Excur- 
sions of  an  Evolutionist  (1883),  The  Destiny 
if  Man  Vieived  in  the  Light  of  His  Origin 
(1884),  The  Idea  of  God  as  Affected  hy 
Modern  Knowledge^  and  American  Politi- 
cal Ideas  (1885.) 

THE  SCIENTIFIC  MEANING  OF  THE  WORD  "  FORCE." 

In  illustration  of  the  mischief  that  has  been 
wrought  by  the  Augustinian  conception  of  Deity, 
we  may  cite  the  theological  objections  urged 
against  the  Newtonian  theory  of  gravitation  and 
the  Darwinian  theory  of  natural  selection.  Leib- 
nitz who,  as  a  mathematician  but  little  inferior 
to  Newton  himself,  might  have  been  expected  to 
be  easily  convinced  of  the  truth  of  the  theory  of 
gravitation,  was  nevertheless  deterred  by  theo- 
logical scruples  from  accepting  it.  It  appeared 
to  him  that  it  substituted  the  action  of  physical 
forces  for  the  direct  action  of  the  Deity.  Now 
the  fallacy  of  this  argument  of  Leibnitz  is  easy 
to  detect.  It  lies  in  a  metaphysical  misconcep- 
tion of  the  meaning  of  the  word  "  force." 
"  Force"  is  implicitly  regarded  as  a  sort  of  entity 
or  daemon  which  has  a  mode  of  action  distin^ 
guishable  from  that  of  Deity;  otherwise  it  is 
meaningless  to  speak  of  substituting  one  for  the 
other.  But  such  a  personification  of  "  force"  is 
a  remnant  of  barbaric  thought,  in  no  wise  sanc- 
tioned by  physical  science.  When  astronomy 
speaks  of  two  planets  as  attracting  each  other 
w 


JOHN  FISKE.— 2 

with  a  "  force"  which  varies  directly  as  their 
masses  and  inversely  as  the  square  of  their  dis- 
tances apart,  it  simply  uses  the  phrase  as  a  con- 
venient metaphor  by  which  to  describe  the  man- 
ner in  which  the  observed  movements  of  the  two 
bodies  occur.  It  explains  that  in  presence  of 
each  other  the  two  bodies  are  observed  to  change 
their  positions  in  a  certain  specified  way,  and 
this  is  all  that  it  means.  This  is  all  that  a  strictly 
scientific  hypothesis  can  possibly  allege,  and  this 
is  all  that  observation  can  possibly  prove. 

Whatever  goes  beyond  this,  and  imagines  or 
asserts  a  kind  of  "  puil"  between  the  two  bodies, 
is  not  science,  but  metaphysics.  An  atheistic 
metaphysics  may  imagine  such  a  "  pull,"  and 
mav  interpret  it  as  the  action  of  something  that 
is  not  Deitv,  but  such  a  conclusion  can  find  no 
support  in  the  scientific  theorem,  which  is  simply 
a  generalized  description  of  phenomena.  The 
general  considerations  upon  which  the  belief  in 
the  existence  and  direct  action  of  Deity  is  other- 
wise founded  are  in  no  wise  disturbed  by  the 
establishment  of  any  such  scientific  theorem. 
We  are  still  perfectly  free  to  maintain  that  it  is 
the  direct  action  of  Deity  which  is  manifested 
in  the  planetary  movements;  having  done 
nothing  more  with  our  Newtonian  hypothesis 
.  than  to  construct  a  happy  formula  for  express- 
ing the  mode  or  order  of  the  manifestation.  We 
may  have  learned  something  new  concerning  the 
manner  of  divine  action  ;  we  certainly  have  not 
"  substituted "  any  otlier  kind  of  action  for  it. 
And  what  is  thus  obvious  in  this  simple  astro- 
nomical example  is  equally  true  in  principle  in 
every  case  whatever  in  which  one  set  of  phenom- 
ena is  interpreted  by  reference  to  another  set. 
In  no  case  whatever  can  science  use  the  words 
"  force"  or  "  cause"  excoj)t  as  mcta[)horically  de- 
scriptive of  some  observed  or  observalile  seipiencc 
of  phcnoini'iia.  And  conseriuently  at  no  imagi- 
nable future  time,  so  long  as  the  essential  con- 
ditions of  human  thinking  are  maintained,  e;in 
science  even  attempt  to  substitute  the  uction  of 


JOHN  FISKE.— 3 

any  other  power  for  the  direct  action  of  Deity. 
—  The  Idea  of  Ood. 

THE    EARLY    SETTLERS    OF    NEW    ENGLAND. 

The  settlement  of  New  England  by  the  Puri- 
tans occupies  a  peculiar  position  in  the  annals  of 
colonization,  and  without  understanding  tliis  we 
cannot  properly  appreciate  the  character  of  the 
purely  democratic  society  which  I  have  sought 
to  describe.  As  a  general  rule  colonies  have 
been  founded,  either  by  governments  or  by 
private  enterprise,  for  political  or  commercial 
reasons.  The  aim  has  been — on  the  part  of 
governments — to  annoy  some  rival  power,  or  to 
get  rid  of  criminals,  or  to  open  some  new  avenue 
of  trade  ;  or,  on  the  part  of  the  people,  to  escape 
from  straitened  circumstances  at  home,  or  to  find 
a  refuge  from  religious  persecution.  In  the  set- 
tlement of  New  England  none  of  these  motives 
were  operative  except  the  last,  and  that  only  to 
a  slight  extent.  The  Puritans  who  fled  from 
Nottinghamshire  to  Holland  in  1608,  and  twelve 
years  afterwards  crossed  the  ocean  in  the  May- 
floiver,  may  be  said  to  have  been  driven  from 
England  by  persecution.  But  this  was  not  the 
case  with  the  Puritans  who  between  1G30  and 
1650  went  from  Lincolnshire,  Norfolk,  and  Suf- 
folk, and  from  Dorset  and  Devonshire,  and 
founded  the  colonies  of  Massachusetts  and  Con- 
necticut. These  men  left  their  homes  at  a  time 
when  Puritanism  was  waxing  powerful  and  could 
not  be  assailed  with  impunity.  They  belonged 
to  the  upper  and  middle  classes  of  the  society  of 
that  day,  outside  of  the  peerage. 

Mr.  Freeman  has  pointed  out  the  importance 
of  the  change  by  which,  after  the  Norman  Con- 
quest, the  Old-English  nobility  or  thegnhood  was 
pushed  down  into  "a  secondary  place  in  the 
political  and  social  scale."  Of  the  far-reaching 
effects  of  this  change  upon  the  whole  subsequent 
history  of  the  English  race  I  shall  hereafter  have 
occasion  to  speak.  The  proximate  effect  was 
that  "the  ancient  lords  of  the  soil,  thus  thrust 


JOHN  riSKE.— 4 

down  into  the  second  rank,  formed  that  great  body 
of  freeholders,  the  stoat  gentry  and  yeomanry  of 
Enghind,  who  were  for  so  many  ages  the  strength 
of  the  land."  It  was  from  this  ancient  theguhood 
that  the  Puritan  settlers  of  New  England  were 
mainly  descended.  It  is  no  unusual  thing  for  a 
Massachusetts  family  to  trace  its  pedigree  to  a 
lord  of  the  manor  in  the  thirteenth  or  fourteenth 
century.  The  leaders  of  the  Xew  England  emi- 
gration were  country  gentlemen  of  good  fortune, 
similar  in  position  to  such  men  as  Hampden  and 
Cromwell ;  a  large  proportion  of  them  had  taken 
degrees  at  Cambridge.  The  rank  and  tile  were 
mostly  intelligent  and  prosperous  yeomen.  The 
lowest  ranks  of  society  were  not  represented  in 
the  emigration ;  and  all  idle,  shiftless,  or  disor- 
derly people  were  rigorously  refused  admission 
into  the  new  communities,  the  early  history  of 
which  was  therefore  singularly  free  from  any- 
thing like  riot  or  mutiny.  To  an  extent  unparal- 
leled, therefore,  in  the  annals  of  colonization,  the 
settlers  of  New  England  were  a  body  of  picked 
men.  Their  Puritanism  was  the  natural  outcome 
of  their  free-thinking,  combined  with  an  earnest- 
ness of  character  which  could  constrain  them  to 
any  sacrifices  needful  for  realizing  their  high  ideal 
of  life.  They  gave  up  pleasant  homes  in  Eng- 
land, and  they  left  thein  with  no  feeling  of  ran- 
cor towards  their  native  land,  in  order  that,  by 
dint  of  whatever  hardship,  they  might  establish 
in  the  American  wilderness  what  should  approve 
itself  to  their  judgment  as  a  God-fearing  com- 
munity. It  matters  little  that  their  conceptions 
were  in  sonic  respects  narrow.  In  the  untlinch- 
iiig  adherence  to  duty  whicli  prompted  their  cn- 
terjirisc,  and  in  the  sober  intelligence  with  which 
it  was  carried  out,  we  have,  as  I  said  before,  tlie 
key  to  what  is  best  in  the  history  of  the  Ameri- 
can people. —  American  Political  Ideas. 


[  PERCY  II.  FITZGERALD.— 1 

FITZGERALD,  Percy  Hetiierington, 
an  Irish  author,  born  in  1834.  He  was  edu- 
cated at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  Irish  bar,  and  was  appointed 
a  Crown  Prosecutor  on  the  Northeastern 
Circuit.  Many  of  his  novels  first  appeared 
in  All  the  Year  Bound,  Once  a  Week,  and 
Jlouse/iold  Words.  Among  his  works  are 
Never  Forgotten,  The  Second  Mrs.  Till  at- 
son,  The  Bridge  of  Sighs,  Bella  Donna, 
Polly,  The  Sivord  of  Damocles,  The  Night 
Mail,  Diana  Gay,  The  Life  of  Sterne, 
The  Life  of  Garrick,  Charles  Toionshend, 
A  Famous  Forgery,  being  the  life  of  Dr. 
Dodd,  Charles  TMnib,  Principles  of  Com- 
edy, Pictures  of  School  Life  and  Boyhood, 
The  Kemhles,  Life  and  Adventures  of  Al- 
exander Dumas,  The  Romance  of  the  Eng- 
lish Stage,  Life  of  George  LV.,  The  World 
Behind  the  Scenes,  A  New  Llistory  of  the 
English  Stage,  Recollections  of  a  Literary 
Man,  The  Royal  Dukes  and  Princesses  of 
the  Family  of  George  LLT.  (1882),  The 
Recreations  of  a  Literary  Man,  Kitigs  and 
Queens  of  an  Hour,  Records  of  Love,  Ro- 
mance, Oddity,  and  Adventure  (1883), 
Lives  of  the  Sheridans,  and  The  Book- 
Fancier  (1887.) 

goldsmith's  comedy. 

That  deliglitful  comedy,  She  Stoops  to  Con- 
quer, would  indeed  deserve  a  volume,  and  is  the 
best  specimen  of  wliat  an  English  comedy  should 
be.  It  illustrates  excellently  what  has  been  said 
as  to  the  necessity  of  the  plot  depending  on  the 
characters,  rather  than  the  characters  depending 
on  the  plot,  as  the  fashion  is  at  present.  IIow 
would  our  modern  playwright  have  gone  to 
work,  should  he  ha-ve  lighted  on  this  good  sub- 
ject for  a  piece — that  of  a  gentleman's  house 
being  taken  for  an  inn,  and  the  mistakes  it  might 


MRCY  H.  FITZGERALD.— 2 

give  rise  to  ?  He  would  have  an  irascible  old 
proprietor,  who  would  be  thrown  into  contor- 
tions of  furv  by  the  insults  he  was  receiving; 
visitors  free  and  easy,  pulling  the  furniture  about, 
ransacking  the  wardrobes,  with  other  farcical 
pranks,  such  as  would  betray  that  they  were  not 
gentlemen,  or  such  as  guests  at  an  inn  would 
never  dream  of  doing.  But  farce  would  be  got 
out  of  it  somehow 

Very  different  were  the  principles  of  Gold- 
smith. He  had  this  slight  shred  of  a  plot  to 
start  with  ;  but  it  was  conceived  at  the  same  mo- 
ment with  the  character  of  Marlow— the  delicacy 
and  art  of  which  conception  is  beyond  descrip- 
tion. It  was  the  character  of  all  others  to  bring 
out  the  farce  and  humor  of  the  situation,  viz.,  a 
character  with  its  two  sides — one  that  was  for- 
ward and  impudent  with  persons  of  the  class  he 
believed  his  hosts  to  belong  to,  but  liable  at  any 
crisis,  on  the  discovery  of  the  mistake,  to  be  re- 
duced to  an  almost  pitiable  state  of  shyness  and 
confusion.  It  is  the  consciousness  that  this 
change  is  in  petto  at  any  moment — that  the  cool 
town  man  may  be  hoisted  in  a  second  on  this 
petard — tliat  makes  all  so  piquant  for  the  spec- 
tator. To  make  Marlow  a  more  excpiisite  would 
l»avc  furnished  a  conventional  dramatic  contrast; 
but  the  addition  of  bashfulncss — and  of  bashful- 
ncss  after  this  artistic  view — more  than  doubles 
the  dramatic  force.  A  further  strengthening 
was  tlic  letting  his  friend  into  the  secret;  so  that 
this  delightfully  self-sufficient  creature  is  the  only 
one  of  all  concerned — including  audience — wlio 
is  unaware  of  his  situation 

One  could  write  on  and  on  in  praise  of  this 
delicious  comedy.  What  was  befi>re  Gold- 
smith's mind  was  the  local  color,  as  background 
for  Marlow — the  picture  of  the  old  country- 
house  and  its  old-fasliionc<l  tenants,  its  regular 
types  of  cliaractcr,  as  full  and  round  as  the  j)or- 
traits  on  11m;  wall.  Then  there  is  the  artful  con- 
trast of  the  characters,  every  figure  in  it  scp.-irate, 
distinct,  alive,  colored,  round,  and  to  be  thought 
•f 


PERCY  H.  J^ITZGERALi).— 3 

of,  positively,  like  people  we  have  known.  Young 
Marlow,  and  Tony  Luin])kin — old  Hardcastle, 
and  Diggory,  and  Mrs.  Ilardcastlc — these  arc 
things  to  be  recalled  hereafter,  from  being 
framed  in  an  admirable  setting  at  a  theatre  in 
this  metropolis,  where  the  background,  the 
atmosphere,  the  scenery,  and  dress,  is  like  a 
series  of  pictures,  and  helps  us  over  many  short- 
comings in  the  play.  With  excellent  playing  in 
one  leading  character,  Tony,  it  haunts  the  mem- 
ory as  something  enjoyable ;  and,  to  one  who 
goes  round  the  playhouses,  it  is  as  though  he  had 
been  stopping  at  some   cheerful   country-house 

from  which  he  was  loth  to  depart 

What  a  play  !  we  never  tire  of  it.  How  rich 
in  situations,  each  the  substance  of  a  whole  play  ! 
At  the  very  first  sentence  the  stream  of  humor 
begins  to  flow.  Mrs.  Ilardcastle's  expostulation 
against  being  kept  in  the  country,  and  lier 
husband's  grumbling  defence  ;  the  alehouse,  and 
the  contrast  of  the  genteel  travelers  misdirected  ; 
the  drilling  of  the  servants  by  Ilardcastle;  the 
matchless  scene  between  Marlow,  his  friend,  and 
the  supposed  landlord;  the  interrupted  story  of 
the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  unrivaled  in  any 
comedy ;  the  scene  between  the  shy  Marlow  and 
Miss  Ilardcastle  ;  Hastings's  compliments  to  Mrs. 
Hardcastle  ;  the  episode  of  the  jewels ;  Marlow's 
taking  Miss  Hardcastle  for  the  barmaid ;  the 
drunken  servant,  and  Hardcastle's  fairly  losing 
all  patience ;  and  the  delightful  and  airily  deli- 
cate complications  as  to  Marlow's  denial  of  hav- 
ing paid  any  attentions;  the  puzzle  of  his  father; 
the  enjoyment  of  the  daughter,  who  shares  the 
secret  Avith  the  audience — all  this  makes  up  an 
innumerable  series  of  exquisite  situations,  yet  all 
flowing  from  that  one  simple  motif  of  the  play — 
the  mistaking  a  house  for  an  inn  !  Matchless 
piece  !  with  nothing  forced,  nothing  strained, 
everything  natural  and  easy.  "  Gay"  would  be 
the  word  to  describe  it.  We  regret  when  it  is 
over,  and  look  back  to  it  with  delight. — Prin- 
ciples of  Comedy  and  Dramatic  Effect. 
w 


CAMILLE   FLAMMARION.— 1 

FLAMMAEIOX,  Camille,  a  French 
astronomer  and  author,  born  at  Montigny- 
le-Roi,  in  1S42.  He  was  educated  in  the 
ecclesiastical  seminary  of  Langres,  and  at 
Paris,  and  studied  in  the  Imperial  Obser- 
vatory for  four  years.  In  1862  he  became 
editor  of  the  Cosmos,  and  in  1865  scientific 
editor  of  the  Siecle.  He  is  the  author  of 
La  Pluralite  des  Mondes  Habites  and  Les 
ILthitans  de  V autre  Monde  (1862  >,  Les 
Monde  Lmaginaires  et  les  Mondes  Reels 
(1864),  Les  Merveilles  Celestes,  translated 
under  the  title  of  Wonders  of  the  Heavens 
(1865),  Dleu  dans  la  Nature  (1866),  His- 
toire  die  Ciel  (1877),  Contetnplations  Scien- 
tijiqiies  and  Yoi/ages  Aeriens  (1868),  V At- 
niospJiere  (1872),  Ilistoire  Wun  Planete 
(1873),  Les  Terres  da  Ciel  (1876),  HAs- 
tronomie  I^opulaire  (1880),  and  Dans  le 
Ciel  et  snr  la  Terre  (1886.)  In  1868 
Flamraarion  made  several  balloon  ascents 
for  the  purpose  of  tiscertaining  the  condition 
of  the  atmosphere  at  great  altitudes.  In 
1880  he  received  a  prize  from  the  French 
Academy  for  his  work  V Astronomie  Pop- 
ulaire. 

INFINITE  SPACE. 

There  are  truths  before  wliicli  human  thought 
feels  itself  liuiiiihated  and  perplexed,  which  it 
conteinj)latPs  with  fear,  and  without  the  power  to 
face  thein,  ahli(nii;liit  umlcrstands  their  existence 
and  necessity  ;  such  are  those  of  the  infinity  of 
space  and  eternity  of  duration.  Inipossihle  to 
define — for  all  definition  could  onlv  ilarkcn  the 
first  idea  which  is  in  us — these  truths  command 
and  rule  us.  To  try  to  explain  them  wouUl  he  a 
barren  hope  ;  it  suffices  to  kecj)  them  before  our 
attention  in  order  that  they  may  reveal  to  us,  at 
every  instant,  tiie  inuncnsity  of  their  value.  A 
thousand  definitions  have  been  given  ;  we  will, 
however,  neither  quote   nor  recall  one  of  them, 


CAMILLE  FLAMMARION.— 3 

But  we  wish  to  open  space  before  us,  and  employ 
ourselves  there  in  trying  to  penetrate  its  depth. 
The  velocity  of  a  cannon-ball  from  the  mouth  of 
the  cannon  makes  swift  way,  437  yards  per  second. 
But  this  would  be  still  too  slow  for  our  journey 
through  space,  as  our  velocity  would  scarcely  be 
900  miles  an  hour.  This  is  too  little.  In  nature 
there  are  movements  incomparably  more  rapid : 
for  instance,  the  velocity  of  light.  This  velocity 
is  186,000  miles  per  second.  This  will  do  better  ; 
thus  we  will  take  this  means  of  transport.  Allow 
me,  then,  by  a  figure  of  speech,  to  tell  you  that 
we  will  place  ourselves  on  a  ray  of  light,  and  be 
carried  away  on  its  rapid  course. 

Taking  the  earth  as  our  starting-point  we  will 
go  in  a  straight  line  to  any  point  in  the  heavens. 
We  start.  At  the  end  of  the  first  second  we 
have  already  traversed  186,000  miles;  and  at  the 
end  of  the  second,  372,000.  We  continue:  Ten 
seconds,  a  minute,  ten  minutes  have  elapsed — 
111,600,000  miles  have  been  passed.  Passing, 
during  an  hour,  a  day,  a  week,  without  ever 
slacking  our  pace,  during  whole  months,  and  even 
a  year,  the  time  which  we  have  traversed  is 
already  so  long  that,  expressed  in  miles,  the 
number  of  measurement  exceeds  our  faculty  of 
comprehension,  and  indicates  nothing  to  our 
mind;  there  would  be  trillions,  and  millions,  of 
millions.  But  we  will  not  interrupt  our  flight. 
Carried  on  without  stopping  by  tliis  same  rapidity 
of  186,000  miles  each  second,  let  us  penetrate 
the    expanse    m    a    straight     line     for    whole 

years,  fifty  years,  even  a  century Where 

are  we  ?  For  a  long  time  we  have  gone  far 
beyond  the  last  starry  regions  which  are  seen 
from  the  earth — the  last  that  the  telescope 
has  visited ;  for  a  long  time  we  travel  in 
other  regions,  ■  unknown  and  unexplored.  No 
mind  is  capable  of  following  the  road  passed 
over  ;  thousands  of  millions  joined  to  thousands 
of  millions  express  nothing.  At  the  sight  of  this 
prodigious  expanse  the  imagination  is  arrested, 
humbled.     Well  !   this  is  the  wonderful  point  of 


CAMILLE  FLA.MMARION.— 3 

the  problem  :  we  have  not  advanced  a  sintjle  step 
in  space.  We  are  no  nearer  a  limit  than  if  we 
had  remained  in  the  same  place.  We  should  be 
able  again  to  begin  the  same  course  starting  from 
the  point  where  we  are,  and  add  to  ourvoyaoe  a 
voyage  of  the  same  extent ;  we  should  be  able  to 
join  centuries  on  centuries  in  the  same  itinerary, 
with  the  same  velocity,  to  continue  the  voyage 
without  end  and  without  rest ;  we  should  be'able 
to  guide  ourselves  in  any  part  of  space,  left,  right, 
forward,  backward,  above,  below,  in  every 
direction  ;  and  when,  after  centuries  employed  in 
this  giddy  course,  we  should  stop  ourselves,  fas- 
cinated, or  in  despair  before  the  immensity 
eternally  open,  eternally  renewed,  we  should  again 
understaiul  that  our  secular  flights  had  not 
measured  for  us  the  snmllest  part  of  space,  and 
that  we  were  not  more  advanced  than  at  our 
starting-point.  In  truth  it  is  the  infinite  which 
surrounds  us,  as  we  before  expressed  it,  or  the  in- 
finite number  of  worlds.  We  should  be  able  to 
float  for  eternity  without  ever  finding  anything 
before  us  but  an  eternally  open  infinite. 

Hence  it  follows  that  all  our  ideas  on  space 
have  but  a  purely  relative  value.  When  we  say, 
for  instance,  to  ascend  to  the  sky,  to  descend 
under  the  earth,  these  expressions  are  false  in 
themselves,  for  being  situated  in  the  bosom  of  the 
infinite,  we  can  neither  ascend  nor  descend  ;  there 
is  no  above  or  below  ;  these  words  have  only  an 
acceptation  relative  to  the  terrestrial  surface  on 
which  we  live.  The  universe  must,  therefore,  be 
represented  as  an  expanse  without  limits,  without 
shores,  illimite<l,  infinite,  in  tlie  bosom  of  which 
float  suns  like  that  wliidi  lights  us,  and  earths 
like  that  which  [)oises  under  our  steps.  Neither 
dome  nor  vaults,  nor  limits  of  any  kind  ;  void  in 
every  direction,  and  in  this  v()i<l  an  immense 
nuiiiber  of  worMs,  which  we  will  soon  describe, — 
Wonders  of  the  Heavens. 


GUST  AVE  FLAUBERT.— 1 

FLAUBERT,  Gustave,  a  French  novel- 
ist, born  in  1821;  died  in  1880.  His  father 
was  Chief  Surgeon  of  tlie  Hotel  Dieu  in 
Kouen.  His  brother  also  was  a  j)hysiciaTi, 
and  he  himself  studied  medicine,  which  he 
relinquished  for  literature.  In  1849  he  set 
out  on  a  journey  through  Northern  Africa, 
Asia  Minor,  Syria,  and  Southern  Europe. 
During  liis  travels  he  studied  enthusiastic- 
ally all  that  related  to  the  past  in  the 
countries  he  visited.  On  his  return  to 
France,  he  engaged  in  authorship.  His 
first  publication  was  a  novel,  Madame 
Bovary^  which  appeared  in  the  Revue  de 
Paris,  in  1857.  Legal  proceedings  insti- 
tuted against  him  on  account  of  its 
alleged  immorality  fell  to  the  ground.  The 
ne.xt  year  he  went  to  Tunis,  and  then  to  the 
ruins  of  Carthage,  where  he  remained  for  a 
long  time.  This  journey  resulted  in  the 
production  of  the  author's  greatest  work, 
Salammho,  published  in  1862,  and  which 
has  been  called  the  "resurrection  of  Carth- 
age." It  is  founded  upon  the  revolt,  under 
Spendius,  of  the  Barbarian  followers  of 
Hamilcar  Barca,  after  the  first  Punic  war, 
their  siege  of  Carthage,  and  their  terrible 
])unishment.  The  heroine  of  the  tale  is 
Salanimbo,  the  daughter  of  Hamilcar,  whose 
story  has  been  grafted  by  the  author  on  the 
historical  foundation.  Among  Flaubert's 
other  works  are :  Sentimental  Education 
(1869),  The  Temptation  of  St.  Anthony 
(1874),  Hei'odias,  St.  Julian  the  Hospitaller, 
and  A  Simple  Heart  (1877),  and  Bouvard 
et  Pecuehet  (1880),  completed  a  few  weeks 
before  the  author's  death. 

UNDER   THE  WALLS    OF    CARTHAGE. 

From  the  surrounding  country  the  people, 
mounted   on   asses,   or  running   on  foot,  pale, 

»4 


GUSTAVE  FLAUBERT.— 2 

breathless,  wild  with  fear,  came  rushing  into  the 
city.  They  were  flying  before  the  Barbarian 
army,  which,  within  three  days,  had  traversed  the 
road  from  Sicca,  bent  ou  falling  upon  and  exter- 
minating Carthage.  Almost  as  soon  as  the  citi- 
zens closed  the  gates,  the  Barbarians  were 
descried,  but  they  halted  in  the  middle  of  the 
isthmus  ou  the  lake  shore.  At  first  they  made 
no  sign  whatever  of  hostility.  Many  approached 
with  palms  in  their  hands,  only  to  be  repulsed 
by  the  arrows  of  the  Carthaginians,  so  intense 
was  the  terror  prevailing  throughout  the  city. 
During  the  early  morning  and  at  nightfall  strag- 
glers prowled  along  the  walls.  A  small  man 
carefully  enveloped  in  a  mantle,  with  his  face 
concealed  under  a  very  low  visor,  was  specially 
noticeable.  lie  tarried  for  hours  looking  at  the 
aqueduct,  and  with  such  {)ersistence,  that  he  un- 
doubtedly desired  to  mislead  the  Carthaginians 
as  to  his  actual  designs.  He  was  accompanied 
by  another  man,  of  giant-like  stature,  who  walked 
about  bareheaded. 

Carthage  was  defended  throughout  the  entire 
width  of  the  isthmus  ;  first  by  a  moat,  succeeded 
by  a  rampart  (jf  turf;  finallv  by  a  double-storied 
wall,  thirty  cubits  high,  built  of  hewn  stones.  It 
contained  stables  for  three  hundred  elephants, 
with  magazines  for  their  caparisons,  shackles,  and 
provisions,  as  well  as  other  stables  for  a  thousand 
horses  with  their  harness  a\\i\  fodder;  also  cas- 
ernes for  twenty  thousand  soldiers,  arsenals  for 
their  armor,  and  all  the  materials  and  necessaries 
for  war.  Towers  were  erected  c)n  the  second 
story,  furnished  with  battlements,  clad  on  the 
exterior  with  bronze  bucklers,  suspended  from 
cramp-irons. 

The  first  line  of  walls  immediately  sheltered 
Mabjiia,  the  quarter  inhabited  by  seafaring 
peoj)le  and  dvers  of  purple.  I'oles  were  visible 
on  whieh  pur[)lo  sails  were  drving,  a!id  beyond, 
on  the  last  terraces,  clay  furnaces  for  cooking 
saiimure.  At  the  back  the  city  was  laid  out  like 
an  amphitheatre  ;   its  high  dwellings  in  the  form 


GUSTAVE  FLAUBERT.— 3 

of  cubes  were  variously  built  of  stone,  planks, 
shingles,  reeds,  shells,  and  pressed  earth.  The 
groves  of  the  temples  appeared  like  lakes  of  ver- 
dure in  this  mountain  of  diversely  colored  blocks. 
The  public  squares  levelled  it  at  unequal  distances, 
and  innumerable  streets  intercrossed  from  top  to 
bottom.  The  boundaries  of  the  three  old  quar- 
ters could  be  distinguished,  now  merged  together 
and  here  and  there  rising  up  like  huge  rocks  or 
spreading  out  in  enormous  Hat  spaces  of  walls — 
half-covered  with  flowers,  and  blackened  by  wide 
streaks  caused  by  the  throwing  over  of  filth  ;  and 
streets  passed  through  in  yawning  spaces  like 
streams  under  bridges. 

The  hill  of  the  Acropolis,  in  the  centre  of 
Byrsa,  disappeared  under  a  medley  of  monu- 
ments ;  such  as  temples  with  torsel-columns,  with 
bronze  capitals,  and  metal  chains,  cones  of  unce- 
uiented  stones  banded  with  azure,  copper  cupolas, 
marble  architraves,  Babylonian  buttresses,  and 
obelisks  poised  on  the  points  like  reversed  flam- 
beaux. Peristyles  reached  to  frontons;  volutes 
unrolled  between  colonnades ;  granite  walls  sup- 
ported tile  partitions.  All  these  were  mounted 
one  above  another,  half-hidden  in  a  marvelous 
incomprehensible  fashion.  Here  one  felt  the 
succession  of  ages,  and  the  memories  of  forgotten 
countries  were  awakened.  Behind  the  Acropolis, 
in  the  red  earth,  the  Mappals  road,  bordered  by 
tombs,  extended  in  a  straight  line  from  the  shore 
to  the  catacombs;  then  followed  large  dwellings 
in  spacious  gardens ;  and  the  third  quarter, 
Megara,  the  new  city,  extended  to  the  edge  of 
cliffs,  on  which  was  erected  a  gigantic  lighthouse 
where  nightly  blazed  a  beacon.  Carthage  thus 
deployed  herself  before  the  soldiers  now  en- 
camped on  the  plains. 

From  the  distance  the  soldiers  could  recognize 
the  markets  and  the  cross-roads,  and  disputed 
among  themselves  as  to  the  sites  of  the  various 
temples.  Khamofin  faced  the  Syssites,  and  had 
golden  tiles  ;  Mclkarth,  to  the  left  of  EschmoCin, 
bore  on  its  roof  coral  branches;  Tanit,  beyond, 
w 


GUSTAVE  FLAUBERT.-4 

rounded  up  through  the  palm-trees  its  copper 
cupola ;  and  the  black  Moloch  stood  below  the 
cisterns  at  the  side  of  the  lighthouse.  One  could 
see  at  the  angles  of  the  frontons,  on  the  summit 
of  the  walls,  at  the  corners  of  the  squares,  every- 
where, the  various  divinities  with  their  hideous 
heads,  colossal  or  dwarfish,  with  enormous  or 
immeasurably  flattened  bellies,  open  jaws,  and 
outspread  arms,  holding  in  their  hands  pitchforks, 
chains,  or  javelins.  And  the  blue  sea  spread 
out  at  the  ends  of  the  streets,  which  the  perspec- 
tive rendered  even  steeper. 

A  tumultuous  people  from  morning  till  night 
filled  the  streets;  young  boys  rang  bells,  crying 
out  before  the  doors  of  the  bath-houses;  shops 
wherein  hot  drinks  were  sold  sent  forth  steam ; 
the  air  resounded  with  the  clangor  of  anvils;  the 
white  cocks,  consecrated  to  the  sun,  crowed  on 
the  terraces  ;  beeves  awaiting  slaughter  bellowed 
in  the  temples ;  slaves  ran  hither  and  thither 
with  baskets  poised  on  their  heads ,  and  in  the 
recesses  of  the  porticoes  now  and  again  a  priest 
appeared  clothed  in  sombre  mantle,  barefooted, 
wearing  a  conical  cap. 

This  spectacle  of  Carthage  enraged  the  Bar- 
barians. They  admired  her;  they  execrated 
her;  they  desired  at  the  same  time  to  inhabit 
her,  and  to  annihilate  her.  But  what  might 
there  not  be  in  the  military  port,  defended  by 
a  triple  wall  ?  Then  behind  the  city,  at  the 
extremity  of  Mcgara,  higher  even  than  the  Acro- 
polis, loomed  up  Ilamilcar's  palace. — Salammbo. 


ANDREW  FLETCHER.— 1 

FLETCHER,  Anpkew  (commonly 
known  as  Fletcher  of  Saltoun),  a  Scottish 
politician  and  author,  born  in  1653  ;  died  in 
1716.  He  was  educated  under  the  care  ot" 
Gilbert  Burnet,  then  minister  of  the  parisii 
of  Saltuun  ;  ti-aveled  extensively  on  the 
Continent,  and  in  1681  became  a  member  of 
the  Scottish  Parliament,  distinguishing  him- 
self for  his  vehement  opposition  to  the  ar- 
bitrary measures  undertaken  by  the  English 
Government  of  Charles  II.  He  fled  to 
Holland,  and  failing  to  appear  before  the 
Privy  Council,  when  summoned,  his  estates 
were  confiscated.  He  took  a  prominent 
part  in  the  Revolution  of  1688,  which 
placed  William  III.  on  the  throne  of  Eng- 
land. His  estates  were  restored  to  him ; 
but  he  soon  became  as  ardent  an  opponent 
of  William  III.  as  he  had  been  of  Charles 
II.  and  James  II.  He  opposed  to  the  last 
the  union  between  the  kingdoms  of  Eng- 
land and  of  Scotland,  and  when  the  union 
was  consummated,  in  1707,  he  withdrew 
from  public  life.  He  wrote  Discourse  of 
Governm£7it  (1698),  two  Discourses  con- 
cerning the  Affairs  of  Scotland  (1698), 
Speeches  (1703),  The  Right  Regulation  of 
Governments  (1704.)  These  were  published 
in  a  single  volume  in  1737;  and  in  1797 
appeared  an  essay  on  his  life  and  writings 
by  the  Earl  of  Buchan.  Fletcher  is  the 
author  of  the  fine  saying,  which  has  been 
erroneously  attributed  to  the  Earl  of  Chat- 
ham :  "  I  knew  a  very  wise  man  that  be- 
lieved that  if  a  man  were  permitted  to  make 
all  the  ballads,  he  need  not  care  who  should 
make  the  laws  of  a  nation." 

STATE    OF    SCOTLAND    IN    1698. 

There  are  at  this  day  in  Scotland — besides  a 
great  many  poor  famiUes  very  meanly  provided 


ANDREW  FLETCHER.— 2 

for  by  the  church-boxes,  with  others,  who,  by 
living  on  bad  food,  fall  into  various  diseases — 
two  hundred  thousand  people  begging  from  door 
to  door.  These  are  not  only  no  way  advantage- 
ous, but  a  very  grievous  burden  to  so  poor  a 
countrv.  And  though  the  number  of  them  be 
perhaps  double  to  what  it  was  formerly,  by  rea- 
son of  this  present  great  distress,  yet  in  all  times 
there  have  been  about  one  hundred  thousand  of 
those  vagabonds,  who  liave  lived  without  any 
regard  or  subjection  either  to  the  laws  of  the 
land,  or  even  those  of  God  and  nature.  No  mag- 
istrate could  ever  be  informed,  or  discover,  which 
way  one  in  a  hundred  of  these  wretches  died,  or 
that  ever  tliey  were  baptized.  Many  murders 
have  been  discovered  among  them  ;  and  they  are 
not  only  a  most  unspeakable  oppression  to  poor 
tenants — who,  if  they  give  not  bread,  or  some 
kind  of  provision,  to  perhaps  forty  such  villains 
in  one  day  are  sure  to  be  insulted  by  them — but 
they  rob  many  poor  people  who  live  in  houses 
distant  from  any  neighborliood.  In  years  of 
plenty  many  tliousands  of  them  meet  together  in 
the  mountains,  where  tliey  feast  and  riot  for  many 
davs  ;  and  at  country-weddings,  markets,  burials, 
and  the  like  public  occasions,  tliey  are  to  be  seen, 
V>oth  men  and  women,  perpetually  drunk,  cursing, 
blaspheming,  and  fighting  together.  These  are 
such  outrageous  disorders,  thai  it  were  better  for 
the  nation  they  were  sold  to  the  galleys  or  West 
Indies,  than  that  they  sliould  continue  any  longer 
to  be  a  burden  and  curse  upon  us. — Disconrse  on 
the  Affairs  of  Scotland. 


GILES  FLETCHER.— 1 

FLETCHER,  Giles,  an  English  clergy- 
man and  poet,  born  in  1584;  died  in  1623. 
He  was  a  brother  of  Phineas  Fletcher,  and 
son  of  the  Rev.  Giles  Fletcher  (1548-1610), 
an  author  of  some  repute.  The  younger 
Giles  Fletclier  was  educated  at  Cambridge, 
and  became  Rector  of  Alderton,  on  the 
coast  of  Suffolk,  where  "his  downish  and 
low-parted  parishioners  valued  not  their 
pastor  according  to  his  worth,  which  dis- 
posed him  to  melancholy,  and  hastened  his 
dissolution."  A  few  months  before  his 
death  he  published  The  Reivard  of  the 
Faithful,  a  theological  treatise  in  prose. 
While  at  Cambridge  he  wrote  several  minor 
verses  and  his  great  poem,  Christ's  Victory 
and  Triumph,  in  Heaven,  in  Earth,  Over 
and  After  Death  (1610).  From  this  poem 
Milton  borrowed  much  in  his  Paradise 
Regained. 

THK    SORCERESS    OF    VAIN    DELIGHT, 

The  garden  like  a  lady  fair  was  cut, 

That  lay  as  if  she  slumbered  in  delight, 
And  to  the  open  skies  her  eyes  did  shut; 

The    azure    fields    of    Heaven   were   'sembled 

right 
In  a  large  round,  set  with  the  ilowers  of  light: 
The  flower-de-luce,  and  the  round  sparks  of  dew 
That  hung  upon  their  azure  leaves,  did  shew 
Like  twinkling  stars,  that  sparkle  in  the  evening 
blue 

And  all  about,  embayed  in  soft  sleep, 

A   herd   of    charmed    beasts   aground   were 
spread, 
Which  the  fair  witch  in  golden  chains  did  keep, 
And  them  in  willing  bondage  fettered: 
Once  men  they  lived,  but  now  the  men  were 
dead, 
And  turned  to  beasts ;  so  fabled  Homer  old. 
That  Circ6  with  her  potion,  charmed  in  gold, 
Used  manly  souls  in  beastly  bodies  to  immould. 
100 


GILES  FLETCHEti.— 2 

Throiigli  this  false  Eden,  to  his  leman's  bower— » 

Whom  thousand  souls  devoutly  idolize — 
Our  first  destroyer  led  our  Saviour ; 

There  in  the  lower  room,  in  solemn  wise, 
They  danced  a  round,  and  poured  their  sacri- 
fice 
To  plump  Lyaeus,  and  among  the  restj 
The  jolly  priest,  in  ivy  garlands  drest. 
Chanted  wild  orgials,  in  honor  of  the  feast, . . »  . » 

A  silver  wand  the  sorceress  did  sway< 

And,  for  a  crown  of  gold,  her  hair  she  wore ; 
Only  a  garland  of  rosebuds  did  play 

About  her  locks,  and  in  her  hand  she  bore 
A  hollow  globe  of  glass,  that  long  before 
She  full  of  emptiness  had  bladdered. 
And  all  the  world  therein  depictured : 
Whose  colors,  like  the  rainbow,  ever  vanished. 

Such  watery  orbicles  young  boys  do  blow 

Out  from  their  soapy  shells,  and  much  ad- 
mire 

The  swimming  world,  which  tenderly  they  row 
With  easy  breath  till  it  be  raised  higher ; 
But  if  they  chance  but  roughly  once  aspire, 

The  painted  bubble  instantly  doth  fall. 

Here  when  she  came  she  'gan  for  music  call, 

And   sung   this  wooing   song  to  welcome  him 
withal : 

Love  is  tlie  blossom  where  there  blows 
Everything  that  lives  or  grows: 
Love  doth  make  the  heavens  to  move, 
And  the  sun  doth  burn  in  love; 
Love  the  strong  and  weak  doth  yoke, 
And  inakes  the  ivy  climl>  the  oak; 
Under  whose  shadows  lions  wild. 
Softened  by  love,  grow  tame  and  mild : 
Love  no  medicine  can  appease  ; 
He  burns  the  fishes  in  tlie  seas; 
Not  all  the  skill  his  wounds  can  stench, 
Not  all  the  sea  his  fire  can  quencli ; 
Love  did  make  the  bloody  spear 
Once  a  leafy  coat  to  wear, 

101 


GILES  FLETCHER.— 3 

AVhile  in  Iiis  leaves  there  slirouded  lay 
Sweet  birds,  for  love,  that  sing  and  play : 
And  of  all  love's  joyful  flame 
I  the  bud  and  blossom  am. 

Only  bend  thy  knee  to  me, 

Thy  wooing  shall  thy  winning  be 

Thus  sought  the  dire  enchantress  in  his  mind 
Her  guileful  bait  to  have  embosomed  : 

But  he  her  charms  dispersed  into  wind, 
And  her  of  insolence  admonished. 
And  all  her  optic  glasses  shattered. 

So  with  her  sire  to  hell  she  took  her  flight; 

The  starting  air  flew  from  the  damned  sprite; 

Where  deeply  both  aggrieved  plunged  themselves 
in  night. 

But  to  their  Lord,  now  musing  in  his  thought, 
A  heavenly  volley  of  light  angels  flew. 

And  from  his  Father  him  a  banquet  brought 
Through  the  fine  element,  for  well  they  knew, 
After  his  Lenten  fast,  he  hungry  grew  : 

And  as  he  fed,  the  holy  choirs  combine 

To  sing  a  liymn  of  the  celestial  Trine  ; 

All  thought  to  pass,  and  each  was  past  all  thought 
divine. 

The  birds'  sweet  notes,  to  sonnet  out  tlieir  joys, 
Attempered  to  the  lays  angelical; 

And  to  the  birds  the  winds  attune  their  noise; 
And  to  the  winds  the  waters  hoarsely  call, 
And  echo  back  again  revoiced  all ; 

That  the  whole  valley  rung  with  victory. 

But  now  our  Lord  to  rest  doth  homewards  fly : 

See  how  the  night  comes  stealing  from  the  moun- 
tains liigh. 

ChrisCs  Victory  and  Triumjjh. 


FLETCHER,  John.   See  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher. 


JOHN  WILLIAM  FLETCHER.— 1 

FLETCHER,  John  "William  [Flechieee, 
Jeass  Guillaume],  an  English  clergyman 
and  author,  born  in  Switzerland  in  1729 ; 
died  in  England  in  1785,  He  was  educated 
at  Geneva  for  the  ministry,  but  finding  him- 
self unable  to  subscribe  to  the  doctrine  of 
predestination,  he  entered  the  Portuguese 
military  service,  and  was  to  sail  for  Brazil. 
Accident  prevented  his  sailing,  and  he  then 
entered  the  Dutch  service.  Peace  put  an 
end  to  his  military  life  before  it  was  fairly 
begun.  He  then  went  to  England  and  be- 
came a  tutor.  In  1755  he  became  intimate 
with  "Wesley,  and  in  1757  took  orders  in  the 
Churcli  of  England.  He  declined  a  wealthy 
parish,  and  took  that  of  Madeley,  amongst 
a  poor  and  neglected  population,  to  whom 
he  devoted  himself.  In  1769  he  visited 
France,  Switzerland,  and  Italy,  and  on  his 
return  was  for  a  time  at  the  head  of  the 
theological  school  at  Trevecca,  Wales.  He 
made  numerous  missionary  journeys  with 
Wesley  and  Whitetield.  Among  his  works 
are  an  Address  to  Seekers  of  Salvation, 
Checks  to  Ayitinomianism,  Christian  Per- 
fection^ and  A  Portrait  of  St.  Paul,  or  the 
Sure  Model  for  Christians  and  Pastors. 

TRIVIAL    SINS. 

Every  voluntary  transgression  argues  a  real 
contempt  of  tlic  leijislator's  authority ;  and  in 
such  contempt  there  is  found  the  seed  of  every 
sin  that  can  possibly  be  committed,  in  ojiposition 
to  liis  express  command.  All  the  commands  of 
God,  whether  they  l»e  great  or  small,  have  no 
other  .sanction  than  that  which  consi.sts  in  his 
Divine  authority,  and  this  authority  is  trampled 
under  foot  by  every  pettv  delin<)ucnt,  as  well  as 
by  every  daring  trans<rressor.  Those  which  we 
usually  esteem  trivial  sins  are  the  more  danger- 
ous on  account  of  their  bein<:  less  attended  to. 


JOHN  WILLIAM  FLETCHER.— 3 

They  are  committed  witliont  fear,  without  re- 
morse, and  generally  without  intermission.  As 
there  are  more  ships  of  war  destroyed  by  worms 
than  by  the  shot  of  the  enemy,  so  the  multitude 
of  those  wlio  destroy  themselves  through  ordi- 
nary sins  exceeds  tlie  number  of  tliose  who  per- 
ish by  enormous  offences. 

We  have  a  thousand  proofs  that  small  sins 
will  lead  a  man,  by  insensible  degrees,  to  the 
commission  of  greater.  Nothing  is  more  com- 
mon among  us  than  the  custom  of  swearing  and 
giving  away  to  wrath  without  reason  ;  and  these 
are  usually  regarded  as  offences  of  an  inconsid- 
erable nature.  But  there  is  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  they  who  have  contracted  these  vicious 
habits  would  be  equally  disposed  to  perjury  and 
murder,  were  they  assailed  by  a  forcible  tempta- 
tion, and  unrestrained  with  the  dread  of  forfeit- 
ing their  honor  or  their  life.  If  we  judge  of  a 
commodity  by  observing  a  small  sample,  so,  by 
little  sins,  as  well  as  by  trivial  acts  of  virtue,  we 
may  form  a  judgment  of  the  heart.  Hence  the 
widow's  two  mites  appeared  a  considerable  obla- 
tion in  the  eyes  of  Christ,  who  judged  by  them 
how  rich  an  offering  the  same  woman  would 
have  made  had  she  been  possessed  of  the  means. 
For  the  same  reason,  those  frequent  exclamations, 
in  which  the  name  of  God  is  taken  in  vain,  those 
poignant  railleries,  and  those  frivolous  lies,  which 
are  produced  in  common  conversation,  discover 
the  true  disposition  of  those  persons,  who,  with- 
out insult  or  temptation,  can  violate  the  sacred 
laws  of  piety  and  love.  The  same  seeds  produce 
fruit  more  or  less  perfect,  according  to  the  steril- 
ity or  luxuriance  of  the  soil  in  which  they  are 
sown.  Thus  the  very  same  principle  of  malice 
which  leads  a  child  to  torment  an  insect,  acts 
more  forcibly  on  the  heart  of  a  slanderous  wo- 
man, whose  highest  joy  consists  in  mangling  the 
reputation  of  a  neighbor;  nor  is  the  cruel  tyrant 
actuated  by  a  different  principle,  who  finds  a 
barbarous  pleasure  in  persecuting  the  righteous 
and  shedding  the  blood  of  the  innocent. 


JOHN  WILLIAM  FLETCHER.— 3 

If  prejudice  will  not  allow  these  observations 
to  be  just,  reason  declares  the  contrary.  The 
very  same  action  that,  in  certain  cases,  would  be 
esteemed  a  failing,  becomes,  in  some  circum- 
stances, an  enormous  crime.  For  instance  :  if  I 
despise  an  inferior,  I  commit  a  fault;  if  the 
offended  party  is  my  equal,  my  fault  rises  in 
magnitude ;  if  he  is  my  superior,  it  is  greater 
still ;  if  he  is  a  respectable  magistrate — a  benefi- 
cent prince — if  that  prince  is  my  sovereign  lord, 
whose  lenity  I  have  experienced  after  repeated 
acts  of  rebellion  ;  who  has  heaped  upon  me  many 
kindnesses;  who  means  to  bestow  upon  me  still 
greater  favors ;  and  if,  after  all,  I  have  been  led 
to  deny  and  oppose  him,  my  crime  is  undoubt- 
edly aggravated  by  all  these  circumstances  to 
an  extraordinary  degree.  But  if  this  offended 
benefactor  is  Lord  of  lords,  and  King  of  kings, 
the  Creator  of  man,  the  Monarch  of  angels,  the 
Ancient  of  Days,  before  whom  the  majesty  of  all 
the  monarchs  upon  earth  disappears,  as  the  lustre 
of  a  thousand  stars  is  eclipsed  by  the  presence  of 
the  sun — if  this  glorious  Being  has  given  his  be- 
loved Son  to  suffer  infamy  and  death,  in  order 
to  procure  for  me  eternal  life  and  celestial  glory, 
my  crime  must  then  be  aggravated  in  proportion 
to  my  own  meanness,  the  greatness  of  benefits 
received,  and  the  dignity  of  my  exalted  Bene- 
factor. But  our  imagination  is  bewildered,  when 
we  attempt  to  scan  the  enormity  which  these 
accumulated  circumstances  add  to  those  acts  of 
rebellion,  denominated  sins. — Portrait  of  St. 
Paul. 


MARIA  JEWSBURY  FLETCHER.— 1 

FLETCIIER,  Maria  Jane  (Jewsbury), 
an  English  |ioet,  born  in  1800;  died  in  1833. 
Slio  was  married  in  1830  to  the  liev.  Will- 
iam Fletcher,  missionary  to  India,  and  died 
at  Bombay  very  soon  after  her  arrival. 
She  wrote  Three  Histories,  Letters  to  the 
You7ig,  and  Lays  of  Leisure  Hours. 

BIRTH-DAY    BALLAD. 

Thou  art  plucking  spnng  roses,  Genie, 

And  a  little  red  rose  art  thou ! 
Thou  hast  unfolded  to-day,  Genie, 

Another  hriglit  leaf,  I  trow : 
But  the  roses  will  live  and  die,  Genie, 

Many  and  many  a  time 
Ere  thou  hast  unfolded  quite.  Genie, 

Grown  into  maiden  prime. 

Thou  art  looking  now  at  the  birds,Genie ; 

But,  oh  !  do  not  wish  their  wing ! 
That  would  only  tempt  the  fowler.  Genie : 

Stay  thou  on  earth  and  sing ; 
Stay  in  the  nursing  nest.  Genie, 

Be  not  soon  thence  beguiled; 
Thou  wilt  ne'er  find  another,  Genie, 

Never  be  twice  a  child. 

Thou  art  building  up  towers  of  pebbles.  Genie ; 

Pile  them  up  brave  and  high, 
And  leave  them  to  follow  a  bee,  Genie, 

As  he  wandereth  singing  by : 
But  if  thy  towers  fall  down,  Genie, 

And  if  the  brown  bee  is  lost. 
Never  weep,  for  thou  must  learn,  Genie, 

How  soon  life's  schemes  are  crossed. 

What  will  thy  future  fate  be.  Genie, 

Alas  !  shall  I  live  to  see  ? 
For  thou  art  scarcely  a  sapling,  Genie, 

And  I  am  a  moss-grown  tree : 
I  am  shedding  life's  blossoms  fast,  Genie, 

Thou  art  in  blossom  sweet, 
But  think  of  the  grave  betimes,  Genie, 

Where  young  and  old  oft  meet. 


PHINEAS  FLETCHER.— 1 

FLETCHER,  Phixeas,  an  English  clergy- 
man and  poet,  brother  of  Giles  Fletcher, 
born  in  1582 ;  died  about  1665.  He  was 
educated  at  Eaton  and  Cambridge,  and  be- 
came chaplain  to  8ir  Henry  Willoughby,  by 
whom  he  was  presented  to  the  rectorate  of 
Hilgay,  in  Xorfolkshire.  He  brought  out 
several  works,  in  verse  and  prose.  Among 
these  are  LocKstw,  an  invective  against  the 
Jesuits  (1627),  Joi/  in  Tribulation,  a  theo- 
logical treatise  (1632),  Piscatory  Eclogues^ 
etc.  (1633),  and  A  Father's  Testament  (pub- 
lished in  1670,  some  years  after  his  death). 
His  chief  work  is  T/te  Purple  Island,  an 
allegorical  poem  in  twelve  cantos,  describ- 
ing the  physical  and  mental  constitution  of 
the  human  l)eing:  the  bones  being  spoken 
of  as  mountains,  the  veins  as  rivers,  und  so 
on.  Five  cantos  are  occupied  with  the  phe- 
nomena of  the  body,  seven  with  those  of 
the  mind. 

THE    DECAY    OF    HUMAN    GREATNESS. 

Fond  man,  that  looks  on  earth  for  happiness, 
And   here   long    seeks   what    here   is   never 
found  I 
For  all  our  good  \vc  hoM  from  Heaven  by  lease, 

With  many  forfeits  and  con<litions  hound; 
Nor  can  we  pay  the  tine,  and  rentage  due: 
Though    now   hut  writ,  and    sealed,  and    given 

anew. 
Vet  daily  we  it  break,  then  daily  must  renew. 

Why    shouldst   thou    here    look    for    perpetual 
good, 
At  every  h)ss  'gainst  Heaven's  faee  repining? 
Do  but  behold  where  ghirioiis  cities  stood, 

With  gilded  tops  and  silver  turrets  shining; 
There;  now  the  hart,  fearless  of  greyhound,  feeds, 
And  loving  peliean  in  faney  hree<ls  ; 
There  screeclung  satyrs  fill  the  people's  empty 
stcdcs. 

w 


l^HlNEiVS  t^LETCHER.— ^ 

Where  is  the  Assyrian  lion's  golden  hide, 

That  all  the  East  once  grasped  in  lordly  paw  ? 
Where  that  great  Persian   bear,  whose  swelling 
pride 
The  lion's  self  tore  out  with  ravenous  jaw ! 
Or  he  which,  'twixt  a  lion  and  a  pard. 
Through  all  the  world  with  nimble  pinions  fared. 
And  to  his  greedy  whelps  his  conquered  king- 
doms shared. 

Hardly  the  place  of  such  antiquity, 

Or  note  of  these  great  monarchies  we  find : 
Only  a  fading  verbal  memory, 

And  empty  name  in  writ  is  left  behind : 
But  when  this  second  life  and  glory  fades. 
And  sinks  at  length  in  time's  obscurer  shades, 
A  second   fall   succeeds,  and   double   death   in- 
vades. 

That  monstrous  beast,  which,  nursed  in  Tiber's 
fen. 
Did  all  the  world  with  hideous  shape  affray ; 
That  filled  witli  costly  spoil  his  gaping  den. 

And  trod  down  all  the  rest  to  dust  and  clay  : 
His  battering  horns,  pulled  out  by  civil  hands 
And  iron  teeth,  lie  scattered  on  the  sands ; 
Backed,  bridled  by  a  monk,  with  seven  heads 
yoked  stands. 

And  that  black  vulture  which  with  deathful  wing 
O'ershadows   half    the    earth,  whose   dismal 
sight 
Frightened  the  Muses  from  their  native  spring, 

Already  stoops,  and  flags  with  weary  flight : 
Who  then  shall  look  for  happiness  beneath  ? 
Where  each  new  day  proclaims  chance,  change, 

and  death. 
And  life  itself's  as  flit  as  is  the  air  we  breathe. 
The  Purple  Island. 


TIMOTHY  FLINT.— 1 

FLINT,  Tdiothy,  an  American  clergy- 
man and  author,  born  at  North  Eeading, 
Mas?.,  in  ITSO  ;  died  at  Salem,  in  IS-iO.  He 
graduated  at  Harvard  in  1800  ;  two  years 
afterwards  he  entered  the  Congregational 
ministry,  and  preached  at  several  places  in 
New  England  until  1815,  when  he  went  to 
the  West  as  a  missionary.  Enfeebled  health 
compelled  him  to  return  to  Massachusetts 
in  1825.  In  1828  he  removed  to  Cincin- 
nati, where  for   three   years  he  edited  the 

Western  Be  view.  He  then  came  to  New 
York,  and  was  for  a  short  time  editor  of 
the  Knickerhocher  Magazine.  He  subse- 
quently made  his  residence  in  Alexandria, 
Virginia,  but  usually  passed  the  summer  in 
New  England.  His  principal  works  are : 
Recollections  of  Ten   Years  passed  in  the 

Valley  of  the  JL's.v'ssljypi  (1826),  Francis 
JBerrian,  a  novel  (1826),  Geography  and 
History  of  the  Western  States  (1828), 
Arthur  Cle7ide7in i ng  {182S),  George  Mason, 
or  the  Backivoodsinan  (1830),  Indian  Wars 
in  the  West  (1383).  Memoirs  of  Daniel 
Boune  (1834).  In  1835  he  contributed  to 
the  London  Afhouimii  a  series  of  papers 
on  American  Literature. 

THE    SHORES    OF    THE    OHIO    IN    1815. 

It  was  now  tlie  middle  of  November.  The 
weather  up  to  this  time  had  been,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  a  couple  of  days  of  fofj  and  rain,  de- 
lightful. The  sky  has  a  milder  and  litrhtcr  azure 
than  that  of  tin;  Nnithcrn  States.  The  wide, 
clean  sand-hars  strotdiiiHi  for  miles  tofjetlier,  and 
now  ami  then  a  flock  of  wild  preese,  swans,  or 
sanddiill  cranes  and  p«'li(;ans,  stalkint;  along  on 
them  ;  the  infinite  varieties  of  form  of  the  tower- 
ing Muffs;  the  new  trihes  of  shruhs  and  plants 
of  the  shores;  the  exuherant  fertility  of  the  soil, 
cvidenoinrj  itself  in  the  natural  as  well  as  culti- 
vated vegetation,  in  the  height  and  size  of  the 
tot 


TIMOTHY  FLINT— :^ 

corn — of  itself  alone  a  matter  of  astonishment  to 
an  inhabitant  of  the  Northern  States — in  the 
thrifty  aspect  of  the  youno-  orchards,  literally 
bendiiio;  under  their  fruit;  the  surprising  size 
and  rankness  of  the  weeds,  and,  in  the  enclosures 
where  cultivation  had  been  for  a  time  suspended, 
the  matted  abundance  of  every  kind  of  vegeta- 
tion that  ensued — all  these  circumstances  united 
to  give  a  novelty  and  freshness  to  the  scenery. 
The  bottom-forests  everywhere  display  the  huge 
sycamore — the  king  of  the  Western  forest — in 
all  places  an  interesting  tree,  but  particularly  so 
here,  and  in  autumn,  when  you  see  its  wliite  and 
long  branches  among  its  red  and  yellow  fading 
leaves.  You  may  add  that  in  all  the  trees  that 
have  been  stripped  of  their  leaves,  you  see  them 
crowned  with  verdant  tufts  of  the  viscus  or  mistle- 
toe, with  its  beautiful  white  berries,  and  their 
trunks  entwined  with  grape-vines,  some  of  them 
in  size  not  much  short  of  the  human  body. 

To  add  to  this  union  of. pleasant  circumstances, 
there  is  a  delightful  temperature  of  the  air,  more 
easily  felt  than  described.  In  New  England, 
where  the  sky  was  partially  covered  with  fleecy 
clouds,  and  the  wind  blew  very  gently  from  the 
southwest,  I  have  sometimes  had  the  same  sensa- 
tions from  the  temperature  there.  A  slight  de- 
gree of  languor  ensues;  and  the  irritability  that 
is  caused  by  the  rougher  and  more  bracing  air  of 
the  North,  and  which  is  more  favorable  to  physi- 
cal strength  and  activity  than  enjoyment,  gives 
place  to  a  tranquillity  highly  propitious  to  medi- 
tation. There  is  sometimes,  too,  in  the  gentle 
and  almost  iTuperceptible  motion,  as  you  sit  on 
the  deck  of  the  boat  and  see  the  trees  apparently 
moving  by  you,  and  new  groups  of  scenery  still 
opening  upon  your  eyes,  together  with  the  view 
of  those  ancient  and  magnificent  forests  which 
the  axe  has  not  yet  despoiled,  the  broad  and 
beautiful  river,  the  earth  and  the  sky,  which  ren- 
der such  a  trip  at  this  season  the  very  element  of 
poetry. — Recollections  of  the  Valley  of  the  Missis- 
sippi. 

ti9 


ADOLF  LUDWIG  FOLLEN.— 1 

FOLLEX,  Adolf  Ludwig,  a  German 
poet,  brother  of  Charles^  Follen,  born  at 
Darmstadt  in  1794;  died  in  1855.  He  was 
educated  at  Giessen,  aud  subsequently  be- 
came tutor  in  a  noble  family.  In  1S14  he 
entered  the  army  as  a  volunteer,  and  served 
in  the  eampaiD:n  against  Napoleon.  He 
then  became  editor  of  a  newspaper  at  Elber- 
feld.  In  1819  he  became  implicated  in 
revolutionary  movements,  and  was  impris- 
oned at  Berlin  until  1821,  when  he  was  lib- 
erated, and  took  up  his  residence  in  Switzer- 
land, where  for  several  years  he  devoted 
himself  to  husbandry.  He  made  excellent 
translations  from  Greek,  Latin,  and  Italian, 
and  wrote  spirited  German  songs.  A  col- 
lection of  his  poems,  Free  Voices  of  Fresh 
Youth,  appeared  in  181'.>.  In  1827  he  put 
i'orth  two  volumes  entitled  B'ddersaal  deut- 
scher  Dichtung. 

bllcher's  ball. 

[Battle  of  the  Katzbaeh,  Aug.  1813] 

By  the  Katzbaeh,  by  tlie   Katzbaeh,  ha !  there 

was  a  merry  danee, 
Wild  and  weird  and  wliirlint;  waltzes  skipped  ye 

through,  ye  knaves  of  France  ! 
For  there  struck  the  bass-viol   an   old  German 

master  famed — 
Marshal  Forward,  Prince  of  Wallstadt,  Gebhardt 

Biucher,  named. 
Up  I    the   Bliichcr   hath  the   ball-room    lighted 

with  tlie  cannon's  glare  I 
Spread    yourselves,   ye    gay  green  carpets,  that 

the  dancing  moistens  there  I 
And  his  fiddle-bf>w  at  fir>t  lie  waxed  with  Gold- 
berg and  with  Jamr; 
Whew  !    lie's  drawn  it  now  full  length,  his  play 

a  stormv  morning  shower  ! 
lla  I  the  dance   went    briskly  onward;  tingling 

madness  seized  them  all, 
III 


CHARLES  FOLLEN.— 1 

As  when  howling  mighty  tempests  on  the  arms 

of  windmills  fall. 
But  the  old  man  wants  it  cheery  ;  wants  a  pleas- 
ant dancinij;  chime ; 
And  with  gun-stocks  clearly,  loudly,  beats  the  old 

Teutonic  time. 
Say,  who,  standing   by  the   old  man,  strikes   so 

hard  the  kettle-drum, 
And  with  crashing  strength   of  arm,  down   lets 

the  thundering  hammer  come  ? 
Gneisenau,    the    gallant    champion :  Allemania's 

envious  foes 
Smites  the  mighty  pair,  her  living  double-eagle, 

shivering  blows. 
And  the  old  man  scrapes  the  "  Svveepout ;"  hap- 
less Franks  and  hapless  trulls  ! 
Now  what  dancers  leads  the  gray-beard  ?     Ila  ! 

ha  !  ha!  'tis  dead  men's  skulls! 
But  as  ye  too  much  were  heated  in  the  sultriness 

of  hell, 
Till  ye   sweated  blood  and  brains,  he  made  the 

Katzbach  cool  ye  well. 
From  the   Katzbach,  while   ye  stiffen,  hear   the 

ancient  proverb  say, 
"  Wanton  varlets,  venal  blockheads,  must  with 

clubs  be  beat  away." 

Translation  of  C.  C.  Felton. 

FOLLEN,  Chaeles,  brother  of  Adolf 
Follen,  a  German-American  clergyman  and 
author,  born  in  Hesse  Darmstadt,  1796;  died 
in  1840.  In  1813  he  entered  the  University 
of  Giessen,  where,  with  other  young  men, 
he  undertook  to  form  a  Burschenschaft 
which  should  embrace  all  students  irrespec- 
tive of  the  particular  German  territory 
whence  they  came.  Soon  after  taking  his 
degree,  in  1818,  as  Doctor  of  Civil  Law,  he 
became  a  lecturer  in  the  University  of  Jena. 
His  acquaintance  with  Sand,  the  assassinator 
of  Kotzebne,  led  to  his  arrest.  He  was 
taken  to  Weimar  and  Mannheim,  examined, 


CHARLES  FOLLEN.— 2 

and  acquitted  ;  but  was  forbidden  to  lecture 
at  Jena ;  and  was  at  leiio'th  forced  to  take 
refuge  in  Switzerland.  In  1S21  he  became 
Professor  of  Law  at  Basel,  but  his  liberal 
sentiments  drew  upon  him  the  disfavor  of 
the  Holy  Alliance.  An  order  for  his  arrest 
had  been  issued  ;  but  he  saved  himself  by 
flight  to  Paris,  and  thence  to  America.  He 
first  formed  a  class  in  Boston  in  civil  law. 
In  1825  he  was  appointed  Tutor  of  German 
at  Harvard  University  ;  in  1S28  Teaclier  of 
Ecclesiastical  History  and  Ethics  in  the 
Cambridge  Divinity  School,  and  in  1830 
Professor  of  Cierman  Literature  at  Harvard. 
He  studied  divinity,  and  in  1830  became 
pastor  of  the  First  Unitarian  Church  in 
New  York.  In  addition  to  his  pastoral 
work,  he  wrote  various  articles  for  the 
Christian  Examiner  and  other  papers,  and 
lectured  on  literature.  In  1839  he  was 
called  to  the  Unitarian  Church  at  East  Lex- 
ington, Mass.,  and  on  the  13th  of  January, 
1840,  set  out  to  attend  the  dedication  of  the 
church  there.  The  steamer  Lexington,  on 
which  he  had  taken  passage,  was  burned, 
and  he  was  among  those  who  perished.  His 
works  include  tSe/-//io/is-,  Lectures-  on  Moral 
I*hilof<(>2>liij,  Sc/ii/lers  LJfe  and  Draituis, 
and  several  essays  on  Psi/chology,  The  Slate 
of  Man,  and  other  subjects. 

TIIK     I'KOVINCE    OK    TIIK      I'S VCMIOI.OCIST. 

It  is  the  prf)virire  of  the  psyolio|o(;ist  to  notice 
the  tnanifold  iin[)r('ssioni*,  rccollfctions,  and  forc- 
bodirifjs ;  the  divers  pen'eplions,  retlcclioiis  and 
iinagininfjR;  tlie  over-vary ini;  inclinatittns,  tempt- 
ations and  stnifjfjles  of  tlie  sr)iil ;  in  sliort,  all 
that  is  stirring,  striving,  and  going  on  within  us; 
and  to  trace  all  to  its  elements,  its  original  con- 
stitution, and  intended  liarmonions  progres- 
sion.    It  is  the  province  of   the  psychologist  to 

lU 


CHARLES  FOLLEN.— 3 

show  how  impressions  c;ill  forth  thoughts,  and  ex- 
cite rival  desires  ;  and  how  tlicse  inward  struggles 
end  in  the  enslavement  or  enfranchisement  of  the 
soul.  It  is  the  high  calling  of  the  observer  of 
the  mind  to  watch  its  progress,  from  the  dawn 
of  intelligence,  the  unfolding  of  the  affections, 
and  the  first  experiments  of  the  will,  through  all 
the  mistakes,  the  selfish  desires,  and  occasional 
deflections  from  duty,  onward  to  the  lofty  dis- 
coveries, the  generous  devotion,  and  moral  con- 
quests of  the  soul.  Psychology  leads  us  to  the 
hidden  sources  of  every  action,  every  science 
and  art,  by  making  us  acquainted  with  the  mo- 
tives which  prompt,  and  the  faculties  which  en- 
able human  beings  to  conceive  of  and  carry  into 
effect  any  practical  and  scientific  or  literary  un- 
dertaking. The  calculation  of  the  orbit  of  a 
comet  is  an  achievement  vvhich,  to  him  who  has 
not  advanced  much  beyond  the  multiplication- 
table,  would  appear  impossible  if  he  were  not 
obliged  to  admit  it  as  a  fact.  Yet  an  accurate 
knowledge  of  the  power  by  which  the  orbits  of 
the  celestial  bodies  are  revealed  to  man,  would 
convince  him,  that  the  same  capacity  which  en- 
ables him  to  cast  his  private  accounts,  is  fitted  to 
ascertain  the  courses  of  the  stars.  A  poetic  com- 
position like  Hamlet  or  the  Midsummer  NiffhCs 
Dream  is  something  so  wholly  beyond  the  ordi- 
nary attainments  of  men  that  the  author  must 
appear  more  than  human,  if  an  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  the  soul  did  not  convince  us,  that  the 
power  which  enables  us  to  understand  and  enjoy 
a  single  line  of  those  compositions,  is  the  same 
that  formed  a  Shakespeare.  And  thus  the  reso- 
lution of  a  child  rather  to  expose  himself  to  pun- 
ishment than  to  tell  a  falsehood,  may  be  shown, 
by  a  strict  psychological  analysis,  to  be  essen- 
tially the  same  that  enables  the  martyr  to  endure 
the  cross  rather  than  deny  his  faith. — Psychology. 


ELIZA  LEE  FOLLEN.— 1 

FOLLEN,  Eliza  Lee  (Cabot),  an 
Americaa  author,  born  in  1787 ;  died  in 
1860.  In  1828  she  married  Charles  Follen. 
After  his  death  in  1840,  she  established  a 
school.  She  was  the  author  of  The  Well- 
spent  Hour  and  Selections  from  Fenelon 
(1828),  Ttie  Skeptic  (1835),  Married  Ufe, 
and  Little  Somjs  and  Poems  (1839),  Twi- 
light Stories,  and  a  second  series  of  Little 
Songs  (1859),  The  Life  of  Charles  Follen, 
and  several  other  works. 

CHARACTERISTICS    OF   CHARLES    FOLLEN. 

From  bis  earliest  youth,  when  but  a  boy  of 
twehe  years  of  age,  he  bad  dwelt  upon  the  idea 
of  a  state  of  suciety,  in  which  every  man, 
through  his  own  free  effort,  should  make  bimself 
a  true  image  of  Jesus  ;  and  bad  tbougbt  that 
thus  the  foundation  would  be  laid  for  a  reforma- 
tion wbicb  should  have  no  Hmit.  All  tyranny 
he  considered  sin.  Every  one,  be  tbougbt,  was 
bound  to  resist  it,  but  first  within  bis  own  breast; 
for  it  was  his  creed  that  no  man  is  a  free  man 
who  is  tbe  slave  of  any  passion  ;  no  man  is  free 
who  fears  death ;  none  but  the  believer  in  im- 
mortality can  be  truly  free After    having 

6ubdue<l  tbe  enemy  witbin,  be  tbougbt  every  one 
bound  to  resist,  as  far  as  be  was  able,  all  unjust 
dominion  wherever  be  encountered  it,  beginning 
in  tbe  circle  in  wbicb  be  bajtpened  to  be  placed, 
and  extending  bis  efforts  as  bis  powers  and  op- 
portunities enlarged.  lie  believed '  that  mueb 
miglit  be  done  for  Germany  by  a  reformation 
founded  on  tbese  principles,  and  c<Mnmericed 
in  tbe  Universities  by  its  bopeful  youtb.  lie 
tbougbt  every  man,  wbo  should  act  from  tliese 
convictions,  would  find  himself  j)ossessed  of  an 
incalculable  power,  and  might  of  bimself  pro- 
duce an  immeasurable  efrect.  He  early  began 
his  practical  illustration  of  bis  theory  by  a  life  of 
purity  and  devotion  to  duly.  lie  became  a 
freeman  according  to  his  own  idea  of  a  freeman, 
It* 


ELIZA  LEE  FOLLEN.— 2 

and  thus  consecrated  himself  to  the  work  of  a 
reformer  by  a  perfect  subjection  of  himself  to 
the  law  of  justice  ami  universal  brotherhood,  as 
taught  by  Jesus 

He  was  exemplary  in  his  devotion  to  study ; 
he  was  pure  and  upright  in  all  actions ;  so  care- 
ful of  the  rights  of  others,  and  so  free  from  all 
blemish  himself,  that  even  the  malicious  and  the 
envious  could  not  fiud  aught  against  him.  lie 
exercised  a  power  that  was  felt  by  all.  lie  had 
perfected  himself  in  all  manly  exercises.  He  was 
a  skilful  gymnast ;  he  was  master  of  the  broad- 
sword, and  a  powerful  swimmer 

He  took  an  active  part  with  other  members  of 
the  Burschenschaft  in  the  formation  and  estab- 
lishment of  a  court  of  honor  among  themselves, 
that  should  be  empowered  to  settle  all  differences 
among  them  according  to  the  rules  of  morality 
and  justice.  This  was  called  the  Ehrensjnegel^ 
or  "Mirror  of  Honor."  Their  decisions  were  to 
be  binding  upon  the  students;  and  thus  they 
hoped  to  check,  not  only  the  bad  practice  of 
duelling,  but  many  other  evils  from  which  they 
suffered.  This  great  idea  of  a  Christian  Brother- 
hood, to  be  first  formed  in  the  Universities,  and 
afterward  to  be  spread  over  all  Germany,  fired  the 
hopeful  and  aspiring  soul  of  Charles  Follen.  He 
met  with  violent  opposition.  He  and  those  who 
were  of  his  opinion,  and  cherished  the  same  pur- 
poses, were  nicknamed  and  insulted  by  the 
Landsmannschaften.  They  were  called  "  Old 
Blacks,"  from  the  color  of  their  academic  coats. 
Great  stories  were  told  of  their  revolutionary 
purposes,  and  at  last  they  were  accused,  to  the 
Rector,  of  treasonable  acts.  The  Rector  was,  in 
consequence,  called  upon  by  his  office  to  make 
an  investigation  into  the  charge  against  some  of 
the  students,  particularly  the  adherents  of  the 
Uhrenspier/el.  As  soon  as  the  accused  ascer- 
tained that  this  was  the  case,  they  made  a  state- 
ment of  facts,  put  all  the  records  of  their  meet- 
ings into  the  hands  of  the  Rector,  and  challenged 
an  investigation  of  all  their  purposes  and  actions, 


ELIZA  LEE  FOLLEN.— 3 

The  trial  and  examination  proved  them  innocent 
of  any  violation  of  the  laws  of  the  land  or  of  the 
University. — Life  of  Charles  Follen. 

EVENING. 

The  sun  is  set,  the  day  is  o'er, 
And  labor's  voice  is  heard  no  more ; 
On  high  the  silver  moon  is  hung; 
The  bu-ds  their  vesper  hymns  have  sung, 
Save  one,  who  oft  breaks  forth  anew, 
To  chant  another  sweet  adieu 
To  all  the  glories  of  the  day, 
And  all  its  pleasures  passed  away. 

Her  twilight  robe  all  nature  wears. 
And  evening  sheds  her  fragrant  tears, 
Which  every  thirsty  plant  receives. 
While  silence  trembles  on  its  leaves  ; 
From  every  tree  and  every  bush 
There  seems  to  breathe  a  soothing  hush, 
While  every  transient  sound  but  shows 
How  deep  and  still  is  the  repose. 

Thus  calm  and  fair  may  all  things  be. 
When  life's  last  sun  has  set  with  me  ; 
And  may  the  lamp  of  memory  shine 
As  sweetly  o'er  my  day's  decline 
As  yon  pale  crescent,  pure  and  fair. 
That  hangs  so  safely  in  the  air, 
And  pours  her  mild,  reflected  light 
To  sooth  and  bless  the  weary  sight. 

And  mav  mv  spirit  often  wake 
Like  thine,  sweet  bird,  and  singing,  take 
Another  farewell  of  the  sun — 
Of  pleasures  past,  of  labors  done. 
See,  where  the  glorious  sun  has  set, 
A  line  of  light  is  hanging  yet; 
Oh,  thus  may  love  awhile  illume 
The  silent  darkness  of  my  tomb ! 
in 


ALBANY  FONBLANQUE.— 1 

FONBLANQUE,  Albany  William,  an 
English  journalist  and  publicist,  born  in 
1707 ;  died  in  1872.  He  was  the  son  of  an 
eminent  lawyer,  and  studied  for  the  bar ; 
but  he  became  a  political  writer  upon  the 
London  Mornivg  Chronicle.  In  1820  he 
succeeded  Leigh  Hunt  as  editor  of  the  Ex- 
amine)'^ which  he  conducted  until  184:6.  In 
1852  he  was  made  Director  of  the  Statisti- 
cal Department  in  the  Board  of  Trade.  In 
1837  he  put  forth,  under  the  title  England 
Under  Seven  Admin  ii<trations^  a  collection, 
in  three  volumes,  of  some  of  his  papers  in 
the  Examiner.  His  nephew,  E.  B.  de  Fon- 
blanque,  published  in  1874  the  Life  and 
Labors  of  his  uncle. 

In  1828  the  Duke  of  Wellington  became 
Prime  Minister.  The  English  newspapers 
were  full  of  the  most  minute  details  of  his 
every-day  habits  and  occupations.  To  ridi- 
cule these  accounts,  and  incidentally  the 
Duke  himself,  Fonblanque  wrote  this  bur- 
lesque : 

DAILY    HABITS    OF    THE    DUKE    OF  WELLINGTON. 

The  Duke  of  Wellington  generally  rises  at 
about  eight.  Before  he  gets  out  of  bed,  he  com- 
monly pulls  oflE  his  nightcap,  and  while  he  is 
dressing  he  sometimes  whistles  a  tune,  and  occa- 
sionally damns  his  valet.  The  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton uses  warm  water  in  shaving,  and  lays  on  a 
greater  quantity  of  lather  than  ordinary  men. 
While  shaving  he  chiefly  breathes  tli rough  his 
nose,  with  a  view,  as  is  conceived,  of  keeping 
the  suds  out  of  his  mouth ;  and  sometimes  he 
blows  out  one  cheek,  sometimes  the  other,  to 
present  a  better  surface  to  the  razor.  When  he 
is  dressed  he  goes  down  to  breakfast,  and  wliile 
descending  the  stairs  he  commonly  takes  occa- 
sion to  blow  his  nose,  which  he  does  rather  rap- 
idly, following  it  up  with  three  hasty  wipes  of 
his  handkerchief,  which  he  instantly  afterwards 


ABLANY  FOXBLAXQUE.— 3 

deposits  in  his  rijxht-liand  coat  pocket.  The 
Duke  of  Wellingtoirs  pockets  are  in  the  skirts 
of  his  coats,  and  the  holes  perpendicular.  He 
wears  false  horizontal  flaps,  which  have  given  the 
world  an  erroneous  opinion  of  their  position. 

The  Duke  of  Wellington  drinks  tea  for  break- 
fast, which  he  sweetens  with  white  sugar  and 
corrects  with  cream.  He  commonly  stirs  the 
fluid  two  or  three  times  with  a  spoon  before  he 
raises  it  to  his  lips.  The  Duke  of  Wellington 
eats  toast  and  butter,  cold  ham,  tongue,  fowls, 
beef,  or  eggs ;  and  sometimes  both  meat  and 
eggs ;  the  eggs  are  generally  those  of  the  com- 
mon domestic  fowl.  During  breakfast  the  Duke 
of  Wellington  has  a  newspaper  either  in  his 
hand,  or  else  on  the  table,  or  in  his  lap.  The 
Duke  of  Wellington's  favorite  paper  is  the  Ex- 
aminer. After  breakfast  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton stretches  himself  out  and  yawns.  He  then 
pokes  the  fire  and  whistles.  If  there  is  no  fire, 
he  goes  to  the  window  and  looks  out. 

At  about  ten  o'clock  the  General  Post  letters 
arrive.  The  Duke  of  Wellington  seldom  or 
never  inspects  the  superscription,  but  at  once 
breaks  the  seal,  and  a|)plios  himself  to  the  con- 
tents. The  Duke  of  Wellington  appears  some- 
times displeased  with  his  correspondents,  and 
s,n\?,  pshaw,  in  a  clear,  loud  voice.  About  this 
time  the  l)uke  of  Wellington  retires  for  a  few 
minutes,  during  which  it  is  impossible  to  account 
for  his  motions  with  the  desiraltle  [)reeision. 

At  eleven  o'clock,  if  the  weather  is  fine,  the 
Duke's  liorse  is  brought  to  the  door.  The 
Duke's  horse  on  these  occasions  is  always  saddled 
and  bridled.  The  Duke's  horse  is  ordinarily  the 
same  white  horse  lie  rode  at  Waterloo,  and  whicli 
was  eaten  by  the  hounds  at  Strathfieldsaye.  His 
hair  is  of  a  chestnut  color.  Before  the  Duke 
goes  out,  lie  has  his  hat  and  gloves  brought  him 
by  a  servant.  The  Duke's  daily  manner  of 
mountlni;  his  horse  is  the  same  that  it  was  on 
the  morning  of  the  glorious  battle  of  Waterloo. 
His  Grjicc  takes  the  rein  in  his  left  haiul,  which 
111 


ALBANY  FONBLANQUE.— 3 

lie  lays  on  tlic  horse's  iiiaiio ;  he  then  puts  his 
left  foot  in  the  stiiriip,  ami  with  a  sprinc;  brings 
his  body  up,  and  his  right  leg  over  the  body  of 
the  animal  by  the  way  of  the  tail,  and  thus 
places  himself  in  the  saddle.  He  then  drops  his 
right  foot  into  the  stirrup,  puts  liis  liorse  to  a 
walk,  and  seldom  falls  off,  being  an  admirable 
equestrian. 

When  acquaintances  and  friends  salute  the 
Duke  in  the  streets,  such  is  his  affability  that  he 
either  bows,  touches  his  hat,  or  recognizes  their 
civility  in  some  way  or  other.  The  Duke  of 
Wellington  very  commonly  says,  "  How  are 
you  ?"  "  It's  a  fine  day  !  "  "  How  do  you  do  ?" 
and  makes  frequent  and  various  remarks  on  the 
weather,  and  the  dust  or  the  mud,  as  it  may  be. 

At  twelve  o'clock  on  Mondays,  Wednesdays, 
and  Fridays,  the  Duke's  Master  comes  to  teach 
him  his  Political  Economy.  The  Duke  makes 
wonderful  progress  in  liis  studies,  and  his  in- 
structor is  used  pleasantly  to  observe  that  "  The 
Duke  gets  on  like  a  house  on  fire." 

At  the  Treasury  the  Duke  of  Wellington  does 
nothing  but  think.  He  sits  on  a  leathern  library 
chair,  with  his  heels  and  a  good  part  of  his  legs 
on  the  table.  When  thus  in  profound  thought 
he  very  frequently  closes  his  eyes  for  hours  to- 
gether, and  makes  an  extraordinary  and  rather 
appalling  noise  through  his  nose.  Such  is  the 
Duke  of  Wellington's  devotion  to  business,  that 
he  eats  no  luncheon. 

In  the  House  of  Lords  the  Duke's  manner  of 
proceeding  is  this :  He  walks  up  to  the  fire- 
place, turns  liis  back  to  it,  separates  the  skirts  of 
liis  coat,  tossing  them  over  the  dexter  and  sinis- 
ter arms,  thrusts  his  hands  in  his  breeches 
pockets,  and  so  stands  at  ease.  The  character- 
istic of  the  Duke's  oratory  is  a  brevity  the  next 
tiling  to  silence.  As  brevity  is  the  soul  of  wit, 
it  may  confidently  be  aflarmed  that  in  this  quality 
Lord  North  and  Sheridan  were  fools  compared 
with  him. —  Under  Seven  Administrations. 

ISO 


ALBANY  FONBLANQUD.— 4 

LEGAL     FICTIONS. 

The  forms  of  our  law  are  of  so  happy  a  nature, 
that  when  they  are  employed  on  the  gravest 
crimes,  they  cause  a  feeling  of  the  ludicrous  to 
spring  up  in  the  minds  of  the  reader.  The  daily 
papers  have  given  an  abstract  of  the  indictment 
against  Corder,  tlie  murderer  of  Maria  Marten, 
which  abstract  occupies  about  three  fourths  of  a 
column  of  small  print ;  and  we  ask  whether  any 
mortal  can  glance  his  eye  over  tliis  article  with- 
out having  his  sentiment  of  horror  at  the  crime 
disturbed  by  a  sense  of  the  ludicrous  absurdity 
of  the  jargon  in  which  it  is  set  forth : 

"  First  Count. — The  jurors  of  our  Lord  the 
King,  upon  their  oath,  present  that  William  Cor- 
der, late  of  the  parish  of  Polstead,  etc.,  Suffolk 
yeoman,  on  the  18th  of  May,  etc.,  with  force  and 
arms,  etc.,  in  and  upon  one  Maria  Marten,  in  the 
fear  of  God,  etc.,  then  and  there  being,  feloniously, 
wilfully,  and  of  his  malice  aforethought,  did 
make  an  assault,  and  that  the  said  William  Cor- 
der, a  certain  pistol  of  2s.  value,  then  and  there 
charged  with  gunpowder  and  one  leaden  bullet 
(which  pistol  he  the  said  William  Corder,  in  his 
right  hand,  then  and  there  liad  and  held)  then  and 
there  feloniously,  wilfully,  and  of  liis  malice  afore- 
thought, did  discharge  and  shoot  off  at,  against, 
and  upon  the  said  Maria  Marten ;  and  the  said 
William  Corder,  with  the  leaden  bullet  aforesaid, 
out  of  the  pistol  aforesaid,  by  the  said  William 
Corder  discharged  and  shot  off,  then  and  there 
feloniously,  wilfully,  etc.,  did  strike,  penetrate, 
and  wound  the  said  Maria  Marten  in  and  upon 
the  left  side  of  the  face  of  her  the  said  Maria 
Marten,  etc.,  giving  her  the  said  Maria  Marten 
one  mortal  wotmd  of  the  depth  of  four  inches, 
and  of  the  breadth  of  half  an  inch,  of  which  said 
mortal  wound  she  the  said  Maria  Marten  then  and 
there  instantlv  died;  and  so  the  jurors  aforesaid, 
upon  their  oaths,  etc.,  do  say,  that  the  said  William 
Corder,  her  the  said  Maria  Marten,  did  kill  and 
murder." 


ALBANY  FONBLANQUE.— 5 

As  it  would  be  impossible  to  proceed  in  the 
investigation  of  truth  without  the  wholesome  aid 
of  a  contradictory  averment  or  a  palpable  lie,  in 
the  next  count  it  is  stated  that  William  Corder 
killed  Maria  Marten  with  a  sword  of  tlie  value 
of  one  shilling.  It  may  be  asked  of  what  im- 
portance is  the  value  of  the  instrument.  The 
answer  is,  that  it  serves  to  hang  a  falsehood  on 
— which  seems  to  be  always  good  in  the  forms 
of  the  law  ;  the  instrument  being  valued  at  a 
worth  obviously  stated  at  random  and  false. 
The  naked  state  of  the  accusation  of  Corder  is 
this : — 

1.  He  killed  one  Maria  Marten  with  a  wound 
from  a  pistol  bullet  on  the  left  side  of  the  face. 
Of  this  wound  she  instantly  died. —  2.  He  killed 
one  Maria  Marten  with  the  blow  of  a  one-shilling 
sword  on  the  left  side  of  the  body,  of  which 
wound  she  instantly  died. — 3.  He  killed  one 
Maria  Marten  with  the  blow  of  a  sword  on  the 
right  side  of  the  face. — 4.  He  killed  one  Maria 
Marten  by  a  blow  on  the  right  side  of  the  neck. 
— 5.  He  killed  one  Maria  Marten  by  strangling 
her  with  a  handkerchief.— 6.  He  killed  one 
Maria  Marten  by  shooting  her  with  a  charge  of 
shot  from  a  gun. — 7.  He  killed  one  Maria  Mar- 
ten by  throwing  her  into  a  hole  and  heaping 
upon  her  five  bushels  of  earth  of  no  value,  and 
five  bushels  of  clay  of  no  value,  and  five  bushels 
of  gravel  of  no  value,  of  all  which  load  of  fifteen 
bushels  of  no  value  she  instantly  died. — 8.  He 
killed  one  Maria  Marten  by  heaping  fifteen 
bushels  of  clay,  gravel,  and  earth,  in  equal 
quantities  and  equal  worthlessness,  upon  her  in 
a  hole  of  a  particular  size. — 9.  He  killed  one 
Maria  Marten  by  stabbing  her  with  a  sharp  in- 
strument, and  also  strangling  her. — 10.  He  killed 
one  Maria  Marten  by  shooting  her  with  a  pistol 
loaded  with  shot,  by  stabbing  her  with  a  sharp 
instrument,  also  a  one-shilling  sword,  by  stran- 
gling her  with  a  handkerchief,  and  throwing  her 
into  a  hole,  and  heaping  earth,  gravel,  and  clay 
on  her. 


ALBANY  FONBLANQUE— 6 

Now  it  is  loathematically  certain,  that  if  Cor- 
der  killed  only  one  Maria  Marten,  and  not  ten 
different  Maria  Martens,  destroyed  by  different 
means,  as  set  forth  in  the  indictment,  nine  dis- 
tinct lies  have  been  averred  respecting  the  cir- 
cumstances. And  it  follows  that  no  less  than 
nine  great  lies,  with  their  accompaniments,  are 
absolutely  necessary  to  the  discovery  of  one 
truth,  and  the  ends  of  justice. 

If  it  had  been  simply  set  forth  that  Corder  had 
killed  Maria  Marten,  the  minds  of  the  jury  would 
surely  have  been  utterly  at  fault,  and  unequal  to 
discover  by  the  examination  of  the  evidence 
whether  he  had  indeed  murdered  the  deceased, 
and  by  what  means.  How  admirably  promotive 
of  the  elucidation  of  the  truth,  and  the  detection 
of  guilt,  is  that  exact  averment  of  the  five  bushels 
of  clay,  the  five  bushels  of  earth,  and  the  five 
bushels  of  gravel  I  And  what  curious  and  pro- 
found effect  there  is  in  the  statement  that  the 
earth,  gravel,  and  clay  were  of  "  no  value  !"  How 
directly  all  these  points  bear  on  the  point  at  issue ! 
And  while  so  much  nicety  is  observed,  how  much 
latitude  is  allowed !  For  example :  exact  in 
statement  as  these  combined  fifteen  bushels 
sound,  the  clerk  of  the  indictment  might  have 
made  Corder  either  destroy  Maria  Marten  in  Pol- 
stead  barn,  with  as  much  soil  as  would  make  a  new 
world ;  or  he  might  have  made  him  smother  her 
by  Hinging  on  her  half  a  peck  of  mould. 

Provided  only  a  lie  be  told,  English  justice  is 
satisfied.  The  effect  of  the  lie  is  indifferent;  all 
that  is  wanted  is  the  customary  and  comforting 
example  of  falsehood.  Whether  you  use  a  moun- 
tain ov  a  molehill  in  an  indictment  for  murder  is 
indifferent,  provided  you  give  it  the  necessary 
character  of  a  lie.  For  example:  to  have  said 
that  Corder  killed  Maria  Marten  by  heaping 
earth  upon  her,  might  have  been  true;  but  the 
exactness  of  stating  that  he  killed  lier  with  five 
bushels  of  earth,  five  of  clay,  and  five  of  gravel, 
produces  the  desirable  certainty  of  falsehood. 

If  falsehood  wore  supposed  to  be  an  exhaust- 
ible body,  nothing  could  be  conceived  uioro 
m 


ALBANY  FONBLANQUE.— 7 

politic  than  the  system  of  English  law,  which 
would  in  this  case  expend  so  many  lies  on  its 
own  forms  and  proceedings,  as  to  leave  none  for 
the  use  of  rogues  in  evidence.  But  unfortunately 
such  is  not  the  moral  philosophy,  and  the  witness 
who  goes  into  one  of  our  courts,  the  vital  atmo- 
sphere of  which  is  charged  with  fiction,  is  too 
likely  to  have  his  inward  and  latent  mendacity 
provoked  by  the  example,  lie  sees  in  the  re- 
puted sacred  forms  of  justice,  that  the  falsehood 
which  is  accounted  convenient  is  not  esteemed 
shameful ;  and  why,  he  considers,  may  not  the 
individual  man  have  his  politic  fictions  as  well  as 
that  abstraction  of  all  possible  human  excellence, 
Justice.  The  end  sanctions  the  means.  We 
cannot  touch  pitch  without  defilement;  and  it  is 
impossible  that  a  people  can  be  familiarized  with 
falsehood,  and  reconciled  to  it  on  pretense  of 
its  utility,  without  detriment  to  their  morals. — 
Under  Seven  Administnttions. 

THE  IRISH  church:   1835. 

The  last  attention  to  a  feasted  Esquimau  who 
can  swallow  no  more,  is  to  lay  him  on  his  back, 
and  to  coil  a  long  strip  of  blubber  into  his  mouth 
till  it  is  quite  filled ;  and  then  to  cut  off  the 
superfluous  fat  close  to  his  lips.  With  this  full 
measure  the  Esquimau  is  content;  for  he  is  not 
an  Ecclesiastical  Body,  and  his  friends  do  not 
cry  out  that  he  is  starved  because  the  surplus 
blubber  is  cut  off,  and  ap[)ropriated  to  some 
empty  stomach.  The  case  of  the  Esquimau  is 
the  case  of  the  Irish  Church.  It  lies  supine,  full 
of  fat  things,  and  there  is  a  superfluity  which  the 
Ministry  is  for  cutting  off  smooth  to  the  lips ; 
but  its  champions  raise  a  cry  of  spoliation  and 
famine. 

The  question  at  present  [1835]  in  debate  is 
simply  whether  Lazarus  shall  have  the  crumbs 
which  fall  from  the  table  of  established  Dives. 
It  is  merely  a  question  of  the  shaking  of  the 
table-cloth.  No  one  proposes  to  give  away  a 
dish  or  a  seat,  but  only  just  to  allow  morality  the 
benefit  of  the  broken  bread.     Dives  pronounces 

1»4 


ALBANY  FOXBLAN'QUE.— 8 

this  flat  robbery  ;  says  that  he  has  a  loan  for 
every  morsel ;  and  that  if  a  crumb  of  his  abund- 
ance be  abridged,  he  shall  be  brought  to  beg- 
gary. And  here  we  may  observe,  by-the-by, 
that  future  etymologists,  noting  how  our  Digni- 
taries of  the  Church  cling  to  riches,  and  delight 
in  purple  and  fine  linen,  may  easily  fall  into  the 
blunder  of  supposing  that  Divines  derived  their 
name  from  Dives,  and  were  the  elect  representa- 
tives of  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  riches. 

The  sinecure  cliaracter  of  the  Irish  Establish- 
ment, and  its  gilding,  have  a  kind  of  consistency, 
looking  upon  it  as  a  sign — a  sign  of  ascendancy. 
As  we  pass  along  the  streets  we  see  signs  of 
Golden  Boots  and  Golden  Canisters,  and  such 
like,  and  they  are  always  of  a  huge  size,  and 
serving  no  purpose  of  boot  or  canister,  or  what- 
ever they  represent ;  and  so  it  is  with  a  Golden 
Priesthood.  It  stands  out  as  a  sign,  but  fulfils 
no  purpose  of  the  thing  it  represents.  The 
Irish,  who  only  see  in  it  the  sign  of  their  yoke, 
have  to  pay  extravagantly  for  the  gilding ;  and 
this  is  the  hardship. 

"What  is  proposed  for  the  abatement  of  this 
huge  abuse  ?  What  is  resisted  as  robbery,  sacri- 
lege, and  so  forth  ?  A  measure  carrying  the 
principle  of  justice  feather-weight,  and  no  more. 
The  Virginius  of  Sheridan  Knowles  hears  "a 
voice  so  fine,  that  nothing  lives  'twixt  it  and 
silence."  This  is  a  reform  so  fine,  that  nothing 
lives  'twixt  it  and  abuse.  Yet,  fine  as  it  is,  small 
as  it  is,  it  is  consecrated  by  the  spirit  of  justice, 
and  is  as  acceptable  to  the  long-oppressed  people 
of  Ireland  as  drops  of  water  are  to  the  parched 
wretch  in  the  desert.  The  fault  of  the  pending 
Bill  is  on  the  side  of  incfticiency ;  it  deals  too 
tenderly  with  the  abuse.  But  its  moderation 
has  certainly  served  the  more  strongly  to  expose 
the  obstinate  injustice  of  its  opponents.  It  lias 
been  made  manifest  that  men  who  oppose  a 
gentle  palliative  like  this,  are  wilfully  resolved  to 
resist  any  measure  having  in  it  one  particle  of 
the  substanrc  or  spirit  of  Ileform. —  Under  Seven 
Administrations. 


FONTENELLE.— 1 

FONTENELLE,  Beknakd  le  Bovier  de, 
a  French  author,  born  in  1057  ;  died  in  1757. 
His  father  was  an  advocate  of  Kouen,  his 
mother  a  sister  of  Pierre  and  Thomas  Cor- 
neille.  He  was  educated  at  tlie  College  of 
the  Jesuits  at  Ilouen,  and  studied  law, 
which  he  abandoned  on  losing  his  first  case. 
He  then  devoted  himself  to  poetry.  His 
tragedy,  Asper  (1080),  was  a  failure,  the 
more  mortifying  because  it  had  been  highly 
praised  by  Thomas  Corneille.  Of  his  other 
dramatic  works :  Psyche,  Bellerojphon,  Eii- 
dymlon,  Thetis  and  Peleus,  Lavinia,  Bru- 
tus, Idalle,  not  one  have  kept  the  stage. 
His  lirst  literary  success  was  the  Dialogues 
des  Morts,  published  in  1683.  The  En- 
tretiens  sur  la  Pluralite  des  Moiides  (1686), 
written  for  the  purpose  of  setting  forth  at- 
tractively Decai'tes's  theory  of  vortices,  en- 
hanced his  reputation.  In  1687  Fontenelle 
removed  to  Paris,  and  published  P  Jlistoire 
des  Oracles^  a  translation  and  abridgment  of 
the  Latin  of  the  Hollander,  Dale.  This 
work  which  takes  the  ground  that  oracles 
were  not  inspired  by  demons,  and  that  they 
did  not  cease  at  the  birth  of  Christ,  was 
attacked  by  the  Jesuit  Battus,  who  main- 
tained the  contrary.  Fontenelle  left  his 
critic  in  possession  of  the  field.  "  All 
quarrels  displease  me,"  he  wrote  to  his  friend 
Leclerc.  "  I  would  rather  the  devil  had  been 
the  prophet,  since  the  Jesuit  father  will  have 
it  so,  and  since  he  thinks  that  more  ortho- 
dox." The  controversy  in  regard  to  the 
respective  merits  of  ancient  and  modern 
writers  was  then  raging,  and  Fontenelle  took 
the  modern  side  in  a  Digression  sur  les 
Anciens  et  les  Modem'^s  (1688.)  In  the 
same  year  appeared  his  Poesies  Pastorales, 
ftnd  shortly   afterward    his  Doutes   sur  le 


FONTENELLE.— 2 

Systeme  Physique  des  Causes  Occasion^ 
nelles,  in  opposition  to  Malebranclie.  Racine 
and  Boileau.  who  had  always  disliked  Fon- 
tenelle,  had  four  times  succeeded  in  securing 
his  rejection  from  the  French  Academy. 
In  1G91  he  was  admitted,  notwithstanding 
their  eiforts  against  hnn.  He  afterwards 
became  a  member  of  the  Academy  of  In- 
scriptions and  the  Academy  of  Sciences,  In 
1699  he  was  nominated  Perpetual  Secretary 
of  the  latter  body,  and  held  the  office  for 
forty-two  years.  His  lllstoire  de  VAca- 
daiiie  de8  Sciences  (1696-1699),  and  his 
hhjges  des  Acadcmiciens  (1708-1719),  are 
distin":uished  for  the  beanty  of  their  style. 
The  KIngrs  contain  his  best  work.  He  was 
famous  for  the  cliarm  of  his  conversation  as 
well  as  of  his  writings.  He  has  been  accused 
of  heartlessuess.  It  is  said  that  he  neither 
laughed  nor  wept.  His  two  mottoes, 
"Everything  is  possible,"  and  "Everybody 
is  right,"  may  at  once  account  for  his  nu- 
merous friends,  and  for  the  lack  of  true  feel- 
ing in  his  poems.  His  last  words  when 
dying  were,  "I  do  nut  suffer,  my  friends; 
but  I  feel  a  sort  of  ditRculty  in  living." 

COXCERNIXO    THE    WOULD    IN    THE    MOON. 

The  Marchioness  was  so  intent  upon  lier  no- 
tions, tliat  she  would  faui  liavo  cnt^aged  me  next 
dav  to  proceed  where  I  left  off ;  bul  I  told  lier, 
since  the  moon  and  stars  were  become  tlie  sub- 
ject of  our  discourse,  we  should  trust  our  chimeras 
with  nobody  else.  At  night,  therefore,  we  went 
ajjain  into  tlie  park,  wliicli  was  now  wholly 
dedicated  to  our  learned  conversation, 

"  Well,  Madame,"  said  I,  "  I  have  fjreat  news 
for  you  ;  that  wliirh  I  told  you  last  niylit,  of  the 
moon  hein^  iidiabitcd,  may  l)c  otherwise  now; 
tli'ic  is  a  new  faney  t;ot  into  my  head,  wiiich 
puts  those  [)e<>ple  in  great  danger." 


FONTENELLE.— 3 

"I  cannot,"  said  licr  ladyship,  "suffer  such 
whims  to  take  place.  Yesterday  you  were  pre- 
paring me  to  receive  a  visit  from  the  Lunarians, 
and  now  you  would  insinuate  there  are  no  such 
folks.  You  must  not  tritle  with  me  thus:  once 
you  would  have  me  believe  the  moon  was  inhab- 
ited ;  I  surmounted  that  dithculty,  and  do  now 
believe  it." 

"You  are  a  little  too  nimble,"  replied  I;  "  did 
not  I  advise  you  never  to  be  entirely  convinced 
of  thing's  of  this  nature,  but  to  reserve  lialf  of 
your  understanding  free  and  disengaged,  that  you 
might  admit  of  a  contrary  opinion,  if  there  should 
be  occasion  ?" 

"  I  care  not  for  your  suppositions,"  said  she, 
"  let  us  come  to  inatters  of  fact.  Are  we  not  to 
consider  the  moon  as  St.  Denis?" 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  the  moon  does  not  so  much 
resemble  the  earth  as  St.  Denis  does  Paris:  the 
sun  draws  vapors  from  the  earth,  and  exhalations 
from  the  water,  which,  mounting  to  a  certain 
height  in  the  air,  do  there  assemble  and  form  the 
clouds;  these  uncertain  clouds  are  driven  irregu- 
larly^  round  the  globe,  sometimes  shadowing  one 
country  and  sometimes  another ;  he,  then,  who 
beholds  the  earth  from  afar  off,  will  see  frequent 
alterations  upon  its  surface,  because  a  great 
country,  overcast  with  clouds,  will  appear  dark 
or  light,  as  the  clouds  stay,  or  pass  over  it;  he 
will  see  the  spots  on  the  earth  often  change  their 
place,  and  appear  or  disappear  as  the  clouds 
remove,  but  we  see  none  of  these  changes 
wrought  upon  the  moon,  which  would  certainly 
be  the  case, -w-ere  there  but  clouds  about  her; 
yet,  on  the  contrary,  all  her  spots  are  fixed  and 
certain,  and  her  light  parts  continue  where  they 
were  at  first,  which  indeed  is  a  great  misfortune ; 
for  bv  this  reason  the  sun  draws  no  exhalations 
or  vapors  above  the  moon  ;  so  that  it  appears  she 
is  a  body  infinitely  more  hard  and  solid  than  the 
earth,  whose  subtle  parts  are  easily  separated  from 
the  rest,  and  mount  upward  as  soon  as  lieat  puts 
them  in  motion  ;  but  it  must  be  a  heap  of  rock 


F0NTENELLE.-4 

and  marble,  where  there  is  no  evaporation ;  be- 
sides, exhalations  are  so  natural  and  necessary 
where  there  is  water,  that  there  can  be  no  water 
at  all  where  there  is  no  exhalation.  And  what 
sort  of  inhabitants  must  those  be  whose  coun- 
try affords  no  water,  is  aU  rook,  and  produces 
nothing  ? " 

*'  This  is  very  fine,"  said  the  Marchioness ; 
«'  vou  have  forgot,  since  you  assured  me  we  might 
from  hence  distinguish  seas  in  the  moon.  Pray, 
what  is  become  of  your  Caspian  Sea  and  your 
Black  Lake  ? " 

"  All  conjecture,  Madame,"  replied  I,  "though 
for  vour  ladyship's  sake,  I  am  very  sorry  for  it; 
for  those  dark  places  we  took  to  be  seas  may 
perhaps  be  nothing  but  large  cavities ;  it  is  hard 
to  guess  right  at  so  great  a  distance." 

"But  will  this  suffice,  then,"  said  she,  "  to  ex- 
tirpate the  people  in  the  moon?" 

"  Not  altogether,"  replied  I;  "  we  will  neither 
determine  for  nor  against  them." 

"  I  must  own  my  weakness,  if  it  be  one,"  said 
she.  "  I  cannot  be  so  perfectly  undetermined  as 
you  would  have  me  to  be,  but  must  believe  one 
way  or  another ;  therefore,  pray  fix  me  quickly 
in  my  opinion  as  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  moon : 
preserve  or  annihilate  them,  as  you  please;  and 
yet  methinks  1  have  a  strange  inclination  for 
iheni,  and  would  not  have  them  destroyed,  if  it 
were  possible  to  save  them." 

"  You  know,"  said  I, "  Madame,  I  can  deny  you 
nothing;  the  moon  shall  be  no  longer  a  desert; 
to  do  you  a  service  we  will  repeople  her.  Since 
to  all  appearance  the  spots  on  the  moon  do  not 
change,  I  cannot  conceive  there  arc  any  clouds 
about  her  that  sometinies  ol)Scurc  one  part,  and 
sometimes  another;  yet  this  does  not  hinder  but 
that  the  moon  sends  forth  exhalations  and 
vapors.  It  may  so  happen  that  the  vapors  which 
i.ssue  from  the  moon  may  not  assemble  round  her 
in  clDuds,  and  may  imt  fall  back  again  in  rain 
but  only  in  dews.  It  is  sutticient  for  this  that  the 
m 


FONTENELLE.— 5 

air  will)  wliich  the  iiiooii  is  surrouiHlcd — for  it  is 
certain  she  is  so  as  well  as  tho  earth — should 
somewhat  vary  from  mir  air,  and  the  va[)(>rs  of 
the  moon  he  a  little  diH\'reiit  from  those  of  tlie 
earth,  which  is  very  probable.  Hereupon  the 
matter  being  otherwise  disposed  in  the  moon 
than  on  the  earth,  the  etfeets  must  be  different; 
though  it  is  of  nogreat  consequence  whether  they 
are  or  no;  for  from  the  moment  we  have  found 
an  inward  motion  in  the  parts  of  the  rnoon,  or 
one  produced  by  foreign  causes,  here  is  enough 
for  the  new  birth  of  its  inhabitants,  and  a  suf- 
ficient and  necessary  fund  for  their  subsistence. 
This  will  furnish  us  with  corn,  fruit,  water,  and 
what  else  we  {)lease ;  I  mean  according  to  the 
custom  or  maimer  of  the  moon,  which  1  do  not 
pretend  to  know  ;  and  all  pro[)ortional  to  the 
wants  and  uses  of  the  inhabitants,  with  whom  I 
own  I  am  as  little  acquainted." 

"  That  is  to  say,"  replied  the  Marchioness, 
"3'ou  know  all  is  very  well,  without  knowing 
how  it  is  so  ;  wliich  is  a  great  deal  of  ignorance, 
founded  upon  a  veiy  little  knowledge.  However, 
I  comfort  myself  that  you  have  restored  to  the 
moon  her  inhabitants  again,  and  have  enveloped 
her  in  an  air  of  her  own,  without  which  a  planet 
would  seem  to  me  very  naked." 

"  It  is  these  two  different  airs,  Madame,  that 
hinder  the  communication  of  the  two  planets;  if 
it  was  only  flying,  as  I  told  you  yesterday,  who 
knows  but  we  might  improve  it  to  perfection, 
though  I  confess  there  is  but  little  hope  of  it ;  the 
great  distance  between  the  moon  and  the  earth  is 
a  difiiiMilty  not  easy  to  be  surmounted;  yet  were 
the  distance  but  inconsiderable,  and  the  two 
planets  almost  contiguous,  it  would  still  be  im- 
possible to  pass  from  the  air  of  tlie  one  into  the 
air  of  the  other.  The  water  is  the  air  of  fislits. 
They  never  pass  into  the  air  of  the  birds,  nor  the 
birds  into  the  air  of  the  fishes;  and  yet  it  is  not 
the  distance  that  liinders  them,  but  both  are  im- 
prisoned by  the  air  they  breathe  in.     We  find 

130 


F0NTENELLE.-6 

our  air  consists  of  thicker  and  gTosser  vapors 
than  the  air  of  the  moon  ;  so  that  one  of  her 
inhabitants  arriving  at  the  confines  of  our  world, 
as  soon  as  he  enters  our  air,  will  inevitably 
drown  himself,  and  we  shall  see  him  fall  dead 
on  the  earth." 

"  I  should  rejoice,"  said  the  Marchioness, 
"  to  see  the  wreck  of  a  good  number  of  these  lunar 
people;  how  pleasant  would  it  be  to  behold  them 
lie  scattered  on  the  ground,  where  we  might  con- 
sider at  our  ease  their  extraordinary  and  curious 
figures  I" 

"But,"  replied  T,  "  suppose  they  could  swim 
on  the  surface  of  our  air,  and  be  as  curious  to 
see  us,  as  you  are  to  see  them  ;  should  they 
angle  or  cast  a  net  for  us,  as  for  so  many  fisli, 
would  that  please  you?" 

'•Why  not? "said  she,  smiling;  "for  my  part, 
1  v.ould  go  into  their  nets  of  my  own  accord  were 
it  but  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  such  strange 
fishermen." 

"  Consider,  Madame,  you  would  be  very  sick 
when  you  were  drawn  to  the  top  of  our  air,  for 
there  is  no  respiration  in  its  whole  extent,  as  may 
be  seen  on  the  tops  of  some  very  liigh  moun- 
tains. Here,  tlien,  are  natural  barricades,  which 
defend  the  passage  out  of  our  world,  as  well 
as  the  entry  into  that  of  the  moon  ;  so  that, 
since  we  can  only  guess  at  that  world,  let  us 
fancy  all  we  can  of  it." — Convermtions  on  the 
Plurality  of  Worlds. 

131 


WILFRID  De  FONVIELLE.— 1 

FONVIKLLE,  Wilfrid  de.  a  French 
Jiuthor  boi-ii  in  \*m-\s  in  1828.  He  was  iirst 
a  teacher  of  inatheniatics,  then  a  journalist, 
and  a  writer  on  scientific. subjects.  Among 
his  works  are:  L  Homme  Fossil  (18G5),  Z(?s 
Merveilles  du  Monde  Invisible  (186G), 
Eclairs  et  Tonnerres^  translated  into  English 
under  the  title  of  Thunder  and  Ligldning 
(18G7),  JJ Asti'onomie  Moderne  (1868),  and 
Comment  se  font  des  Miracles  en  dehors 
VEglise  in  which  he  reviews,  from  the 
common-sense  point  of  view  the  pretensions 
of  the  spiritualistic  mediums,  (1879.)  He 
made  several  balloon  ascents,  and  when 
Paris  was  besieged,  escaped  from  the  city 
in  a  balloon  and  w^ent  to  London,  where  he 
set  forth  the  benehts  which  has  been  con- 
ferred upon  the  government  by  balloons. 
An  account  of  his  ascents,  published  in 
1870,  has  been  translated  into  English  under 
the  title  of  Travels  in  the  Air. 

TERRESTRIAL     WATERSPOUTS. 

When  a  cloud  is  thick  enough,  tenacious 
enough,  and,  perliaps,  when  the  air  is  sufiiciently 
charged  with  moisture,  the  electric  matter  draws 
it  towards  the  earth.  It  is  no  longer  then  a  simple 
fulminating  globe  wliich  precipitates  itself  with 
impetuosity  towards  us ;  it  is  a  threatening  col- 
umn which  descends  from  the  skies.  Sometimes 
this  column  progresses  so  slowly  that  a  man  can 
follow  it  on  foot.  But  one  must  possess,  it  will 
be  readily  admitted,  almost  superhuman  courage 
not  to  fly  at  once  in  an  opposite  direction.  For 
these  meteors  sometimes  break  their  connection 
with  the  earth,  and  the  most  frightful  and  incred- 
ible effects  are  the  result.  For  instance,  M.  de 
Gasparin  tells  us  that  the  waterspout  of  Cour- 
tizou  overturned  one  of  the  walls  of  Orange. 
The  extremity  of  this  column  of  vapor  having 
commenced  whirling  around  like  a  sling  hanging 
from  the  clouds,  caused  a  breach  in  the  mass  of 

131 


WlLFtllt)  De  F0NVIELLE.-2 

masonry,  the  opening  of  which  was  thirty-nine 
feet  Ions:,  sixteen  feet  high,  and  four  feet  widci 
This  species  of  bastard  liglitning  tore  up  in  an 
instant  a  mass  of  matter  weighing  at  least  200 
tons 

It  appears  difficult  to  conceive  a  storm  more 
favorable  for  observing  the  formation  of  these 
meteors  than  the  frightful  waterspout  of  Malau- 
nay.  Effectively,  in  the  early  part  of  the  day, 
two  storm-clouds  approached,  driven  violently 
one  towards  the  other  by  contrary  currents» 
These  two  masses  being  charged  with  the  same 
kind  of  electricity,  doubtless  positive  electricity, 
could  not  amalgamate  into  one  cloud,  nor  could 
they  discharge  each  other  by  giving  birth  to  a 
brilliant  flash  of  lightning.  The  higher  storm- 
cloud,  which  appeared  the  stronger  of  the  two, 
mnnaged,  though  not  without  difficulty,  to  push 
down  the  lower  cloud.  Who  knows  but  that  this 
happened  by  the  intervention  of  the  earth  which, 
being  powerfully  electro-negative,  attracted  the 
vapor  charged  with  positive  electricity?  As  soon 
as  the  horn,  pulled  from  the  vanquished  cloud, 
liad  approached  to  within  a  few  yards  of  the 
earth,  its  fire  was  seen  to  flow  from  it  like  a 
stream  which  had  just  found  an  issue,  for  the 
point  of  the  horn  was  perfectly  incandescent. 
The  tail  of  a  waterspout  is  almost  always  seen  to 
be  luminous  when  it  approaches  the  ground  with- 
out coming  in  contact  with  it;  so  powerful  is  the 
effect  of  the  fluid  which  passes  from  the  summit 
of  the  cone. 

Sometimes  the  electric  tube  rises  from  the 
earth  ;  in  this  case  it  is  not  watery  vapor  which 
forms  the  threatening  horn,  but  whirlwinds  of 
dust  which  rise  towards  the  clouds  with  a  frightful 
gyratory  motion. —  Thunder  and  Lightniiii/. 
iw 


MARY   IIALLOCK  FOOTE.— 1 

FOOTE,  Mary  (Hallock),  an  American 
artist  and  novelist,  born  in  New  York  in 
1S4T.  She  studied  art  at  the  School  of 
Desii^n  fur  Women  in  New  York,  and  be- 
came an  illustrator  for  several  magazines. 
She  soon  began  to  write  short  stories, 
illustrating  them  with  her  own  drawings. 
Among  them  are  Friend  Barton  s  Concern 
and  A  Stonj  of  a  Dry  Season.  In  1882  she 
]>ublished  77ie  Led-Horm  Claim,  and  in 
1SS5  JoJtn  Bodewin^s  Testimony,  novels  of 
mining  life. 

COMING    INTO    CAMP. 

Mr.  Ncwbold  and  liis  daughter  rode  back  to 
the  camp  in  the  splendor  of  a  sunset  that  loomed 
red  behind  the  skeleton  pines.  Josephine  let  her 
horse  take  his  own  way  down  the  wagon-track, 
while  she  Avatched  its  dying  elianges.  But  she 
hist  the  last  tints  in  her  preoccupation  with  the 
dust  and  the  sti'ange  meetings  and  partings  on 
the  broad  and  level  road  by  which  they  ap- 
proached the  town.  That  quickening  of  the  pulse 
which  makes  itself  felt  in  every  human  commu- 
nity as  day  draws  to  a  close  had  intensified  the 
life  of  the  camp.  The  sound  of  its  voices  and 
footsteps,  the  smoke  of  its  fires,  rose  in  the  still, 
cool  air. 

Cradled  between  two  ranges  of  the  mother 
mountains  of  the  continent,  the  little  colony 
could  hardly  have  been  more  inland  in  its  situa- 
tion ;  it  had,  nevertheless,  in  many  respects  the 
characteristics  of  a  seaport.  It  owed  its  existence 
to  hazardous  ventures  from  a  distance.  Its  shops 
were  filled,  not  with  the  fruits  of  its  soil  or  the 
labor  of  its  liands,  but  with  cargoes  thiit  had 
lieen  rocked  in  the  four-wheeled  merchantmen  of 
the  plains.  Bronzed-faced,  hairy -throated  men 
occupied  more  than  their  share  of  its  sidewalks, 
spending  carelessly  in  a  few  days  and  nights  the 
price  of  months  of  hardship  and  isolation.  Its 
hopes  and  its  capital  were  largely  bound  up  in  the 
fate  of  adventurers  into   that   unpeopled    land 

134 


MARY  H ALLEGE  FOOTE— 2 

which  has  no  history  except  the  records  written 
in  fire,  in  ice,  and  in  water,  on  its  rocks  and  river- 
beds ;  the  voyao-e  across  that  inland  sea  where 
the  smoke  of  lonely  camp-fires  goes  up  from 
wagon-roads  that  were  once  hunter-trails,  and 
trails  that  were  once  the  tracks  of  buffalo.  There 
were  men  seen  at  intervals  of  many  months  in 
its  streets,  whom  the  desert  and  the  mountains 
called,  as  the  sea  calls  the  men  of  the  coast 
towns.     It  was  a  port  of  the  wilderness. 

The  arrivals  due  tliat  Saturday  night  were 
seeking  their  dusty  moorings.  Heavily  loaded 
freighters  were  lurching  in,  every  mule  straining 
in  his  collar,  every  trace  taut  and  quivering. 
Express  wagons  of  lighter  tonnage  took  the  dust 
of  the  freighters,  until  the  width  of  the  road 
gave  their  square-trotting  draught-horses  a 
chance  to  swing  out  and  pass.  In  and  out 
among  the  craft  of  heavier  burden,  shuffled  the 
small,  tough  bronchos.  Their  riders  were  for 
the  most  part  light-built  like  their  horses,  with  a 
bearing  at  once  alert  and  impassive.  Tliey  were 
young  men,  notwithstanding  the  prevailing  look 
of  care  and  stolid  endurance,  due  in  some  cases, 
possibly,  to  the  dust-laden  hollows  under  the  sun- 
wearied  eyes,  and  to  that  haggardness  of  aspect 
which  goes  with  a  beard  of  a  week's  growth,  a 
flannel  shirt  loosely  buttoned  about  a  sunburned 
throat,  and  a  temporary  estrangement  from  soap 
and  water.  These  were  the  doughty  privateers- 
men,  returning  witli  a  convoy  of  pack-animals 
from  the  valley  of  the  Gunnison  or  the  Clear- 
water, or  tlie  tragic  hunting-grounds  of  the  In- 
dian Reservation.  Taking  the  footpath  way  be- 
side liis  loaded  donkey  trudged  the  humble 
"grub-stake,"  or  the  haggard-eyed  cliarcoal- 
burner  from  liis  smoking  caii)[)  in  the  nearest 
timber;  while  far  u])  on  the  mountain,  distinct  in 
the  reflected  glow  of  sunset,  a  puff  of  white  dust 
appeared  from  moment  to  moment,  f<tllowingthc 
curves  of  the  road,  where  the  {)assenger-i'oac]i 
was  making  its  be^it  s[»ccrl,  with  brakes  hard 
down,  on  the  home  gradi-  from  the  summit  of 
the  pass. — John  B'jddw'iHS  Tcsliiaoni/. 


SAMUEL  FOOTE.— 1 

FOOTE,  Samuel,  an  English  comic  actor 
and  luiinorist,  born  in  1720;  died  in  1777. 
He  studied  for  a  while  at  Worcester  College, 
Oxford,  but  was  obliged  to  leave  at  the  age 
of  twenty.  He  afterwards  began  the  study 
of  law  ;  but  in  consequence  of  his  dissolute 
habits  soon  lost  two  fortunes,  one  of  which 
he  inherited  from  his  uncle,  the  other  from 
his  father.  In  1744  he  betook  himself  to 
the  stage,  attempting  both  tragedy  and 
comedv  with  slight  success.  But  his  talent 
for  imitation  came  to  his  aid.  In  1747  he 
opened  the  Haymarket  Theatre  with  a  piece 
called  The  I)'iversio7is  of  the  Morning^ 
written  by  himself,  and  in  which  he  was  the 
principal  actor.  This  was  followed  by 
Mr.  Foote  taking  Tea  with  his  Friends, 
The  Auction  of  Pictures,  and  other  pieces, 
all  of  which  were  successful,  the  main 
reason  for  their  success  being  Foote's  exag- 
gerated mimicry  of  any  person  of  note  whose 
appearance  or  manner  was  capable  of  being 
caricatured.  For  ten  years  he  kept  the 
theatre  open,  ehiding  all  attempts  of  the 
dramatic?  licensers  to  close  it.  In  1767  a  fall 
from  his  horse  rendered  necessary  the  am- 
putation of  one  of  his  legs.  The  Duke 
of  York,  who  witnessed  the  accident,  pro- 
cured for  him  a  regular  patent  to  open  a 
theatre.  This  he  carried  on  for  ten  years, 
mainly  producing  his  own  pieces.  During 
this  period  he  n)ade  another  fortune  which 
he  contrived  to  squander.  In  1777,  broken 
in  health,  he  set  out  upon  a  journey  to 
France,  but  died  before  he  had  left  the 
shores  of  England.  Foote  produced  in  all 
about  25  dramatic  pieces,  and  several  others 
have  been  attributed  to  him.  The  best  of 
these  are :  The  Minor^  satirizing  the 
Methodists  (17G0),  The  Mayor  of  Garratt 


SAMUEL  FOOTE.— 2 

(1Y63),  The  Devil  upon  Tioo  Sticks  (1Y68), 
The  Lame  Lover  (1770),  The  Nahoh  (17^2), 
and  The  Bankrupt  (1773).  A  selection 
from  the  plays  of  Foote,  with  an  entertain- 
ing Memoir,  by  "William  Cooke,  in  three 
volumes,  was  published  in  1805. 

CHARLOTTE,    SERJEANT     CIRCTIT,    AND     SIR     LUKE 
LIMP. 

Char. — Sir,  I  have  other  proofs  of  our  hero's 
vanity  not  inferior  to  that  I  have  mentioned. 

Serj. — Cite  them. 

Char. — The  paltry  ambition  of  levying  and 
following  titles. 

Serj. — Titles !     I  don't  understand  you. 

Char. — I  mean  the  poverty  of  fastening  in 
public  upon  men  of  distinction,  for  no  other  rea- 
son but  because  of  their  rank ;  adhering  to  Sir 
John  till  the  baronet  is  superseded  by  my  lord ; 
quitting  the  puny  peer  for  an  earl ;  and  sacrificing 
all  three  to  a  duke. 

Serj. — Keeping  good  company  ! — a  laudable 
ambition  ! 

Char. — True,  sir,  if  the  virtues  that  procured 
the  father  a  peerage  could  with  that  be  entailed 
on  the  son. 

Serj. — Have  a  care,  hussy ;  there  are  severe 
laws  against  speaking  evil  of  dignities. 

C'Affr.— Sir ! 

Serj. — Scandalum  magnatum  is  a  statute  must 
not  be  trifled  with  ;  why,  you  are  not  one  of 
those  vulgar  sluts  that  think  a  man  the  worse  for 
being  a  lord  \ 

Char. — No,  sir;  I  am  contented  with  only  not 
thinking  him  the  better. 

Serj. — F<jr  all  this,  I  believe,  hussy,  a  right 
honorai)Ic  proposal  would  soon  make  you  alter 
your  mind. 

Char. — Not  unless  the  proposer  liad  other 
qualities  than  what  ho  possesses  by  patent.  Be- 
sides, sir,  you  kn<jw  Sir  Luke  is  a  devotee  to  the 
bottle. 

Serj. — Not  a  whit  the  less  honest  fur  that. 
ill 


SAMUEL  FOOTE.— 3 

Char. — It  occasions  one  evil  at  least,  that 
when  under  its  influence,  he  generally  reveals  all, 
sometimes  more  than  he  knows. 

Serj. — Proofs  of  an  open  temper,  you  bag- 
gage ;  but  come,  come,  all  these  are  but  trifling 
objections. 

Char. — You  mean,  sir,  they  prove  the  object 
a  trifle. 

Serj. — Why,  you  pert  jade,  do  you  play  on 
my  words  ?     1  say  Sir  Luke  is 

Char. — Nobody. 

Serj. — Nobody  !  how  the  deuce  do  you  make 
that  out?  He  is  neither  a  person  attainted  nor 
outlawed,  may  in  any  of  his  majesty's  courts  sue 
or  be  sued,  appear  by  attorney  or  in  propria 
persona,  can  acquire,  buy,  procure,  purchase, 
possess,  and  inherit,  not  only  personalities,  such 
as  goods  and  chattels,  but  even  realties,  as  all 
lands,  tenements,  and  hereditaments,  whatsoever 
and  wheresoever. 

Char. — But,  sir 

Serj. — Nay,  further,  child,  he  may  sell,  give, 
bestow,  bequeath,  devise,  demise,  lease,  or  to 
farm  let,  ditto  lands,  or  to  any  person  whom- 
soever —and 

Char. — Without  doubt,  sir;  but  there  are, 
notwithstanding,  in  this  town  a  great  number  of 
nobodies,  not  described  by  Lord  Coke. 

[Sir  Luke  Limp  makes  his  appearance,  and  after  a  short  dia- 
logue, enter  a  Servant,  ivho  delivers  a  card  to  Sir  Luke.] 

Sir  Luke. — \^Ecads'\  "  Sir  Gregory  Goose  de- 
sires the  honor  of  Sir  Luke  Limp's  company  to 
dine.  An  answer  is  desired."  Gadso  !  a  little 
unlucky  ;  I  have  been  engaged  for  these  three 
weeks. 

Serj. — What !  I  find  Sir  Gregory  is  returned 
for  the  corporation  of  Fleecem. 

Sir  Luke. — Is  he  so  ?  Oh,  oh  !  that  alters  the 
case.  George,  give  my  compliments  to  Sir 
Gregory,  and  I'll  certainly  come  and  dine  there. 
Order  Joe  to  run  to  Alderman  Inkle's  in  Thread- 
needle  street ;  sorry  can't  wait  upon  him,  and 
confined  to  my  bed  two  days  with  the  new  in- 
fluenza. [^Exit  Servant. 


SaMUEL  FOOTE.— 4 

Chat. — You  make  light,  Sir  Luke,  of  these  sort 
of  engagements. 

Sir  Luke. — What  can  a  man  do  !  These  fel- 
lows— when  one  has  the  misfortune  to  meet  them 
— take  scandalous  advantage  :  When  will  you  do 
me  the  honor,  pray,  Sir  Luke,  to  take  a  bit  of 
mutton  with  me  ?  Do  you  name  the  day.  They 
are  as  bad  as  a  beggar  who  attacks  your  coach 
at  the  mounting  of  a  hill ;  there  is  no  getting  rid 
of  them  without  a  penny  to  one,  and  a  promise 
to  t'other. 

Serj. — True  ;  and  then  for  such  a  time  too — 
three  weeks  !  I  wonder  they  expect  folks  to  re- 
member. It  is  like  a  retainer  in  Michaelmas 
term  for  the  summer  assizes. 

Sir  Lukf. — Not  but  upon  these  occasions  no 

man  in  England  is  more  punctual  than 

[Enter  a  Servant  who  gives  Sir  Luke  a  letter.] 
From  whom  ? 

Serv. — Earl  of  Brentford.  The  servant  waits 
for  an  answer. 

Sir  Luke. — Answer!  By  your  leave,  Mr. 
Serjeant  and  Charlotte.  [Beads.]  "Taste  for 
music — Mons.  Duport — fail — dinner  on  table  at 
five."  Gadso  I  I  hope  Sir  Gregory's  servant  ain't 
gone. 

Serv. — Immediately  upon  receiving  the  an- 
swer. 

Sir  Luke. — Run  after  him  as  fast  as  you  can 
— tell  him  quite  in  despair — recollect  an  engage- 
ment that  can't  in  nature  be  missed,  and  return 
in  an  instant.  [LJjrit  Scrvayit. 

Char. — You  see,  sir,  the  knight  must  give  way 
for  my  lord. 

Sir  Luke. — No,  faith,  it  is  not  that,  my  dear 
Charlotte ;  you  saw  that  was  quite  an  extempore 
business.  No,  hang  it,  no,  it  is  not  for  the  title; 
but,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Brentford  has  more 
wit  than  any  man  in  the  world ;  it  is  that  makes 
me  fond  of  his  house. 

Chnr. — By  the  choice  of  his  company  he  gives 
an  unanswerable  instance  of  that. 

Sir  Luke, — You  arc  right,  my  dear  girl,    But 
ill 


SAMUEL  F0OTE.-5 

now  to  give  yon  a  proof  of  his  wit;  you  know 
Brentford's  finances  are  a  little  out  of  repair, 
which  procures  him  some  visits  that  ho  would 
gladly  excuse. 

Scrj. — What  need  he  fear  ?  His  person  is 
sacred ;  for  by  the  tenth  of  William  and 
Mary 

Sir  Luke. — He  knows  that  well  enough,  but 
for  all  that 

Seij. — Indeed,  by  a  late  act  of  his  own  house 
— which  does  them  infinite  honor — his  goods  or 
chattels  may  be 

Sir  Luke. — Seized  upon  wlien  they  can  find 
them ;  but  he  lives  in  ready  furnished  lodgings, 
and  hires  his  coach  by  the  month. 

Serj. — Nay,  if  the  sheriff  return  "  non  inven- 
tus." 

Sir  Luke. — A  plague  o'  your  law;  you  make 
mo  lose  sight  of  my  story.  One  morning  a 
Welsh  coachmaker  came  with  his  bill  to  my 
lord,  whose  name  was  unluckily  Lloyd.  My  lord 
had  the  man  up.  You  are  called,  I  think,  Mr. 
Lloyd?  At  your  lordship's  service,  my  lord. 
What,  Lloyd  with  an  Z  ?  It  was  with  an  L,  in- 
deed, my  lord.  Because  in  your  part  of  the 
world  I  have  heard  that  Lloyd  and  Flloyd  were 
synonymous,  the  very  same  names.  Very  often, 
indeed,  my  lord.  But  you  always  spell  yours 
with  an  L  ?  Always.  That,  Mr.  Lloyd,  is  a 
little  unlucky ;  for  you  must  know  I  am  now 
paying  my  debts  alphabetically,  and  in  four  or 
five  years  you  might  have  come  in  with  an  F ; 
but  I  am  afraid  I  can  give  you  no  hopes  for  your 
L.     Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

{Enter  a  Servant.] 

Serv. — There  was  no  overtaking  the  servant. 

Sir  Luke. — That  is  unlucky  :  tell  my  lord  I'll 
attend  him.     I'll  call  on  Sir  Gregory  myself. 

\Exit  Servant. 

Serj. — Why,  you  won't  leave  us.  Sir  Luke  ? 

Sir  Luke. — Pardon,  dear  Serjeant  and  Char- 
lotte ;  I  have  a  thousand  things  to  do  for  half  a 
million  of  people,  positively ;  promised  to  pro- 


SAMUEL  F00TE.-6 

cure  a  husband  for  Lady  Cicely  Sulky,  and  match 
a  coach-horse  for  Brigadier  Whip ;  after  that 
must  run  into  the  city  to  borrow  a  thousand  for 
young  At-ali  at  Ahnack's ;  send  a  Cheshire  cheese 
by  the  stage  to  Sir  Timothy  Tankard  in  Suf- 
folk; and  get  at  the  Heralds'  office  a  coat-of- 
arms  to  clap  on  the  coach  of  Billy  Bengal,  a 
nabob  newly  arrived ;  so  you  see  I  have  not  a 
moment  to  lose. 

Seij. — True,  true. 

Sir  Luke. — At  your  toilet  to-morrow  you  may 
— ^Enter  a  Servant  abruptli/  and  runs  against 
Sir  Luke.'\  Can't  you  see  where  you  are  run- 
ning, you  rascal  ? 

Serv. — Sir,  his  Grace,  the  Duke  of 

Sir  Luke. — Grace  !  where  is  he  ?   Where- 


Serv. — In  his  coacli  at  the  door.  If  you 
an't  better  engaged,  would  be  glad  of  your 
company  to  go  into  the  city,  and  take  a  dinner 
at  Dolly's. 

Sir  Luke. — In  his  own  coacli,  did  you  say  ? 

Serv. — Yes,  sir. 

Sir  Luke. — With  tlie  coronets — or • 

Serv. — I  believe  so. 

Sir  Xt^Ar-— There's  no  resisting  of  that.  Bid 
Joe  run  to  Sir  Gregory  Goose's. 

Serv. — He  is  already  gone  to  Alderman 
Inkle's. 

Sir  Luke. — Then  do  you  step  into  the  knight 
— hcv  ! — no — you  must  go  in  to  my  lord's — liold, 
hold,  no — I  liave  it — step  first  to  Sir  Greg  s, 
then  pop  in  at  Lord  Brentford's  just  as  the  com- 
pany arc  going  to  dinner. 

Serv. — What  shall  I  say  to  Sir  Gregory? 

Sir  Luki'. — Anything — what  I  told  you  be- 
fore. 

Serv. — And  what  to  my  lord? 

Sir  Luke. — Wiiat  I — tell  liim  that  my  uncle 
from  Epsom — no — that  won't  do,  for  he  knows  I 
don't  care  a  farthing  for  him — hey?  Why,  tell 
him — hold,  I  have  it.  Tc-ll  liim  that  as  I  was 
going  into  my  chair  to  oboy  liis  commands,  I  was 
arrested    by  a  couple  of  baililTs,  forced   into  a 


EDWARD  i'ORBES.— 1 

tackncy-coach,  and  carried  into  tlic  Pied  Bull  in 
the  Borougli;  I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons  for 
making  his  Grace  wait,  but  liis  Grace  knows  my 
misfor \^Excunt  Sir  Luke  and  Serv. 

Char. — Well,  sir,  what  d'ye  think  of  the 
proofs?  I  flatter  myself  I  have  pretty  well 
established  my  case. 

Scrj. — Why,  hussy,  you  have  hit  upon  points; 
but  then  they  are  but  trifling  flaws;  they  don't 
vitiate  the  title  ;  that  stands  unimpcached. — The 
Lame  Lover. 

FOEBES,  Edward,  a  British  naturalist, 
born  on  the  Isle  of  Man  in  1S15  ;  died  near 
Edinburgh  in  ISS-i.  He  studied  medicine 
at  Edinburgh,  but  devoted  himself  mainly 
to  scientific  pursuits  and  to  literature.  He 
was  among  the  earliest  to  collect  specimens 
in  natural  history  by  means  of  deep-sea 
dredging.  In  1842  he  became  Professor  of 
Botany  in  King's  College,  London,  and 
shortly  afterwards  was  appointed  Curator  of 
the  Museum  of  the  Geological  Society.  His 
scientific  publications  were  very  numerous. 
Among  his  more  important  works  was  the 
preparation  of  a  palreontological  and  geo- 
graphical map  of  the  British  Islands,  with 
an  explanatory  dissertation  upon  the  Distri- 
htition  of  Marine  Life.  In  1852  he  was 
chosen  President  of  tlie  Geological  So- 
ciety, and  in  1853  was  made  Professor  of 
Natural  History  in  the  University  of  Edin- 
burgh. A  collection  of  his  purely  literary 
papers,  with  a  Memoir  by  Prof.  Huxley, 
appeared  soon  after  his  death. 


JOHN  FORD.— 1 

FOED,  John,  an  English  dramatist,  born 
in  1586  ;  died  about  1640.  He  was  of  good 
family,  his  grandfather  and  father  having 
attained  legal  eminence.  At  sixteen  he  was 
entered  as  a  student  at  law  at  the  Inner 
Temple,  was  called  to  the  bar,  and  practised 
until  past  tiftv,  when  he  retired  to  his  estate, 
and  uothing  further  is  recorded  of  him.  He 
appears  to  have  gained  a  competent  fortune 
in  his  profession,  so  that  he  was  able  to 
write  without  regard  to  any  pecuniary  profit 
which  he  might  gain  from  his  dramas,  and 
to  disregard  the  ju-evailing  taste  of  the  thea- 
tre-goers of  his  time.  Some  of  his  dramas 
were  produced  in  conjunction  with  others, 
especially  with  Kowley,  Dekker,  and  "Web- 
ster, and  it  is  impossible  to  fix  with  cer- 
tainty the  respective  shares  of  each.  The 
titles  of  sixteen  plays,  wholly  or  in  part  by 
I'urd,  have  been  preserved,  but  several  of 
these  are  not  now  known  to  be  extant ;  some 
of  them  do  not  appear  to  have  ever  been 
printed.  Love's  MelancJiohj,  probably  the 
earliest  of  Ford's  dramas,  was  first  acted  in 
1628;  "'TIS  Pity  She's  a  Whore,  a  powerful 
tragedy,  was  printed  in  1633 ;  The  BroTcen 
Heart]  upon  the  whole  the  best  of  Ford's 
dramas,  was  also  ])rinte(l  in  1633,  bnt  both 
were  j)ro))ab]y  i)rodiiced  ujion  the  stage  a 
little  earlier ;  ilw  Ladijs  TrUd  was  acted 
in  1638,  and  printed  in  the  following  year. 
The  first  complete  edition  of  Ford's  Worli^s^ 
edited  by  Weber,  was  pnblisiied  in  1811  ;  in 
1827  appeared  an  edition  edited  by  GifFord  ; 
and  in  1.S47  an  ex|)nrg:ited  edition  was 
issued  in  "•  Murray's  Family  Lii)rary."  Gif- 
ford's  edition,  revised  liy  Dyce,  with  Notes 
and  an  Introduction  (isr.l*^,  is  the  best.  An 
Essay  on  Ford,  by  Algernon  Gharles  Swin- 
burne, was  pnblisiied  among  his  "  Notes  and 
Essays"  in  1875. 


JOHN  FORD.— 3 

CALANTIIA    AND    PENTHEA, 

Cal. — Being  alone,  Pcnthca,  you  have  granted 
The  opportunity  you  sought,  and  might 
At  all  times  have  commanded. 

Fen. —  'Tis  a  benefit.  [for. 

Which  I  shall  owe  your  goodness  even  in  death 
My  glass  of  life,  sweet  princess,  hath  few  minutes 
Remaining  to  run  down;  the  sands  are  spent: 
For,  by  an  inward  messenger,  1  feel 
The  summons  of  departure  short  and  certain. 

Cal. — You  feed  too  much  your  melancholy. 

Pen. —  Glories 

Of  human  greatness  are  but  pleasing  dreams. 
And  shadows  soon  decaying :  on  the  stage 
Of  my  mortality  my  youth  hath  acted 
Some  scenes  of  vanity,  drawn  out  at  length ; 
By  varied  pleasures  sweetened  in  the  mixture, 
But  tragical  in  issue. 

Cal. — Contemn   not   your  condition   for  the 
proof. 
Of  bare  opinion  only  :  to  wliat  end 
Reach  all  these  moral  texts  ? 

Pen. —  To  place  before  you 

A  perfect  mirror,  wherein  you  may  see 
How  weary  I  am  of  a  lingering  life, 
Who  count  the  best  a  misery, 

Cal. —  Indeed, 

You  have  no  little  cause;  yet  none  so  great 
As  to  distrust  a  remedy. 

Pen. —  That  remedy 

Must  be  a  winding-sheet,  a  fold  of  lead, 
And  some  untrod-on  corner  in  the  earth. 
Not  to  detain  your  expectation,  princess, 
I  have  an  humble  suit. 

Cal. —  Speak,  and  enjoy  it. 

Pen. — Vouchsafe,  then,  to  be  my  executrix; 
And  take  that  trouble  on  ye,  to  dispose 
Such  legacies  as  I  bequeath  impartially: 
I  have  not  much  to  give,  the  pains  are  easy. 
Heaven  will  reward  your  piety  and  thank  it. 
When  I  am  dead:  for  sure  I  must  not  live; 
I  hope  I  cannot. 

Cal. —         Now  beshrew  thy  sadness; 
Thou  turn'st  me  too  much  woman. 

144 


JOHN  FORD.— 3 

Pen. —  Her  fair  eyes 

Melt  into  passion :  then  I  have  assurance 
Encourajring  my  boldness.     In  this  paper 
My  will  was  charactered ;  which  you,  with  par- 
don, 
Shall  now  know  from  mine  own  mouth. 

Cal. —  Talk  on,  prithee  ; 

It  is  a  pretty  earnest. 

Pen. —  I  have  left  me 

But  three  poor  jewels  to  bequeath.  The  first  is 
My  youth ;  for  though  I  am  much  old  in  griefs, 
In  years  I  am  a  child. 

Cal —  To  whom  that? 

Pen. — To  virgin  wives ;  such  as  abuse  not  wed- 
lock 
By  freedom  of  desires,  but  covet  chiefly 
The  pledges  of  chaste  beds,  for  ties  of  love 
Rather  than  ranging  of  their  blood ;  and  next 
To  married  maids ;  such  as  prefer  the  number 
Of  honorable  issue  in  their  virtues. 
Before  the  flattery  of  delights  by  marriage ; 
May  those  be  ever  young. 

Cal. —  A  second  jewel 

You  mean  to  part  ? 

Pen. —  'Tis  my  fame  ;  I  trust 

By  scandal  yet  untouched ;   this  I  bequeath 
To  Memory  and  Time's  old  daughter.  Truth. 
If  ever  my  unhappy  name  find  mention, 
When  I  am  fallen  to  dust,  may  it  deserve 
Beseeming  charity  without  dishonor. 

Cal. — How    handsomely    thou    play'st    with 
harmless  sport 
Of  mere  imau^ination  ?     Speak  the  last. 
I  strangely  like  thy  will. 

Pen. —  This  jewel,  madam, 

Is  dearly  precious  to  me;  you  must  use 
The  best  of  your  discretion,  to  employ 
This  gift  as  I  intend  it. 

Cal. —  Do  not  doubt  me. 

I'en. — 'Tis    long    ago,  since    first    I   lost   my 
heart ; 
Long  I  have  lived  without  it :  but  instead 
Of  it,  to  great  Calantha,  Sparta's  heir, 


JOHN  FORD.— 4 

By  service  bound,  and  by  affertion  vowed, 
I  do  bc(jucatli  in  holiest  rites  of  love 
Mine  only  brother  Ithocles. 

Cal. —  What  saidst  thou? 

Pen. — Impute  not,  heaven-blest  lady,  to  am- 
bition, 
A  faith  as  humbly  perfect  as  the  prayers 
Of  a  devoted  suppliant  can  endow  it: 
Look  on  him,  princess,  with  an  eye  of  pity ; 
How  like  the  ghost  of  what  he  late  appeared 
He  moves  before  you  ! 

Cal, —  Shall  I  answer  here, 

Or  lend  my  ear  too  grossly  ? 

Pen. —  First  his  heart 

Shall  fall  in  cinders,  scorched  by  your  disdain, 
Ere  he  will  dare,  poor  man,  to  ope  an  eye 
On    these    divine    looks,    but    with    low  -  bent 

thoughts 
Accusing  such  presumption  :  as  for  words. 
He  dares  not  utter  any  but  of  service ; 
Yet  this  lost  creature  loves  you.     Be  a  princess 
In  sweetness  as  in  blood ;  give  him  his  doom, 
Or  raise  him  up  to  comfort. 

Cal. —  What  new  change 

Appears  in  ray  behavior  that  thou  darest 
Tempt  my  displeasure  ? 

Pen. —  I  must  leave  the  world, 

To  revel  in  Elysium  ;  and  'tis  just 
To  wish  my  brother  some  advantage  here. 
Yet  by  my  best  hopes,  Ithocles  is  ignorant 
Of  this  pursuit.     But  if  you  please  to  kill  him. 
Lend  him  one  angry  look,  or  one  harsh  word, 
And  you  shall  soon  conclude  how  strong  a  power 
Your  absolute  authority  holds  over 
His  life  and  end. 

Cal. —  You  have  forgot,  Penthea, 

How  still  I  have  a  father. 

Pen. —  But  remember 

I  am  sister:  though  to  me  this  brother 
Hath   been,  you   know,  unkind,  0  most  unkind. 

Cal. — Christalla,  Philcma,  where   are   ye  ? — 
Lady, 
Your  check  lies  in  my  silence. 

The  Broken  Heart. 


RICHARD  FORD.— 1 

FORD,  EicHABD,  an  English  traveller 
and  author,  born  in  1796,  died  in  1S5S.  He 
was  educated  at  "Winchester  and  at  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge,  studied  law  at  Lin- 
coln's Inn,  and  was  called  to  the  bar,  l)ut 
never  entered  into  practice.  In  1839  he 
went  to  Spain,  where  he  resided  several 
years.  From  1836  to  1857  he  was  a  fre- 
quent contributor  to  the  Qaartei'ly  Review, 
his  papers  relating  mainly  to  the  life,  litera- 
ture, and  art  of  Spain.  He  prepared  Mur- 
ray's Iland-Book  for  Sjjahi  (1845  ;  re- 
written and  enlarged  in  1855).  He  also 
wrote  Gatherings  in  Spain  (1848),  and 
Tauromachia,  the  Bull  Fights  of  Spain 
(1852). 

SPAIN    AND    THE    SPANIARDS    IN    1840. 

Since  Spain  appears  on  the  map  to  be  a  square 
and  most  compact  kingdom,  politicians  and 
geographers  liave  treated  it  and  its  inhabitants 
as  one  and  the  same ;  practically,  however,  tliis 
is  almost  a  geogra[)hieal  expression,  as  the  earth, 
air,  and  morals  of  tlie  ditlcrent  portions  of  this 
conventional  whole  are  altoirether  heterogeneous. 
Peninsular  man  has  followed  the  nature  by  which 
he  is  surrounded  ;  mountains  and  rivers  have 
walled  and  moated  the  dislocated  land ;  mists 
and  gleams  liave  diversified  tlie  heavens;  and  dif- 
fering like  si/il  and  sky,  the  people,  in  each  of  the 
once  inde[)endent  j)rovinces,  now  bound  loosely 
to<'ether  by  one  (gulden  hoop,  the  crown,  has  its 
own  particular  character.  To  hate  his  neighbor 
i.s  a  second  nature  to  the  Spaniard  ;  no  spick  and 
span  Constitution,  be  it  printed  on  parchment  or 
calico,  can  at  once  efface  traditions  and  antipa- 
thies of  a  thousand  years;  the  accidents  of  locali- 
ties and  provincial  nationalities,  out  of  whicli 
thcv'  have  sprung,  remain  too  deeply  dyed  to  be 
forthwith  <lischar;;ed  liy  tlii'orists. 

The  climate  and  productions  vary  lio  less  than 
do    language,   costume,   and    maimers;    and   so 


RICHARD  FORD.— 3 

division  and  localism  have,  from  time  immemo- 
rial, formed  a  marked  national  feature.  Spaniards 
may  talk  and  boast  of  tlieir  Putria,  as  is  done 
by  the  similarly  circumstanced  Italians,  but  like 
them  and  the  Germans,  they  have  the  fallacy, 
but  no  real  Fatherland ;  it  is  an  aggregation 
rather  than  an  amalgamation — every  single  indi- 
vidual in  his  heart  really  only  loving  his  native 
province,  and  only  considering  as  his  fellow- 
countryman,  su  paisano — a  most  binding  and 
endearing  word — one  born  in  the  same  locality 
as  himself :  hence  it  is  not  easy  to  predicate 
much  in  regard  to  "  the  Spains"  and  Spaniards 
in  general  which  will  hold  quite  good  as  to  each 
particular  poriion  ruled  by  the  sovereign  of  Las 
EsjMnas,  the  plural  title  given  to  the  chief  of  the 
federal  union  of  this  really  little  united  kingdom. 
£spanolismo  may,  however,  be  said  to  consist  in 
a  love  for  a  common  faith  and  king,  and  in  a  co- 
incidence of  resistance  to  all  foreign  dictation. 
The  deep  sentiments  of  religion,  loyalty  and  in- 
dependence, noble  characteristics  indeed,  have 
been  sapped  in  our  times  by  the  influence  of 
Trans- Pyrenean  revolutions.  Two  general  ob- 
servations may  be  premised : 

First,  The  people  of  Spain,  the  so-called  lower 
orders,  are  superior  to  those  who  arrogate  to 
themselves  the  title  of  being  their  betters,  and  in 
most  respects  are  more  interesting.  The  masses, 
the  least  spoilt  and  the  most  national,  stand  like 
pillars  amid  ruins,  and  on  them  the  edifice  of 
Spain's  greatness  is,  if  ever,  to  be  reconstructed. 
This  may  have  arisen,  in  this  land  of  anomalies, 
from  the  peculiar  policy  of  government  in  church 
and  state,  where  the  possessors  of  religious  and 
civil  monopolies,  who  dreaded  knowledge  as 
power,  pressed  heavily  on  the  noble  and  rich, 
dwarfing  down  their  bodies  by  intermarriages, 
and  all  but  extinguishing  their  minds  by  inquisi- 
tions;  while  the  people,  overlooked  in  the  ob- 
scurity of  poverty,  were  allowed  to  grow  out  to 
their  full  growth  like  wild  weeds  of  a  rich  soil. 
They,  in  fact,  have  long  enjoyed,  under  despot^ 
m 


RICHARD  FORD.— 3 

isras  of  church  and  state,  a  practical  and  personal 
independence,  the  good  results  of  which  are  evi- 
dent in  their  stalwart  frames  and  manly  bearing. 
Secondly,  A  distinction  must  ever  be  made 
between  the  Spaniard  in  his  individual  and  col- 
lective capacity,  and  still  more  in  an  official  one. 
Taken  by  himself,  he  is  true  and  valiant;  the 
nicety  of  his  Pundonor,  or  point  of  personal 
honor,  is  proverbial ;  to  him,  as  an  individual, 
you  may  safely  trust  your  life,  fair  fame,  and 
purse.  Yet  history,  treating  of  these  individuals 
in  the  collective,  juaiadus,  presents  the  foulest 
examples  of  misbehavior  in  the  field,  of  Punic 
bad  faith  in  the  cabinet,  of  bankruptcy  and  re- 
pudiation on  the  exchange.  This  may  be  also 
much  ascribed  to  the  deteriorating  influence  of 
bad  government,  by  which  the  individual 
Spaniard,  like  the  monk  in  a  convent,  becomes 
fused  into  the  corporate.  The  atmosphere  is  too 
infectious  to  avoid  some  corruption,  and  while 
the  Spaniard  feels  that  his  character  is  only  in 
safe  keeping  w  hen  in  his  own  hands,  and  no  man 
of  any  nation  knows  better  then  how  to  up- 
hold it,  when  linked  with  others,  his  self-pride, 
impatient  of  any  superior,  lends  itself  readily  to 
feelings  of  mistrust,  until  self-interest  and  pres- 
er^'ation  become  uppermost.  From  suspecting 
that  lie  will  be  sold  and  sacrificed  by  others,  he 
ends  by  floating  down  the  turbid  stream  like  the 
rest:  vet  even  official  employment  does  not  quite 
destroy  all  private  good  fjualitics,  and  the  em- 
pleado  may  be  appealed  to  as  an  individual. 


JOHN  FORSTER.— 1 

FORSTEK,  John,  an  English  biograplier 
and  historian,  born  in  1812 ;  died  in  1876. 
In  1828  he  canie  to  London  and  attended 
law  classes,  but  devoted  himself  mainly  to 
journalism  and  literary  work,  although  he 
was  formally  called  to  the  bar.    He  was  suc- 
cessively editor  of  the  Foreign  Quarterly 
Review,  of   the  Daily  News,   succeeding 
Dickens,  and  of  the  Examiner,  succeeding 
Fonblanque,  holding  this  last  position  from 
1847  to  1856.     In  1861  he  was  appointed 
a  Commissioner  in   Lunacy.     In  1855  he 
married  the  wealthy  widow  of  Henry  Col- 
burn,  the  publisher.     For  many  years  he 
was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Edin- 
hurgh,  Quarterly,  and  Foreign  Quarterly 
Reviews.     His  biographical  and  historical 
works   are   numerous   and   valuable.     The 
principal  are:  The  Statesmen  of  the  Com- 
momoealth    of  England   (1840),    Life   of 
Goldsmith  (1848,  greatly  enlarged  in  1854), 
The  Arrest  of  the  Five  Members  hy  Charles 
I.,  and  Debates  on  the  Great  Remonstrance 
(1860),  Sir  John  Eliot  (1864),  Life  of  Walter 
Savage   Landor   (1868),    Life   of  Charles 
Dickens   (1871-74),    and    Early   Life   of 
Jonathan  Swift  (1875).     This  last  work  is 
the  first  volume  of  a  complete  biography  of 
Swift,  upon  which  he  had  been  engaged  for 
several  years ;  but  he  died  while  he  was  en- 
gaged upon  it. 

SWIFT    AND    HIS    BIOGRAPHERS. 

Swift's  later  time,  when  he  was  governing  Ire- 
land as  well  as  his  Deanery,  and  the  world  was 
filled  with  the  fame  of  Gulliver,  is  broadly  and 
intelligibly  written.  But  as  to  all  the  rest,  his 
life  is  a  work  unfinished ;  to  which  no  one  has 
broui^ht  the  minute  examination  indispensably 
required,  where  the  whole  of  a  career  has  to  be 
considered  to  get  at  the  proper  comprehension 

m 


JOHN  FORSTER.— 2 

of  certain  parts  of  it.  The  writers  accepted  as 
authorities  for  the  obscurer  portion  of  it  are 
found  to  be  practically  worthless,  and  the  defect 
is  not  supplied  by  the  later  and  greater  bio- 
graphers. Johnson  did  him  no  kind  of  justice, 
because  of  too  little  liking  for  hira  ;  and  Scott, 
with  much  hearty  liking,  as  well  as  a  generous 
admiration,  had  too  much  other  work  to  do. 
Thus,  notwithstanding  noble  passages  in  both 
memoirs,  and  Scott's  pervading  tone  of  healthy, 
manly  wisdom,  it  is  left  to  an  inferior  hand  to 
attempt  to  complete  the  tribute  begun  by  these 
illustrious  men, — Preface  to  Life  of  Swift. 

THE     LITERARY     PROFESSION     AXD     THE     LAW     OF 
COPYRIGHT. 

"  It  were  well,"  said  Goldsmith,  on  one  occa- 
sion, with  bitter  truth,  "  if  none  but  the  dunces 
of  society  were  combined  to  render  the  profes- 
sion of  an  author  ridiculous  or  unhappy."  The 
profession  themselves  have  yet  to  learn  the  secret 
of  co-operation ;  they  have  to  put  away  internal 
jealousies ;  they  have  to  claim  for  themselves,  as 
poor  Goldsmith,  after  his  fashion,  very  loudly 
did,  that  defined  position  from  which  greater  re- 
spect, and  mure  frequent  consideration  in  public 
life,  could  not  long  be  withlield ;  in  fine,  they 
have  frankly  to  feel  that  their  vocation,  properly 
regarded,  ranks  with  the  worthiest,  and  that,  on 
all  occasions,  to  do  justice  to  it,  and  to  each 
other,  is  the  way  to  obtain  justice  from  the 
world.  If  writers  had  been  thus  true  to  them- 
selves, the  subject  of  copyright  might  have  been 
e(jnitably  settled  when  attention  was  first  drawn 
to  it;  but  while  Defoe  was  urging  the  author's 
claim.  Swift  was  calling  Defoe  a  fellow  that  had 
been  pilloried,  and  we  have  still  to  discuss  as 
in  formh  pauperis  the  rights  of  the  English 
autlior. 

Confiscation  is  a  hard  word,  but  after  the  de- 
cision of  the  highest  English  court,  it  is  the  word 
which  alone  describes  fairly  tlie  statute  of  Anne, 
for  encouragement  of  literature.     That  is  now 


JOIiT^  FORStliR.-S 

superseded  by  anotlicr  statute,  liaving  the  same 
gorgeous  name,  and  tlie  same  inglorious  mean- 
ing; for  even  this  hist  enactment,  sorely  resisted 
as  it  was,  leaves  England  behind  any  otiier  coun- 
try in  the  world,  in  the  amount  of  their  own 
property  secured  to  her  authors.  In  some,  to 
tliis  day,  perpetual  copyriglit  exists;  and  though 
it  may  l)e  reasonable,  as  Dr.  Johnson  argued,  that 
it  was  to  surrender  a  part  for  greater  efficiency 
or  protection  to  the  rest,  yet  the  commonest  dic- 
tates of  natural  justice  might  at  least  require  that 
an  author's  family  should  not  be  beggared  of 
their  inheritance  as  soon  as  liis  own  capacity  to 
provide  for  them  may  have  ceased.  In  every 
continental  country  this  is  cared  for,  the  lowest 
term  secured  by  the  most  niggardly  arrangement 
being  twenty-five  years ;  whereas  in  England  it 
is  the  munificent  number  of  seven.  Yet  the 
most  laborious  works,  and  often  the  most  de- 
lightful, are  for  the  most  part  of  a  kind  which 
the  hereafter  only  can  repay.  The  poet,  the  his- 
torian, the  scientific  investigator,  do  indeed  find 
readers  to-day ;  but  if  they  have  labored  with 
success,  they  have  produced  books  whose  sub- 
stantial reward  is  not  the  large  and  temporary, 
but  the  limited  and  constant  nature  of  their  sale. 
No  consideration  of  moral  right  exists,  no  prin- 
ciple of  economical  science  can  be  stated,  wliich 
would  justify  the  seizure  of  such  books  by  the 
public,  before  they  had  the  chance  of  remunerat- 
ing the  genius  and  the  labor  of  their  producers. 

But  though  Parliament  can  easily  commit  this 
wrong,  it  is  not  in  such  case  the  quarter  to  look 
to  for  redress.  There  is  no  hope  of  a  better 
state  of  things  till  the  author  shall  enlist  upon 
his  side  the  power  of  which  Parliament  is  but 
tlie  inferior  expression.  The  true  remedy  for 
literary  wrongs  must  flow  from  a  higher  sense 
than  has  at  any  period  yet  prevailed  in  England 
of  the  duties  and  responsibilities  assumed  by  the 
public  writer,  and  of  the  social  consideration  and 
respect  tliat  their  effectual  discharge  should  have 
undisputed  right  to  claim. — Life  of  Goldsmith. 


JOSEPH  FORSYTH.— 1 

FOESYTH,  Joseph,  a  Scottish  traveller 
and  author,  born  in  1763;  died  in  1815.  He 
conducted  for  many  years  a  classical  semi- 
nary near  London.  In  1802  he  set  out  upon 
a  tour  in  Italy;  in  the  next  year  he  was 
arrested  at  Turin  in  pursuance  of  an^  order 
issued  by  Napoleon  for  the  detention  of 
all  British  subjects  travelling  in  his  domin- 
ions. He  was  not  set  at  liberty  until  the 
downfall  of  Kapoleon  in  1814.  In  the 
meantime  he  wrote  out  the  notes  which  he 
had  prepared  of  his  visit  to  Italy.  This  was 
published  in  1812.  under  the  title,  Remarks 
on  Antiquities,  Arts,  and  letters  during 
an  Excursion  in  Italy  in  the  years  1802 
and  1803.  The  immediate  object  of  the 
publication  was  to  enlist  the  syir.pathies  ot 
Napoleon  and  of  the  leading  members  of 
the'  National  Institute  in  his  behalf.  The 
effoi-t  was  unsuccessful,  and  the  author  re- 
gretted that  it  had  been  made.  The  work 
has  been  several  times  reprinted ;  a  fourth 
edition  was  issued  in  1835,  being  brought 
down  to  that  date  by  another  hand. 

THE    ITALIAN    VINTAGE. 

The  vintage  was  in  full  glow,  men,  women, 
children,  asses,  all  were  variously  engaged  in  the 
work.  I  remarked  in  the  scene  a  prodigality 
and  negligence  which  I  never  saw  in  France, 
The  grapes  dropped  unheeded  from  the  panniers, 
and  hundreds  were  left  undipped  on  the  vines. 
The  vintagers  poured  on  us  as  we  passed  the  rich- 
est rihaldry  of  the  Italian  language,  and  seemed 
to  claim  from  llomor's  old  vindemiator  a  pre- 
scriptive right  to  abuse  the  traveller. 

THE    COLOSSEUM    IK    1803. 

A   colossal  taste  gave  rise  to  the  Colosseum. 

Here,  indeed,  uigantic  dimensions  were  necessary ; 

for  thfui'jh   hutidn-ds  could    enter   at  once,  and 

fifty  thousand  find  seats,  the  space  was  still  in- 

III 


JOSEPH  FORSYTH.— S 

sufficient  for  room,  and  the  crowd  for  the  morn- 
ing games  began  at  midnight.  Vespasian  and 
Titus,  as  if  presaging  tlieir  own  deaths,  hurried 
the  building,  and  left  several  marks  of  their  pre- 
cipitancy behind.  In  the  upper  walls  they  liave 
inserted  stones  which  had  evidently  been  dressed 
for  a  different  purpose.  Some  of  the  arcades  are 
grossly  unequal;  no  mouldingpreserves  the  same 
level  and  form  round  the  whole  ellipse,  and  every 
order  is  full  of  license.  The  Doric  has  no  tri- 
glyphs  and  tnetopes,  and  its  arch  is  too  low  for  its 
columns  ;  the  Ionic  repeats  the  entablature  of  the 
Doric ;  the  third  order  is  but  a  rough  cast  of 
the  Corinthian,  and  its  foliage  the  thickest  water- 
plants;  the  fourth  seems  a  mere  repetition  of  the 
third  in  pilasters  ;  and  the  whole  is  crowned  by 
a  heavy  attic.  Happily  for  the  Colosseum,  the 
shape  necessary  to  an  amphitheatre  has  given  it 
a  stability  of  construction  sufficient  to  resist  fires, 
and  earthquakes,  and  lightnings,  and  sieges.  Its 
elliptical  form  was  the  hoop  which  bound  and 
held  it  entire  till  barbarians  rent  that  consolidat- 
ing ring ;  popes  widened  the  breach  ;  and  time, 
not  unassisted,  continues  the  work  of  dilapida- 
tion. At  this  moment  the  hermitage  is  threatened 
with  a  dreadful  crash,  and  a  generation  not  very 
remote  must  be  content,  I  apprehend,  with  the 
picture  of  this  stupendous  monument.  Of  the 
interior  elevation,  two  slopes,  by  some  called 
meniana,  are  already  demolished  ;  the  arena,  the 
podium,  are  interred.  No  member  runs  entire 
round  the  whole  ellipse  ;  but  every  member  made 
such  a  circuit,  and  reappears  so  often  that  plans, 
sections,  and  elevations  of  the  original  work  are 
drawn  with  the  precision  of  a  modern  fabric. 
When  the  whole  amphitheatre  was  entire,  a  cliild 
might  comprehend  its  design  in  a  moment,  and 
go  direct  to  his  place  without  straying  in  the  por- 
ticos, for  each  arcade  bears  its  number  engraved, 
and  opposite  to  every  fourth  arcade  was  a  stair- 
case. This  multiplicity  of  wide,  straight,  and 
separate  passages  proves  the  attention  which  the 
ancients  paid  to  the  safe  discharge  of  a  crowd ;  it 


JOSEPH  FORSYTH.— 3 

finely  illustrates  the  precept  of  Vitruvius,  and  ex- 
poses the  perplexity  of  some  modern  theatres. 

Every  nation  has  undergone  its  revolution  of. 
vices ;  and  as  cruelty  is  not  the  present  vice  of 
ours,  we  can  all  humanely  execrate  the  purpose  of 
amphitheatres,  now  that  they  lie  in  ruins.  Mor- 
alists may  tell  us  that  the  truly  brave  are  never 
cruel ;  but  this  monument  says  "  No."  Here  sat 
the  conquerors  of  the  world,  coolly  to  enjoy  the 
tortures  and  death  of  naen  who  had  never 
offended  them.  Two  aqueducts  were  scarcely 
sufficient  to  wash  the  blood  which  a  few  hours' 
sport  shed  in  this  imperial  shambles.  Twice  in 
one  day  came  the  senators  and  matrons  of  Rome 
to  the  butchery;  a  virgin  always  gave  the  signal 
for  slaughter  ;  and  when  glutted  with  bloodshed, 
these  ladies  sat  down  in  the  wet  and  steaming 
arence  to  a  luxurious  supper !  Such  reflections 
check  our  regret  for  its  ruin.  As  it  now  stands 
the  Colosseum  is  a  striking  image  of  Rome 
itself — decayed,  vacant,  serious,  yet  grand — half- 
gray,  and  half-green — erect  on  one  side,  and  fall- 
en on  the  other ;  with  consecrated  ground  in  its 
bosom — inhabited  by  a  beadsman ;  visited  by 
every  caste ;  for  moralists,  antiquaries,  painters, 
architects,  devotees,  all  meeting  here  to  meditate, 
to  examine,  to  draw,  to  measure,  and  to  pray. 
"  In  contemplating  antiquities,  says  Livy,  "  the 
mind  itself  becomes  antique."  It  contracts  from 
such  objects  a  venerable  rust,  which  I  prefer  to 
the  polish  and  the  point  of  those  wits  who  have 
lately  profaned  this  august  ruin  with  ridicule, 
It* 


SIR  JOHN  FORTESCUE.— 1 

FORTESCUE,  Sm  John,  an  English 
jurist,  bom  about  1305 ;  died  about  1485  ; 
but  the  exact  dates  are  uncertain.  He  was 
born  shortly  after  the  accession  of  Henry 
IV.,  lived  through  his  reign,  and  those  of 
Henry  V.,  Henry  VI.,  Edward  IV.,  Eich- 
ard  III.,  and  into  that  of  Henry  VII.  In 
1426  he  w^is  made  one  of  the  Governors  of 
Lincoln's  Inn,  and  in  1442  (during  the 
reign  of  Henry  VI.)  Chief  Justice  of  the 
King's  Bench.  During  tlie  War  of  the 
Roses  he  was  a  zealous  Lancastrian,  and 
when  the  Yorkists  gained  the  preponder- 
ance in  Parliament,  a  bill  of  attainder  was 
passed  against  him,  and  he  fled  to  Scotland 
and  in  1564  to  France.  Returning  to  Eng- 
land, after  some  years,  he  was  made  prisoner 
by  Edward  IV.  at  the  battle  of  Tewksbury 
(1471.)  Having  been  pardoned  by  the  vic- 
tor, he  withdrew  to  his  estate  in  Gloucester, 
and  passed  the  remainder  of  his  life  in  re- 
tirement. Fortescue  wrote  several  notable 
books  in  Latin  and  in  English.  The  most 
important  of  his  English  works  is  The  Dif- 
ference between  an  Ahsolute  and  a  Limited 
Monarchy^  first  printed  in  1714. 

THE    COMMONS   AND  THE   KINGDOM. 

Some  men  have  said  tliat  it  were  good  for  the 
king  that  the  commons  of  England  were  made 
poor,  as  be  the  commons  of  France.  For  then  they 
would  not  rebel,  as  now  they  done  oftentimes, 
which  the  commons  of  France  do  not,  nor  may 
do ;  for  they  have  no  weapon,  nor  armour,  nor 
good  to  buy  it  at  withal.  To  these  manner  of 
men  may  be  said,  with  the  philosopher,  Ad parva 
respicientes,  de  facili  enunciant ;  that  is  to  say, 
they  that  seen  few  things  woll  soon  say  their  ad^ 
vice.  Forsooth  those  folks  consideren  little  the 
good  of  the  realm,  whereof  the  miirht  most 
stondeth  upon  archers,  which  be  no  rich  meii, 
And  if  they  were  made  poorer  than  they  be,  they 


SIR  JOHN  FORTESCUE.— 2 

should  not  have   herewith   to   huy  them   bows, 
arrows,  jacks,  or  any  other  armour  of   defence, 
whereby  they  might  be  able  to  resist  our  enemies 
when  they  list  to  come  upon  us,  which  they  may 
do  on  every  side,  considering  that  we   be  an  isl- 
and ;  and,  as  it  is  said  before,  we  may  not  have 
soon   succours  of  any  other  realm.     Wherefore 
we  should  be  a  prey  to  all  other  enemies,  but  if 
we  be  mighty  of  ourself,  which  might  stondeth 
most  upon  our  poor  archers ;  and  therefore  they 
needen  not  only  to  have  such  habiliments  as  now 
is  spoken  of,  but  also  they  needen  to  be  much  ex- 
ercised in  shooting,  which  may  not  be  done  with- 
out right   great  expenses,  as  every  man  expert 
therein  knoweth  right  well.     Wherefore  the  mak- 
ing poor  of  the   commons,  which  is  the  making 
poor  of  our  archers,  should  be  the  destruction  of 
the  greatest  might  of  our  realm.     Item,  if  poor 
men  may  not  lightly  rise,  as  in  the  opinion  of 
those  men,  which  for  that  cause  would  have  the 
commons  poor ;  how  then,  if  a  miglity  man  made 
a  rising,  should  he  be  repressed,  when  all  the 
commons  be  so  poor,  that  after  such  opinion  they 
may  not  fight,  and  by  that  reason  not  lielp  the 
king  with  fighting  ?     And  why  maketh  the  king 
the   commons  to  be  every  year  mustered,  sithen 
it  was  good  they  had  no  harness,  nor  were  able 
to  fight?  Oh,  how  unwise  is  the  opinion  of  these 
men  ;  for  it  may  not  be  maintained  by  any  reason  ! 
Item,  when  any  rising  liath  been  made  in   this 
land,  before  these  days  by  commons,  the  poorest 
men  thereof  hath  been  the  greatest  causers  and 
doers  therein.     And  thrifty  men  have  been  loth 
thereto,  for  dread  of  losing  of  their  goods,  yet 
oftentimes  they  have   gone  witli  them  through 
mf  naccs,  or  else  the  same  poor  men  wouhl  have 
taken  their  goods;   wherein  it  socmeth  that  pov- 
erty have  been  the  wliole  and  chief  cause  of  all 
such   rising.     The  poor  man  hath   been  stirred 
thereto    by  occasion  of   Jiis   f»ovorty  for  to  get 
good;  an(l   the  rich   men   have  gone  with  them 
because    they  wold    not    be    poor  by  losing  of 
their  goods.     What  then  would  fall,  if  all"  the 
pommons  were  poor  ? 


ROBERT  FORTUNE.— 1 

FORTUNE,  RoBEKT,  a  British  natural- 
ist and  autiior,  born  in  Scotland  in  1813  5 
died  in  1880,  He  was  trained  as  a  horti- 
culturist ;  was  employed  in  tlie  botanical 
gardens  of  Edinburgh,  where  he  attended 
the  lectures  in  the  IJniversity.  He  was 
afterwards  employed  in  the  botanical  gar- 
dens at  Chiswick,  near  London,  and  in  1843 
was  appointed  by  the  London  Horticultural 
Society  to  collect  plants  in  China,  the  ports 
of  which  had  just  been  thrown  open  to 
Europeans.  Upon  his  return  he  published 
Three  Years'  Wanderings  in  the  Northern 
Provinces  of  China.  In  1848  he  was  sent 
to  China  by  the  East  India  Company  to  in- 
vestigate the  mode  of  cultivation  of  the  tea- 
plant,  collect  seeds,  and  introduce  its  cul- 
ture into  Northern  India.  Upon  his  return 
to  Great  Britain  he  published  Tuio  Visits  to 
the  Tea  Cotinti'ies  of  China  (1852.)  Sub- 
sequently he  made  a  third  visit  to  China, 
of  which  he  gave  an  account  in  his  liesi- 
dence  among  the  Chinese,  Inland,  on  the 
Coast,  and  at  Sea  (185Y.)  In  1857  he  was 
deputed  by  the  U.  S.  Patent  Office  to  visit 
China  to  collect  seeds  of  the  tea-shrub  and 
other  plants.  He  was  absent  two  years, 
having  collected  and  shipped  to  the  United 
States  the  seeds  of  a  large  number  of  plants. 
In  1863  he  published,  in  London,  Yedo 
and  Pekin. 

CHINESE  THIEVES. 

About  two  in  the  morning  I  was  awakened  by 
a  loud  yell  from  one  of  my  servants,  and  I  sus- 
pected at  once  tliat  we  "had  had  a  visit  from 
thieves,  for  I  had  frequently  heard  the  same 
sound  before.  Like  the  cry  one  hears  at  sea 
when  a  man  has  fallen  overboard,  this  alarm  can 
never  be  mistaken  when  once  it  has  been  heard. 
JBefore  I  had  time  to  inquire  what  was  wrong, 

IS8 


ROBERT  FORTUNE.— 3 

one  of  mv  servants  and  two  of  the  boatmeti 
phincred  into  the  canal  and  pursued  the  thieves. 
Thinking  that  we  had  only  lost  some  cooking 
utensils,  or  things  of  little  value  that  might  have 
been  lying  outside  the  boat,  I  gave  myself  no 
uneasiness  about  the  matter,  and  felt  much  in- 
clined to  go  to  sleep  again.  But  my  servant, 
who  returned  almost  immediately,  awoke  me 
most  effectually.  "  I  fear,"  said  he,  opening  my 
door,  "  the  thieves  have  been  inside  the  boat,  and 
have  taken  away  some  of  your  property."  "  Im- 
possible," said  I  ;  "  they  caimot  have  been  here." 
"  But  look,"  he  replied ;  "  a  portion  of  the  side 
of  your  boat  under  the  window  has  been  lifted 
out." 

Turning  to  the  place  indicated  by  my  servant 
I  could  see,  although  it  was  quite  dark,  that  there 
was  a  large  hole  in  the  side  of  the  boat  not  more 
than  three  feet  from  where  my  head  had  been 
lying.  At  my  right  hand,  and  just  under  the  win- 
dow, the  trunk  used  to  stand  in  which  I  was 
in  the  habit  of  keeping  my  papers,  money,  and 
other  valuables.  On  the  first  suspicion  that  I 
was  the  victim,  I  stretched  out  my  hand  in  the 
dark  to  feel  if  this  was  safe.  Instead  of  my 
hand  resting  on  the  top  of  the  trunk,  as  it  had 
been  accustomed  to  do,  it  went  down  to  the 
floor  of  the  boat,  and  I  then  knew  for  the  first 
time  tliat  the  trunk  was  gone.  At  the  same  mo- 
ment, my  servant,  Tuiig-a,  came  in  with  a  candle, 
and  Confirmed  what  1  had  just  made  out  in  the 
dark.  The  thieves  had  done  tlieir  work  well — 
the  boat  was  eniptv.  My  money,  amounting  to 
more  than  one  Inindrcfl  Sliangliae  dollars,  my 
accounts,  ajid  other  papers — all,  all  were  gone. 
The  rascals  liad  not  even  left  me  the  clothes  I 
had  thrown  off  when  I  went  to  bed. 

But  there  was  no  time  to  lose  ;  and  in  order 
to  make  every  effort  to  catch  the  thieves,  or  at 
least  get  back  a  portion  of  my  property,  I  jumped 
into  the  canal,  and  made  for  the  l)ank.  The 
tirle  had  now  risen,  and  instead  of  fintling  only 
about  two  feet  of  water — the  depth  when  wo 
111 


HOBERT  FORTUNE.— 3 

Went  to  bed — I  now  sank  up  to  the  neck,  and 
found  the  stream  very  rapid.  A  few  strokes 
with  my  arms  soon  brought  me  into  shallow 
water  and  to  the  shore.  IJere  I  found  the  boat- 
men rushing  about  in  a  frantic  manner,  examin- 
ing with  a  lantern  the  bushes  and  indigo  vats  on 
the  banks  of  the  canal,  but  all  they  had  found 
was  a  few  Manilla  cheroots  wliich  the  thieves 
had  dropped  apparently  in  their  hurry.  A 
watchman  with  his  lantern  and  two  or  three 
stragglers,  hearing  the  noise  we  made,  came  up 
and  inquired  what  was  wrong ;  but  wlien  asked 
whether  they  had  seen  anything  of  the  thieves, 
shook  their  heads,  and  professed  the  most  pro- 
found ignorance.  The  night  was  pitch  dark, 
everything  was  perfectly  still,  and,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  few  stragglers  already  mentioned, 
the  wliole  town  seemed  sunk  in  deep  sleep.  We 
were  therefore  perfectly  helpless  and  could  do 
nothing  further.  I  returned  in  no  comfortable 
frame  of  mind  to  my  boat.  Dripping  with  wet, 
I  lay  down  on  my  couch  without  any  inclination 
to  sleep. 

It  was  a  serious  business  for  me  to  lose  so 
much  money,  but  that  part  of  the  matter  gave 
me  the  least  uneasiness.  The  loss  of  my  ac- 
counts, journals,  drawings,  and  numerous  mem- 
oranda I  had  been  making  during  three  years  of 
travel,  which  it  was  impossible  for  any  one  to  re- 
place, was  of  far  greater  importance.  I  tried  to 
reason  philosophically  upon  the  matter;  to  per- 
suade myself  that  as  the  thing  could  not  be 
helped  now,  it  was  no  use  being  vexed  with  it ; 
that  in  a  few  years  it  would  not  signify  much 
either  to  myself  or  any  one  else  whether  I  had 
been  robbed  or  not;  but  all  this  fine  reasoning 
would  not  do. — Residence  among  the  Chinese. 


NICOLO  UGO  FOSCOLO.— 1 

FOSCOLO,  KicoLO  Ugo,  an  Italian 
author,  born  on  the  island  of  Zante  in  1778  ; 
died  near  London  in  1827.  Upon  the  death 
of  his  father,  a  physician  at  Spoletto,  in  Dal- 
matia,  the  family  removed  to  Venice.  Foscolo 
went  to  the  University  of  Padua,  where  he 
made  himself  master  of  ancient  Greek — 
modern  Greek  being  his  vernacular  tongue. 
At  the  age  of  nineteen  he  produced  his 
tragedy  of  Tieste,  which  was  received  with 
some  favor  at  Venice.  He  had  already  be- 
gun to  take  part  in  the  stormy  political  dis- 
putes growing  out  of  the  overthrow  of  the 
Venetian  State.  He  addressed  an  adulatory 
Ode  to  Bonaparte,  from  whom  he  hoped 
not  merely  the  overthrow  of  the  Venetian 
oligarchy,  but  the  establishment  of  a  free 
Kepublic.  Notwithstanding  that  in  the 
autunjn  of  1797  Venice  was  by  treaty  made 
over  to  Austria,  he  adhered  to  the  French 
side,  and  when  the  hostilities  again  broke 
out  between  France  and  Austria  he  joined 
the  French  army,  and  was  among  those  who 
were  made  prisoners  at  the  taking  of  Genoa 
in  1800.  After  his  release  he  took  up  his 
residence  at  Milan,  where  in  1807  he  wrote 
the  Canne  mi  Sepolo-i,  the  best  of  his 
poems,  which  reads  like  an  effort  to  seek 
refuge  in  the  pas-t  from  the  misery  of  the 
present  and  the  darkness  of  the  future.  In 
1800  he  received  the  appointment  of  Pro- 
fessor of  Italian  Eloquence  at  the  University 
of  Pavia ;  but  this  ])rofessor6hip  was  before 
long  al)olished  by  Napoleon.  After  many 
vicissitudes,  in  1810  he  went  to  England, 
which  was  thereafter  his  home.  He  entered 
upon  a  strictly  Hterary  life,  contributed  to 
reviews  upon  Italiaii  sul)jects,  and  in  1821 
wrote  in  English  his  essays  upon  Petrarch 
and   Dante,  which   brought  him  fame  and 


NICOLO  UGO  FOSCOLO.— 2 

uioney  ;  but  liis  irregular  way  of  life  in- 
volved him  in  constant  pecuniary  straits.  In 
1871,  forty-four  years  after  his  death,  his 
remains  were  removed  to  Florence,  and  de- 
posited in  the  niagjnilicent  Church  of  Santa 
Croce.  Italians  place  the  name  of  Foscolo 
liigh  ui)on  the  list  of  their  great  writers. 

THE  SEPULCHRES. 

Beneath  the  cypress  sliade,  or  sculptured  urn 
By  fond  tears  watered,  is  the  sleep  of  death 
Less  heavy  ?     When  for  me  the  sun  no  more 
Shall  shine   on   earth,    and    bless   with    genial 

beams 
This  beauteous  race  of  beings  animate — 
When   bright   with   flattering   hues,  the  future 

hours 
No  longer  dance  before  me,  and  I  hear 
No  more  the  magic  of  thy  dulcet  verse, 
Nor  the  sad  gentle  harmony  it  breathes — 
When    mute   within    my    breast    the    inspiring 

voice 
Of  youthful  Poesy  and  Love,  sole  light 
To  this  my  wandering  life — what  guerdon  then 
For  vanished  years  will  be  the  marble,  reared 
To  mark  my  dust  amid  the  countless  throng 
Wherewith  Death  widely  strews  the  land  and 

sea? 
And  thus  it  is !     Hope,  the  last  friend  of  man, 
Flics  from  the  tomb,  and  dim  Forgetfulness 
Wraps  in  its  rayless  night  all  mortal  things. 
Cliange  after  change,  unfelt,  unheeded,  takes 
Its  tribute — and  o'er  man,  his  sepulchres. 
His  being's  lingering  traces,  and  the  relics 
Of  earth  and  heaven,  Time  in  mockery  treads. 
Yet  why  hath  man,  from  immemorial  years, 
Yearned  for  the   illusive  power  wliich  may   re- 
tain 
The  parted  spirit  on  life's  threshold  still  ? 
Doth  not  the  buried  live,  e'en  though  to  him 
The  day's  enclianted  melody  is  mute. 
If  yet  fond  thoughts  and  tender  uiemories 
ut 


NICOLO  UGO  FOSCOLO.— 3 

He    wake    in    friendly    breasts  ?      O,    'tis    from 

heaven, 
This  sweet  coinnninion  of  abiding  love  ! 
A  boon  celestial !     By  its  eharin  we  hold 
Full  oft  a  solemn  converse  with  the  dead, 
If  vet  the  pious  earth,  which  nourished  once 
Their  ripening  youth,  in  her  maternal  breast 
Yieldinir  a  last  asylum,  shall  protect 
Their  sacred  relics  from  insulting  storms, 
Or  step  profane — if  some  secluded  stone 
Preserve  their  names,  and  flowery  verdure  wave 
Its  fragrant  shade  above  their  honored  dust. 
But  he  who  leaves  no  heritage  of  love 
Is  heedless  of  an  urn — and  if  he  look 
Beyond  the  grave,  his  spirit  wanders  lost 
Ainong  the  wailings  of  infernal  shores; 
Or  hiifes  its  guilt  beneath  the  sheltering  wings 
Of  God's  forgiving  mercy  ;   while  his  bones 
Moulder  unrecked  of  on  the  desert  sand, 
"Where  never  loving  woman  pours  her  prayer, 
Nor  solitary  pilgrim  hears  the  sigh 
Which   mourning   Nature   sends   us   from    the 

tomb 

From  the  days 
"When  first  the  nuptial  feast  and  judgment-seat 
And  altar  softened  our  untutored  race, 
And  taught  to  man  his  own  and  others'  good. 
The  living  treasured  from  the  bleaching  storm 
And  savage  brute  those  sad  and  poor  remains, 
By  Nature  destined  for  a  lofty  fate. 
Then  tombs  became  the  witnesses  of  pride. 
And    altars    for   the    young :— thence    gods   in- 
voked 
Uttered  their  solemn  answers  ;  and  the  oath 
Sworn  on  the  father's  dust  was  thrice  revered. 
Hence  the  rlevotion,  which,  with  various  rites, 
The  warmth  of  patriot  virtue,  kindred  love, 
Transmits  through  the  countless  lapse  of  years. 

Not  in  those  times  did  stones  sepulchred  pave 
The    temple    floors — nor    fumes     of    shrouded 

corpses, 
Mixed  with  the  altar's  incense,  smite  with  fear 
The  suppliant  worshiper — nor  cities  frown, 


KiCoLO  UGO  F6SC0L6.-4 

Ohastly  witli  sculpt iiivd  skeletons — while  leaped 
Youno;  niotlieis  from  their  sleep  in  wild  affright, 
Shielding  tlieir  helpless  babes  with  feeble  arm, 
And    listening    for    the    groans    of    wandering 

ghosts. 
Imploring  vainly  from  their  impious  heirg 
Their  gold-bought  masses.      But  in  living  green, 
Cvpress  and  stately  cedar  spread  their  shade 
O'er  unforgotten  graves,  scattering  in  air 
Their  grateful  odors  ; — vases  which  received 
The  mourners'  votive  tears.     Their  pious  friends 
Enticed  the  day's  pure  gleam  to  gild  the  gloom 
Of  monuments ;  for  man  his  dying  eye 
Turns  ever  to  the  sun,  and  every  breast 
Heaves  its  last  sigh  towards  the  departing  light, 
There  fountains  flung  aloft  their  silver  spray. 
Watering  sweet  amaranths  and  violets 
Upon  the  funeral  sod ;  and  he  who  came 
To  commune  with  the  dead  breathed  fragrance 

round. 

Like  bland  airs  wafted  from  Elysian  fields 

Happy,  my  friend,  who  in  thine  early  years 
Hast  crossed  the  wide  dominion  of  the  winds! 
If  e'er  the  pilot  steered  thy  wandering  bark 
Beyond   the   ^gean    Isles,   thou    heardst    the 

shores 
Of  Hellespont  resound  with  ancient  deeds ; 
And  the  proud  surge  exult,  that  bore  of  old 
Achilles's  armor  to  Rhseteum's  shore, 
AVhere   Ajax    sleeps.      To    souls    of    generous 

mould 
Death  righteously  awards  the  meed  of  fame  ; 
Not  subtle  wit,  nor  kingly  favor  gave 
The  perilous  spoils  to  Ithaca,  where  waves, 
Stirred  to  wild  fury  by  infernal  gods. 
Rescued   the   treasures   from    the    shipwrecked 

bark. 
For  me,  whom  years  and  love  of  high  renown 
Impel  through  far  and  various  lands  to  roam, 
The  Muses,  greatly  waking  in  my  breast 
Sad  thoughts,  bid  me  invoke  the  heroic  dead. 
They  sit  and  guard  the  sepulchres;  and  when 


NICOLO   UGO  F0SC0L0.-5 

Time  with  cold  wing  sweeps  tombs  and  fanes  to 

ruin, 
The  gladdened  desert  echoes  with  their  song, 
And  its  loud  harmony  subdues  the  silence 
Of  noteless  ages. 

Yet  on  Ilium's  plain, 
Where  now  the  harvest  waves,  to  pilgrim  eyes 
Devout  gleams  star-like  an  eternal  shrine — 
Eternal  for  the  Xymph  espoused  by  Jove, 
Who  gave  her  royal  lord  the  son  whence  sprung 
Troy's  ancient  city,  and  Assaracus, 
Tho'  fifty  sons  of  Priam's  regal  line. 
And  the  wide  empire  of  the  Latin  race. 
She,  listening  to  the  Fates'  resistless  call, 
That  summolicd  her  from  vital  airs  of  earth 
To  choirs  Elysian,  of  heaven's  sire  besought 
One  boon  indying  : — "  O,  if  e'er  to  thee," 
She  cried,  "  tliis  fading  form,  these  locks  were 

dear, 
And  the  soft  cares  of  Love — since  Destiny 
Denies  me  happier  lot,  guard  thou  at  least 
That  thine  Electra's  fame  in  death  survive  !" 
She  prayed,  and  died.     Then  shook  the  Thun- 
derer's throne. 
And,  bending  in  assent,  the  immortal  head 
Showered  down  ambrosia  from  celestial  locks, 
To  sanctify  her  tomb. — Ericthon  there 
Keposes — there  the  dust  of  llus  lies. 
There  Trojan  matrons,  with  dishevelled  hair. 
Sought  vainly  to  avert  impending  fate 
From  their  doomed  lords.    There,  too,  Cassandra 

stood, 
Inspired  with  deity,  and  UAd  the  ruin 
That  hung   o'er  Troy — and   poured   her  wailing 

song 
To  solemn  shades — ami  Ifd  the  children  forth. 
And  taught  to  youthful  li[)s  the  fi<iu\  lament; 
Sighing,  she  said — 

"  If  e'er  the  tiods  permit 
Your    safe    return    from    Greece,   where,    exiled 

slaves. 
Your  hands  shall  feed  your  haughty  conqueror's 
steeds, 

IH 


NICOLO  UGO  F'OSCOLO.— 6 

Your  country  ye  will  seek  in  vain  !     Yon  walls 
By  mighty  Plicvhus  reared,  shall  cumber  earth, 
In  smouldering  ruins.     Yet  the  Gods  of  Troy 
Shall    hold   their   dwelling   in   these   tombs ; — ■ 

Heaven  grants 
One  proud,  last  gift — in  grief  a  deathless  name. 
Ye  cypresses  and  palms,  by  princely  hands 
Of  Priam's  daughters  planted  !  ye  shall  grow, 
Watered,  alas!  by  widows'  tears.     Guard  ye 
My  slumbering  fathers  !     He  who  shall  withhold 
The  impious  axe  from  your  devoted  trunks 
Shall  feel  less  bitterly  his  stroke  of  grief, 
And  touch  the  shrine  with  not  unworthy  hand. 
Guard  ye  my  fathers!     One  day  shall  ye  mark 
A  sightless  wanderer  'mid  your  ancient  shades  : 
Groping  among  your  mounds,  he  shall  embrace 
The  hallowed  urns,  and  question  of  their  trust. 
Then  shall  the  deep  and  caverned  cells  reply 
In  hollow  murmur,  and  give  up  the  tale 
Of  Troy  twiced  razed  to  earth  and  twice  rebuilt; 
Shining  in  grandeur  on  the  desert  plain. 
To  make  more  lofty  the  last  monument 
Raised  for  the  sons  of  Pelcus.     There  the  bard, 
Soothing  their  restless  ghosts  with  magic  song, 
A  glorious  immoitality  shall  give 
Those  Grecian  princes,  in  all  lands  renowned, 
Which  ancient  Ocean  wraps  in  his  embrace. 
And  thou,  too,  Hector,  shalt  the  meed  receive 
Of  pitying  tears,  where'er  the  patriot's  blood 
Is  prized  or  mourned,  so  long  as  yonder  sun 
Shall  roll  in  heaven,  and  shine  on  human  woe." 
Transl.  in  Amer.  Quarterly  Review, 

1£» 


JOIIX  FOSTER.— 1 

FOSTER,  Joiix,  an  English  clergyman 
and  essaj-ist,  born  in  1770;  died  in  1S43.    In 
early  life  he  was  a  weaver,  but  having  united 
witli  the  Baptist  Church  at  the  age  of  seven- 
teen, he  studied  for   the    ministry  at  the 
Baptist  College  at  Bristol,  and  commenced 
his    labors    as   a  preacher    in    1797.      He 
preached  in  several  places,  lastly  at  Frome, 
where  he  went  in  1804.     Here  he  wrote  his 
four  notable  Essays,  "  On  a  Man's  writing 
Memoirs  of    Himself,"  "On   Decision   of 
Character,"  "  On    the  Application    of   the 
Epithet  Romantic,"  and  "  On  Some  of  the 
Causes  by  which  Evangelical  Religion  has 
been  Rendered  Less  Acceptable  to  Persons 
of  Cultivated  Taste."     He  became  one  of 
the   principal   contributors  to  the  Eclectic 
Review,  for  which    he  wrote   nearly   two 
hundred  articles  during  the  ensuing  thirteen 
vears.     In  1820  he  wrote  the  last  of   his 
great  Essays,  "On  the  Evils  of   Popular 
Ignorance."    His  health  now  gave  way,  and, 
afthough  he   preached  at  intervals  during 
the  remaining  twenty-three  years  of  his  life, 
his  labor  was  mainly  that  of  preparing  books 
for  the  press.     Besides  the  writings  already 
mentioned,  Foster  put  forth  two  volumes  of 
his  Contributions   to   the  Eclectic  Review. 
After  his  death  appeared  two  series  of  Lec- 
tures Delivered  at  Bristol  (1844  and  1847,) 
and  an  Introductory  Essay  to  Doddridge's 
Rise  and  Progress  (1847.)     The  Life  and 
Correspondence  of  Foster,  edited  by  J.  E. 
Ryland.  published  in  1846,  has  gone  through 
several  editions. 

CIIANGKS    IN    I.IFK    AND     OPINIONS 

Tlioujrli  iti  momoirs  inteinlcd  for  puUlioation 
a  laru"'  share  of  incl<li-nt  and  action  would  <icn- 
orallv  he  ncccssarv,  vet  lli'TC  arc  sonic  nu-n  whose 
menial  history  ulonc  might  be  very  interesting 


JOHN  FOSTER.— 3 

to  reflective  readers;  as,  for  instance,  that  of  a 
thinking  man  remarkable  for  a  number  of  coni- 
plete  changes  of  his  specuhitive  system.  From 
observing  the  usual  tenacity  of  views  once  delib- 
erately adopted  in  mature  life,  we  regard  as  a 
curious  phenomenon  the  man  whose  mind  has 
been  a  kind  of  caravansera  of  opinions,  enter- 
tained a  while,  and  then  sent  on  ])ilgrin)agc ;  a 
man  who  has  admired  and  then  dismissed  sys- 
tems with  the  same  facility  with  which  John 
Bunele  found,  adored,  married,  and  interred  liis 
succession  of  wives,  each  one  being,  for  the  time, 
not  only  better  than  all  that  went  before,  but  the 
best  in  the  creation.  You  admire  the  versatile 
aptitude  of  a  mind  sliding  into  successive  forms 
of  belief  in  this  intellectual  metempsychosis,  by 
which  it  animates  so  many  new  bodies  of  doc- 
trines in  their  turn.  And  as  none  of  those  dying 
pangs  which  hurt  you  in  a  tale  of  India  attend 
the  desertion  of  each  of  these  speculative  forms 
which  the  soul  has  a  while  inhabited,  you  are  ex- 
tremely amused  by  the  number  of  transitions, 
and  eagerly  ask  what  is  to  be  the  next,  for  you 
never  deem  the  present  state  of  such  a  man's 
views  to  be  for  pcrnianence,  unless  perhaps  when 
he  has  terminated  his  course  of  believing  every- 
thing in  ultimately  believing  nothing.  Even 
then — unless  he  is  very  old,  or  feels  more  pride 
in  being  a  skeptic,  the  concpieror  of  all  systems, 
than  he  ever  felt  in  being  the  champion  of  one 
— even  then  it  is  very  possible  he  may  spring  up 
again,  like  a  vapor  of  tire  from  a  bog,  and  glim- 
mer through  new  mazes,  or  retrace  his  course 
through  half  of  those  which  he  trod  before.  You 
will  observe  that  no  respect  attaches  to  this  Pro- 
teus of  opinion  after  his  changes  have  been  mul- 
tiplied, as  no  party  exi)ect  him  to  remain  with 
them,  nor  deem  him  much  of  an  acquisition  if 
he  should.  One,  or  perhaps  two,  considerable 
changes  will  be  regarded  as  signs  of  a  liberal  in- 
quirer, and  therefore  the  party  to  which  his  first 
or  his  second  intellectual  conversion  may  assign 
him  will    receive  him  gladly.     But  he  will  be 

1<3 


JOHN  F0STER.-3 

deemed  to  have  abdicated  the  dignity  of  reason 
when  it  is  found  that  he  can  adopt  no  principles 
but  to  betray  them  ;  and  it  will  be  perhaps  justly 
suspected  that  there  is  something  extremely  in- 
firm in  the  structure  of  that  mind,  whatever  vigor 
may  mark  some  of  its  operations,  to  which  a 
series  of  very  different,  and  sometimes  contrasted 
theories,  can  appear  in  succession  demonstratively 
true  and  which  intimates  sincerely  the  perverse- 
ness  which  Petruchio  only  affected,  declaring 
that  which  was  yesterday  to  a  certainty  the  sun, 
to  be  to-day  Jis  certainly  the  moon. 

It  would  be  curious  to  observe  in  a  man  who 
should  make  such  an  exhibition  of  the  course  of 
his  mind,  the  sly  deceit  of  self-love.  "While  he 
despises  the  system  which  he  hiis  rejected,  he 
docs  not  deem  it  to  imply  so  great  a  want  of 
sense  in  liim  once  to  have  embraced  it,  as  in  the 
rest  who  were  then  or  are  now  its  disciples  and 
advocates.  No ;  in  him  it  was  no  debility  of 
rea.son  ;  it  was  at  the  utmost  but  a  merge  of  it ; 
and  probably  he  is  prepared  to  explain  to  you 
that  such  peculiar  circumstances  as  might  warp 
even  a  very  strong  and  liberal  mind,  attended  his 
consideration  of  the  subject,  and  misled  him  to 
admit  the  belief  of  what  others  prove  themselves 
fools  by  believing. 

Another  thing  apparent  in  a  record  of  changed 
opinions  would  be,  what  I  have  noticed  before, 
that  there  is  scarcely  any  such  tiling  in  the  world 
as  simple  conviction.  It  would  be  amusing  to 
observe  how  reason  had,  in  one  instance,  been 
overruled  into  acquiescence  by  tlie  admiration  of 
a  celebrated  name,  or  in  another  into  opposition 
by  the  envy  of  it ;  liow  most  opportunely  reason 
discovered  the  truth  just  at  the  time  that  interest 
could  be  essentially  served  by  avowing  it;  liow 
easily  tlie  impartial  examiner  could  be  induced 
to  adopt  some  part  of  another  man's  O[)inion8, 
after  that  other  had  zealously  approved  souic 
favorite,  especially  if  un[)opular  part  of  liis,  as 
the  Phari.sees  almost  became  partial  even  to 
Christ  at  the  moment  that  lie  defended  one  of 


JOHN  FOSTER.— 4 

their  doctrines  against  the  Sadducccs.  It  would 
be  curious  to  see  how  a  professed  respect  for  a 
man's  character  and  talents,  and  concern  for  his 
interests,  might  be  changed,  in  consequence  of 
some  personal  inattention  experienced  from  him, 
into  illiberal  invective  against  him  or  his  intel- 
lectual performances;  and  yet  therailer,  though 
actuated  solely  by  petty  revenge,  account  him- 
self the  model  of  equity  and  candor  all  the 
while.  It  might  be  seen  how  the  patronage  of 
power  could  elevate  miserable  prejudices  into 
revered  wisdom,  while  poor  old  Experience  was 
mocked  with  thanks  for  her  instruction ;  and 
how  the  vicinity  or  society  of  the  rich,  and,  as 
they  are  termed,  great,  could  perhaps  melt  a  soul 
that  seemed  to  be  of  the  stern  consistence  of 
early  Rome  into  the  gentlest  wax  on  which  Cor- 
ruption could  wish  to  imprint  the  venerable 
creed — "The  riijht  divine  of  Kino-s  to  povern 
wrong,"  with  the  pious  inference  that  justice 
was  outraged  when  virtuous  Tarquin  was  ex- 
pelled. I  am  supposing  the  observer  to  perceive 
all  these  accommodating  dexterities  of  reason ; 
for  it  were  probably  absurd  to  expect  that  any 
mind  should  in  itself  be  able  in  its  review  to  de- 
tect all  its  own  obliquities,  after  having  been  so 
long  beguiled,  like  the  mariners  in  a  story  which 
I  remember  to  have  read,  who  followed  the  di- 
rection of  their  compass,  infallibly  right  as  they 
thought,  till  they  arrived  at  an  enemy's  port, 
where  they  were  seized  and  doomed  to  slavery. 
It  happened  that  the  wicked  captain,  in  order  to 
betray  the  ship,  had  concealed  a  large  loadstone 
at  a  little  distance  on  one  side  of  the  needle. 

On  the  notions  and  expectations  of  one  stage 
of  life  I  suppose  all  reflecting  men  look  back 
with  a  kind  of  contempt,  though  it  may  be  often 
with  the  mingling  wish  that  some  of  its  enthusi- 
asm of  feeling  could  be  recovered — I  mean  the 
period  between  proper  childhood  and  maturity. 
Tlicv  will  allow  that  tlicir  reason  was  then  feeble, 
and  they  are  prompted  to  exclaim  :  "  What  fools 
wc  have  been!"  while  they  recollect  how  sin- 
no 


JOHN  FOSTER. -§ 

cerely  tbey  entertained  and  advanced  the  most 
ridiculous  speculations  on  the  interests  of  life  and 
the  questions  of  truth  ;  how  regretfully  aston- 
ished they  were  to  find  the  mature  sense  of  som^ 
of  those  around  them  so  completely  wrong;  yet 
in  numerous  other  instances,  what  veneration  they 
felt  for  authorities  for  which  they  have  since  lost 
all  their  respect ;  what  a  fantastic  importance 
thev  attached  to  some  most  trivial  things  ;  what 
complaints  against  their  fate  were  uttered  on  ac- 
count of  disappointments  which  they  have  since 
recollected  willi  gaiety  or  self-congratulation; 
what  happiness  of  Elysium  they  expected  from 
sources  which  would  soon  have  failed  to  impart 
even  common  satisfaction  ;  and  how  certain  they 
were  that  the  feelings  and  opinions  then  pre- 
dominant would  continue  through  life. 

If  a  reflective  aged  man  were  to  find  at  the 
bottom  of  an  old  chest — where  it  had  lain  for- 
gotten fifty  years — a  record  which  he  had  writ- 
ten of  himself  when  he  was  young,  simply  and 
vividly  describing  his  whole  heart  and  pursuits, 
and  reciting  verbatim  many  passages  of  the  lan- 
guage which  he  sincerely  uttered,  would  he  not 
read  it  with  more  wonder  than  almost  every  other 
writing  could  at  his  age  inspire?  He  would  half 
lose  the  assurance  of  his  identity,  under  the  im- 
pression of  this  immense  dissimilarity.  It  would 
seem  as  if  it  must  be  the  tale  of  the  juvenile  days 
of  some  ancestor,  with  whom  he  had  no  connec- 
tion but  that  of  name. —  On  a  Man's  Writing 
Memoirs  of  Himself. 


STEPHEN  CCLLINS  FOSTER— 1 

FOSTEK,  Stephen  Collins,  an  Ameri- 
can sonff-writer  and  composer,  born  at  Pitts- 
burgh, Penn.,  in  1826;  died  at  New  York 
in  1864.  His  first  published  song,  "  Open 
Thy  Lattice,  Love,"  was  written  in  1842, 
when  he  was  a  mercliant's  clerk  at  Cincin- 
nati. This  was  rapidly  followed  by  maiiy 
others,  the  most  popular  of  them  being  com- 
posed in  the  negro  dialect ;  but  in  his  later 
years  he  rarely  used  this  patois.  Among 
the  songs  in  good  English  are  '*  Willie,  we 
have  Missed  You,"  "Jennie  with  the  Light 
Brown  Hair,"  and  "  Old  Dog  Tray."  He 
pnblished  more  than  one  hundred  songs, 
the  music  as  well  as  the  words  of  many  of 
them  being  by  himself. 

OLD    FOLKS    AT    HOME. 

'Way  down  upon  de  Swannee  Ribber, 

Far,  far  away — 
Dar's  whar  my  lieart  is  turning  ebber— 

Dar's  whar  de  old  folks  stay. 
All  np  and  down  de  whole  creation, 

Sadly  I  roam  ; 
Still  longing  for  de  old  plantation, 

And  for  de  old  folks  at  home. 

All  round  de  little  farm  I  wandered, 

When  I  was  young  ; 
Den  many  happy  days  I  squandered, 

Many  de  songs  I  sung. 
When  I  was  playing  wid  my  brudder, 

Happy  was  I ; 
Oh,  take  riie  to  my  kind  old  mudder! 

Dare  let  me  live  and  die  ! 

One  little  hut  among  the  bushes — 

One  dat  I  love — 
Still  sadly  to  my  memory  rushes, 

No  matter  where  I  rove. 
When  will  I  see  de  bees  a-bumming, 

All  round  de  comb  ? 
When  will  I  hear  de  banjo  tumming 

Down  in  my  good  old  home  ? 
in 


"Baron  de  la  motte  fouqu^.— i 

FOUQUE,  Feiedeich  Heineich  Kakl, 
Baeon  de  la  Motte,  a  German  novelist, 
dramatist,  and  poet,  born  in  1777;  died  in 
1843.  Sprung  from  a  noble  family,  he 
served  in  the  wars  of  the  French  Republic 
and  against  Napoleon,  Having  been  dis- 
abled for  military  service,  he  left  the  army 
in  1813,  and  devoted  himself  to  literary  pur- 
suits. But  before  this  he  had  been  a  volu- 
minous author,  writing  mainly  under  the 
pseudonym  of  '"  Pellegrin."  Towards  the 
close  of  his  life  he  lectured  at  Halle  upon 
poetry  and  literature  in  general,  and  went  to 
Berlin  for  the  purpose  of  lecturing  there  ; 
but  died  suddenly  before  commencing  his 
lectures.  His  works  in  prose  and  verse, 
and  dramas,  are  very  numerous,  the  earliest 
appearing  in  1804,  and  the  latest  being 
published  in  1844 — the  year  after  his  death. 
Two  years  before  his  death  he  prepared  a  col- 
lection oi  his /Select  Wo'rhs  in  twelve  volumes. 
Of  his  tales  T/ie  Nagic  lilng^  Slntram^ 
and  Aslauga's  Knight  have  been  translated 
into  English,  the  last  by  Carlyle,  in  his 
*'  German  Romance."  The  most  popular 
of  Fouque's  worksis  Undine,  i\rst  published 
in  1811,  of  which,  up  to  1881,  twenty-four 
German  editions  had  been  published ;  and 
it  has  been  translated  into  nearly  every 
European  language.  Fouque  was  thrice 
married.  His  second  wife,  Caeoline  von 
RocHow  (177^^1831),  was  an  author  of  con- 
siderable repute.  II i^!  third  wife,  Alber- 
TiNE  ToDE,  wrote  a  romance,  liein/iold,  pub- 
lished in  1865. 

HOW   fNlJI.VK  CAMK  TO  THE   FISHERMAN. 

It  Ih  now — tlin  fiHhcrniaii  .said — ahout  fifteen 
years  afjo  that  I  was  one  day  crossing  the  wild 
fofost  with  iny  goods,  on  my  way  to  tho  city. 
My  wife   liad  Htaycd  at  home,  us  her   wont  is; 

Ml 


liARON  DE  la  MOTTE  FOtJQUi).— 3 

and  at  this  particular  time  for  a  very  good  rea- 
son, for  God  had  given  us  in  our  tolerably  ad- 
vanced age  a  wonderfully  beautiful  child.  It  was 
a  little  girl ;  and  a  question  always  arose  between 
us  whether  for  the  sake  of  the  new-comer  we 
would  not  leave  our  lovely  home  that  we  might 
better  bring  up  this  dear  gift  of  Heaven  in  some 
more  habitable  place.  Well,  the  matter  was  tol- 
erably clear  in  my  head  as  I  went  along.  This 
slip  of  land  was  so  dear  to  me,  and  I  shuddered 
wlien  amid  the  noise  and  brawls  of  the  city  I 
thought  to  myself,  "  In  such  scenes  as  these,  or 
in  one  not  much  more  quiet,  thou  wilt  soon  make 
thy  abode !"  But  at  the  same  time  I  did  not 
murmur  against  the  good  God  ;  on  the  contrary, 
I  thanked  Him  in  secret  for  the  new-born  babe. 
I  should  be  telling  a  lie,  too,  were  I  to  say  that 
on  my  journey  through  the  wood,  going  or  re- 
turning, anything  befell  me  out  of  the  common 
way ;  and  at  that  time  I  had  never  seen  any  of 
its  fearful  wonders.  The  Lord  was  ever  with  me 
in  those  mysterious  shades. 

On  this  side  of  the  forest,  alas !  a  sorrow 
awaited  me.  My  wife  came  to  meet  me  with 
tearful  eyes  and  clad  in  mourning.  "  Oh !  good 
God,"  I  groaned,  "  where  is  our  dear  child  ? 
Speak!"  "With  Him  on  whom  you  have  called, 
dear  husband,"  she  replied;  and  we  entered  the 
cottage  together,  weeping  silently.  I  looked 
around  for  the  little  corpse,  and  it  was  then  only 
that  I  learned  how  it  had  all  happened. 

My  wife  had  been  sitting  with  the  child  on  the 
edge  of  the  lake,  and  she  was  playing  with  it, 
free  of  all  fear  and  full  of  happiness;  the  little 
one  suddenly  bent  forward,  as  if  attracted  by 
something  very  beautiful  on  the  water.  My  wife 
saw  her  laugh,  dear  angel,  and  stretch  out  her 
little  hands;  but  in  a  moment  she  had  sprung 
out  of  her  mother's  arms  and  sunk  beneath  the 
watery  mirror.  I  sought  long  for  our  little  lost 
one ;  but  it  was  all  in  vain  ;  there  was  no  trace  of 
her  to  be  found. 

The  same  evening  we,  childless  parents,  were 


BARON  DE  LA  MOTTE  FOUQUfi.— 3 

sitUns;  silently  together  in  tlie  cottage  ;  neither 
of  us  had  any  desire  to  talk,  even  had  our  tears 
allowed  us.  '  We  sat  gazing  into  the  fire  on  the 
hearth.  Presently  we  heard  something  rustling 
outside  the  door';  it  flew  open,  and  a  beautiful 
little  girl,  three  or  four  years  old,  richly  dressed, 
stood  on  the  threshold  smiling  at  us.  We  were 
quite  dumb  with  astonishment,  and  I  knew  not 
at  first  whether  it  were  a  vision  or  a  reality.  But 
I  saw  the  water  dripping  from  her  golden  hair 
and  rich  garments,  and  I  perceived  that  the  pretty 
child  had  been  lying  in  the  water,  and  needed 
help.  "  Wife,"  said  I,  "  no  one  has  been  able  to 
save  our  dear  child  ;  yet  let  us  at  any  rate  do  for 
others  what  would  have  made  us  so  blessed." 
We  undressed  the  little  one,  put  her  to  bed,  and 
gave  her  something  warm.  At  all  this  she  spoke 
not  a  word,  and  only  fixed  her  eyes,  that  reflect- 
ed the  blue  of  the  lake  and  of  the  sky,  smilingly 
upon  us. 

Next  morning  wc  quickly  perceived  that  she 
had  taken  no  harm  from  her  wetting,  and  I  now 
inquired  about  her  parents,  and  how  she  had 
come  here.  But  she  gave  a  confused  and  strange  ac- 
count. She  must  have  been  born  far  from  here,  not 
only  because  for  the  fifteen  years  I  have  not  been 
able  to  find  out  anything  of  her  parentage,  but 
because  she  then  spoke,  and  at  times  still  speaks, 
of  such  singular  things  that  such  as  we  are  can- 
not tell  but  that  she  may  have  dropped  upon  us 
from  the  moon.  She  talks  of  golden  castles,  of 
crystal  domes,  and  heaven  knows  what  besides. 
The  story  that  she  told  with  most  distinctness 
was,  that  she  was  out  in  a  boat  with  her  mother 
on  the  great  lake,  and  fell  into  the  water  ;  and 
tliat  she  onlv  recovered  her  senses  licre  under  the 
trees,  where  she  felt  herself  quite  happy  on  the 
mcrrv  shore. 

Wc  liad  still  a  great  misgiving  and  perplexity 
weighing  on  our  hearts.  Wc  had  iri(leeii  soon 
decided  to  keej)  the  child  wc  had  found,  and  to 
bring  hf-r  up  in  the  place  of  our  lost  darling;  but 
who  could  tell  us  whether  she  had  been  baptized 


BARON  DE  LA  MOTTE  FOUQUfi.— 4 

or  not  ?  She  herself  could  give  us  no  information 
on  the  matter.  She  generally  answered  our 
questions  by  saying  that  she  well  knew  she  was 
created  for  God's  praise  and  glory,  and  that  she 
was  ready  to  let  us  do  with  licr  whatever  would 
tend  to  his  honor  and  glory. 

My  wife  and  I  thought  that  if  she  were  not 
baptized  there  was  no  time  for  delay,  and  that  if 
she  were,  a  good  thing  could  not  be  repeated  too 
often.  And  in  pursuance  of  this  idea  wo  reflected 
upon  a  good  name  for  the  child,  for  we  were 
often  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  call  her.  We 
agreed  at  last  that  "  Dorothea"  would  be  the 
most  suitable  for  her,  for  I  had  once  heard  that 
it  meant  a  "gift  of  God,"  and  she  had  been  sent 
to  us  by  God  as  a  gift  and  comfort  in  our  mis- 
ery. She,  on  the  other  hand,  would  not  hear  of 
this,  and  told  us  that  she  thought  she  had  been 
called  Undine  by  her  parents,  and  that  Undine 
she  wished  still  to  be  called.  Now  this  appeared 
to  me  a  heathenish  name,  not  to  be  found  in 
any  calendar,  and  I  took  counsel  therefore  of  a 
priest  in  the  city.  He  also  would  not  hear  of  the 
name  Undine  ;  but  at  my  earnest  request  he  came 
with  me  through  the  mysterious  forest  in  order 
to  perform  the  rite  of  baptism  here  in  my  cot- 
tage. The  little  one  stood  before  us  so  prettily 
arrayed,  and  looked  so  charming,  that  the  priest's 
heart  was  at  once  moved  within  him  ;  and  she 
flattered  him  so  prettily,  and  braved  him  so  mer- 
rily, that  at  last  he  could  no  longer  remember 
the  objections  he  had  ready  against  the  name  of 
Undine,  She  was  therefore  baptized  "  Undine," 
and  during  the  sacred  ceremony  she  behaved 
with  great  propriety  and  sweetness,  wild  and 
restless  as  she  invariably  was  at  other  times,  for 
my  wife  was  quite  right  when  she  said  that  it 
has  been  hard  to  put  up  with  her. —  Undine. 

The  Knight  Huldbrand,  to  whom  the  old 
fisherman  told  this  story,  was  inarried  to 
Undine,  the  Water-sprite.  After  a  while 
he  becomes  wearied  with  the  strange  wajs 


BARON  DE  LA  MOTTE  F0UQUf:.-5 

of  his  always  loving  wife  ;  and  is  betrothed 
to  the  proud  and  selfish  Bertalda — who 
turns  out  to  be  the  long-lost  daughter  of  the 
old  fisherman,  having  been  saved  by  the 
water-spirits,  and  was  adopted  by  a  noble- 
man and  his  wife.  Undine  mysteriously 
disappears,  only  to  reappear  at  the  close  of 
the  story. 

THE  MARRIAGE  AND  DEATH  OF  HULDBRAND. 

If  I  were  to  tell  you  how  the  marriage-feast 
passed  at  the  castle,  it  would  seem  to  you  as  if 
you  saw  a  heap  of  bright  and  pleasant  things, 
but  a  gloomy  veil  of  mourning  spread  over  them 
all,  the  dark  hue  of  which  would  make  the 
splendor  of  the  whole  look  less  like  happiness 
than  a  mockery  of  the  emptiness  of  all  earthly 
things.  It  was  not  that  any  spectral  apparitions 
disturbed  the  festive  company  ;  for,  as  we  have 
told,  the  castle  had  been  secured  from  the  mis- 
chief by  the  closing  up  by  Undine  of  the  foun- 
tain in  the  castle  courtyard.  But  the  knight 
and  the  fisherman  and  all  the  guests  felt  as  if  the 
chief  personage  were  still  lacking  at  the  feast ; 
and  that  this  chief  personage  could  be  none 
other  than  the  loved  and  gentle  Undine.  When- 
ever a  door  opened  the  eyes  of  all  were  involun- 
tarily turned  in  that  direction,  and  it  was  noth- 
ing but  the  butler  with  new  dishes,  or  the  cup- 
bearer with  a  flask  of  still  richer  wine,  they 
would  look  down  again  sadly,  and  the  flashes  of 
wit  and  merriment  which  had  passed  to  and  fro 
would  be  extinguished  by  sad  remembrances. 
The  bride  was  the  most  thoughtless  of  all,  and 
therefore  the  most  happy ;  but  even  to  her  it 
sometimes  seemed  strange  that  she  should  be  sit- 
ting at  the  head  of  the  talile,  wearing  a  green 
wreath  and  goid-cmbroidcred  attire,  while  Undine 
was  lying  at  the  bottom  of  the  Danube,  a  cold 
and  stiff  corpse,  or  floating  away  with  the  current 
into  the  ini(,dity  f)cean.  Kor  ever  since  hor  father 
had  spoken  of' something  of  the  sort,  his  words 


Ml 


BARON  DE  La  MOTTE  FOUQU^.— 6 

were  ever  ringing  in  lier  car  ;  and  tins  day  espe- 
cially tliey  were  not  inclined  to  give  place  to  other 
thouglits.  The  company  dispersed  early  in  the 
evening,  not  broken  uj)  by  the  bridegroom  him- 
self, but  sadly  and  gloomily  by  the  joyless  mood 
of  the  guests  and  their  forebodings  of  evil. 
Bertalda  retired  with  her  maidens,  and  the  knight 
with  his  attendants.  But  at  this  mournful  festi- 
val there  was  no  laughing  train  of  attendants  and 
bridesmen. 

Bertalda  wislied  to  arouse  more  cheerful 
tlioughts  ;  she  ordered  a  splendid  ornament  of 
jewels  wliich  Huldbrand  liad  given  her,  together 
with  rich  apparel  and  veils,  to  be  spread  out  be- 
fore her,  that  from  these  latter  she  might  select 
the  brightest  and  the  best  for  her  morning  attire. 
But  looking  in  the  glass  she  espied  some  slight 
freckles  on  her  neck,  and  remembering  that  the 
water  of  the  closed-up  fountain  had  rare  cos- 
metic virtues,  she  gave  orders  that  the  stone  with 
which  Undine  had  closed  it  should  be  removed, 
and  watched  the  progress  of  the  work  in  the 
moon-lit  court  of  the  castle. 

The  men  raised  the  enormous  stone  with  an 
effort;  now  and  then  indeed  one  of  the  number 
would  sigh  as  he  remembered  that  they  were  de- 
stroying the  work  of  tlieir  former  beloved  mis- 
tress. But  the  labor  was  far  lighter  than  they 
had  imagined.  It  seemed  as  if  a  power  within 
the  spring  itself  were  aiding  them  in  raising  the 
stone.  "  It  is,"  said  the  workmen  to  each  other 
in  astonishment,  "just  as  if  the  water  within  had 
become  a  springing  fountain." 

And  the  stone  rose  higher  and  higher,  and  al- 
most without  the  assistance  of  the  workmen  it 
rolled  slowly  down  upon  the  pavement  with  a 
liollow  soimd.  But  from  the  opening  of  the 
fountain  there  rose  solemnly  a  white  column  of 
water.  At  first  they  imagined  that  it  had  really 
become  a  springing  fountain,  till  they  perceived 
that  the  rising  form  was  a  pale  female  figure 
veiled  in  white.  She  was  weeping  bitterly,  rais- 
ing  her  hands  wailingly  above  her   head,  and 

118 


BARON  DE  LA  MOTTE  FOUQUl— 7 

•writiging  tbem  as  she  walked  witli  a  slow  and  se- 
rious step  to  the  castle  building.  The  servants 
fled  from  the  spring;  the  bride,  pale  and  stiff 
with  horror,  stood  at  the  window  with  her  attend- 
ants. When  the  figure  had  now  come  close  be- 
neath her  room  it  looked  moaningly  up  to  her, 
and  Bertalda  thought  she  could  recognize  be- 
neath the  veil  the  pale  features  of  Undine.  But 
the  sorrowing  form  passed  on,  sad,  reluctant,  and 
faltering,  as  if  passing  to  execution. 

Bertalda  screamed  out  that  the  knight  was  to 
be  called ;  but  none  of  the  maids  ventured  from 
the  spot,  and  even  the  bride  herself  became  mute, 
as  if  trembling  at  her  own  voice.  While  they 
were  still  standing  fearfully  at  the  window,  mo- 
tionless as  statues,  the  strange  wanderer  had 
reached  the  castle,  had  passed  up  the  well-known 
stairs  and  through  the  well-known  halls,  ever  in 
silent  tears.  Alas  !  how  differently  had  she  once 
wandered  through  them. 

The  knight,  partly  undressed,  had  already  dis- 
missed his  attendants,  and  in  a  mood  of  deep 
dejection  he  was  standing  before  a  large  mirror, 
a  taper  was  burning  dimly  beside  him.  There 
was  a  gentle  tap  at  his  door.  Undine  used  to 
tap  thus  when  she  wanted  playfully  to  tease  him. 
"  It  is  all  fancy,"  said  he  to  himself  ;  "  I  must 
seek  my  nuptial  bed."  "  So  you  must,  but  it 
must  be  a  cold  one,"  he  heard  a  tearful  voice  say 
from  without ;  and  then  he  saw  in  the  mirror 
Ills  door  opening  slowly — slowly — and  the  white 
figure  entered,  carefully  closing  it  behind  her. 
"  Thev  have  opened  the  spring,"  said  she  softly, 
"  and  now  you  must  die." 

lie  felt,  in  his  paralyzed  heart,  that  it  could 
not  be  otherwise  ;  but,  covering  his  eyes  with 
his  hand.s,  he  said,  "  Do  not  make  me  mad  with 
terror  in  my  hour  of  death.  If  you  wear  a  liid- 
eous  face  behind  that  veil,  do  not  raise  it,  but 
take  my  life,  and  let  me  see  you  not."  "  Alas!" 
replied  the  figure,  "  will  you  not  look  upon  me 
once  more  ?  1  am  .xs  fair  as  wiien  you  wooed 
roc  on  the  promontory."    "  Oh,  that  it  were  so  !" 


BARON  DE  LA.  MOTTE  FOUQUfi.— 8 

sighed  lluldbrand,  "  and  that  I  might  die  in  your 
fond  embrace  !"  "  Most  gladly,  my  loved  one," 
said  she  ;  and  throwing  her  veil  back,  her  lovely 
face  smiled  forth,  divinely  beautiful. 

Trembling  with  love  and  with  the  approach  of 
death,  she  kissed  him  with  a  holy  kiss  ;  but,  not 
relaxing  her  hold,  she  pressed  him  fervently  to 
her,  and  wept  as  if  she  would  weep  away  her 
soul.  Tears  rushed  into  the  knight's  eyes,  and 
seemed  to  surge  through  his  heaving  breast,  till 
at  length  his  breathing  ceased,  and  he  fell  softly 
back  from  the  beautiful  arms  of  Undine,  upon 
the  pillows  of  his  couch — a  corpse.  "  I  have 
wept  him  to  death,"  said  she  to  some  servants 
who  met  her  in  the  antechaniber ;  and,  passing 
through  the  affrighted  group,  she  went  slowly 
out  toward  the  fountain. —  Undine. 

THE  BURIAL  OF  HULDBRAND. 

The  knight  was  to  be  interred  in  a  village 
churchyard  which  was  filled  with  the  graves  of 
his  ancestors ;  and  this  church  had  been  en- 
dowed with  rich  privileges  and  gifts  both  by  his 
ancestors  and  himself.  His  shield  and  helmet 
lay  already  on  the  coffin  to  be  lowered  with  it 
into  the  grave  ;  for  Sir  lluldbrand  of  Ringstetten 
had  died  the  last  of  his  race.  The  mourners  be- 
gan their  sorrowful  march,  singing  requiems  un- 
der the  bright  calm  canopy  of  heaven.  Father 
Heilmann  walked  in  advance,  bearing  a  high  cru- 
cifix, and  the  inconsolable  Bertalda  followed,  sup- 
ported by  her  aged  father. 

Suddenly  in  the  midst  of  the  black-robed  at- 
tendants in  the  widow's  train,  a  snow-white  figure 
was  seen,  closely  veiled,  and  wringing  her  hands 
with  fervent  sorrow.  Those  near  whom  she 
moved  felt  a  secret  dread,  and  retreated  either 
backward  or  to  the  side,  increasing  by  their 
movements  the  alarm  of  the  others  near  to  whom 
the  white  stranger  was  now  advancing  ;  and  thus 
a  confusion  in  the  funeral  train  was  well-nigh 
beginning.  Some  of  the  military  escort  were  so 
daring  as  to  address  the  figure,  and  to  attempt  tq 
m 


BARON  DE  LA  MOTTE  FOUQUfi.— 9 

move  it  from  the  procession  ;  but  she  seemed  to 
vanish  from  under  their  hands,  and  yet  was  im- 
mediately seen  advancing  with  slow  and  solemn 
stop.  At  length,  in  consequence  of  the  continued 
sluinking  of  the  attendants  to  the  right  and  the 
left,  she  came  close  behind  Bertalda.  The  figure 
now  moved  so  slowly  that  the  widow  did  not 
perceive  it,  and  it  walked  meekly  and  humbly 
behind  her  undisturbed. 

This  lasted  until  they  came  to  the  church- 
yard, where  the  procession  formed  a  circle  around 
the  open  grave.  Then  Bertalda  saw  her  unbid- 
den companion,  and  starting  up,  half  in  anger 
and  half  in  terror,  she  commanded  her  to  leave 
the  knight's  last  resting-place.  The  veiled  figure, 
however,  gently  shook  her  head  in  refusal,  and 
raised  her  hands  as  if  in  humble  supplication  to 
Bertalda,  deeply  agitating  her  by  the  action. 
Father  lleilmann  motioned  with  his  hand,  and 
commanded  silence,  as  they  were  to  pray  in  mute 
devotion  over  the  body  which  they  were  now 
covering  with  the  earth. 

Bertalda  knelt  silently  by,  and  all  knelt,  even 
the  grave-diggers  among  the  rest.  But  when 
they  arose  again,  the  white  stranger  had  vanished. 
On  the  spot  where  she  liad  knelt  there  gushed 
out  of  the  turf  a  little  silver  spring,  which  rippled 
and  murmured  away  till  it  had  almost  entirely 
encircled  the  kiiitrht's  grave;  then  it  ran  farther, 
and  emptied  itself  into  a  lake  which  lay  by  the 
Bide  of  the  burial-place.  Even  to  this  day  the 
inhabitants  of  the  village  show  the  spring,  and 
cherish  the  belief  that  it  is  the  poor  rejected  Un- 
dine, who  in  tliis  manner  still  embraces  her  hus- 
band in  her  loving  arms. —  Undine, 
1*1 


FRANCOIS  CHARLES  FOURIER.— 1 

FOURIER,  FuAN(;ois  Charles  Marie, 
a  French  author,  born  in  1772;  died  in  1837. 
He  was  the  son  of  a  liuen-draper  of  Besan- 
gon,  was  educated  in  his  native  town,  and 
when  eighteen  years  old  became  a  clerk  in 
a  mercantile  bouse  in  Lyons.  Later  he  ob- 
tained a  position  as  travelling  clerk  in 
France,  Germany,  and  Holland.  In  1703 
he  commenced  business  in  Lyons  with  the 
capital  left  liim  by  his  father ;  but  when 
Lyons  was  pillaged  by  the  army  of  the  Con- 
vention, he  lost  his  property,  and  escaped 
death  only  by  enlisting  as  a  private  soldier. 
At  the  end  of  two  years  he  was  discharged 
on  account  of  ill  health. 

He  had  always  disliked  mercantile  life, 
but  there  was  no  other  way  open  to  him, 
and  he  again  became  a  clerk  in  a  house, 
which  employed  him  to  superintend  the  de- 
struction of  a  large  quantity  of  rice  that  had 
been  spoiled  by  being  kept  too  long,  in 
order  to  force  prices  np  during  a  time  of 
scarcity.  This  added  to  his  disgnst  with 
commercial  methods,  and  led  him  to  devote 
himself  to  the  study  of  social,  commercial, 
and  political  questions,  with  a  view  to  the 
prevention  of  abuses  and  the  fuitherauce  of 
human  organization  and  progress.  In  1799, 
believing  that  he  had  found  a  clue  in  "  the 
universal  laws  of  atti*action,"  he  applied 
himself  to  construct  his  theory  of  Universal 
Unity,  on  which  he  based  his  plans  of  prac- 
tical association.  His  first  work,  a  general 
prospectus  of  his  theory,  was  published  in 
1808  under  the  title  of  I heorie  des  Quatre 
Mouvenients  et  dcs  Destinees  Generales.  It 
attracted  little  attention,  and  was  soon  with- 
drawn by  its  author  from  circulation.  In 
1822  he  published  two  volumes  of  his  work 
on  Universal  Unity,  entitled  V Association 


PRAKQOlS  CHARLES  FOURIER.— 2 

Domcstique  Agricole^  which  appeared  later 
as  La  Theorie  de  V  Unite  Universelle.  Be- 
sides containing  a  variety  of  speculations  on 
philosopliical  and  metaphysical  questions, 
tlie  work  sets  forth  the  author's  theory  and 
plans  of  association,  involving  many  topics. 
Tlie  remaining  seven  volumes  of  tlie  work 
were  not  then  published.  In  1829  Fourier 
issued  an  abridgment  in  one  volume,  en- 
titled Le  Noiiveau  2Ionde  Industrielle  et 
Societaire,  which  attracted  attention,  and 
led  to  a  negotiation  with  Baron  Capel,  Min- 
ister of  Public  Works,  for  an  experiment 
of  the  plan  of  association.  The  revolution 
of  1830  destroyed  Fourier's  hopes  in  this 
direction,  but  his  theories  had  gained  nu- 
merous con%'erts.  and  in  1832,  Le  Phalan- 
stere^  ou  La  lirforme  Industrielle,  a  weekly 
journal,  was  established  as  an  organ  of  the 
socialistic  doctrines.  A  joint-stock  com- 
pany was  formed,  and  an  estate  was  pur- 
chased, with  a  view  to  a  practical  experi- 
ment of  association.  The  community  who 
had  begun  the  experiment  was  soon  dis- 
persed for  lack  of  money  to  carry  it  on.  In 
1835  Fourier  published  the  first  volume  of 
a  work  entitled  False  Industry,  Fragmcnt- 
anj,  liCjjuJsive,  and  Laying,  and  the  Anti- 
dote, a  Natural,  Cotnhined,  Attractive,  and 
Trxdhful  Industry,  giving  Quadruple 
Products.  A  second  volume  of  this  work 
was  in  press  at  the  time  of  his  death  in 
1837. 

AFFINITIES    IN    FRIENDSHIP. 

Afriiiitics  in  frieiidsliij)  arc  then,  it  appears,  of 
two  kinds;  then;  is  airinity  of  character,  and 
atKnity  of  in(histrv  or  action.  Let  us  choose  the 
word  nrdou,  whicli  is  hcttcr  united  to  onr  jirejii- 
dicc.H,  hccriiise  our  readers  cannot  conceive  what 
is  meant  hv  an  aflinity  in  industry,  nor  liow  the 

lU 


FRANCOIS  CHARLES  FOURIER.— 3 

pleasure  of  making  clogs  can  give  birth  amongst 
a  collection  of  men  to  a  fiery  friendship  and  a 
devotion  without  bounds.  They  will  be  able  to 
form  an  idea  of  affinity  of  action,  if  we  apply  it 
to  the  case  of  a  meal ;  this  action  makes  men 
cheerful ;  but  industrial  action  is  much  more 
jovial  in  harmony  than  a  cheerful  meal  is  with 
us.  Numerous  intrigues  prevail  in  the  most 
trifling  labor  of  the  harmonians ;  hence  it  comes 
that  the  affinity  of  action  is  to  them  as  strong  a 
friendly  tie  as  the  affinity  of  character.  You 
will  see  the  proof  of  this  in  the  mechanism  of 
the  passional  series,  and  you  must  admit  pro- 
visionally this  motive  of  the  affinity  of  action, 
since  we  perceive  even  in  the  present  day  acci- 
dental proofs  of  it  in  certain  kinds  of  work, 
w  here  enthusiasm  presides  without  any  interested 
motive. 

It  seems,  then,  that  Friendship,  so  extolled  by 
our  philosophers,  is  a  passion  very  little  known 
to  them.  They  consider  in  Friendship  only  one 
of  two  springs — the  spiritual,  or  the  affinity  of 
characters ;  and  they  regard  even  this  only  in  its 
simple  working,  in  the  form  of  identity  or  accord 
of  tastes.  They  forget  that  affinity  of  character 
is  founded  just  as  much  upon  contrast — a  tie  as 
strong  as  that  of  identity.  An  individual  fre- 
quently delights  us  by  his  complete  contrast  to 
our  own  character.  If  he  is  dull  and  silent,  he 
makes  a  diversion  to  the  boisterous  pastimes  of 
a  jovial  man ;  if  he  is  gay  and  witty,  he  derides 
the  misanthrope.  "Whence  it  follows,  that 
Friendship,  even  if  we  only  consider  one  of  its 
springs,  is  still  of  compound  essence ;  for  the 
single  spring  of  the  affinity  of  character  presents 
two  diametrically  opposite  ties,  which  are  : — 

Affinitv  -!  ^P''"'^"'^''  ^y  ifientity. 
•^  (  Spiritual,  by  contrast. 

Characters  that  present  the  greatest  contrasts 
become  sympathetic  when  they  reach  a  certain 
degree  of  opposition Contrast  is  as  dif- 
ferent from  antipathy  as  diversity  is  from   dis- 


FRANCOIS  CHARLES  FOURIER.— 4 

cord.  Diversity  is  often  a  gerni  of  esteem  and 
friendsliip  between  two  writers ;  it  establishes 
between  them  a  homotjeneous  diversity  or  emu- 
lative competition,  which  is  in  fact  very  opposite 
to  what  is  called  discord,  quarrelintr,  antipathy, 
heterogeneity.  Two  barristers,  who  had  pleaded 
cleverly  against  each  other  in  a  striking  cause, 
will  mutually  esteem  each  other  after  the  struggle. 
The  celebrated  friendship  of  Theseus  and  Piri- 
thous  arose  from  a  furious  combat,  in  which 
they  long  fought  together  and  appreciated  each 
other's  bravery. 

The  existing  friendship  has  not,  therefore, 
pliilosophical  insipidities  as  its  only  source.  If 
we  may  believe  our  distillers  of  tine  sentiments, 
it  appears  that  two  men  cannot  be  friends  except 
they  agree  in  sobbing  out  tenderness  for  the 
good  of  trade  and  the  constitution.  We  see,  on 
the  contrary,  that  friendships  are  formed  between 
the  most  contrasted  as  well  as  between  identical 
characters.  Let  us  remark  on  this  liead,  that 
contrast  is  not  contrariety,  just  as  diversity  is  not 
discord.  Thus  in  Lovu,  as  in  Friendship,  contrast 
and  diversity  are  germs  of  sympathy  to  us, 
wliereas  contrariety  and  discord  are  germs  of 
antipathy. 

The  affinity  of  characters  is,  then,  a  com- 
pound and  not  a  simple  spring  in  Friendship, 
since  it  operates  througli  the  two  extremes, 
through  contrast  or  counter-accord  as  well  as 
through  identity  or  accord.  This  spring  is  there- 
fore made  up  of  two  elements,  which  are  identity 
and  contrast. 

If  it  can  be  proved  (and  I  pledge  myself  to 
do  it)  that  the  other  spring  of  Friendship,  or 
affinity  of  industrial  tsistes,  is  in  like  n)anner  com- 
poaeii  of  two  eh'tnents  whi(;h  form  ties  through 
contrast  and  identity,  it  will  result  from  it,  that 
Frifudship,  strictly  analvzcd,  is  composed  of 
four  elements,  two  of  wlii(;li  are  furnished  by 
the  spiritual  spring  in  identity  and  contrast,  and 
two  furnished  by  the  material  spring  in  identity 
and    contrast.     Friendship    is    not,  therefore,   a 


PRANgOIS  CHARLES  FOURIER,— 5 

passion  of  a  compound  essence,  but  of  an  essence 
bi-conipounded  of  four  elements. —  The  Passions 
of  the  Human  Soul. 

THE    UNIVERSAL    SIDEREAL     LAN&UAGE. 

This  is  the  phice  to  iislier  on  the  stage  the 
muse  and  the  poetical  invocations  to  the  learned 
of  all  sizes.  Come  forth  all  3'c  cohorts,  with  all 
your  -ologies  and  -isms — theologists  of  all  de- 
grees, geologists,  arclueologists,  and  chronolog- 
ists,  psychologists  and  ideologists;  you  also  na- 
tural philosophers,  geometers,  doctors,  chemists, 
and  naturalists;  you,  especially  grammarians, 
who  have  to  lead  the  march,  figure  in  the  ad- 
vance guard,  and  sustain  the  first  tire;  for  it  will 
be  necessary  to  employ  exclusively  your  ministry 
during  one  year  at  least,  in  order  to  collect  and 
explain  the  signs,  the  rudiments  and  the  syntax 
of  the  natural  language  that  will  be  transmitted 
to  us  by  the  stars.  Once  initiated  into  this  uni- 
versal language  of  harmony,  the  human  mind  will 
no  longer  know  any  limits;  it  will  learn  more  in 
one  year  of  sidereal  transmissions  than  it  would 
have  learnt  in  ten  thousand  years  of  incoherent 
studies.  The  gouty,  the  rheumatic,  the  hydro- 
phobic, will  come  to  the  telegraph  to  ask  for  the 
remedy  for  their  sufferings;  one  hour  later,  they 
will  know  it  by  transmission  from  those  stars,  at 
present  the  object  of  our  jokes,  and  which  will 
become  shortly  the  objects  of  our  idolatry.  Each 
of  the  classes  of  savaris  will  come  in  turn  to  gain 
the  explanation  of  the  mysteries  which  for  tliree 
thousand  years  have  clogged  science,  and  all  the 
prol)lems  will  be  solved  in  an  instant. 

The  geometer  who  cannot  pass  beyond  the 
problems  of  the  fourth  degree,  will  learn  the 
theory  that  gives  the  solutions  of  the  twentieth 
and  hundredth  degrees.  The  astronomer  will  be 
informed  of  all  that  is  going  on  in  the  stars  of 
the  vault,  and  of  the  milky  way,  and  in  the  uni- 
verses, whereof  ours  is  only  an  individual.  A 
hopeless  problem  like  that  of  the  longitudes,  will 
be  to  him  but  the  object  of  one  hour's  telegraphic 

18« 


FRANCOIS  CHARLES  FOURIER.— 6 

communication ;  the  natural  philosopher  will 
cause  to  he  explained  to  him  in  a  few  moments 
his  insoluhie  problems,  such  as  the  composition 
of  light,  the  variations  of  the  compass,  etc.;  he 
■will  be  able  to  penetrate  suddenly  all  the  most 
hidden  mysteries  in  organization  and  the  proper- 
ties of  beings.  The  chemist,  emancipated  from 
his  gropings,  will  know  at  the  first  onset  all  the 
sources  and  properties  of  gases  and  acids ;  the 
naturalist  will  learn  what  is  the  true  system  of 
nature,  the  unitary  classification  of  the  kingdoms 
in  hieroglyphical  relation  with  the  passions.  The 
geologist,  the  archaeologist,  will  know  the  mys- 
teries of  the  formation  of  the  globe,  of  their 
anatomy  and  interior  structure,  of  their  origin 
and  end.  The  grammarians  will  know  the  uni- 
versal language,  spoken  in  all  the  harmonized 
Worlds,  as  well  of  the  sidereal  vault  as  of  the 
planetary  vortex  which  is  its  focus.  The  chron- 
ologist  and  the  cosmogonist  will  know  to  a  min- 
ute almost  at  what  epoch  the  physical  modifica- 
tions took  place.  One  morning  of  telegraphic 
sitting  will  unravel  all  the  errors  of  Scaliger,  of 
Buffon,  and  the  rest.  The  poet,  the  orator,  will 
have  communicated  to  them  the  masterpieces 
that  have  been  for  thousands  of  years  the  ad- 
miration of  those  worlds  refined  in  the  culture 
of  letters  and  of  arts.  Every  one  will  see  the 
forms  and  will  learn  the  properties  of  the  new 
animals,  vegetables,  and  minerals,  that  will  be 
yielded  to  us  in  the  course  of  the  fourth  and  the 
following  creations.  Finally,  the  torrents  of 
light  will  be  so  sudden,  so  in)mcnse,  that  the 
suvniiK  will  succumb  beneath  the  weight,  as  the 
blind  man  operated  on  for  cataract  files  for  some 
days  the  rays  <A  the  star  of  which  he  was  so  long 
deprived. — Pussionn  of  tite  Human  iSoul.    Traml. 

of  MOKELL. 

Ill 


CHARLES  JAMES  FOX.— 1 

FOX,  Charles  James,  an  English  states- 
man and  author,  horn  in  1749  ;  died  in  1806. 
He  was  a  son  of  Henry  Fox,  the  first  Lord 
Holland,  who  amassed  a  large  fortune  as 
Paymaster  of  the  Forces,  and  showed  him- 
self the  most  indulgent  of  fathers.  When  the 
son  was  barely  fourteen,  his  father  took  him 
to  Bath,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  giving  him 
five  guineas  every  night  to  play  with.  At 
this  early  agp  Fox  contracted  the  habit  of 
gambling,  at  which  he  made  and  lost  several 
fortunes.  After  studying  at  Eton,  he  went 
to  Oxford  ;  but  left  College  without  taking 
a  degree.  He  went  to  the  Continent,  in 
1766.  He  returned  to  England  in  1768, 
having  been  returned  to  Parliament  for  the 
"  pocket  borough  "  of  Midhurst,  and  took 
his  seat  before  he  had  attained  his  majority. 
Almost  fi'om  the  outset  he  assumed  a  prom- 
inent place  in  political  affairs  ;  and  soon  be- 
came  acknowledged  to  be  the  most  effective 
debater  in  Parliament,  of  which  he  was  a 
member  for  one  constituency  or  another 
during  the  remainder  of  his  life.  To  write 
the  life  of  Fox  would  be  to  write  the  polit- 
cal  history  of  Great  Britain  for  almost 
forty  years.  We  touch  only  upon  some  of 
its  salient  points.  He  opposed  the  action 
of  the  Government  towards  the  revolted 
American  colonies;  he  supported  proposals 
for  Parliamentary  reform  ;  he  strove  against 
the  misgovern ment  of  India,  and  was  prom- 
inently associated  with  Burke  in  conducting 
the  impeachment  of  Warren  Hastings  ;  he 
opposed  the  hostile  attitude  of  Great  Britain 
towards  the  French  Kevolution  ;  he  was  for 
a  score  of  j^ears  among  the  most  earnest  and 
persistent  advocates  of  the  abolition  of  the 
slave-trade. 

Fox's  fame  rests  mainly  upon  his  unrir 


CHARLES  JA^IES  FOX.— 2 

vailed  power  as  a  Parliamentary  orator  and 
debater.  A  collection  of  his  speeches  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  in  six  volumes,  was 
made  in  1S15.  These,  however,  give  no  idea 
of  his  power  as  an  orator.  He  never  wrote 
his  speeches,  and  rarely  if  ever  even  revised 
the  reports  made  of  them.  The  speeches, 
as  published,  are  the  abstracts  made  by  the 
Parliamentary  reporters  without  the  aid  of 
stenography.  A  great  part  of  them  profess 
to  be  only  minutes  of  the  leading  points. 
Some  of  them — especially  the  later  ones — 
seem  to  be  tolerably  full.  The  earliest  of 
these  parliamentary  speeches  was  delivered 
January  9,  1770  f  the  last  June  10,  1806  ; 
the  whole  number  is  not  less  than  five  hun- 
dred. The  last  of  these  speeches,  which  is 
apparently  reported  nearly  verbatim,  is 
upon  the  Abolition  of  the  Slave-trade,  which 
concludes  thus : 

ABOLITION    OF    THE    SLAVE-TRADE. 

I  do  not  suppose  that  tlicrc  can  be  above  one, 
or  perhaps  two,  nienihers  of  this  House  who  can 
object  to  a  condemnation  of  the  nature  of  the 
trade;  and  sliall  now  proceed  to  recall  the  atten- 
tion of  the  House  to  what  has  been  its  uniform, 
consistent,  and  unclianjreahle  opinion  for  the  last 
eighteen  years,  during  which  we  should  blush  to 
have  it  stated  that  not  one  step  has  yet  been 
taken  towards  the  abolition  of  the  trade.  If,  then, 
we  have  never  ceased  to  express  our  reprobation, 
surely  the  House  must  think  itself  bound  by  its 
character,  and  the  consistency  of  its  proceedings, 
to  condemn  it  now. 

The  first  time  this  measure  was  proposed  on 
the  motion  of  my  honorable  friend  JMr.  Wilber- 
force],  which  was  in  th(!  year  1791,  it  was,  after  a 
long  and  warm  discussion,  rejected.  In  the  follow- 
ing year,  17(»2,  after  the  (pieslion  had  been  during 
the  interval  better  consi<iered,  there  appeared  to 
b«  a  very  strong  disposition,  generally,  to  adopt  it 


CHARLES  JAMES  FOX.— 3 

to  the  full ;  but  in  the  coiiiiiiittee  the  question 
for  its  gradual  abolition  was  carried.  On  that 
occasion,  when  the  most  strenuous  efforts  were 
made  to  specify  the  time  when  the  total  abolition 
should  take  place,  there  were  several  divisions  in 
the  House  about  the  immber  of  years,  and  Lord 
Melville,  wlio  was  the  leader  and  proposer  of  the 
gradual  abolition,  could  not  venture  to  push  the 
period  longer  than  eight  years — or  the'y ear  1800 
— when  it  was  to  be  totally  abolished.  Yet  we  are 
now  in  the  year  1806,  and  while  surrounding  na- 
tions are  rej)roaching  us  with  neglect,  not  a  single 
step  has  been  taken  toward  this  just,  humane,  and 
politic  measure.  When  the  question  for  a  gradual 
abolition  was  carried,  there  was  no  one  could 
suppose  that  the  trade  would  last  so  long  ;  and  in 
the  meantime  we  have  suffered  other  nations  to 
take  the  lead  of  us.  Denmark,  much  to  its  honor, 
has  abolished  the  trade ;  or,  if  it  could  not 
abolish  it  altogether,  has  at  least  done  all  it  could, 
for  it  has  prohibited  its  being  carried  on  in  Dan- 
ish ships  or  by  Danish  sailors.  I  own  that  when 
I  began  to  consider  the  subject,  early  in  the  pres- 
ent session,  my  opinion  was  that  the  total  abo- 
lition might  be  carried  tliis  year  ;  but  subsequent 
business  intervened,  occasioned  by  the  discussion 
of  the  military  plan;  besides  which  there  was  an 
abolition  going  forward  in  the  foreign  trade  from 
our  colonies,  and  it  was  thought  right  to  carry 
that  measure  through  before  we  proceeded  to  the 
other.  That  bill  has  passed  into  a  law,  and  so 
far  we  have  already  succeeded  ;  but  it  is  too  late  to 
carry  the  abolition  through  the  other  House.  In 
this  House,  from  a  regard  to  the  consistency  of 
its  own  proceedings,  we  can  indeed  expect  no 
great  resistance  ;  but  the  impediments  that  may 
be  opened  in  another  would  not  leave  sufficient 
time  to  accomplish  it. 

No  alternative  is  therefore  now  left  but  to  let 
it  pass  over  for  the  present  session ;  and  it  is 
to  afford  no  ground  for  a  suspicion  that  we  have 
abandoned  it  altogether,  that  we  have  recourse  to 
the  measure  which  1  am  about  to  propose.     The 


CHARLES  JAMES  F0X.-4 

motion  will  not  mention  any  limitation,  either  as 
to  the  time  or  manner  of  abolishinu:  the  trade. 
There  have  been  some  hints  indeed  thrown  out 
in  some  quarters  that  it  would  be  a  better  meas- 
ure to  adopt  something  that  must  inevitably  lead 
to  an  abolition;  but  after  eighteen  years  of  close 
attention  which  I  liave  paid  to  the  subject,  I 
cannot  think  anything  so  etfectual  as  a  direct  law 
for  that  purpose.  The  next  point  is  as  to  the 
time  when  the  abolition  shall  take  place  ;  for  the 
same  reasons  or  objections  which  led  to  the 
gradual  measure  of  1V92  may  occur  again. 
That  also  1  leave  open  ;  but  I  have  no  hesi- 
tation to  state  that  with  respect  to  that  my 
opinion  is  the  same  as  it  is  with  regard  to  the 
manner,  and  that  1  think  it  ought  to  be  abolished 
immediately.  As  the  motion,  therefore,  which 
I  have  to  make  will  leave  to  the  House  the  time 
and  manner  of  abc^lition,  I  cannot  but  confidently 
express  my  hope  and  confident  expectation  that 
it  will  be  unanimously  carried. 

Mr.  Fox.  at  the  close  of  Lis  speecli,  pre- 
sented tlie  followint^  resolution.  An  ex- 
tended debate  ensued.  Among  those  who 
spoke  in  favor  of  the  motion  were  Sir  Sam- 
uel Komilly,  Mr.  Wilherforce,  Mr.  Canning, 
and  Mr.  Windham.  Among  those  who 
spoke  against  it  were  Lord  Castlereigh, 
Sir  William  Young,  and  (rcneral  Tarleton. 
The  motion  was  carried,  the  vote  being  114 
yeas  and  15  nays. 

MR.    fox's    motion    KOFI    THE    ABOLITION'     OF     THE 
SLAVE-TRADE. 

Resolved,  That  this  House,  conceiving  the 
African  slave-trade  to  be  contrary  to  tlie  laws  of 
justice,  humanity,  and  sound  policy,  will  with 
ail  [)ractical)lc  expedition  proceed  to  take  effec- 
tual measures  for  abolishing  the  said  trade,  in 
audi  manner,  and  at  such  period,  as  may  be 
deemed  expedient, 

111 


CHARLES  JAMES  FOX.— 6 

This  was  the  last  public  act  perforrped  by 
Charles  James  Fox.  Within  a  week  he  be- 
came so  seriously  ill  that  he  was  forced  to 
discontimie  his  attendance  in  Parliament. 
In  his  speech  he  had  said  :  "  So  fully  am  I 
impressed  with  the  vast  importance  and  ne- 
cessity^ of  attaining  what  will  he  the  object 
of  my  motion  this  night,  that  if  during  the 
almost  forty  years  that  I  have  had  the  honor 
of  a  seat  in  Parliament,  I  had  been  so  for- 
tunate as  to  accomi)lish  that,  and  that  only, 
I  should  think  1  had  done  enough,  and 
could  retire  from  public  life  with  comfort, 
and  the  satisfaction  that  I  had  done  ray 
duty."  The  bill  for  the  abolition  of  the 
slave-trade  was  passed  in  Parliament  the  next 
year  (1807),  but  months  before,  Fox  was 
dead.  Dropsical  symptoms  had  manifested 
themselves ;  these  increased  rapidly.  The 
usual  surgical  operation  was  twice  per- 
formed on  the  Tth  and  31st  of  August,  and 
after  each  operation  he  fell  into  a  state  of 
exhaustion  from  which  he  only  partially 
rallied.  On  the  7th  day  of  September  his 
physicians  gave  up  all  hope  ;  he  died  on  the 
evening  of  the  13th,  in  the  fifty-eighth  year 
of  his  age  ;  and  his  remains  were  interred 
by  the  side  of  those  of  Pitt  in  Westminster 
Abbey. 

Perhaps  the  best  idea  of  Fox  as  an  orator 
may  be  gained  from  his  letter  to  the  elec- 
tors of  Westminster,  which  though  not  de- 
liv^ered  orally  is  in  all  respects  a  labored 
speech,  prepared  under  circumstances  which 
must  have  called  forth  his  best  powers. 
His  course  in  1792  in  regard  to  the  relations 
between  the  British  Government  and  the 
French  Pepublic  occasioned  bitter  censures 
from  almost  every  quarter.  To  explain  his 
course,  and  to  defend  it,  Fox  addressed  a 


CHARLES  JAMES  FOX.— 6 

loDg  letter  to  bis  constituents,  the  electors 
of  Westminster. 

LETTER    TO  THE    ELECTORS    OF  WESTMIXSTER. 

To  vote  in  small  minorities  is  a  misfortune  to 
which  I  have  been  so  much  accustomed, 
that  I  cannot  be  expected  to  feel  it  very 
acutely.  To  be  the  object  of  calumny  and  mis- 
representation gives  me  uneasiness,  it  is  true,  but 
an  uneasiness  not  wholly  unmixed  with  pride 
and  satisfaction,  since  the  experience  of  all 
ages  and  countries  teaches  us  that  calumny  and 
misrepresentation  are  frequently  the  most  un- 
equivocal testimonies  of  the  zeal,  and  possibly  the 
effect,  with  which  he,  against  whom  they  are 
directed,  has  served  the  public.  But  I  am  in- 
formed that  I  now  labor  under  a  misfortune  of  a 
far  different  nature  from  these,  and  which  can 
excite  no  other  sensations  than  those  of  concern 
and  humiliation.  I  am  told  that  you  in  general 
disaprove  of  my  late  conduct ;  and  that,  even 
among  those  whose  partiality  to  me  was  most 
conspicuous,  there  are  many  who,  when  I  am 
attacked  upon  the  present  occasion,  profess  them- 
selves neither  able  nor  willing  to  defend  me. 

That  your  unfavorable  opinion  of  me  (if  in 
fact  you  entertain  such)  is  owing  to  misrepre- 
sentation, I  can  have  no  doubt.  To  do  away  with 
the  effects  of  this  misrepresentation  is  the  object 
of  this  letter ;  and  I  know  of  no  mode  by  which 
I  can  accomplish  this  object  at  once  so  fairlv,  and 
(as  I  hope)  so  effectually,  as  by  stating  to  you 
the  different  motions  which  I  made  in  the 
House  of  Commons  in  the  first  days  of  this  ses- 
sion, together  with  the  motives  which  induced 
me.  [Here  follow  the  statement  and  the  justifica- 
tion.] 

I  have  now  stated  to  you  fully,  and  I  trust 
fairly,  the  arguments  which  persuaded  me  to  the 
course  of  conduct  which  I  have  i)ursued.  In 
these  consists  my  defense,  u[)(»n  which  vou  are  to 
pronounce  ;  and  I  hopie  I  shall  not  be  thought 
presumptuous  when  I  say  that  I  expect  with  con- 
ita 


CHARLES  JAMES  FOX.— 7 

fidence  a  favorable  verdict.  If  the  reasonings 
which  I  liave  adduced  fail  of  convincing  you,  1 
confess  that  I  shall  be  disappointed,  because  to 
my  understanding  they  appear  to  have  more  of 
irrefragible  demonstration  than  can  often  be 
hoped  for  in  political  discussions.  But  even  in 
this  case,  if  you  see  in  them  probability  strong 
enough  to  induce  you  to  believe  that,  thougli  not 
strong  enough  to  convince  you,  they — and  not 
any  sinister  or  oblique  motives — did  in  fact 
actuate  me,  I  still  have  gained  my  cause;  for  in 
this  supposition,  though  the  propriety  of  my 
conduct  may  be  doubted,  the  rectitude  of  my  in- 
tentions must  be  admitted. 

Knowing  therefore  the  justice  and  candor  of 
the  tribunal  to  which  I  have  appealed,  I  await 
your  decision  without  fear.  Your  approbation  I 
anxiously  desire,  but  your  acquittal  1  confidently 
expect.  Pitied  for  my  supposed  misconduct  by 
some  of  my  friends,  openly  renounced  by  others, 
attacked  and  misrepresented  by  my  enemies,  to 
you  I  have  recourse  for  refuge  and  protection. 
And  conscious  that  if  I  had  shrunk  from  ray 
duty  I  should  have  merited  your  censure,  I  feel 
myself  equally  certain  that  by  acting  in  confor- 
mity to  the  motives  which  I  have  explained  to 
you,  I  can  in  no  degree  have  forfeited  the  es- 
teem of  the  City  of  Westminster,  which  it  has 
so  long  been  the  first  pride  of  my  life  to  enjoy, 
and  which  it  shall  be  my  constant  endeavor  to 
preserve. 

As  an  author,  in  the  strict  sense  of  the 
word,  Fox  is  to  be  judged  solely  by  his 
fragment  of  a  Jlistonj  of  James  II.  This 
was  written  in  1797.  He  had  e%adentlj 
purposed  to  write  a  history  of  the  entire 
•reign  of  that  monarch  ;  bat  he  brought  it 
only  through  the  first  two  years  of  that 
reign,  ending  with  the  execution  (July  15, 
1685)  of  the  Diike  of  Monmouth,  an  illegit- 
imate son  of  Charles  11.,  and  nephew  of 
James.      This  fragment,  containing  about 


CHARLES  JAMES  FOX.— 8 

half  as  much  matter  as  a  volume  of  this 
C}'clopecHa,  must  be  regarded  merely  as  an 
evidence  of  what  Fox  could  have  done  as  a 
historian. 

EXECUTION'    OF    THE    DUKE    OF    MONMOUTH. 

At  ten  o'clock  on  the  loth  of  July,  1685, 
Monmouth  proceeded  in  a  carriao-e  of  the  Lieu- 
tenant of  tlie  Tower  to  Tower-hill,  the  place  des- 
tined for  his  execution.  The  two  bishops  [Tur- 
ner and  Kenn]  were  in  the  carriage  with  him, 
and  one  of  them  took  the  opportunity  of 
informing  him  that  their  controversial  alter- 
cations were  not  at  an  end;  and  that  upon  the 
scaffold  he  would  again  be  pressed  for  explicit 
and  satisfactory  declarations  of  repentance. 
When  arrived  at  the  bar  which  had  been 
put  up  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  out  the 
multitude,  Monmouth  descended  from  the  car- 
riage, and  moimted  the  scaffold  with  a  firm  step, 
attended  by  liis  s[)iritual  assistants.  The  sheriffs 
and  executioners  were  already  there.  The 
concourse  of  spectators  was  innumerable ;  and  if 
we  are  to  credit  traditional  accounts,  never  was 
the  general  comp;u<sion  moreaffcctingly  expressed. 
Tlie  tears,  sighs,  and  groans  whicli  the  first  sight 
of  this  lieart-rending  spectacle  produced,  were 
soon  succeeded  by  an  universal  and  awful  silence  ; 
a  respectful  attention  and  affectionate  anxiety  to 
hear  every  syllable  that  should  pass  the  lips  of 
the  sufferer. 

The  Duke  began  by  saying  he  should  speak 
little;  he  came  to  die,  and  he  sliould  die  a  Pro- 
testant of  the  Church  of  Eiighind.  Here  he  was 
interrupted  \iy  the  assistants,  and  told  that  if  he 
was  of  the  Church  of  England,  ho  must  acknowl- 
edge the  doctrine  of  non-resistance  to  be 
true.  In  vain  did  ho  reply  that  if  he  acknowl- 
edged the  doctrine  of  the  Chinch  in  general,  it 
include*!  all.  They  insisted  ho  should  own  that 
doctrine  partinilarly  with  respect  to  his  e.-ise; 
and  urged  much  more  concerning  their  favorite 
point,  upon  which,  however,  they  obtained  no- 

IM 


CHARLES  JAMES  FOX.— 9 

thing  but  a  repetition  in  substance  of  former  an- 
swers, lie  was  then  proceeding  to  speak  of 
Lady  Harriet  Wentworth — of  his  liigh  esteem  for 
her,  and  of  his  confirmed  opinion  that  their 
connection  was  innocent  in  tlie  sight  of  God — 
■when  Goslin,  tlie  sheriff,  asked  him,  with  all  the 
unfeeling  bhintness  of  a  vulgar  mind,  whether 
he  was  ever  married  to  her.  Tlie  Duke  refusing  to 
answer,  the  same  magistrate,  in  the  like  strain, 
though  changing  his  subject,  said  he  hoped  to 
liave  heard  of  his  repentance  for  the  treason  and 
bloodshed  which  had  been  committed  ;  to  which 
the  prisoner  replied,  with  great  mildness,  that  he 
died  very  penitent.  Here  the  churchmen  again 
interposed,  and  renewing  their  demand  of 
particular  penitence  and  />«6//c  acknowledgment 
upon  public  affairs,  Monmouth  referred  them  to 
the  following  paper,  which  he  signed  that  morn- 
ing :  "  I  declare  that  the  title  of  king  was 
forced  upon  me,  and  that  it  was  very  much  con- 
trary to  my  opinion  when  I  was  proclaimed. 
For  the  satisfaction  of  the  world,  I  do  declare 
that  the  late  King  told  me  he  was  never  married 
to  my  mother.  Having  declared  this,  I  hope  the 
King  who  is  now,  will  not  let  my  children  suffer 
on  this  account.  And  to  this  I  put  my  hand 
this  fifteenth  day  of  July,  1685. — Monmouth." 
There  was  nothing,  they  said,  in  that  paper 
about  resistance ;  nor — though  Monmouth,  quite 
worn  out  with  their  importunities,  said  to  one  of 
them,  in  the  most  affecting  manner,  "  I 
am  to  die,  pray  my  lord,  I  refer  to  my 
paper " — would  those  men  think  it  consistent 
with  their  duty  to  desist.  There  were  only  a 
few  words  they  desired  on  one  point.  The  sub- 
stance of  these  applications  on  one  hand,  and  an- 
swers on  the  other,  was  repeated  over  and  over 
again,  in  a  manner  that  could  not  be  believed  if 
the  facts  were  not  attested  by  tlie  signatures  of 
the  persons  principally  concerned.  If  the  Duke, 
in  declaring  his  sorrow  for  what  had  passed,  used 
the  word  invasion,  "  Give  it  the  true  name," 
said  they,  "  and  call  it  rebellion^     "  What  name 


CHARLES  JAMES  FOX.— 10 

you  please,"  replied  the  mild-tempered  Moii- 
mouth.  He  was  sure  be  was  going  to  everlast- 
ing happiness,  and  considered  the  serenity  of  his 
mind  in  his  present  circumstances  as  a  certain 
earnest  of  the  favor  of  his  Creator.  His  repent- 
ance, he  said,  must  bie  tirue,  for  he  had  no  fear  of 
dying ;  he  should  die  like  a  lamb.  "  Much  may 
come  from  natural  courage,"  was  the  unfeeling 
and  brutal  reply  of  one  of  the  assistants.  Mon- 
mouth, with  that  modesty  inseparable  from  true 
bravery,  denied  that  he  was  in  geheral  less  fear- 
ful than  other  men,  maintaining  that  his  present 
courage  was  owing  to  his  consciousness  that  God 
had  forgiven  him  his  past  transgressions,  of  all 
which  generally  he  repented  with  all  his  soul. 

At  last  the  reverend  assistants  consented  to  join 
with  him  in  prayer;  but  no  sooner  were  they 
risen  from  their  kneeling  posture  than  they  re- 
turned to  their  charge.  Not  satisfied  with  what 
had  passed,  they  exhorted  him  to  a  true  and 
thorough  repentance:  would  he  not  pray  for 
the  King?  and  send  a  dutiful  message  to  his 
Majesty  to  recommend  the  Duchess  and  his 
children?  "As  you  please,"  was  the  reply;  "I 
pray  for  him  and  for  all  men."  He  now  spoke 
to  the  executioner,  desiring  that  he  might  have 
no  cap  over  his  eyes,  and  began  undressing.  One 
would  liave  thought  that  in  this  last  sad  cere- 
mony the  poor  prisoner  might  have  been  unmo- 
lested, and  that  the  divines  might  have  been  sat- 
isfied that  prayer  was  the  only  part  of  their 
function  for  which  their  duty  now  called  upoi. 
them. 

Thev  judged  differently,  and  one  of  them  had 
the  fortitude  to  request  the  Duke,  even  in  this 
stage  of  the  business,  that  he  would  address  him- 
self to  the  soldiers  then  present,  to  tell  them  he 
stood  a  sad  example  of  rebellion,  and  entreat  the 

{)coplc  to  be  loyal  and  obedient  to  the  King.  "  I 
lave  Baifl  1  will  make  no  speeches,"  repeated 
Monuioiith,  in  a  tone  jnore  peremptory  than  he 
had  before  been  provoked  to  ;  "  I  will  make  no 
speeches,  I  come  to  die."  "  My  Lord,  ten  words 
in 


CttAhLfiS  JAMES  J'O^t.-U 

Will  l)C  ctiough,"  said  the  persevering  divine ;  to 
which  the  Duke  made  no  answer,  but  turning  to 
the  executioner,  expressed  a  hope  that  he  would 
do  his  work  better  now  than  in  tlie  case  of  Lord 
Russell,  lie  then  felt  the  axe,  which  he  appre- 
hended was  not  sharp  enough  ;  but  being  assured 
that  it  was  of  proper  sharpness  and  weight,  he 
laid  down  his  head.  In  the  meantime  many  fer- 
vent ejaculations  were  used  by  the  reverend  as- 
sistants, who,  it  must  be  observed,  even  in  these 
niouicnts  of  horror,  showed  themselves  not  un- 
mindful of  the  points  upon  which  they  had  been 
disputing — praying  God  to  accept  his  imperfect 
and  (feneral  repentance. 

The  executioner  now  struck  the  blovv,  but  so 
feebly  or  unskilfully,  tliat  Monmouth,  being  but 
slightly  wounded,  lifted  up  his  head  and  looked 
him  in  the  face  as  if  to  upbraid  him,  but  said 
nothing.  The  two  following  strokes  were  as  in- 
effectual as  the  first,  and  the  headsman,  in  a  fit  of 
horror,  declared  that  he  could  not  finish  his 
work.  The  sheriffs  threatened  him ;  lie  was 
forced  again  to  make  a  further  trial,  and  in  two 
more  strokes  separated  the  head  from  the  body. 
Thus  fell,  in  the  thirty-sixth  year  of  his  age, 
James,  Duke  of  Monmouth,  a  man  against  whom 
all  that  has  been  said  by  the  most  inveterate  en- 
emies both  to  him  and  his  party,  amounts  to  lit- 
tle more  than  this — that  he  had  not  a  mind 
equal  to  the  situation  in  which  his  ambition,  at 
different  times,  engaged  him  to  place  himself. — 
History  of  James  the  Second. 

Besides  the  history  as  it  thus  concludes, 
there  are  a  few  short  paragraphs  evidently 
intended  for  a  succeeding  chapter.  Of  these 
the  following  is  the  longest : 


PLANS    OF    JAMES    II. 


James  was  sufficiently  conscious  of  the  in- 
creased strength  of  his  situation,  and  it  is  prob- 
able that  the  security  he  now  felt  in  his  power 
inspired  him  with  the  design  of  taking  more  de- 


CHARLES  JAMES  FOX.— 13 

cided  steps  in  favor  of  the  popish  religion  and 
its  professors  than  his  connection  with  the  Church 
of  Encrland  party  had  before  allowed  him  to  en- 
tertain. That  he  from  this  time  attached  less 
importance  to  the  support  and  affection  of  the 
Tories  is  evident  from  Lord  Rochester's  [Lawrence 
Hyde]  observations,  communicated  afterwards  to 
Burnet.  This  nobleman's  abilities  and  experience 
in  business,  his  hereditary  merit,  as  son  of  Lord 
Chancellor  Chirendon,  and  his  uniform  opposi- 
tion to  the  Exclusion  Bill,  had  raised  him  high 
in  the  esteem  of  the  Church  party.  This  circum- 
stance, perhaps,  as  much  or  more  than  the 
King's  personal  kindness  to  a  brother-in-law,  had 
contributed  to  his  advancement  to  the  first  office 
in  the  state.  As  long,  therefore,  as  James  stood 
in  need  of  the  support  of  the  party,  as  long  as  he 
meant  to  make  tliem  the  instruments  of  his  power 
and  the  channels  of  his  favor,  Rochester  was  in 
every  respect  the  fittest  person  in  whom  to  con- 
fide; and  accordingly,  as  that  nobleman  related 
to  Burnet,  His  Majesty  honored  him  with  daily 
confidential  communications  upon  all  his  most 
secret  schemes  and  projects.  But  upon  the  defeat 
.of  the  rebellion,  an  immediate  change  took  place, 
and  from  the  day  of  Monmouth's  execution,  the 
King  confined  his  conversation  with  the  Treas- 
urer to  the  mere  Inisiness  of  his  office. 

In  writing  the  HisUjry  of  Jam^s  11.^ 
Fox  laid  it  down  as  a  principle  that  he 
"would  admit  into  the  work  no  word  for 
which  he  had  not  the  authority  of  Dryden." 
Among  the  numerous  works  relating  to 
Fox,  tlie  most  notable  is  the  Memoi'ials  and 
Cnrrt'Kpondenre  of  Charlea  James  Fox^ 
edited  by  Lord  John  Russell  (3  vols.,  1854). 


GEORGE  FOX.-l 

FOX,  George,  the  founder  of  the  "  So- 
ciety of  Friends"  or  Quakers,  born  in  Der- 
byshire, Enghmd,  in  1624;  died  at  London 
in  1690.  His  father  was  a  pious  weaver, 
but  too  poor  to  give  his  son  any  education 
beyond  reading  and  writing.  He  was  ap- 
prenticed to  a  shoemaker,  but  at  the  age  of 
nineteen  he  abandoned  this  occupation,  and 
for  some  years  led  a  solitary  and  wandering 
life  preparing  himself  for  the  mission  to 
which  he  believed  himself  divinely  called. 
In  his  Journal  he  thus  describes  some  of 
the  visions  which  marked  his  spiritual 
career : 

fox's  visions. 
One  morning,  as  I  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  a 
great  cloud  came  over  me,  and  a  temptation  be- 
set me,  and  I  sate  still.  And  it  was  said,  "  All 
things  come  by  nature ;"  and  the  Elements  and 
Stars  came  over  me,  so  that  I  was  in  a  moment 
quite  clouded  with  it ;  but  inasmuch  as  I  sat 
still  and  said  nothing,  the  people  of  the  house 
perceived  nothing.  And  as  I  sate  still  under  it 
and  let  it  alone,  a  living  hope  rose  in  me,  and  a 
true  voice  arose  in  me  which  cried:  "There  is  a 
living  God  who  made  all  things."  And  imme- 
diately the  cloud  and  temptation  vanished  away, 
and  the  life  rose  over  it,  and  all  my  heart  was 

glad,  and  I  praised  the  living  God After- 

■  wards  the  Lord's  power  broke  forth,  and  I  had 
great  openings  and  prophecies,  and  spoke  unto 
the  people  of  the  things  of  God,  which  they 
hieard  with  attention  and  silence,  and  went  away 
and  spread  the  fame  thereof. 

Fox  made  his  first  public  appearance  as  a 
preacher  at  Manchester,  in  1648,  and  he  was 
put  in  prison  as  a  disturber  of  the  peace. 
He  was  subsequently  for  nearly  forty  years 
beaten  and  imprisoned  times  almost  with- 
out number.  He  thus  describes  one  of  the 
earliest  of  these  experiences : 


GEORGE  FOX.— 3 

MALTREATMENT    AT    ULVERSTONE. 

The  people  were  in  a  rage,  and  fell  upon  me 
in  the  steeple-house  before  his  [Justice  Sawrey's] 
face,  knocked  me  down,  kicked  me,  and  trampled 
upon  me.  So  great  was  the  uproar,  that  some 
tumbled  over  their  seats  for  fear.  At  last  he 
came  and  took  me  from  the  people,  led  me  out 
of  the  steeple-house,  and  put  me  into  tlie  hands 
of  the  constables  and  other  officers,  bidding  them 
whip  me,  and  put  me  out  of  the  town.  Many 
friendly  people  being  come  to  the  market,  and 
some  to  the  steeple-house  to  hear  me,  divers  of 
these  they  knocked  down  also,  and  broke  their 
heads,  so  that  the  blood  ran  down  several ;  and 
Judge  Fell's  son  running  after  to  see  what  they 
would  do  with  me,  they  threw  him  into  a  ditch  of 
water,  some  of  them  crying :  "  Knock  the  teeth  out 
of  his  head."  When  they  had  hauled  me  to  the 
common  moss-side,  a  multitude  following,  the 
constables  and  other  officers  gave  me  some  blows 
over  my  back  with  willow-rods,  and  thrust  me 
among  the  rude  multitude,  who,  having  fur- 
nished themselves  with  staves,  hedge-stakes, 
holm  or  holly  bushes,  fell  upon  me,  and  beat  me 
upon  the  head,  arms,  and  shoulders,  till  they  had 
deprived  me  of  sense ;  so  that  I  fell  down  upon 
the  wet  common.  Wlien  I  recovered  again,  and 
saw  myself  lying  in  a  watery  common,  and  the 
people  standing  about  me,  I  lay  still  a  little  while, 
and  the  power  of  the  Lord  sprang  through  me, 
and  the  eternal  refreshings  revived  me,  so  that  I 
stood  up  again  in  the  strengthening  power  of 
the  eternal  God,  and  stretching  out  my  arms 
amongst  them,  I  said  with  a  loud  voice  :  "  Strike 
again  I  here  are  my  arms,  my  head,  and  cheeks!" 
Then  they  began  to  fall  out  among  themselves. 
— Journal. 

In  1655  Fox  was  sent  up  as  a  prisoner  to 
London,  where  he  liarl  an  interview  witli 
the  Lord  Protector,  Oliver  Cromwellj  which 
be  thus  describes : 


GEORGE  FOX.— 3 

INTERVIEW    WITH    OLIVER    CROMWELL. 

After  Captain  Drury  had  lodged  me  at  the 
Mermaid,  over  acjainst  the  Mews  at  Charing 
Cross,  lie  went  to  give  tlie  Protector  an  account 
of  me.  When  he  came  to  me  again,  he  told  me 
the  Protector  required  that  I  should  promise  not 
to  take  up  a  carnal  sword  or  weapon  against  him 
or  the  government,  as  it  then  was ;  and  that  I 
should  write  it  in  what  words  I  saw  good,  and 
set  my  hand  to  it.  I  said  little  in  reply  to  Cap- 
tain Drury,  but  the  next  morning  I  was  moved 
of  the  Lord  to  write  a  paper  to  the  Protector,  by 
the  name  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  wherein  1  did,  in 
the  presence  of  the  Lord  God,  declare  that  I  did 
deny  the  wearing  or  drawing  of  a  "carnal  sword, 
or  any  other  outward  weapon,  against  him  or  any 
man  ;  and  that  I  was  sent  of  God  to  stand  a  wit- 
ness against  all  violence,  and  against  the  works 
of  darkness,  and  to  turn  people  from  darkness  to 
light;  to  bring  them  from  the  occasion  of  war 
and  lighting  to  the  peaceable  Gospel,  and  from 
being  evil-doers,  which  the  magistrates'  sword 
should  be  a  terror  to."  When  I  had  written 
what  the  Lord  had  given  me  to  write,  I  set  my 
name  to  it,  and  gave  it  to  Captain  Drury  to  hand 
to  Oliver  Cromwell,  which  he  did. 

After  some  time,  Captain  Drury  brought  me 
before  the  Protector  himself  at  Whitehall.  It 
was  in  a  morning,  befoie  he  was  dressed ;  and 
one  Harvey,  who  had  come  a  little  among 
Friends,  but  was  disobedient,  waited  upon  him. 
When  I  came  in,  I  was  moved  to  say :  "  Peace 
be  in  this  house;"  and  I  exhorted  him  to  keep 
in  the  fear  of  God,  that  he  might  receive  wisdom 
from  him  ;  that  by  it  he  might  be  ordered,  and 
with  it  might  order  all  things  under  his  hand 
unto  God's  glory.  I  spoke  much  to  him  of 
truth;  and  a  great  deal  of  discourse  I  had  with 
him  about  religion,  wherein  he  carried  himself 
very  moderately.  But  he  said  we  quarrelled 
with  the  priests,  whom  he  called  ministers.  I 
told  him  "I  did  not  quarrel  with  them,  they 
quarrelled  with  mo  and  my  friends,    But,  said  I, 


GEORGE  POX.— 4 

if  we  own  the  prophets,  Christ,  and  the  apostles, 
we  cannot  hold  up  such  teachers,  prophets,  and 
shepherds,  as  the  prophets,  Christ,  and  the 
apostles  declared  apiinst ;  but  we  must  declare 
as^ainst  them  by  the  same  power  and  spirit." 
Then  I  showed  him  that  the  prophets,  Christ, 
and  the  apostles  declared  freely,  and  declared 
asrainst  them  that  did  not  declare  freely ;  such  as 
preached  for  tilthv  lucre,  divined  for  money,  and 
preached  for  hire,  and  were  covetous  and  greedy, 
like  the  dumb  dogs  that  c%)uld  never  have  enough  ; 
and  that  they  wlio  have  the  same  spirit  that 
Christ,  and  the  prophets,  and  the  apostles  had, 
could  not  but  declare  against  all  such  now,  as 
they  did  then.  As  I  spoke,  he  several  times  said 
it  was  verv  good,  and  it  was  truth.  I  told  him : 
"That  all  Christendom,  so  called,  had  the  Scrip- 
tures, but  they  wanted  the  [lower  and  spirit  that 
those  had  who  gave  forth  the  Scriptures,  and  that 
was  the  reason  they  were  not  in  fellowship  with 
the  Son,  nor  with  the  Father,  nor  with  the  Scrip- 
tures, nor  one  with  another." 

Many  more  words  I  had  with  him,  but  people 
coming  in,  I  drew  a  little  back.  As  I  was  turn- 
ing, lie  catched  me  by  the  hand,  and  with  tears 
in  his  eyes  said  :  "  Come  again  to  my  house,  for 
if  thou  and  I  were  but  an  hour  of  a  day  together, 
we  should  be  nearer  one  to  the  other;  adding, 
that  he  wished  me  no  more  ill  than  he  did  to  his 
own  soul.  I  told  him,  if  he  did,  he  wronged  his 
own  soul,  and  admonished  him  to  hearken  to 
God's  voice,  that  he  might  stand  in  his  counsel, 
and  obey  it;  and,  if  he  did  so,  that  would  keep 
him  from  hardness  of  heart  ;  but  if  he  did  not 
hear  God's  voice,  his  heart  would  be  hardened. 
lie  saiil  it  was  true. 

Then  I  went  out;  and  when  Captain  I>rury 
came  out  after  me,  he  tobl  me  the  Lord  Protector 
said  I  was  at  liberty,  and  might  go  whither  I 
would.  TIj'Ti  I  was  brought  into  a  great  hall, 
where  the  Prf>t«'ctor's  gj-ntlemen  were  to  dine. 
I  asked  them  what  they  brought  me  thither  for. 
They  said  it  was  by  the  Protector's  order,  that  I 
tot 


GEORGE  F0X.-5 

might  dine  with  them.  I  bid  them  let  the  Pro- 
tector know  I  would  not  eat  of  his  bread,  nor 
drink  of  his  drink.  When  he  heard  this,  he 
said :  "  Now  1  see  there  is  a  people  risen  that  I 
cannot  win,  either  with  gifts,  honors,  offices,  or 
places ;  but  all  other  sects  and  people  I  can."  It 
was  told  him  again,  "  That  we  had  forsook  our 
own,  and  were  not  like  to  look  for  such  things 
from  him." — Journal. 

Three  years  hiter  Fox  Lad  one  more  brief 
meeting  with  Oliver, 'not  many  days  before 
his  death : 

A    WAFT    OF    DEATH. 

The  same  day,  taking  boat,  I  went  down  to 
Kingston,  and  from  thence  to  Hampton  Court, 
to  speak  with  the  Protector  about  the  sufferings 
of  Friends.  I  met  him  riding  into  Hampton 
Court  Park ;  and  before  I  came  to  him,  as  he 
rode  at  the  head  of  his  life-guard,  I  saw  and  felt 
a  waft  of  death  go  forth  against  him  :  and  when 
I  came  to  him  he  looked  like  a  dead  man.  After 
I  had  laid  the  sufferings  of  Friends  before  him, 
and  had  warned  him  according  as  I  was  moved 
to  speak  to  him,  he  bade  me  come  to  his  house. 
So  1  returned  to  Kingston,  and  the  next  day 
went  up  to  Hampton  Court  to  speak  further  with 
him.  But  when  I  came,  Harvey,  who  was  one 
that  waited  on  him,  told  me  the  doctors  were  not 
willing  that  I  should  speak  with  him.  So  I 
passed  away,  and  never  saw  him  more. — Journal. 

After  the  restoration  of  Charles  IL,  Fox 
was  subjected  to  repeated  imprisonments. 
In  1669  be  married  Margaret  Fell,  the 
widow  of  a  Welsh  judge,  who  bad  been 
among  bis  earliest  converts.  Soon  after- 
wards be  set  out  upon  a  missionary  tour  to 
the  West  Indies  and  North  America.  In  bis 
later  years  be  seems  to  have  encountered  little 
annoyance  from  the  Government.' 


JOHN  FOXE.— 1 

FOXE,  or  FOX,  John,  an  English  mar- 
tyrologist,  born  in  1517;  died  in  15S7.     He 
was  educated  at  Oxford,  and  in  1543  was 
elected  a  Fellow  of  Magdalen  College,  but 
having  embraced  the  principles  of   the  Re- 
formation, he  was  two  years  afterwards  de- 
prived of   his  Fellowship;   his   stepfather 
also   succeeded   in    depriving   him   of    his 
patrimony.     Subsequently  we  find  him  act- 
ing as  tutor  to  the  children  of  Sir  James 
Lucy  (Shakespeare's   ''Justice    Shallow.") 
In    1550   he  was  ordained'  as   deacon   by 
Bishop    Ridley,   and    settled    at    Reigate. 
After  the  accession  of  Queen  Mary  Tudor, 
he  was  obliged  to  seek  refuge  on  the  Con- 
tinent, taking  up  his   residence   at   Basel, 
Switzerland,  where  he  maintained  hiniself 
as  a  corrector  of  the  press  for  the  printer 
Oporinus.    At  the  suggestion  of  Lady  Jane 
Grey,  he  had  already  begun  the  composition 
of  his  Acta  et  21onumtnta  Ecdexia^  com- 
monly known  as  Foxe^'i  Booh  of  Martyrs^ 
in  which  he  received  considerable  assistance 
from    Grindal,    afterwards   Archbishop    of 
Canterbury,  and  from  Aylmer,  afterwards 
Bishop  of  London,  who  became  one  of  the 
most   zealous   opponents  of   the  Puritans. 
He  returned  to  England  soon  after  the  ac- 
cession   of   Elizabeth,  and    rose  into  favor 
with  the  new  Government,  to  which  he  had 
rendered  notable  service  by  his  pen.    Cecil, 
Lord    Burleigh,   made   him   a   prebend    in 
Salisbury  Cathedral,  and  for  a  short  time  he 
held  the  living  of  Cripj)k'gate,  London  ;  but 
true  to  his  Puritan  ])rinci})les,  he  refused  to 
Kubscrilte  to  the  Articles,  and  declined  to  ac- 
cept further  j)refern)ents  which  were  offered 
to  iiini. 

The  first  outline  of  the  Ada  apjK'arcd  at 
Basel  in  1554,  and  the  first  complete  edition 


JOHN  FOXE.— 2 

five  years  later.  The  first  English  edition 
was  printed  in  15();}.  The  book  became 
higlily  popular  with  a  people  who  had  just 
gone  through  the  horrors  of  the  Marian 
persecution  ;  and  Government  directed  that 
a  copy  should  be  placed  in  every  parish 
church.  The  title  of  the  work  will  best  set 
forth  its  scope  and  design  : 

ORIGINAL     TITLE    OF    THE    "  BOOK     OF     MARTYRS." 

Acts  and  Momnnciits  of  these  latter  and  Peril- 
Ions  Dayes,  touclung  matters  of  the  Church, 
wherein  are  conipreliended  and  described  the 
great  Persecutions  and  horrible  Troubles  that 
have  been  wrought  and  practised  by  the  Koinishe 
Prelates,  espcciallye  in  this  Realme  of  England 
and  Scotland,  from  the  yeare  of  our  Lorde  a 
thousand  to  the  time  now  present.  Gathered 
and  collected  according  to  the  true  Copies  and 
Wrytinges  certificatorie  as  well  of  the  Parties 
themselves  that  Suffered,  as  also  out  of  the 
Bishops'  Registers,  which  were  the  doers  thereof, 
by  John  Foxe. 

One  of  the  most  notable  of  the  martyr- 
doms recorded  by  Foxe  is  prefaced  by  the 
following  heading  :  "A  Notable  History  of 
"William  Hunter,  a  Young  Man  of  19  Years, 
pursued  to  death  by  Justice  Brown,  for 
the  Gospel's  Sake,  Worthy  of  all  Young 
Men  and  Parents  to  be  read :" 

THE    MARTYRDOM    OF   WILLIAM    HUNTER. 

In  the  meantime,  William's  father  and  mother 
came  to  him,  and  desired  heartily  of  God  that 
he  might  continue  to  the  end  in  that  good  way 
which  he  had  begun ;  and  his  mother  said  to 
him  that  she  was  glad  that  ever  she  was  so  happy 
to  bear  such  a  child,  wliicli  could  find  in  his 
lieart  to  lose  his  life  for  Christ's  name  sake. 

Then  William  said  to  his  mother:  "  For  my 
little  pain  which  I  shall  suffer,  which  is  but  a 
sot 


JOHN  FOXE.— 3 

short  braid,  Christ  hath  promised  me,  mother," 
said  he,  •'  a  crown  of  joy  :  may  you  not  be  glad 
of  that,  mother  T'  Withthat,  his  mother  kneeled 
down  on  her  knees,  saying;  "I  pray  God 
strengthen  thee,  my  son,  to  the  end  :  yea,  I  think 
thee  as  well  bestowed  as  any  child  that  ever  I 
bare." 

At  the  which  words.  Master  Higbed  took  her 
in  his  arms,  saying :  "  I  rejoice"  (and  so  said  the 
others)  "to  see  yon  in  this  mind,  and  you  have  a 
good  cause  to  Vejoice."  And  his  father  and 
mother  both  said  that  they  were  never  of  other 
mind,  but  prayed  for  him,  that  as  he  had  begun 
to  confess  Christ  before  men,  he  likewise  might 
so  continue  to  the  end.  William's  father  said : 
"  I  was  afraid  of  nothing,  bnt  that  my  son  should 
have  been  killed  in  the  prison  for  hunger  and 
cold,  the  bishop  was  so  hard  to  him."  But 
William  confessed,  after  a  month  that  his  father 
was  charged  with  his  board,  that  he  lacked 
nothing,  but  had  meat  and  clothing  enough,  yea, 
even  out  of  the  court,  both  money,  meat,  clothes, 
wood,  an<l  coals,  and  all  things  necessary. 

Thus  thev  continued  in  their  inn,  being  the 
Swan  in  Bruiitwood,  in  aparlour,  whither  resorted 
many  people  of  the  country,  to  see  those  good 
men'which  were  there;  and  many  of  William's 
acquaintance  came  to  him,  and  reasoned  with 
him,  and  he  witli  them,  exhorting  them  to  come 
awav  from  the  abomination  of  popish  supersti- 
tion and  idolatry. 

Thus  passing  away  Saturday,  Sunday,  and 
Monday,  on  Monday,  at  night,  it  happened  that 
Wiiliam  had  a  dream  about  two  of  the  clock  in 
the  morning,  which  was  this:  how  that  he  was 
at  the  place  where  the  stake  was  piglit,  whore  he 
shouM  be  burnetl,  which  (as  lie  thought  in  his 
dream)  was  at  the  town's  end  whore  the  butts 
stood,  which  was  so  in<lood;  and  also  he  dreamed 
that  he  met  with  his  father,  as  he  went  to  the 
stake,  and  also  that  there  was  "a  priest  at  the 
stake,  which  went  about  to  have  hint  recant.  To 
whom  he  said  (as  he  thought  in  his  dream),  how 

Ml 


JOHN  FOXE.— 4 

that  he  bade  him  away  false  prophet,  and  how 
that  he  exliorted  the  people  to  beware  of  him 
and  such  as  he  was  ;  which  things  came  to  pass 
indeed.  It  happened  that  William  made  a 
noise  to  himself  in  his  dream,  which  caused  M. 
Higbed  and  the  others  to  wake  him  out  of  hia 
sleep,  to  know  what  he  lacked.  When  he 
awaked,  he  told  them  his  dream  in  order  as  is 
said. 

Now,  wlicn  it  was  day,  the  sheriff,  M.  Brocket, 
called  on  to  set  forward  to  the  burning  of  Will- 
iam Hunter.  Then  came  the  sheriff's  son  to 
William  Hunter,  and  embraced  him  in  his  right 
arm,  saying  :  "  William,  be  not  afraid  of  these 
men,  which  are  here  present  with  bows,  bills,  and 
weapons  ready  prepared  to  bring  you  to  the 
place  where  you  shall  be  burned."  To  whom 
William  answered:  "I  thank  God  I  am  not 
afraid ;  for  I  have  cast  my  count  what  it  will 
cost  me,  already."  Then  the  sheriff's  son  could 
speak  no  more  to  him  for  weeping. 

Then  William  Hunter  plucked  up  his  gown, 
and  stepped  over  the  parlor  grounsel,  and  went 
forward  cheerfully,  the  sheriff's  servant  taking 
him  by  one  arm,  and  his  brother  by  another; 
and  thus  going  in  the  way,  he  met  with  his 
father,  according  to  his  dream,  and  he  spake  to 
his  son,  weeping,  and  saying  :  "  God  be  with 
thee,  son  William;"  and  William  said:  "God 
be  with  you,  good  father,  and  be  of  good  com- 
fort, for  I  hope  we  shall  meet  again,  when  we 
shall  be  merry."  His  father  said  :  "  I  hope  so, 
William,"  and  so  departed.  So  William  went 
to  the  place  where  the  stake  stood,  even  accord- 
ing to  his  dream,  whereas  all  things  were  very 
unready.  Then  William  took  a  wet  broom  fagot, 
and  kneeled  down  thereon,  and  read  the  51st 
psalm,  till  he  came  to  these  words  :  "  The  sacri- 
fice of  God  is  a  contrite  spirit;  a  contrite  and  a 
broken  heart,  0  God,  thou  wilt  not  despise." 

Then  said  Master  Tyrell  of  tlie  Bratches, 
called  William  Tyrell:  "Thou  licst,"  said  he; 
"thou   readest   false,  for   the   words   are,    'an 

30« 


JOHN  FOXE.— 5 

spirit.'"  But  William  said:  "The 
translation  saitli  '  a  contrite  heart.' "  "  Yes," 
quoth  Mr.  Tvrell,  "the  translation  is  false;  ye 
translate  books  as  ye  list  yourselves,  like  here- 
tics." "  Well,"  quoth  William,  "  there  is  no 
great  difference  in  those  words."  Then  said  the 
sheriflf :  "  Here  is  a  letter  from  the  queen  ;  if 
thou  wilt  recant,  thou  shalt  live ;  if  not,  thou 
shalt  be  burned."  "  No,"  quoth  William,"  "  I 
will  not  recant,  God  willing."  Then  William 
rose,  and  went  to  the  stake,  and  stood  upri<rht 
to  it.  Then  came  one  Richard  Pond,  a  bailiff, 
and  made  fast  the  chain  about  William. 

Then  said  Master  Brown ;  "  Here  is  not  wood 
enough  to  burn  a  leg  of  liim."  Then  said  Will- 
iam :  "Good  people,  pray  for  me;  and  make 
speed,  and  desjtatch  quickly ;  and-  pray  for 
me  while  ye  see  me  alive,  good  people,  and  I  will 
pray  for  you  likewise."  "  How  !"  quoth  Master 
Brown,  "pray  for  tliee?  I  will  pray  no  more 
for  thee  than  I  will  pray  for  a  dog."  To  whom 
William  answered:  "Master  Brown,  now  you 
have  that  which  you  souglit  for,  and  I  pray  God 
it  be  not  laid  to  your  charge  in  the  last  day ; 
howbeit,  I  forgive  you."  Then  said  Master 
Brown  :  "  I  ask  no  forgiveness  of  thee."  "  Well," 
said  William,  "  if  God  forgive  you  not,  I  shall 
require  my  blood  at  your  hands." 

Then  said  William  :  "  Son  of  God,  sliinc  upon 
mc !"  and  immediately  the  sun  in  tlie  element 
slionc  out  of  a  dark  cloud  so  full  in  his  face  that 
he  was  constrained  to  look  another  way  ;  whereat 
the  people  mused,  because  it  was  so  dark  a  little 
time  afore.  Then  William  took  up  a  fagot  of 
broom,  and  embraced  it  in  his  arm?. 

Then  this  priest  which  William  dreamed  of 
came  to  liis  brother  Robert  with  a  popish  >)ook 
to  carry  to  William,  that  lie  might  recant ;  which 
book  his  brother  would  not  meddle  withal.  Then 
William,  seeing  the  priest,  and  perceiving  how 
he  would  have  shewed  him  the  book,  said  : 
"Away,  thou  false  proplietl  Beware  of  them, 
good  people,  and  counr  away  from  their  abomi- 


JOHN  FOXE.— 6 

nations,  lest  tliat  you  be  {)artakers  of  their 
plagues."  Then  quoth  the  priest :  "  Look  how 
thou  burnest  liere ;  so  shalt  thou  burn  in  hell." 
William  answered:  "Thou  best,  thou  false 
prophet !     Away,  thou  false  prophet !  away  !" 

Then  there  was  a  gentleman  which  said :  "  I 
pray  God  have  mercy  upon  liis  soul."  The 
people  said  :  "  Ainen,  Amen." 

Immediately  lire  was  made.  Then  William 
cast  his  psalter  right  into  his  brother's  hand,  who 
said :  "  William,  think  on  the  holy  passion  of 
Christ,  and  be  not  afraid  of  death."  And  William 
answered:  "  I  am  not  afraid."  Then  lift  he  up 
his  hands  to  heaven,  and  said  :  "  Lord,  Lord, 
Lord,  receive  my  spirit !"  And  casting  down 
his  head  again  into  tlie  smothering  smoke,  he 
yielded  up  -liis  life  for  the  truth,  sealing  it  with 
his  blood  to  the  praise  of  God. — Book  of  Mar- 
tyrs. 

THE  DKATH  OF  ANNE  BOLEYN. 

And  this  was  the  end  of  that  godly  lady  and 
queen.  Godly  I  call  her,  for  sundry  respects, 
whatever  the  cause  was,  or  quarrel  objected 
against  her.  First,  her  last  words,  spoken  at  her 
death,  declared  no  less  her  sincere  faith  and 
trust  in  Christ  than  did  her  quiet  modesty  utter 
forth  the  goodness  of  the  cause  and  matter, 
whatsoever  it  was.  Besides  that,  to  such  as  can 
wisely  judge  upon  cases  occurrent,  this  also  may 
seem  to  give  a  great  clearing  unto  her,  that  the 
king,  tlie  third  day  after,  was  married  unto  an- 
other. Certain  this  was  that  for  the  rare  and 
singular  gifts  (jf  her  mind,  so  well  instructed,  and 
given  toward  God  with  such  a  fervent  desire 
unto  the  truth,  and  setting  forth  of  sincere  re- 
ligion, joined  with  like  gentleness,  modesty  and 
pity  toward  all  men,  there  have  not  many  such 
queens  before  her  borne  the  Crown  of  England. 
Principally  this  one  commendation  she  left  be- 
hind her,  that  during  her  life  the  religion  of 
Christ  most  happily  flourished,  and  had  a  right 
prosperous  course. — Book  of  Martyrs. 


"ROBERT  EDWARD  FRANCILLON.— 1 

FRANCILLON,  Egbert  Edward,  an 
English  novelist  and  miscellaneous  writer, 
born  at  Gloucester,  in  1841.  He  was  edu- 
cated at  Cheltenham  College  and  at  Oxford, 
studied  law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  har  in 
1864.  In  1867  he  edited  the  Law  Maga- 
zine. The  next  year  his  lirst  work  of  fic- 
tion, Grace  Oweii's  Engagement,  was  pub- 
lished in  Blael: icoo(V s  Jlagazim.  Since 
that  time  he  has  contributed  many  novel- 
ettes and  short  stories  and  articles  social  and 
critical  to  various  magazines ;  has  written 
songs  for  music,  and  has  served  on  the  edi- 
torial staff  of  the  Glohe  newspaper.  Among 
his  novels  are  Earle's  Dene  (1870),  Pearl 
and  Emerald  (1872),  Zelda's  Eortune 
(1873),  Oh/mpia  (1874),  A  Bog  and  his 
h/tadoio  (1876),  Rare  Good  Luek  and  In 
the  Dark  (1877),  Strange  Waters  and  Left- 
Ilanded  Lisa  (1879),  Queen  Cophetua, 
'Under  Slieve  Ban,  Quits  at  Last,  Bij  Day 
and  Night,  A  Real  Queen,  and  Jack 
Doyle's  Daxighter. 

k  PERSISTENT  LOVER. 

Things  happened  slowly  at  Dunmoylc.  Even 
the  harvest  was  hiter  there  than  elsewhere.  But 
still  the  harvest  did  come — sometimes;  and 
things  did  happen  now  and  then.  Everything 
had  gone  wrong  since  I'hil  Ryan  was  drowned. 
And  now  Kate's  grandmother,  who  had  been 
nothing  hut  a  hurden  to  all  who  knew  her  for 
years,  fell  ill,  and  became  what  most  people 
would  have  called  a  burden  upon  Kate  also. 
But  as  f<)r  Kate,  she  bore  it  bravely ;  and  not 
even  her  poet  lover  had  the  heart  to  call  her  dull 
any  more.  lie  did  not  lielp  her  nnich,  but  he 
sat  a  great  deal  on  the  three-legged  stool,  and 
discoursed  to  the  old  woman  so  comfortably  and 
philoso[)hically  when  Kate  happened  to  be  ab- 
sent, that  the  familiar  ecclesiastical  sound  of  his 
profane    Latin  often  d(-ceived   her  into    crossing 


ROBERT  EDWARD  FRANCILLOK— 3 

herself  devoutly  at  the  names  of  Bacchus  and 
Apollo.  Grotesque  enough  was  the  scene  at 
times  when,  in  the  smoky  twilight,  the  school- 
master sat  and  spouted  heathen  poetry  to  the 
bedridden  old  peasant  woman,  looking  for  all  the 
world  like  a  goblin  who  had  been  sent  expressly 
to  torment  the  deathbed  of  a  sinner.  And  no 
impression  could  have  been  more  untrue.  For 
a  too  intimate  knowledge  of  how  potheen  may 
be  made  and  sold  without  enriching  the  King  is 
scarcely  a  sin,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  gob- 
lin, Kate  would  never  have  been  able  to  go  out- 
side the  door. 

Father  Kane,  too,  came  often,  and  discoursed 
a  more  orthodox  kind  of  learning.  But  Michael 
Fay  came  nearly  every  day ;  and  whenever  he 
and  Kate  were  in  the  room  together,  the  goblin 
would  creep  out  and  leave  them  by  themselves. 
Michael  was  indeed  of  unspeakable  help  to  her 
in  those  days.  The  shyness  that  Denis  Rooney 
had  planted  left  her,  and  she  was  not  afraid  to 
tell  herself  that  she  looked  up  to  Michael  as  to  a 
brother — and  in  that  at  least  there  was  no  treason 
to  Phil.  But  at  last  all  was  over,  and  Kate  was 
alone  in  the  world — not  less  the  great  world, 
cold  and  wide,  though  it  was  only  Dunmoyle. 

"  Kate,"  said  Michael,  at  the  end  of  about  a 
week  after  the  funeral.  It  is  not  much  of  a 
speech  to  write,  but  her  name  was  always  a  great 
thing  for  him  to  say.  They  were  in  the  cabin 
where  her  grandmother  had  died,  and  it  had  be- 
come a  more  desolate  place  than  ever.  She  had 
gone  back  to  her  spinning.  But  he  did  not  oc- 
cupy the  three-legged  stool — not,  by  any  means, 
because  he  was  afraid  of  losing  dignity,  but  sim- 
ply because  his  weight  would  most  inevitably 
have  changed  its  three  legs  into  two. 

He  was  leaning  against  the  wall  behind  her, 
so  that  he  could  see  little  of  her  through  the 
darkness — there  was  no  smoke  to-day  because 
there  was  no  fire — exept  her  cloaked  shoulders 
and  coil  of  black  hair,  and  she  saw  nothing  of 
him  at  all.  She  did  not  hear,  even  in  his  "  Kate," 
lit 


ROBERT  EDWARD  FRANCILLON.— 3 

more  than  a  simple  mention  of  her  name. 
"Kate"  certainly  did  not  seem  to  call  for  an  an- 
swer. But  it  was  some  time  before  he  said  any- 
thing more.  To  his  own  heart  he  had  already 
said  a  great  deal. 

"  Kate,"  he  said  again  at  last,  "  there's  some- 
thing I've  had  in   my  heart  to  tell  ye  for  a  long 

while 'Tisthis,  ye  see Ye're  all  alone 

by  yourself  now,  and  so  am  I.  Not  one  of  us  has 
got  a  living  soul  but  our  own  to  care  for  :  all  of 
my  kin  are  dead  and  gone,  and  there's  none  left  of 

vours Why    wouldn't  we — why  wouldn't 

we  be  alone  together,  Kate,  instead  of  being 
alone  by  ourselves  ?  I  don't  ask  for  more  than 
ve've  got  to  give  me.  'Tis  giving,  I  want  to  be, 
not  taking,  God  knows.  I've  always  loved  ye — 
from  the  days  when  ye  weren't  higher  than  that 
stool ;  and  I've  never  seen  a  face  to  come  between 
me  and  yours,  and  I  never  will.  But  I've  never 
loved  ye  like  now.  And  I  wouldn't  spake  while 
ye  weren't  alone  ;  Init  notv  I  want  to  give  ye  my 
hands  and  my  soul  and  my  life,  to  keep  yc  from 
all  harm.  It's  not  for  your  love  I'm  askin' ;  it's 
to  let  me  love  yoM." 

The  passion  in  his  voice  had  deepened  and 
quickened  as  lie  went  on.  But  he  did  not  move. 
He  was  still  leaning  against  the  wall,  when  she 
turned  round  and  faced  him — a  little  pale,  but 
unconfused. 

"  And  are  ye  forgettin' !"  she  said,  quietly  and 
sadlv,  "that  I'm  the  widow  of  Phil  Ryan  that's 
drowned?" 

"  And  if — if  ye  were  his  real  widow — if  yc 
wore  his  ring — would  ye  live  and  die  by  yourself, 
and  break  the  heart  of  a  livin'  man  for  the  sake 
of  one  that's  gone  ?" 

"  Not  gone  to  me,"  said  she.  "  Oh,  Michael, 
why  do  yc  say  »uch  things?  Aren't  wc  own 
brother  and  sister,  as  if  we'd  been  in  the  same 
cradle,  and  had  both  lost  the  same  kin  ?  Wouhl 
yc  ask  me  to  be  false  tf>  the  boy  I  swore  to  marry, 
and    none   but  him?     Why   will   ye  say  things 

91} 


ROBERT  EDWARD  FRANCILLON.— 4 

that'll  make  me  go  away  over  the  hills  and  never 
see  yc  again?" 

It  was  not  in  human  nature,  however  patient, 
to  liear  her  set  up  the  ghost  of  this  dead  sailor 
lad,  drowned  years  ago,  as  an  insuperable  barrier 
between  her  and  her  living  lover,  without  some 
touch  of  jealous  anger.  Have  I  not,  felt  Michael, 
served  my  time  for  her,  and  won  her  well  ?  Could 
that  idle  vagabond  have  given  her  half  the  love 
in  all  her  life  that  I'm  asking  her  to  take  this  day  ? 
But  he  said  nothing  of  his  feeling.  He  thought ; 
and  he  could  find  no  fault  with  what  was  loyal 
true. 

"  I'm  the  last  to  blame  ye  for  not  forgettin', 
Kate,"  said  he.  "  It's  what  I  couldn't  do  myself. 
But  I'm  not  askin'  ye  to  forget — I'm  askin'  ye  to 
help  a  livin'  man  live,  and  that  doesn't  want  ye  to 
give  him  your  life,  but  only  to  give  you  his  own. 
Ye  can  feel  to  me  like  a  sister,  Kate,  if  ye  plase, 
till  the  time  comes  for  better  things,  as  maybe  it 
will,  and  as  it  will  if  I*can  bring  it  anyhow.  If  ye 
were  my  own  sister,  wouldn't  ye  come  to  me? 
And  why  wouldn't  ye  come  now,  when  ye  say  your 
own  self  ye're  just  the  same  as  if  ye  were  ?  It's 
for  your  own  sake  I'm  askin'  ye — but  it's  for  my 
own  too.  Live  without  ye  ?  Indeed,  I  won't 
know  how." 

"  His  last  words  were  to  the  purpose  ;  for  it  is 
for  his  own  sake  that  a  woman,  as  well  in  Dun- 
moyle  as  elsewhere,  would  have  a  man  love  her, 
and  not  for  hers.  But  she  only  said,  as  she  bent 
over  her  wheel, 

"  It  can't  be,  Michael.     Don't  ask  me  again." 

"  80  finely  and  yet  so  tenderly  she  said  it  that 
he  felt  as  if  he  had  no  more  to  say.  He  could 
only  leave  her,  then  ;  though  he  no  more  meant 
to  give  up  Kate  than  he  meant  to  give  up  Rath- 
cool. —  Under  Slieve  Ban. 
914 


JOHN  WAKEFIELD  ERANClS.— 1 

FRANCIS,  JoHX  Wakefield,  an  Amer- 
ican physician  and  author,  born  at  New 
York  in  1789:  died  therein  18G1.  After 
learning  the  printer's  trade,  he  entered  an 
advanced  class  in  Colnnibia  College,  where 
he  graduated  in  1809.  He  studied  medicine 
partly  under  Dr.  Hosack,  with  whom  he  en- 
tered  into  partnership.  In  1816  he  went  to 
Europe,  where  lie  continued  his  medical 
studies  under  Abernethy  ;  and  upon  his  re- 
turn  the  following  year  was  made  Professor 
of  the  Institutes  of  Medicine,  and  subse- 
quently of  Medical  Jurisprudence  and  Ol> 
stetrics  in  the  College  of  Physicians  and  Sur- 
geons, Besides  his  numerous  profession'al 
wntings  he  was  a  frequent  contributor  to 
medical  and  literary  journals,  and  wrote 
biogra])hical  sketches  of  many  distinguished 
men.  His  principal  work  is  Old  jS^cv:  York, 
or  Revi'inhrences  <>ftli(:'j*a.st  Si.rfi/  Years 
(1857  ;  republished  in  1805.  with  a  Memoir 
by  H.  T.  Tuckerman.) 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF   PUILIP  FKEXEAU. 

I  liad,  wlien  very  young,  ro;id  the  poetry  of 
Frcnoau,  and  as  we  instinctively  bcconio  attached 
to  the  writers  who  first  captivate  our  imaginations, 
it  was  with  much  zest  that  I  formed  a  personal 
aoquaintanoe  with  the  Kevolutionary  bard.  lie 
was  at  that  time  [18-J8J  about  seventy-six  years 
oM  when  he  first  introduced  himself  to  me  in  my 
Iil)rarv.  I  gave  him  an  earnest  welcome.  He 
was  somewhat  below  the  ordinary  height;  in  per- 
son thin  vet  muscular,  with  a  firm  step,  tliougb 
a  little  inclined  to  stoop.  His  countenance  wore 
traces  of  care,  yet  lightened  with  intelligence  as 
he  s[ioko.  He  was  mild  in  enunciation,  neither 
rapid  nor  slow,  but  clear,  distinct,  and  emphatic. 
His  forehead  was  rather  beyond  the  medium 
elevation  ;  liis  eyes  a  dark  gray,  occupying  a 
Bocket  (ieej)er  than  common  ;  his  hair  must  once 
have  been  beautiful  ;  it  was  now  thinned  and  of 


John  wakefield  francis.— 2 

an  iron  gray.  He  was  free  of  all  ambitious  dis- 
plays ;  liis  habitual  expression  was  pensive.  Ilis 
dress  might  have  passed  for  that  of  a  farmer. 
New  York,  the  city  of  his  birth,  was  his  most  in- 
teresting theme  ;  his  collegiate  career  with  Mad- 
ison, next.  His  story  of  many  of  his  occasional 
poems  was  (juite  romantic.  As  he  had  at  com- 
mand types  and  a  printing-press,  when  an  inci<lont 
of  moment  in  the  Revolution  occurred,  he  would 
retire  for  composition,  or  find  shelter  under  the 
shade  of  some  tree,  indite  his  lyrics,  repair  to  the 
press,  set  up  his  types,  and  issue  his  j)roductlons. 
There  was  no  difhculty  in  versification  with  him. 

It  is  remarkable  how  tenaciously  Freneau 

preserved  the  acquisitions  of  his  early  classical 
studies,  notwithstanding  he  had  for  many  years, 
in  the  after-portions  of  his  life,  been  occupied  in 
pursuits  so  entirely  alien  to  books.  There  is  no 
portrait  of  the  p;itriot  Freneau  ;  he  always  firmly 
declined  the  painter's  art,  and  would  brook  no 
"counterfeit  presentment." — Old  New  York. 

DEATH    SCENE    OF    GOUVERNEUR    MORRIS. 

When  he  was  about  dying,  he  said  to  a  friend 
at  Morrisania:  "Sixty  years  ago  it  pleased  the 
Almighty  to  call  me  into  existence,  here,  in  this 
very  room  ;  and  how  shall  I  complain  that  he 
is  pleased  to  call  me  hence?"  From  the  nature 
of  his  disease,  he  was  aware  that  his  hours  were 
numbered.  On  the  morning  of  his  death,  he 
inquired  of  a  near  relative  what  kind  of  a  day  it 
was.  "  A  beautiful  day,"  answered  his  nephew  ; 
"the  air  is  soft,  the  sky  cloudless,  the  water  like 
crystal ;  you  hear  every  ripple,  and  even  the 
plash  of  the  steamboat  wheels  on  the  river  :  it  is  a 
beautiful  day."  The  dying  man  seemed  to  take 
in  this  description  with  that  zest  for  nature  which 
accorded  with  the  poetic  interest  of  his  character. 
Like  Webster,  his  mind  reverted  to  Gray's  Elegy; 
he  looked  at  the  kind  relative,  and  repeated  his 
last  words  :  "  A  beautiful  day  ;  yes,  but 

"  '  Who  to  dumb  foriretfiilness  a  prey, 

This  pleasing  anxious  biins,^  e'er  resigned, 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind.'  " 
tit 


&ra  PHILIP  FRANCIS.— 1 

FRAN"CIS,  Sir  Philip,  a  British  politi- 
cian and  pamphleteer,  born  at  Dublin  in 
1740;  died  at  London  in  1818.  He  was  a 
son  of  the  Rev.  Philip  Francis,  one  of  the 
best  of  the  English  translators  of  Horace, 
who  left  Ireland  for  England  in  1750.  The 
elder  Francis  was  a  protege  of  Henry  Fox, 
then  Secretary  of  State,  by  whom  the  son 
was  brought  into  office.  In  1773  he  was 
sent  to  India  as  one  of  the  Council  of  State, 
with  a  salary  of  £10,000  a  year.  He  re- 
mained in  India  six  3'ears,  when  he  became 
involved  in  a  quarrel  with  Warren  Hastings, 
which  resulted  in  a  duel  in  which  Francis 
was  severely  wounded.  Returning  to  Eng- 
land he  entered  into  politics ;  became  a 
meuiber  of  Parliament,  but  gained  no  com- 
manding position  in  public  life,  from  which 
he  retired  in  1807,  having  been  knighted 
the  preceding  year. 

Francis  was  the  acknowledged  author  of 
some  thirty  political  pamphlets  ;  but  his  only 
claim  to  remembrance  rests  upon  his  sup- 
posed authorship  of  the  "  Letters  of  Junius," 
a  series  of  brilliant  newsj)aper  articles  which 
appeared  at  intervals  in  the  Pnhl'tc  Adver- 
iixer  between  January,  17(50,  and  January, 
1772.  In  the  first  authorized  collection  of 
these  letters  there  were  44  beariii<;  the  sijj- 
nature  of  ''Junius,"  and  15  signed  "Philo- 
Junius."  Besides  these  appeared  from  time 
to  time  more  than  100  others,  under  various 
signatures,  which,  with  more  or  less  proba- 
bility, were  attributed  to  "  Junius."  These 
letters  assaileil  the  CTOvcrnment  with  such 
audacity  that  every  effort  was  made  to  dis- 
cover who  was  th(!  writer.  Put  the  secret 
was  never  certainly  discovered,  and  there  is 
no  probability  that  it  will  ever  be  divulged. 
The  authorship  has  been  claimed  by  or  for 


SiH  PHILIP  FRANCIS.-2 

not  less  than  forty  persons,  among  wliom 
are  Etlinund  Burke,  Lord  Cliatliam,  Ed- 
ward Gibbon,  Joliu  llorne  Tooke,  and  John 
Wilkes.  Macaulay  was  clearly  convinced 
that  Francis  was  the  author.  He  says: 
"  The  case  against  Francis — or,  if  you  please, 
in  favor  of  Francis — rests  on  coincidences 
sufficient  to  convict  a  murderer."  One 
signilicant  fact  is,  that  these  letters  ceased 
not  long  before  the  appointment  of  Francis 
to  the  lucrative  position  in  India  ;  and  it 
has  been  imagined  that  this  a})pointment 
was  the  price  paid  by  Government  for  the 
future  silence  of  the  author;  and  there  is 
nothing  in  the  character  of  Francis  to  render 
it  improbable  that  lie  could  be  thus  bought 
off.  If  this  were  the  case,  he  would  never 
directly  avow  the  authorship;  but  it  is  cer- 
tain that  he  was  nowise  averse  to  having  it 
whispered  that  he  was  the  writer.  One  of 
the  most  spirited  and  audacious  of  these 
letters  was  a  long  one  addressed  to  the 
Xing,  George  III.,  December  19,  1769  : 

JUNIUS    TO    GEORGE    THE    THIRD. 

Sir — When  the  complaints  of  a  brave  and 
powerful  people  are  observed  to  increase  in  pro- 
portion to  the  wronu's  they  have  suffered  ;  when, 
instead  of  sinkint);  into  submission,  tliey  arc 
roused  to  resistance,  the  time  will  soon  arrive  at 
which  every  inferior  consideration  must  yield  to 
the  security  of  the  sovereign,  and  to  the  general 
safety  of  the  state.  There  is  a  moment  of  diffi- 
culty and  danger,  at  which  flattery  and  falsehood 
can  no  longer  deceive,  and  siun)licity  itself  can 
no  longer  be  misled.  Let  us  suppose  it  arrived. 
Let  us  suppose  a  gracious,  well-intentioned  prince 
made  sensible  at  last  of  the  great  duty  he  owes  to 
his  people,  and  of  his  own  disgraceful  situation ; 
that  he  looks  round  him  for  assistance,  and  asks 
for  no  advice  but  how  to  gratify  the  wishes  and 

S18 


Sir  PHILIP  FRANCIS.— 3 

Rccure  the  happiness  of  his  subjects.  In  these 
circumstances,  it  may  he  matter  of  curious  spec- 
ulation to  consider,  if  an  honest  man  were  per- 
mitted to  approach  a  king,  in  what  terms  he 
would  address  himself  to  his  sovereign.  Let  it 
he  imagined,  no  matter  how  improbable,  that  the 
first  j)rejudice  against  his  character  is  removed  ; 
that  the  ceremonious  difficulties  of  an  audience 
are  surmounted ;  that  he  feels  himself  animated 
by  the  purest  and  most  honorable  affection  to 
liis  king  and  country  ;  and  that  the  great  person 
wliom  he  addresses  has  spirit  enough  to  bid  him 
speak  freely,  and  understanding  enough  to  listen 
to  liim  with  attention.  Unacquainted  with  the 
vain  impertinence  of  forms,  he  would  deliver  his 
sentiments  with  dignity  and  firmness,  but  not 
without  respect : 

Sir — It  is  the  misfortune  of  your  life,  and 
originally  the  cause  of  every  reproach  and  distress 
which  has  attended  your  government,  that  you 
should  never  liave  been  acquainted  with  the  lan- 
guage of  truth  till  you  heard  it  in  the  complaints 
of  your  people.  It  is  not,  however,  too  late  to 
correct  the  error  of  your  education.  We  are 
still  inclined  to  make  an  indulgent  allowance  for 
the  pernicious  lessons  you  received  in  your  youth, 
and  to  form  the  most  sanguine  liopcs  from  the 
natural  benevolence  of  your  disposition.  We  are 
far  from  thinking  you  capable  of  a  direct  delib- 
erate purpose  to  invade  those  original  rights  of 
your  subjects  on  which  all  their  civil  and  political 
liberties  depend.  Had  it  been  possible  for  us  to 
entertain  a  suspicion  so  dishonorable  to  your 
character,  we  should  long  since  have  adopted  a 
style  of  remonstrance  very  distant  from  the  hu- 
mility of  complaint.  The  doctrine  inculcated  by 
our  laws,  "  that  the  king  can  do  no  wrong,"  is 
admitted  without  rehn;tancc.  \Vc  separate  tlie 
amiable  good-natured  prince  from  the  folly  and 
treachery  of  his  servants,  an<l  the  private  virtues 
of  the  man  from  the  vices  of  his  government. 
Were  it  not  for  this  just  distinction,  I  know  not 
whether  your  majesty's  coii(liti(jii,  or  that  of  the 


Sir  PHILIP  FRANCIS.— 4 

English  nation,  would  deserve  most  to  be  la- 
mented. I  would  prepare  your  mind  for  a  favor- 
able reception  of  truth,  by  removing  every  pain- 
ful offensive  idea  of  personal  reproach.  Your 
subjects,  sir,  wish  for  nothing  but  that,  as  they 
are  reasonable  and  affectionate  enough  to  separate 
your  person  from  your  government,  so  you,  in 
your  turn,  would  distinguish  between  the  conduct 
which  becomes  the  permanent  dignity  of  a  king, 
and  that  which  serves  only  to  promote  the  tem- 
porary interest  and  miserable  ambition  of  a  min- 
ister. 

You  ascended  the  throne  with  a  declared — 
and,  I  doubt  not,  a  sincere — resolution  of  giving 
universal  satisfaction  to  your  subjects.  You 
found  them  pleased  witli  the  novelty  of  a  young 
prince,  whose  countenance  promised  even  more 
than  his  words,  and  loyal  to  you  not  only  from 
principle  but  passion.  It  was  not  a  cold  profes- 
sion of  allegiance  to  the  first  magistrate,  but  a 
partial,  animated  attachment  to  a  favorite  prince, 
the  native  of  their  country.  They  did  not  wait 
to  examine  your  conduct,  nor  to  be  determined  by 
experience,  but  gave  you  a  generous  credit  for 
the  future  blessings  of  your  reign,  and  paid  you 
in  advance  the  dearest  tribute  of  their  affections. 
Such,  sir,  was  once  the  disposition  of  a  people 
who  now  surround  your  throne  with  reproaches 
and  complaints.  Do  justice  to  yourself.  Banish 
from  your  mind  those  unworthy  opinions  with 
which  some  interested  persons  have  labored  to 
possess  you.  Distrust  the  men  who  tell  you  that 
the  English  are  naturally  light  and  inconsistent} 
that  they  complain  without  a  cause.  Withdraw 
your  confidence  equally  from  all  parties;  from 
ministers,  favorites,  and  relations  ;  and  let  there 
be  one  moment  in  your  life  in  which  you  have 
consulted  your  own  understanding 

While  the  natives  of  Scotland  are  not  in  actual 
rebellion,  they  are  undoubtedly  entitled  to  pro- 
tection ;  nor  do  I  mean  to  condemn  the  policy  of 
giving  some  encouragement  to  the  novelty  of 
their  affection  for  the  house  of  Hanover.     I  ana 

S.'O 


SiK  PHILIP  FRANCIS.— 5 

ready  to  hope  for  everytliing  from  their  new-born 
zeal,  and  from  the  future  steadiness  of  their  alle- 
giance. But  hitherto  they  have  no  claim  to  your 
favor.  To  honor  them  with  a  determined  pre- 
dilection and  confidence,  in  exclusion  of  your 
English  subjects — who  placed  your  family,  and, 
in  spite  of  treachery  and  rebellion,  have  sup- 
ported it,  upon  the  throne — is  a  mistake  too 
gross  for  even  the  unsuspecting  generosity  of 
youth.  In  this  error  we  see  a  capital  violation  of 
the  most  obvious  rules  of  policy  and  prudence. 
"We  trace  it,  however,  to  an  original  bias  in  your 
education,  and  are  ready  to  allow  for  your  inex- 
perience. 

To  the  same  early  influence  we  attribute  it  that 
you  have  descended  to  take  a  share,  not  only  in 
the  narrow  views  and  interests  of  particular  per- 
sons, but  in  the  fatal  malignity  of  their  passions. 
At  your  accession  to  the  throne  the  whole  system 
of  government  was  altered ;  not  from  wisdom  or 
deliberation,  but  because  it  had  been  adopted  by 
your  predecessor.  A  little  personal  motive  of 
pique  and  resentment  was  sufficient  to  remove 
the  ablest  servants  of  the  crown;  but  it  is  not  in 
this  country,  sir,  that  such  men  can  be  dishon- 
ored by  the  frowns  of  a  king.  They  were  dis- 
missed, but  could  not  be  disgraced 

Without  consulting  your  minister,  call  togetlier 
your  whole  council.  Let  it  appear  to  the  public 
that  you  can  determine  and  act  for  yourself. 
Come  forward  to  your  people  ;  lay  aside  the 
wretched  formalities  of  a  king,  and  speak  to  your 
subjects  witli  the  .spirit  of  a  man,  and  in  the  lan- 
guage of  a  gentleman.  Tell  them  you  have  been 
fatally  deceived:  the  acknowledgment  will  be  no 
disgrace,  but  rather  an  honor,  to  your  understand- 
ing. Tell  them  you  are  determined  to  remove  every 
cause  of  complaint  against  your  government; 
that  you  will  give  your  confidence  to  no  man  that 
does  not  possess  the  confidence  of  your  subjects  ; 
and  leave  it  to  themselves  to  determine,  by  their 
conduct  at  a  future  election,  whether  or  not  it  bo 
in  reality  the  general  sense  of  the  nation,  that 


Sm  PHILIP  FRANCIS. -6 

their  rights  have  been  arbitrarily  invaded  by  the 
present  House  of  Commons,  and  the  constitution 
betrayed.  They  will  then  do  justice  to  their  rep- 
resentatives and  to  themselves. 

These  sentiments,  sir,  and  the  style  they  are 
conveyed  in,  may  be  offensive,  perhaps,  because 
they  are  new  to  you.  Accustomed  to  the  lan- 
guage of  courtiers,  you  measure  their  affections 
by  the  vehemence  of  their  expressions:  and 
■when  they  only  praise  you  indirectly,  you  admire 
their  sincerity.  But  this  is  not  a  time  to  trifle 
with  your  fortune.  They  deceive  you,  sir,  who 
tell  you  that  you  have  many  friends  whose  affec- 
tions are  founded  upon  a  principle  of  personal 
attachment.  The  first  foundation  of  friendship 
is  not  the  power  of  conferring  benefits,  but  the 
equality  wi^i  which  they  are  received,  and  may 
be  returned.  The  fortune  which  made  you  a 
king,  forbade  you  to  have  a  friend  ;  it  is  a  law 
of  nature,  which  cannot  be  violated  with  im- 
punity. The  mistaken  prince  who  looks  for 
friendship  will  find  a  favorite,  and  in  that 
favorite  the  ruin  of  his  affairs. 

The  people  of  England  are  loyal  to  the  House 
of  Hanover,  not  from  a  vain  preference  of  one 
family  to  another,  but  from  a  conviction  that  the 
establishment  of  that  family  was  necessary  to  the 
support  of  their  civil  and  religious  liberties.  This, 
sir,  is  a  principle  of  allegiance  equally  solid  and 
rational ;  fit  for  Englishmen  to  adopt,  and  well 
worthy  of  your  majesty's  encouragement.  We 
cannot  long  be  deluded  by  nominal  distinctions. 
The  name  of  Stuart  of  itself  is  only  contempt- 
ible :  armed  with  the  sovereign  authority,  their 
principles  are  formidable.  The  prince  who  imi- 
tates their  conduct  should  be  warned  by  their 
example  ;  and  while  he  plumes  himself  upon  the 
security  of  his  title  to  the  crown,  should  remem- 
ber that,  as  it  was  acquired  by  one  revolution,  it 
paay  be  lost  by  another. 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN.-l 

FRAJN^KLIN,  Benjamin,  an  American 
statesman  and  philosopher,  born  in  Boston, 
January  17,  170G;  died  in  Philadelphia, 
April  IT,  1790.  His  father  was  originally 
a  dyer,  and  subsequently  a  tallow-chandler. 
At  the  age  of  twelve  the  son  was  appren- 
ticed to  his  elder  brother,  a  printer,  and 
publisher  of  a  newspaper,  the  jXew  Eiujland 
Courant^  for  which  Benjamin  wrote  much. 
In  consequence  of  a  quarrel  between  the 
brothers,  Ijenjamiu  went,  at  the  age  of  seven- 
teen, to  Philadelphia,  where  he  obtained 
employment  at  his  trade.  The  Governor 
of  the  Province  discovered  his  abilities, 
promised  to  set  him  up  in  Inisiness,  and  in- 
duced him  to  go  to  England  to  purchase 
the  necessary  printing  material.  The  Gov- 
ernor, however,  failed  to  supply  the  neces- 
sary funds,  and  Franklin  went  to  work  as  a 
f)rinter  in  London.  After  eighteen  months 
le  returned  to  Philadelphia.  J3efore  long  he 
established  himself  as  a  printei",  and  set  up 
a  newsj)aper,  called  the  PhiUuhlphia  Ga- 
zette. In  1732,  under  the  assumed  name  of 
"Richard  Saunders,"  he  commenced  the 
issue  of  Poirr  RichanVs  Ahiianac^  which 
he  continued  for  twenty-five  years. 

By  the  time  he  had  reached  his  fortieth 
year  he  had  acquired  a  conq)etence  suthcient 
to  enal)le  him  to  withdraw  from  active  busi- 
ness, and  devote  himself  to  philosophical  re- 
search, for  which  he  had  already  manifested 
marked  capacity.  Just  i)eforc  this  several 
European  philosophers  had  noticed  some 
points  of  rcs(;mblaiK'e  between  ele(;tricity 
and  lightning.  Franklin  was  the  first 
MK>ut  W.^))  t<j  dj-monstrate  the  identity  of 
ine  two  ))h(jnomena,  and  to  |)ro pound  the 
idea  of  the  lightning-rod  as  a  safeguard 
from  lightning. 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN.— 2 

Of  tlie  public  career  of  Franklin  it  is 
necessary  here  to  give  merely  a  bare  outline. 
He  was  elected  a  member  of  tlic  Pennsyl- 
vania Assembly  in  1Y50  ;  was  made  Deputy 
Postmaster-General  in  1753;  and  the  next 
year,  the  French  and  Indian  war  impend- 
ing, lie  was  sent  as  delegate  to  a  general 
Congress  convened  at  Albany,  where  he 
drew  up  the  plan  of  a  union  between  the 
separate  colonies.  This  was  unanimously 
adopted  by  the  Congress,  but  was  rejected 
by  the  Board  of  Trade  in  England.  Dis- 
putes having  arisen  in  1757  between  the 
Pennsylvania  "•  Proprietors "  and  the  in- 
habitants, Franklin  was  sent  to  England  as 
agent  to  represent  the  cause  of  the  people 
of  the  colony  of  Pennsylvania;  the  people 
of  Massachusetts,  Maryland,  and  Georgia 
also  constituted  him  their  agent  in  Great 
Britain.  He  returned  to  Pennsylvania  in 
1762;  but  was  sent  back  to  London  two 
years  after  to  remonstrate  against  the  pro- 
posed measure  for  taxing  the  American 
colonies.  When  the  war  of  the  Revolution 
was  on  the  point  of  breaking  out,  Franklin 
left  Great  Britain,  reaching  his  home  six- 
teen days  after  the  battle  of  Lexington.  As 
a  member  of  the  first  American  Congress 
he  was  one  of  the  committee  appointed  to 
draft  the  Declaration  of  Independence. 
Shortly  after  this  he  w^as  sent  to  France  as 
one  of  the  Commissioners  Plenipotentiary 
from  the  American  States.  In  1782  he 
signed  the  treaty  of  peace  between  the 
United  States  and  Great  Britain,  and  sub- 
sequently concluded  treaties  with  Sweden 
and  Prussia.  He  returned  to  America  igi|^ 
1785,  after  more  than  fifty  years  spent  in 
the  public  sejvice.  He  was  immediately 
elected    President    of     Pennsylvania,    his 


BEXJAMIX  FRANKLIN.— 3 

adopted  State.  Three  vears  afterwards,  at 
the  age  of  eighty-two,  he  was  appointed  a 
delegate  to  the  Convention  for  framing  the 
Federal  Constitution,  in  which  he  took  an 
active  i)art,  and  lived  lung  enough  to  see  it 
adopted  by  the  several  States,  and  so  become 
the  supreme  law  of  the  land.  A  few 
months  before  his  death  he  wrote  to  Wash- 
ington :  "  For  mj  personal  ease  I  should 
have  died  two  years  ago ;  but  though 
those  years  have  been  spent  in  excruciat- 
ing pain,  I  am  glad  to  have  lived  them, 
since  I  can  look  upon  our  present  situa- 
tion." 

A  partial  collection  of  the  works  of 
Franklin  was  published  (1816-19)  by  his 
grandson,  William  Temple  Franklin,  A 
tolerably  complete  edition,  in  ten  volumes, 
edited,  with  a  Memoir^  by  Jared  Sparks, 
appeared  in  1830-40.  In  1887  some  addi- 
tional writings  were  discovered,  which  were 
edited  bv  Edward  Everett  Hale,  under  the 
title  '■'' franklin  in  Paris.''''  Franklin's 
Autohiorjrajylti/,  bringing  his  life  down  to 
his  fifty-seventh  year,  ranks  among  the  fore- 
most works  of  its  chiss.  The  history  of  the 
book  is  curious.  It  was  first  publislied  in  a 
French  translation  in  1791 ;  two  years  after- 
wards this  French  version  was  re-translated 
into  English,  and  in  1798  this  English 
translation  was  rendered  back  into  French. 
The  earliest  apnearance  of  the  work  as  writ- 
ten by  the  author  was  in  1817  in  the  edi- 
tion propare<l  by  his  son.  In  1808  Mr. 
John  Bigelow,  lately  U.  S.  ^linistcr  to 
I' ranee,  came  upon  an  original  autograph  of 
the  Autoh'trxji'djihij^  which  he  pul)lishcd 
with  notes.  The  Life  of  Franhl'm  has 
been  written  bv  many  persons,  notably  by 
James  Parton  (2  vols.,  180-4.) 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN.— 4 

EARLY    PRACTICE    IN    COMPOSITION. 

About  tliis  time  [at  about  fifteen]  I  met  with 
an  odd  volume  of  The  Spectator.  I  had  never 
before  seen  any  of  tliem.  I  bought  it,  read  it 
over  and  over,  and  was  much  delighted  with  it. 
I  thought  the  writing  excellent,  and  wished  if 
possible  to  imitate  it.  With  that  view  I  took 
some  of  the  papers,  and  making  short  hints  of 
the  sentiments  in  each  sentence,  laid  them  by  for 
a  few  days,  and  then,  without  looking  at  the 
book,  tried  to  complete  the  papers  again,  by  ex- 
pressing each  hinted  sentiment  at  length,  and  as 
fully  as  it  had  been  expressed  before,  in  any 
suitable  words  that  should  occur  to  me.  Then  I 
compared  my  Spectator  with  the  original,  discov- 
ered some  of  my  faults  and  corrected  them 

Sometimes  I  had  the  pleasure  to  fancy  that  in 
certain  particulars  of  small  consequence,  I  had 
been  fortunate  enough  to  improve  the  method 
or  the  language ;  and  this  encouraged  me  to 
think  that  I  might  in  time  come  to  be  a  toler- 
able English  writer,  of  which  I  was  extremely 
ambitious.  The  time  I  allotted  to  writing  exer- 
cises and  for  reading  was  at  night,  or  before 
work  began  in  the  morning,  or  on  Sundays,  when 
I  contrived  to  be  in  the  printing-house,  avoiding 
as  nmch  as  I  could  the  constant  attendance  at 
public  worship,  which  my  father  used  to  exact 
of  me  when  1  was  under  his  care. — Autobiog- 
raphy, Chap.  I. 

FIRST    ENTRY    INTO    PHILADELPHIA. 

I  was  [then  aged  seventeen]  in  my  working 
dress,  my  best  clothes  coming  round  by  sea.  I 
was  dirty  from  my  being  so  long  in  the  boat. 
My  pockets  were  stuffed  out  with  shirts  and 
stockings,  and  I  knew  no  one,  nor  where  to  look 
for  lodging.  I  was  very  hungry  ;  and  my  whole 
stock  of  cash  consisted  in  a  single  dollar,  and 
about  a  shilling  in  copper  coin,  which  I  gave  to 
the  boatmen  for  my  passage.  At  first  they  re- 
fused it,  on  account  of  my  having  rowed ;  but  I 
insisted  on  their  taking  it.     I  walked  towards 


BENJA3IIN  FRANKLIN.— 5 

the  top  of  the  street,  gazing  about  till  neaf 
Market  Street,  where  I  met  a  boy  with  bread.  I 
had  often  made  a  meal  of  dry  bread,  and,  inquir- 
ing where  he  had  bought  it,  I  went  immediately 
to  the  baker's  he  directed  me  to.  I  asked  for 
biscuits,  meaning  such  as  we  had  at  Boston. 
That  sort,  it  seems,  was  not  made  in  Philadel- 
phia. I  then  asked  for  a  three-penny  loaf,  and 
was  told  they  had  none.  Not  knowing  the  dif- 
ferent prices,  nor  the  names  of  the  different  sorts 
of  bread,  I  told  him  to  give  me  three-penny 
worth  of  any  sort.  He  gave  me  accordingly 
three  great  puffy  rolls.  I  was  surprised  at  thd 
quantity,  but  took  it,  and,  having  no  room  in  my 
pockets,  walked  off  with  a  roll  under  each  arm, 
and  eating  the  other. 

Thus  I  went  up  Market  Street  as  far  as  Fourth 
Street,  passing  by  the  door  of  Mr.  Read,  my 
future  wife's  father ;  when  she,  standing  at  the 
door,  saw  me,  and  thought  I  made — as  I  certainly 
did — a  most  ridiculous  appearance.  Then  I 
turned  and  went  down  Chestnut  Street  and  part 
of  Walnut  Street,  eating  my  roll  all  the  way,  and, 
coming  round,  found  myself  again  at  Market 
Street  wharf,  near  the  boat  I  came  in,  to  which 
I  went  for  a  draught  of  the  river  water;  and 
being  filled  with  one  of  my  rolls,  gave  the  other 
two  to  a  woman  and  her  child  that  came  down 
the  river  in  the  boat  with  us,  and  were  waiting 
to  go  farther. 

Thus  refreshed  I  walked  up  the  street,  which 
by  til  is  time  had  many  clean-dressed  people  in 
it,  who  were  all  walking  the  same  way.  I  joined 
them,  an<l  thereby  was  led  into  the  great  meet- 
ing-house of  the  Quakers,  near  the  market.  1 
sat  down  among  them,  and,  after  looking  round 
awhile,  and  hearing  nothing  said,  and  being  very 
drowsy  through  laiior  and  want  of  rest  the  pre- 
ceding night,  I  fell  fast  asleep,  and  continued  so 
till  the  meeting  broke  up,  when  some  one  was 
kind  enough  to  rouse  me.  This,  therefore,  was 
the  first  house  I  was  in,  or  slept  in,  in  I'hiladeb 
phia. — AuloUot/raphi/,  Chap.  II. 
m 


fiENJAMIN  FRANKLIN.— 6 

TEETOTALISM    IN    LONDON. 

At  my  first  admission  [aged  nineteen]  into  the 
printing-house  I  took  to  working  at  press,  im- 
agining I  felt  a  want  of  the  bodily  exercise  I  had 
been  used  to  in  America,  where  press-work  is 
mixed  with  the  composing.  I  drank  only  water; 
the  other  workmen — near  fifty  in  number — were 
great  drinkers  of  beer.  On  one  occasion  I  car- 
ried up  and  down  stairs  a  large  form  of  type  in 
each  hand,  when  the  others  carried  only  one  in 
both  hands.  They  wondered  to  see,  fl-om  this 
and  several  instances,  that  the  "  Water  Ameri- 
can," as  they  called  me,  was  stronger  than  them- 
selves, who  drank  strong  beer.  We  had  an  ale- 
house-boy who  attended  always  in  the  house  to 
supply  the  workmen.  My  companion  at  the 
press  drank  every  day  a  pint  before  breakfast,  a 
pint  at  breakfast  with  his  bread  and  cheese,  a 
pint  between  breakfast  and  dinner,  a  pint  at  din- 
ner, a  pint  in  the  afternoon  about  six  o'clock, 
and  another  when  he  had  done  his  day's  w^ork. 
1  thought  it  a  detestable  custom  ;  but  it  was 
necessary,  he  supposed,  to  drink  strong  beer  that 
he  might  be  strong  to  labor.  I  endeavored  to 
convince  him  that  the  bodily  strength  afforded 
by  beer  could  be  only  in  proportion  to  the  grain 
or  flour  of  the  barley  dissolved  in  the  water  of 
which  it  was  made;  that  there  was  more  flour  in 
a  pennyworth  of  bread;  and  therefore  if  he 
could  eat  that  with  a  pint  of  water,  it  would 
give  liim  more  strength  than  a  quart  of  beer.  He 
drank  on,  however,  and  had  four  or  five  shillings 
to  pay  out  of  his  wages  every  Saturday  night  for 
that  vile  liquor;  an  expense  I  was  free  from. 
And  thus  these  poor  devils  keep  themselves 
always  under. — Autobiography,  Chap.  III. 

RELIGIOUS    VIEWS    AT    ONE-AND-TWENTY. 

My  parents  had  early  given  me  religious  im- 
pressions, and  brought  me  through  my  childhood 
in  the  Dissenting  way.  But  I  was  scarce  fifteen 
when,  after  doubting  by  turns  several  points,  .is  I 
found  them  disputed  in  the  different  books  I 

828 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN.--? 

read,  I  began  to  doubt  of  the  Revelation  itself. 
Some  books  against  Deism  fell  into  my  hands ; 
they  were  said  to  be  the  substance  of  the  ser- 
mons which  had  been  preached  at  Boyle's  Lec- 
tures. It  happened  that  they  wrought  an  effect 
on  me  quite  contrary  to  what  was  intended  by 
them.  For  the  arguments  of  the  Deists,  which 
were  quoted  to  be  refuted,  appeared  to  me  much 
stronger  than  theirs;  in  short,  I  soon  became  a 
thorough  Deist.  My  arguments  perverted  some 
others,''particularly  Collins  and  Ralph ;  but  each 
of  these  having  wronged  me  greatly  without  the 
least  compunction  ;  and  recollecting  my  own  con- 
duct, which  at  times  gave  me  great  trouble,  I 
began   to  suspect  that  this  doctrine,  though  it 

might  be  true,  was  not  very  useful My  own 

pamphlet  [printed  two  years  before]  in  which  I 
argued,  from  the  attributes  of  God,  his  infinite 
wisdom,  goodness,  and  power,  that  nothing  could 
possibly  be  wrong  in  the  world — and  that  vice 
and  virtue  were  empty  distinctions — no  such 
things  existing — appeared  now  not  so  clever  a 
performance  as  I  once  thought  it ;  and  I  doubted 
whether  some  error  had  not  insinuated  itself  un- 
perceived  into  my  argument,  so  as  to  infect  all 
that  followed,  as  is  common  in  metaphysical 
reasonings. 

I  became  convinced  that  truth,  sinceriti/,  and 
integrity  in  dealings  between  man  and  man  were 
of  the  utmost  importance  to  the  felicity  of  life; 
and  I  formed  written  resolutions  to  practise  them 
ever  while  I  lived. 

Revelation  had  indeed  no  weight  with  me  as 
such  ;  but  I  entertained  an  opinion  that,  though 
certain  artions  might  not  be  bad  bcanisc  they 
were  forbidden  by  it,  or  good  hrcause  it  com- 
manded them  ;  yet  probably  those  actions  might 
be  forbidden  hccnnsc  they  were  l)ad  for  us,  or 
commanded  hrcdnse  they  were  beneficial  to  us, 
in  their  own  natures,  all  the  circumstances  of 
things  considered.  And  this  persuasion — with 
the  Kin<i  liand  of  I'rovidencc,  or  some  guardian 
angel,  or  accidental  favorable  circumstances  and 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIK.-8 

situations,  or  all  together — preserved  me  through 
this  dangerous  time  of  youth,  and  the  hazardous 
situations  I  was  sometimes  in  among  strangers, 
remote  from  the  eye  and  advice  of  my  father, 
free  from  any  wilful  gross  immorality  or  injus- 
tice, that  might  have  been  expected  from  my 
want  of  religion.  I  say  wilful,  because  the  in- 
stances I  have  mentioned  had  something  of  neces- 
siti/  in  them,  from  mv  youth,  inexperience,  and 
the  knavery  of  others.  I  had  therefore  a  tolerable 
character  to  begin  tlie  world  with ;  I  valued  it 
properly,  and  determined  to  preserve  it. — Auto- 
hi()r/raph>/,  Chap.  IV. 

When  this  Autobiography  was  written, 
Franklin  was  vei'ging  upon  threescore  and- 
ten,  and  was  recalling  his  young  days.  It  is 
certain  that  the  feeling  of  an  overruling  and 
protecting  Deity  was  predominant  at  least 
during  his  mature  years.  At  the  Constitu- 
tional Convention  of  1787,  he  moved  that 
the  daily  proceedings  should  be  opened  by 
prayers. 

SPEECH    IN    FAVOR    OF    DAILY  PUBLIC   PRAYERS. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  contest  with  Britain, 
when  we  were  sensible  of  danger,  we  had  daily 
prayers  in  this  room  for  the  Divine  protection. 
Our  prayers.  Sir,  were  heard,  and  they  were 
graciously  answered.  All  of  us  who  were  en- 
gaged in  the  struggle  must  have  observed  fre- 
quent instances  of  a  superintending  Providence 
in  our  favor.  To  that  kind  Providence  we  owe 
this  happy  opportunity  of  consulting  in  peace  on 
the  means  of  establishing  our  future  national 
felicity.  And  have  we  now  forgotten  this  power- 
ful friend?  or  do  we  imagine  we  no  longer  need 
His  assistance  ?  I  have  lived.  Sir,  a  long  time 
[eighty-one  years],  and  the  longer  I  live  the 
more  convincing  proofs  I  see  of  this  truth  :  that 
God  governs  in  the  aifairs  of  man.  And  if  a 
sparrow  cannot  fall  to  the  ground  without  His 
notice,  is  it  probable  that  an  empire  can  rise  with- 
out His  aid  ?     We  have  been  assured,  Sir,  in  the 

830 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN.— 9 

Sacred  Writings  that  "  except  the  Lord  build  the 
house,  they  labor  in  vain  that  build  it."  I  firmly 
believe  this.  I  also  believe  that  without  His 
concurring  aid  we  shall  succeed  in  this  political 
building  no  better  than  the  builders  of  Babel ;  we 
shall  be  divided  by  our  little  partial  local  inter- 
ests ;  our  projects  will  be  confounded ;  and  we 
ourselves  shall  become  a  reproach  and  a  byword 
down  to  future  ages.  And  what  is  worse,  man- 
kind may  liereafter,  from  this  unfortunate  in- 
stance, despair  of  establishing  human  govern- 
ment by  human  wisdom,  and  leave  it  to  chance, 
war,  or  conquest.  I  therefore  beg  leave  to  move 
that  henceforth  prayers,  imploring  the  assistance 
of  Heaven  and  its  blessing  on  our  deliberations, 
be  held  in  this  assembly  every  morning  before 
we  proceed  to  business ;  and  that  one  or  more 
of  the  clergv  of  this  city  be  requested  to  officiate 
in  that  service. 

Many  years  before  liis  death,  Franklin 
wrote  the  following  epitaph  for  his  own 
tombstone : 

FRANKLIX'S    EPITAPH    FOR    HI.MSELF. 

The  Body  of  Benjamin  Franklin,  Printer,  (like 
the  cover  of  an  old  book,  its  contents  torn  out, 
and  stript  of  its  lettering  and  gilding,)  lies  here 
food  for  worms.  Yet  the  Work  itself  shall  not 
be  lost;  for  it  will  (as  he  believed)  appear  once 
more  in  a  new  and  more  beautiful  Edition,  cor- 
rected and  amended  by  the  Author. 

Franklin,  when  near  the  close  of  his  life, 
wrote  to  Thomas  Paine,  who  was  proposing 
the  publication  of  the  A(/e  of  Reason^  the 
manuscript  of  which  appears  to  have  been 
submitted  to  his  perusal :  "I  would  advise 
you  not  to  attempt  uiicliainini;  the  tiger,  l)iit 
to  burn  this  piece  before  it  is  seen  by  any 
fttlier  person.  If  men  are  so  wicked  ^inth 
religion,  what  would  they  he  without  it?" 
Six  weeks  before  his  death  he  wrote  to  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Stiles : 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN.— 10 

HIS     DYING    OPINION    ON    CHRISTIANITY. 

As  to  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  my  opinion  of  whom 
you  particularly  desire,  I  think  the  system  of 
morals,  and  his  religion,  as  he  left  them  to  us, 
the  best  the  world  ever  saw,  or  is  likely  to  see; 
but  I  apjtrehend  it  has  received  various  corrupt- 
ing changes;  and  I  have,  with  most  of  the  present 
Dissenters  in  England,  some  doubts  as  to  his 
Divinity. 

Poor  RicharcVs  Almanac  in  its  day  was 
a  power  in  the  land.  Franklin  himself  thus 
speaks  of  the  work  : 

POOR  Richard's  almanac. 

In  1732  [at  the  age  of  twenty-seven]  I  first 
published  my  Almanac,  under  the  name  of 
"  Richard  Saunders."  It  was  continued  by  me 
about  twenty-five  years,  and  commonly  called 
Poor  Richard's  Almanac.  I  endeavored  to 
make  it  both  entertaining  and  useful ;  and  it 
accordingly  came  to  be  in  such  demand  that  I 
reaped  considerable  profit  from  it,  vending  an- 
nually near  ten  thousand.  And  observing  that 
it  was  generally  read — scarce  any  neighborhood 
in  the  Province  being  without  it — I  considered  it 
a  proper  vehicle  for  conveying  instruction  among 
the  common  peoplCj  who  bought  scarcely  any 
other  books.  I  therefore  filled  all  the  little  spaces 
that  occurred  between  the  remarkable  days  in 
the  Calendar  with  proverbial  sentences,  chiefly 
such  as  j,nculcated  industry  and  frugality  as  the 
means  of  procuring  wealth,  and  thereby  securing 
virtue ;  it  being  more  difficult  for  a  man  in  want 
to  act  always  honestly,  as,  to  use  here  one  of 
those  proverbs,  "  It  is  hard  for  an  empty  sack  to 
stand  upright." 

These  proverbs,  which  contained  the  wisdom 
of  many  ages  and  nations,  I  assembled  and 
formed  into  a  connected  discourse  prefixed  to 
the  Almanac  of  l7o7,  as  the  harangue  of  a  wise 
old  man  to  the  people  attending  an  auction.  The 
bringing  of  all  these  scattered  counsels  thus  into 
a  focus  enabled  them  to  make  greater  impression. 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN.— 11 

The  piece  being  universally  approved  was  copied 
in  all  the  newspapers  of  the  American  continent, 
reprinted  in  Britain  on  a  large  sheet  of  paper  to 
be  stuck  up  in  houses.  Two  translations  were 
made  of  it  in  France ;  and  great  numbers  of  it 
were  bought  by  the  clergy  and  gentry,  to  dis- 
tribute gratis  among  their  poor  parishioners  and 
tenants.  In  Pennsylvania,  as  it  discouraged  use- 
less expense  in  foreign  superfluities,  some  thought 
it  had  its  share  of  influence  in  producing  that 
growing  plenty  of  money  which  was  observable 
several  years  after  its  publication. — Autobiog- 
raphy, Chap..  VII. 

This  Collection  of  Poor  Richard's  Sayings 
was  put  forth  under  the  title  of  "  The  Way 
to  "Wealth,''     The  brochure  thus  begins  : 

THE    CHIEF    TAX-GATHERERS. 

I  stopped  my  horse  lately,  where  a  great  num- 
ber of  people  were  collected  at  an  auction  of 
merchant's  goods.  The  hour  of  sale  not  being 
come,  they  were  conversing  on  the  badness  of 
the  times ;  and  one  of  the  company  called  to  a 
plain,  clean  old  man,  with  white  locks :  "  Pray, 
Father  Abraham,  what  think  you  of  the  times? 
Will  not  these  heavy  taxes  quite  ruin  the  coun- 
try ?  How  shall  we  ever  be  able  to  pay  them  ? 
What  would  you  advise  us  to  do?"  Father 
Abraham  stood  up  and  replied,  "  If  you  would 
have  my  advice,  I  will  give  it  you  in  short;  for 
A  word  to  the  wise  is  enough,  as  Poor  Richard 
says."  They  joined  in  desiring  him  to  speak  his 
mind,  and  gathering  round  him,  he  proceeded  as 
follows: 

"  Friends,"  said  he,  "  the  taxes  arc  indeed  very 
heavy,  aiid  if  those  laid  on  by  the  Government 
were  the  only  ones  we  had  to  pay,  wc  might 
more  easily  discharge  them;  but  wc  have  many 
others,  and  much  more  grievous  to  some  of  us. 
Wc  are  taxed  twice  as  much  by  our  idleness, 
three  times  as  much  by  our  pride,  and  four  times 
as  much  by  our  f<^liy  ;  and  from  these  taxes  the 
Commiaaioncrs  cannot  case  or  deliver  us,  by  al- 
m 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN.— 12 

lowing  an  abatement.  However,  let  us  hearten 
to  good  advice,  and  something  may  be  done  for 
us;  God  helps  them  that  help  themselves,  as  Poor 
Richard  says.''— The  Wai/  to  Wealth. 

SLOTH    AND    INDUSTRY. 

"  If  time  be  of  all  things  the  most  precious, 
wasting  time  must  he,  as  Poor  Richard  says,  the 
greatest  prodigalitg  ;  since,  as  he  elsewhere  tells 
us,  Lost  time  is  never  found  again;  and  what  we 
call  time  enough  alioays  proves  little  enough.  Let 
us  then  up  and  be  doing,  and  doing  to  the  pur- 
pose ;  so  by  diligence  shall  we  do  with  less  per- 
plexity. Sloth  makes  all  things  difficult,  but  in- 
dustry all  easy,  and  he  that  riseth  late  must  trot 
all  day,  and  shall  scarce  overtake  his  business  at 
night ;  while  Laziness  travels  so  slowly  that  Pov- 
erty soon  overtakes  him.  Drive  thy  business,  let 
not  that  drive  thee  ;  and  Early  to  bed  and  early 
to  rise  makes  a  man  healthy,  wealthy,  and  wise, 
as  Poor  Richard  says." — The  Way  to  Wealth. 

FRUGALITY. 

"  So  much  for  industry  and  attention  to  one's 
business ;  but  to  these  we  must  add  frugality,  if 
we  would  make  our  industry  more  certainly  suc- 
cessful.    A  man   may,  if  he  knows  not  how  to 
save  as  he  gets,  keep  his  nose  all  "liis  life  to  the 
grindstone,  and  die  not  worth  a  groat  at  last.     A 
fat  kitchen  makes  a  lean  ivill ;   and 
Many  estates  are  spent  in    the  getting. 
Since  women  for  tea  forsook  spinning  and  knit- 
ting. 
And  men  for  punch  forsook  hewing  and  split- 
ting. 
If  you  ivould  be  ivealthy,  think  of  saving  as  ivell 
as  of  getting.      The  Indies  have  not  made  Spain 
rich,  because  her  outgoes  are  greater  than  her  in- 
come.    Away  then  with   your  expensive    follies, 
and  you  will  not  have  so  much  cause  to  complain 
of  hard  times,  heavy  taxes,  and  chargeable  fami- 
lies; for 

Women  and  wine,  game  and  deceit, 
Make  the  tvealth  small  and  the  want  great. 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN.— 13 

And  further,  What  maintains  one  vice  would 
bring  up  two  children.  You  may  think,  perhaps, 
that  a  little  tea  or  a  Uttle  punch  now  and  then, 
diet  a  Uule  more  costly,  clothes  a  little  finer,  and 
a  little  entertainment  now  and  then,  can  be  no 
great  matter ;  but  remember,  Many  a  micMe  makes 
a  muckle.  Beware  of  little  expenses  ;  A  small  leak 
will  sink  a  great  ship,  as  Poor  Richard  says ;  and 
again,  Who  dainties  love,  shall  beggars  prove; 
and  moreover.  Fools  make  feasts,  and  wise  men 
eat  them.'" — The  Way  to  Wealth. 

BUYING     SUPERFLUITIES. 

"  Here  you  are  all  got  together  at  this  sale  of 
fineries    and    knick-knacks.      You    call    them 
'  goods ' ;  but  if  you  do  not  take  care,  they  will 
prove  'evils'  to  some  of  you.     You  expect  they 
will  be  sold  cheap,  and  perhaps  they  may  for  less 
than  they  cost ;  but  if  you  have  no  occasion  for 
them  they   must   be  dear   to    you.     Remember 
what  Poor  Richard  says :   Buy  ivhat  thou  hast  no 
need   of,  and  ere  long   thou  shall  sell  thy  neces- 
saries.    And  again.  At  a  great  pennyworth  pause 
a  little.      lie  nieans  that   perhaps  the  cheapness 
is  apparent  only,  and  not   real ;  or,  the  bargain, 
by  straitening  thee  in  thy  business,  may  do  thee 
more  harm  than  good.     For  in  another  place  he 
says,  Many  have  been   ruined   by    buying   good 
pennyworths.     Again,  It   is   foolish    to   lay  out 
money  in  a  purchase  of  repentance  ;  and  yet  this 
folly  is  practised  every  day  at  auctions  for  want 
of  minding  the  Alinanac.      Many  a  one,  for  the 
sake    of   finery   on    tlic   back,  has  gone  with  a 
hungry    belly,'  and    half-starved    their    families. 
Silks  and  satins,  scarltt  and  velvets,  put  out  the 
kitchen  fre,  as  Poor  Richard  says.      A   plough- 
man on  his  legs  is  higher  than  a  gentleman  on  his 
knees,  as  Poor  Ridiard  says.      Always  taking  out 
of  the  meal-tub,  and  never  putting  in,  soon  comes 
to  the  bottom,  as  Poor   Richard  saya ;  and    then, 
When   the  well  is  dry   thry  know  the  worth   of 
water.     But  this  they  might  have  known  before, 
if  they  had  taken  his  advice.     And  again  Poor 


BfiNJAMIN  t^RAKllLm.-l4 

Dick  says,  Pride  is  as  loud  a  hegr/ar  as  Want, 
and  a  great  deal  more  saucij.  When  you  have 
bought  one  fine  thing,  you  must  buy  ten  more, 
that  your  appearance  may  be  all  of  a  piece ;  but 
Poor  Dick  says.  It  is  easier  to  sujij^ress  th".  first 
desire  than  to  satisfy  all  that  follow  it.  And  it 
is  as  truly  folly  for  the  poor  to  ape  the  ricli,  as 
for  the  frog  to  swell  in  order  to  equal  the  ox." — 
The  Way  to  Wealth. 

CHARACTER    OF     WHITEFIELD. 

He  had  a  loud  and  clear  voice,  and  articulated 
his  words  so  perfectly  that  he  might  be  heard 
and  understood  at  a  great  distance;  especially  as 
his  auditors  observed  the  most  perfect  silence. 

[On     one    particular  occasion    when    he 

heard  A\  hitefield  preach  in  the  open  air]  I  com- 
puted that  he  might  well  be  heard  by  more  than 
thirty  thousand.  This  reconciled  me  to  the 
newspaper  accounts  of  his  having  preached  to 
twenty-five  thousand.  By  hearing  him  often,  I 
came  to  distinguish  easily  between  sermons  newly 
composed  and  those  which  he  had  often  preached 
in  the  course  of  his  travels.  His  delivery  of  the 
latter  was  so  improved  by  frequent  repetition, 
that  every  accent,  every  emphasis,  every  modu- 
lation of  voice,  was  so  perfectly  well  turned  and 
well  placed,  that,  without  being  interested  in  the 
subject,  one  could  not  help  being  pleased  with 

the    discourse His    writing   and    printing 

from  time  to  time  gave  great  advantage  to  his 
enemies Critics  attacked  his  writings  vio- 
lently, and  with  so  mucli  appearance  of  reason, 
as  to  diminish  the  number  of  his  votaries,  and 
prevent  their  increase.  So  that  I  am  satisfied 
that  if  he  had  never  written  anything,  he  would 
have  left  behind  him  a  much  more  numerous  and 
important  sect;  and  his  reputation  might  in  that 
case  have  been  still  growing  even  after  liis  death. 
— Autobiogra2yhy,  Chap.  VHI. 

PAYING     TOO    DEAR    FOR    THE    WHISTLE. 

In  my  opinion,  we  might  all  draw  more  good 
from  the  world  than  we  do,  and  suffer  less  evil, 
tat 


BENJAl^nN  FRANKLIN.— IS 

if  we  would  take  care  not  to  give  too  much  for 
whistles.  You  ask  what  I  mean  ?  You  love  sto- 
ries, and  will  excuse  my  telling  one  of  myself: 

When  I  was  a  child  of  seven  years  old,  my 
friends  on  a  holiday  filled  my  pocket  with  cop- 
pers. I  went  directly  to  a  shop  where  they  sold 
toys  for  children ;  and,  being  charmed  with  the 
sound  of  a  whistle  that  I  met  by  the  way  in  the 
hands,  of  another  boy,  I  voluntarily  offered  and 
gave  all  my  money  for  one.  I  then  came  home, 
and  went  whistling  all  over  the  house,  much 
pleased  with  my  tvhistle,  but  disturbing  all  the 
family.  My  brothers  and  sisters  and  cousins, 
understanding  the  bargain  T  had  made,  told  me 
I  had  given  four  times  as  much  for  it  as  it  was 
worth  ;  put  me  in  mind  what  good  things  I  might 
have  bought  with  the  rest  of  my  money ;  and 
laughed  at  me  so  much  for  my  folly,  that  I  cried 
with  vexation  ;  and  the  reflection  gave  me  more 
chagrin  than  the  whistle  gave  me  pleasure. 

This,  however,  was  afterwards  of  use  to  me, 
the  impression  continuing  on  my  mind ;  so  that 
often  when  I  was  tempted  to  buy  some  unneces- 
sary tiling,  I  said  to  myself,  DorCt  give  too 
much  for  the  whistle ;  and  I  saved  my  money. 
As  I  grew  up,  came  into  the  world,  and  ob- 
served the  actions  of  men,  I  thought  I  met  with 
many,  very  many,  who  gave  too  much  for  their 
whistles : 

When  I  saw  one  too  ambitious  of  Court  favor, 
sacrificing  his  time  in  attendance  on  levees,  his 
repose,  his  liberty,  his  virtue,  and  perhaps  his 
friends,  to  attain  it,  I  have  said  to  myself,  This 
man  gives  too  7iinch  for  his  whistle. 

When  I  saw  another  fond  of  popularity,  con- 
stantly employing  himself  in  political  bustles, 
neglecting  his  own  affairs,  an<l  ruining  them  by 
tliat  neglect,  Ife  pags,  inflred,  said  I,  too  much 
for  his  whistle. 

If   I   knew  a  miser  who  gave  up  every  kind  of 

comfortable  living,  all  the  pleasure  of  doing  good 

to  others,  all   the  esteem    of   his   fellow-citizens, 

and  the  joys  of  benevolent  friendship,  for  the 

m 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN.— 16 

sake  of  accuinulatino;  wealth,  Poor  man,  said  I, 
you  "pay  too  much  for  your  whistle. 

When  I  met  witli  a  man  of  pleasure,  sacrific- 
ing every  laudable  improvement  of  the  mind,  or 
Ills  fortune,  to  mere  corporeal  sensations,  and 
ruining  his  licalth  in  their  pursuit,  Mistaken 
man,  said  I,  you  are  j)rovidi7iy  much  pain  for 
yourself,  instead  of  jyleasurc;  yoU  give  too  much 
for  your  whistle. 

If  I  see  one  fond  of  appearance,  or  fine  clothes, 
fine  houses,  fine  furniture,  fine  equipages,  all 
above  his  fortune,  for  which  he  contracts  debts, 
and  ends  his  career  in  a  prison,  Alas  !  say  I,  he 
has  paid  dear,  very  dear,  for  his  whistle. 

When  I  see  a  beautiful,  sweet-tempered  girl 
married  to  an  ill-natured  brute  of  a  husband, 
What  a  pity,  say  I,  that  she  should  pay  so  much 
for  a  whistle. 

In  short,  I  conceive  that  a  great  part  of  the 
miseries  of  mankind  are  brought  upon  them  by 
the  false  estimates  they  have  made  of  the  value 
of  things,  and  by  their  yiving  too  much  for  their 
whistles. — Letter  to  Madame  Brillon,  1779. 

paper:  a  poem. 

[This  poem  is  attributed  to  Fi-anklin;  but  it  is  not  alto- 
gether  certain  that  it  was  written  by  him.  No  other  author- 
ship, however,  has  been  assigned  to  it.] 

Some  wit  of  old — such  wits  of  old  there  were — 
Whose   hints  showed   meaning,  whose  allusions 

care. 
By  one  brave  stroke  to  mark  all  human  kind. 
Called  clear  blank  paper  every  infant  mind; 
Where  still,  as  opening  sense  her  dictates  wrote, 
Fair  Virtue  put  a  seal,  or  Vice  a  blot. 
The  thought  was  happy,  pertinent,  and  true ; 
Methinks  a  genius  might  the  plan  pursue. 
I,  (can  you  pardon  my  presumption  ?)  I — 
No  wit,  no  genius^yet  for  once  will  try : — 
Various  the  papers  various  wants  produce, 
The  wants  of  fashion,  elegance,  and  use. 
Men  are  as  various ;  and  if  right  I  scan, 
Each  sort  of  Paper  represents  some  Man. 
Pray  note  the  Fop — half  powder  and  half  lace^ 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN.— 17 

Nice  as  a  bandbox  were  his  dwelling-place. 
He's  the  Gilt  Paper,  which  apart  you  store, 
And  lock  from  vulgar  hands  in  the  'scrutoire. 
Mechanics,  Servants,  Farmers,  and  so  forth, 
Are  Copy-Paper  of  inferior  worth; 
Less  prized,  more  useful,  for  your  desk  decreed, 
Free  to  all  pens,  and  prompt  at  every  need. 
The  wretch  whom  Avarice  bids  to  pinch  and 
spare, 
Star\-e,  cheat,  and  pilfer,  to  enrich  an  heir. 
Is  coarse  Broicn  Paper ;  such  as  pedlers  choose 
To  wrap  up  wares  which  better  men  will  use. 

Take  next  the  miser's  contrast :  who  destroys 
Health,  fame,  and  fortune,  in  a  round  of  joys; 
Will  any  Paper  match  him  ?     Yes,  throughout. 
He's  a  true  Sinking  Paper,  past  all  doubt. 
The  retail  Politician's  anxious  thought 
Deems    this  side   always  right,   and   that  stark 

naught ; 
He    foams    with    censure ;    with    applause    he 

raves — 
A  dupe  to  rumors,  and  a  tool  to  knaves  : 
He'll  want  no  type  his  weakness  to  proclaim. 
While  such  a  thing  as  Foolscap  has  a  name. 

The  Hastv  Gentleman,  whose  blood  runs  high. 
Who  picks  a  quarrel,  if  you  step  awry, 
Who  can't  a  jest  or  hint  or  look  endure — 
What's  he?  What?  Touch-Pa})er,  Xoha  &mc. 
What  arc  our  Poets,  take  them  as  they  fall — 
Good,  bad,  rich,  poor,  much  read,  not  read  at  all? 
Them  and  their  works  in  the  same  class  you'll  find  ; 
Tlicy  are  the  more   Waste-Paper  of  mankind. 

Observe  the  Maiden,  innocently  sweet; 
She's  fair  White  Paper — an  unsullied  sheet, 
On  which  the  happy  man,  whom  fate  ordains. 
May  write  his  name,  and  take  her  for  liis  pains. 

One  instance  more,  and  only  one,  PU  bring: 
'Tis  the  Great  Man  who  scorns  a  little  thing, 
Wlioso  thoughts,  whose  deeds,  wlio.se  maxims  arc 

his  own — 
Formed  on  the  feelings  of  his  heart  alone: 
True,  gfTiniiie  Royal  Paper  is  his  breast ; 
Of  all  the  kinds  most  precious,  purest,  best. 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. -18 

Probably  the  last  thing  written  by  Frank, 
lin  was  a  parody  on  a  speech  delivered  in 
Congress  in  defense  of  the  slave-trade.  It 
purports  to  be  a  reproduction  of  a  speech 
made  by  Sidi  Mehemet  Ibrahim,  a  member 
of  the  Divan  of  Algiers,  in  opposition  to 
granting  the  petition  of  the  sect  called 
JErihi,  who  asked  for  the  abolition  of  Al- 
gerine  piracy.  This  paper  is  dated  March 
23, 1790,  twenty-four  days  before  the  death 
of  Franklin. 

SIDI    MEHEMET    ON    ALGERINE    PIRACY. 

Have  these  Erika  considered  the  consequences 
of  granting  their  petition  ?  If  we  cease  our 
cruises  against  the  Christians,  how  shall  we  be 
furnished  with  the  commodities  their  countries 
produce,  and  which  are  so  necessary  for  us  ?  If 
we  forbear  to  make  slaves  of  their  people,  who 
in  this  hot  climate  are  to  cultivate  our  lands? 
Who  are  to  perform  the  common  labors  of  our 
city  and  in  our  famiUes  ?  Must  we  not  then  be 
our  own  slaves?  And  is  there  not  more  com- 
passion and  more  favor  due  to  us  as  Mussulmans 
than  to  these  Christian  dogs  ?  We  have  now 
above  fifty  thousand  slaves  in  and  near  Algiers. 
This  number,  if  not  kept  up  by  fresh  supplies, 
will  soon  diminish,  and  be  gradually  annihilated. 
If  we  then  cease  taking  and  plundering  the  in- 
fidel ships,  and  making  slaves  of  the  seamen  and 
passengers,  our  lands  will  become  of  no  value  for 
want  of  cultivation  ;  the  rents  of  houses  in  the 
city  will  sink  one  half ;  and  the  revenue  of  gov- 
ernment arising  from  its  share  of  prizes  be  totally 
destroyed !  And  for  what  ?  To  gratify  the 
whims  of  a  whimsical  sect  who  would  have  us 
not  only  forbear  making  more  slaves,  but  even 
manumit  those  we  have. 

But  who  is  to  indemnify  their  masters  for  the 
loss  ?  Will  the  State  do  it  ?  Is  our  treasury 
sufficient  ?  Will  the  Erika  do  it  ?  Can  they  do 
it  ?  Or  would  they,  to  do  what  they  think  jus- 
tice to  the  slaves,  do  a  greater  injustice  to  the 

340 


feENJAMlX  FRANKLIN.— 19 

Owners  ?  And  if  we  set  our  slaves  free,  what  is 
to  be  done  with  them  ?  Few  of  them  will  re- 
turn to  their  countries ;  they  know  too  well  the 
greater  hardships  they  must  there  be  subject  to. 
They  will  not  embrace  our  holy  religion  ;  they 
will  not  adopt  our  manners ;  our  people  will  not 
pollute  themselves  by  intermarrying  with  them. 
Must  we  maintain  them  as  beggars  in  our  streets, 
or  suffer  our  properties  to  be  the  prey  of  their 
pillage?  For  men  accustomed  to  slavery  will 
not  work  for  a  livelihood  when  not  compelled. 

And  what  is  there  so  pitiable  in  their  present 
condition  ?  Were  they  not  slaves  in  their  own 
countries  ?  Are  not  Spain,  Portugal,  France, 
and  the  Italian  States  governed  by  despots  who 
hold  their  subjects  in  slavery  without  exception? 
Even  England  treats  its  sailors  as  slaves ;  for 
they  are,  whenever  the  government  plea.ses, 
seized,  and  confined  in  ships  of  war ;  condemned 
not  only  to  work,  but  to  fight,  for  small  wages 
or  a  mere  subsistence,  not  better  than  our  slaves 
are  allowed  by  us.  Is  their  condition  then  made 
worse  by  falling  into  our  hands?  No;  they 
have  only  exchanged  one  slavery  for  another, 
and,  I  may  say,  a  better;  for  here  they  are 
brought  into  a  land  where  the  sun  of  Islamism 
gives  forth  its  light,  and  shines  in  full  splendor ; 
and  thus  have  an  opportunity  of  making  them- 
selves acquainted  with  the  true  doctrine,  and 
thereby  saving  their  immortal  souls.  Those  who 
remain  at  home  have  not  that  happiness.  Send- 
ing the  slaves  home,  then,  would  be  sending  them 
out  of  llglit  into  darkness. 

I  repeat  the  question,  what  is  to  be  done  with 
them  ?  I  have  heard  it  suggested  that  they  may 
be  planted  in  the  wilderness,  where  there  is 
plenty  of  land  for  them  to  subsist  on,  and  where 
tliev  may  flourish  as  a  Free  State.  Hiittliey  are, 
I  doubt,  too  little  disposed  to  labor  without  com- 
pulsion, as  well  as  too  ignorant  to  establisli  a 
good  government;  aiul  the  wild  Arabs  would 
soon  moI(;st  and  dcHtroy  or  again  enslave  tlicm. 
"While  scning  u.h,  wc  take  care  to  provide  them 

Ml 


feENJAMIN  FRANKLIN.— 20 

with  everything,  and  tliey  are  treated  with  hu- 
manity. The  laborers  in  tlieir  own  country  are, 
as  I  am  well  informed,  worse  fed,  lodged,  and 
clothed.  The  condition  of  most  of  them  is 
therefore  already  mended,  and  requires  no  further 
improvement.  Here  their  lives  are  in  safety. 
They  are  not  liable  to  be  impressed  for  soldiers, 
and  forced  to  cut  one  another's  Christian  throats, 
as  in  the  wars  of  their  own  countries.  If  some  of 
the  religious  mad  bigots,  who  now  tease  us  with 
their  silly  petitions,  have  in  a  fit  of  blind  zeal 
freed  tlieir  slaves,  it  was  not  generosity,  it  was 
not  humanity,  that  moved  them  to  the  action. 
It  was  from  the  conscious  burthen  of  a  load  of 
sins,  and  a  hope,  from  the  supposed  merits  of  so 
good  a  work,  to  be  excused  from  damnation. 

How  grossly  are  they  mistaken  to  suppose 
slavery  to  be  disallowed  by  the  Alcoran  !  Are 
not  the  two  precepts — to  quote  no  more — "  Mas- 
ters, treat  your  slaves  with  kindness;"  "Slaves, 
serve  your  masters  with  cheerfulness  and  fidelity," 
clear  proofs  to  the  contrary  ?  Nor  can  the 
plundering  of  Infidels  be  in  that  sacred  book 
forbidden ;  since  it  is  well  known  from  it  that 
God  has  given  the  world,  and  all  that  it  contains, 
to  his  faithful  Mussulmans,  who  are  to  enjoy  it 
of  right  as  fast  as  they  conquer  it.  Let  us  then 
hear  no  more  of  this  detestable  proposition — the 
manumission  of  Christian  slaves — the  adoption 
of  which  would,  by  depreciating  our  lands  and 
houses,  and  thereby  depriving  so  many  good 
citizens  of  their  properties,  create  universal  dis- 
content, and  provoke  insurrections,  to  the  en- 
dangering of  government,  and  producing  general 
confusion.  I  have,  therefore,  no  doubt  but  this 
wise  Council  will  prefer  the  comfort  and  happi- 
ness of  a  whole  nation  of  True  Believers  to  the 
whim  of  a  few  Erika,  and  dismiss  their  petition. 


JAMES  BAILLIE  FRASER.— 1 

FRASEK,  J.VMES  Baillie,  a  Scottish  trav- 
eller and  novelist,  born  in  1783;  died  in 
1856.  After  travelling  extensively  in  vari- 
ous parts  of  the  earth  he  was  in  1836  sent  on 
a  diplomatic  mission  to  Persia,  making  a  re- 
markable horseback  journey  through  Asia 
Minor  to  Teheran.  His  health  having  been 
impaired  by  his  exposures,  he  retired  to  his 
estate  in  Scotland,  where  the  remainder  of 
his  life  was  passed.  Among  his  numerous 
books  of  travels  are :  Journal  of  a  Tour 
through  part  of  the  Snowy  Range  of  the 
Himela  Mountains  (1820),  Narrative  of  a 
Journey  into  Khorassan  (1825),  A  Wiiiter 
Journey  from  Constantinople  to  Teheran 
(1838),  and  Travels  in  Koordistan  and 
Mesopotamia  (18-10).  He  also  wrote  for 
"The  Edinburgh  Cabinet  Library"  The 
History  of  Mesopotamia  and  Assyria,  and 
a  History  of  Persia  (1847.) 

A    PERSIAN    TOWN. 

Viewed  from  a  commanding  situation,  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  Persian  town  is  most  uninteresting; 
the  houses,  all  of  mud,  differ  in  no  respect  from 
the  earth  in  color,  and  from  the  irregularity  of 
their  construction,  resemble  inequalities  on  its 
surface  rather  than  human  dwellings.  The 
houses,  even  of  the  great,  seldom  exceed  one 
story ;  and  the  lofty  walls  which  shroud  them 
from  view,  without  a  window  to  enliven  them, 
have  a  most  monotonous  effect.  There  are  few 
domes  or  minarets,  and  still  fewer  of  those  that 
exist  arc  cither  splendid  or  elegant.  There  are 
no  public  buildings  but  tlic  mosques  and  medres- 
scs;  and  these  are  often  as  mean  as  the  rest,  or 
perfectly  excludf;d  from  view  by  ruins.  The 
general  conp-d'oil  presents  a  succession  of  flat 
roofs  and  bnig  walls  of  mud,  thickly  interspersed 
with  ruins;  and  the  only  relief  to  its  monotony 
is  found  in  the  ganh^ns  adorned  with  chinar, 
poplars,  and  cypresses,  with  which  tlm  townsand 
villagea  arc  often  surrounded  and  iuterniinglcd. 


JAMES  BAILLIE  FRASER.— 9 

Mr.  Fraser  wrote  The  Kuszilbash^  a  Tale 
of  Khorasmn  (1828.)  The  word  Kuzzil- 
hash  means  simply  "  Red-head,"  and  is 
used  to  designate  a  soldier  ;  in  1830  he  put 
forth  a  continuation  of  this  novel  under  the 
title  The  Persian  Adventarer.  This  was 
followed  in  1833  by  The  Khan's  Tale,  the 
scene  of  which  is  also  laid  in  Khorassan.  At 
a  still  later  period  he  wrote  several  other 
less  successful  novels,  the  scene  of  which 
was  placed  in  Scotland. 

MEETING    OF    WARRIORS    IN    THE    DESERT. 

By  the  time  I  reached  the  banks  of  this  stream 
the  sun  had  set,  and  it  was  necessary  to  seek 
some  retreat  where  I  might  pass  the  night  and  re- 
fresh myself  and  my  liorse  without  fear  of  dis- 
covery. Ascending  the  river-bed,  therefore,  with 
this  intention,  I  soon  found  a  recess  where  I 
could  repose  myself,  surrounded  by  green  pasture 
in  which  my  horse  might  feed  ;  but  as  it  would 
have  been  dangerous  to  let  him  go  at  large  all 
night,  I  employed  myself  for  a  while  in  cutting 
the  longest  and  thickest  of  the  grass  which  grew 
on  the  banks  of  the  stream  for  his  night's  repast, 
permitting  him  to  pasture  at  will  until  dark  ;  and 
securing  him  then  close  to  the  spot  I  meant  to 
occupy,  after  a  moderate  meal,  I  commended 
myself  to  Allah  and  lay  down  to  rest. 

The  loud  neighing  of  my  horse  awoke  me  with 
a  start,  as  the  first  light  of  dawn  broke  in  the 
east.  Quickly  springing  on  my  feet,  and  grasp- 
ing my  spear  and  scimitar,  which  lay  under  my 
head,  I  looked  around  for  the  cause  of  alarm. 
Nor  did  it  long  remain  doubtful ;  for  at  the  dis- 
tance of  scarce  two  hundred  yards,  I  saw  a  single 
horseman  advancing.  To  tighten  my  girdle 
around  my  loins,  to  string  my  bow,  and  prepare 
two  or  three  arrows  for  use,  was  but  the  work  of 
a  few  moments;  before  these  preparations,  how- 
ever, were  completed,  the  stranger  was  close  at 
hand.  Fitting  an  arrow  to  my  bow,  I  placed 
myself  upon  guard,  and  examined  him  narrowly 


JAMES  BAILLIE  FRASER.— 3 

as  he  approached.  He  was  a  man  of  goodly  stat« 
ure  and  powerful  frame  ;  his  countenance,  hard, 
strongly  marked,  and  furnished  with  a  thick, 
black  beard,  bore  testimony  of  exposure  to  many 
a  blast,  but  it  still  preserved  a  prepossessing  ex- 
pression of  good  humor  and  benevolence.  His 
turban,  which  was  formed  of  a  cashmere  shawl, 
sorely  tashed  and  torn,  and  twisted  here  and 
there  with  small  steel  chains,  according  to  the 
fashion  of  the  time,  was  wound  round  a  red  cloth 
cap  that  rose  in  four  peaks  high  above  the  head. 
His  oeinah  or  riding  coat,  of  crimson  cloth,  much 
stained  and  faded,  opening  at  the  bosom  showed 
the  links  of  a  coat-of-mail  which  he  wore  below  ; 
a  yellow  shawl  formed  his  girdle ;  his  huge 
shuhvars,  or  riding  trousers,  of  thick  fawn-colored 
Kerman  woollen  stuff,  fell  in  folds  over  the  large, 
red  leather  boots  in  which  his  legs  were  cased ; 
by  his  side  hung  a  crooked  scimitar  in  a  black 
leather  scabbard,  and  from  the  holsters  of  his 
saddle  peeped  out  the  butt-ends  of  a  pair  of  pis- 
tols— weapons  of  which  I  then  knew  not  the  use, 
anymore  than  the  matchlock  which  was  slung  at 
his  back.  He  was  mounted  on  a  powerful  but 
jaded  horse,  and  appeared  to  have  already  trav- 
elled far. 

\Vhen  the  striking  figure  had  approached 
within  thirty  yards,  I  called  out  in  the  Turkish 
language,  commonly  used  in  the  country : 
"  Whosoever  thou  art,  come  no  nearer  on  thy 
peril,  or  I  shall  salute  thee  with  this  arrow  from 
my  bow!"  "  Why,  boy,"  returned  the  stranger 
in  a  deep  manly  voice,  and  speaking  in  the 
same  tongue,  "  thou  art  a  bold  lad,  truly !  but  set 
thy  heart  at  rest,  I  mean  thee  no  harm."  "  Nay," 
rejoined  I,  "  I  am  on  foot  and  alone.  I  know  thee 
not,  nor  tliy  iiitontioiis.  Either  retire  at  once,  or 
show  thy  sincerity  by  setting  thyself  on  equal 
terms  with  me;  dismount  from  thy  steed,  and 
then  I  fear  thee  not,  whatever  be  thy  designs. 
Beware  !"  And  so  saying  I  drew  my  arrow  to 
the  head,  and  pointed  it  towards  him.  "  By  the 
bead  of  my  father !"  cried  the  stranger,  "  thou  art 


JAMES  BAILLIE  ERASER. —4 

an  absolute  youth  !  but  I  like  thee  well ;  thy  heart 
is  stout,  and  thy  demand  is  just;  the  sheep 
trusts  not  the  wolf  when  it  meets  him  in  the 
plain,  nor  do  we  acknowledge  every  stranger  in 
the  desert  for  a  friend.  See,"  continued  he, 
dismounting  actively,  yet  with  a  weight  that 
made  the  turf  ring  again — "see,  I  yield  my 
advantage ;  as  for  thy  arrows,  boy,  I  fear  them 
not." 

With  that  he  slung  a  small  shield,  which  he 
bore  at  his  back,  before  him,  as  if  to  cover  his 
face,  in  case  of  treachery  on  my  part,  and  leaving 
his  horse  where  it  stood,  he  advanced  to  me. 
Taught  from  youth  to  suspect  and  guard  against 
treachery,  I  still  kept  a  wary  eye  on  the  motions 
of  the  stranger.  But  there  was  something  in  his 
open  though  rugged  countenance  and  manly 
bearing  that  claimed  and  won  my  confidence. 
Slowly  I  lowered  my  hand,  and  relaxed  the  still 
drawn  string  of  my  bow,  as  he  strode  up  to  me 
with  a  firm,  composed  step. 

"Youth,"  said  he,  "had  my  intentions  been 
hostile,  it  is  not, thy  arrows  or  thy  bow,  no,  nor 
thy  sword  and  spear,  that  could  have  stood  thee 
much  in  stead.  I  am  too  old  a  soldier,  and  too 
well  defended  against  such  weapons,  to  fear  them 
from  so  young  an  arm.  But  I  am  neither  enemy 
nor  traitor  to  attack  thee  unawares.  I  have  trav- 
elled far  during  the  past  night,  and  mean  to  re- 
fresh myself  awhile  in  this  spot  before  I  proceed 
on  my  journey ;  thou  meanest  not,"  added  he, 
with  a  smile,  "  to  deny  me  the  boon  which  Allah 
extends  to  all  his  creatures  ?  What,  still  sus- 
picious? Come,  then,  I  will  increase  thy 
advantage,  and  try  to  win  thy  confidence."  With 
that  he  unbuckled  his  sword  and  threw  it,  with 
his  matchlock,  upon  the  turf  a  little  way  from 
him.  "  See  me  now  unarmed ;  wilt  thou  yet  trust 
me?"  Who  could  have  doubted  fonger?  I 
threw  down  my  bow  and  arrows  :  "  Pardon," 
cried  I,  "  my  tardy  confidence ;  but  he  that  has 
escaped  with  difiiculty  from  many  perils,  fears 
even  their  shadow." — The  Kuzzilbash. 

}4( 


EDWARD  AUGUSTUS  FREEMAN.— 1 

FEEEMAX,  Edwaed  Augl'stus,  an  Eng- 
lish historical  writer,  born  in  1823.  He 
was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Oxford,  of 
which  he  was  elected  Scholar  in  1841,  Fel- 
low in  1845,  and  Honorary  Fellow  in  1880. 
He  filled  the  office  of  Examiner  in  the 
School  of  Law  and  Modern  History  in 
1857-8  and  in  1863-4,  and  in  tlie  School  of 
Modem  History  in  1873.  He  reeeiyed  the 
honorary  degree  of  D.C.L.  from  the  Uni- 
versity of  Oxford  in  1870,  and  that  of  LL.D. 
from  the  University  of  Cambridge  in  1874, 
and  is  an  honorary  member  of  numerous 
learned  societies  in  Europe  and  America. 
His  writings,  mainly  upon  historical  and 
architectural  subjects,  are  very  numerous. 
Among  them  are  llistorij  of  Architecture 
(1849),  Enmys  on  Window  Tracery  (1850), 
The  History  and  Con<iuexts  of  the  Saracens 
(185G),  History  of  the  Federal  Government 
(vol.  1.,  1863),  llistori/  of  the  Norman  Con- 
quest (5  vols.,  1867-76),  OU  English  His- 
tory (1^^^),  Groicthof  the  English  Constitu- 
tion (1872),  General  Sketch  of  Euro2>ean 
History  (1872),  Historical  Essays  (3  vols., 
1872-79),  Historical  and  Architectural 
Sketches,  chiefly  Itcdian  (1876),  The  Otto- 
man Power  in  Europe  (1877),  The  Histor- 
ical Geography  of  Europe  (1881),  The 
Reign  of  niUiani  Ilufus  and  Henry  I. 
(1882),  Introduction  to  American  Institxi- 
tional  Ilixtory  (1882),  Lectures  to  Ameri- 
can AudienrrH  (1882.)  He  has  also  con- 
tributed largely  to  periodicals  upon  kindred 
subjects. 

BICiMKICANTE    OF    THE    NORMAN'    CONQT'EST. 

Tlie  Norman  CoiKjucst  is  the  great  turning- 
point  in  the  lii.story  of  the  Kn^li^li  nation.  Since 
the  first  sottlcnicnt  of  the  English  in  Britain,  the 
introduction    of   Christianity  ia   the  only  event 


EDWAKD  AUGUSTUS  FREEMAN.— 3 

which  can  compare  with  it  in  importance.  And 
there  is  this  wide  difference  between  the  two. 
The  introduction  of  Christianity  was  an  event 
which  could  hardly  fail  to  happen  sooner  or  later  ; 
in  accepting  the  Gospel  the  English  only  fol- 
lowed the  same  law  which,  sooner  or  later,  affected 
all  the  Teutonic  nations.  But  the  Norman  Con- 
quest is  something  which  stands  without  a  par- 
allel in  any  other  Teutonic  land.  If  that  Con- 
quest be  looked  on  its  true  light,  it  is  impossible 
to  exaggerate  its  importance.  And  there  is  no 
eA'ent  whose  true  nature  has  been  more  common- 
ly and  more  utterly  misunderstood.  No  event 
is  less  fitted  to  be  taken,  as  it  so  often  has  been, 
for  the  beginning  of  the  national  history.  For 
its  wliole  importance  is  not  the  importance 
which  belongs  to  a  beginning,  but  the  import- 
ance which  belongs  to  a  turning-point.  The 
Norman  Conquest  brought  with  it  a  most  exten- 
sive foreign  infusion,  which  affected  our  blood, 
our  language,  our  laws,  our  arts  ;  still  it  was  only 
an  infusion  ;  the  older  and  stronger  elements 
still  survived,  and  in  the  long  run  they  again 
made  good  their  supremacy.  So  far  from  being 
the  beginning  of  our  national  history,  the  Nor- 
man Conquest  was  the  temporary  overthrow  of 
our  national  being.  But  it  was  only  a  tempo- 
rary overthrow.  To  a  superficial  observer  the 
English  people  might  seem  for  a  while  to  be 
wiped  out  of  the  roll-call  of  the  nations,  or  to 
exist  only  as  the  bondmen  of  foreign  rulers  in 
their  own  land.  But  in  a  few  generations  we 
led  captive  our  conquerors ;  England  was  Enof- 
land  once  again,  and  the  descendants  of  the 
Norman  invaders  were  found  to  be  among  the 
truest  of  Englishmen.  England  may  be  as  justly 
proud  of  rearing  such  step-children  as  Simon  of 
Montfort  and  Edward  the  First  as  of  being  the 
natural  mother  of  Alfred  and  of  Harold. 

In  no  part  of  history  can  any  event  be  truly 
understood  without  reference  to  the  events  which 
went  before  it  and  which  prepared  the  way  for 
it.     But  in  no  case  is  such  reference  more  need- 


EDWARD  AUGUSTUS  FREEMAN.— 3 

fill  than  in  dealing  with  an  event  like  that  with 
which  we  are  now  concerned.  The  whole  im- 
portance of  the  Xorman  Conquest  consists  in 
the  effect  which  it  had  on  an  existing  nation, 
humbled  indeed,  but  neither  wiped  out  nor 
utterly  enslaved  ;  in  the  changes  which  it  wrought 
in  an  existing  constitution,  which  was  by  degrees 
greatly  modified,  but  which  was  never  either 
wholly  abolished  or  wholly  trampled  under  foot. 
"William,  King  of  the  English,  claimed  to  reign 
as  the  lawful  successor  of  the  kings  of  the  Eng- 
lish who  reigned  before  him.  He  claimed  to 
inherit  their  rights,  and  he  professed  to  govern 
according  to  their  laws.  This  position,  therefore, 
and  the  whole  nature  of  the  great  revolution 
which  he  wrought,  are  utterly  unintelligible  with- 
out a  full  understanding  of  the  state  of  things 
which  he  found  existing.  Even  when  one  na- 
tion actually  displaces  another,  some  knowledge 
of  the  condition  of  the  displaced  nation  is  neces- 
sary to  understand  the  position  of  the  displacing 
nation.  The  English  Conquest  of  Britain  cannot 
be  thoroughlv  understood  without  some  knowl- 
edge of  the  earlier  liistory  of  the  Celt  and  the 
Roman.  But  when  there  is  no  displacement  of 
a  nation,  when  thcpc  is  not  even  the  utter  over- 
throw of  a  constitution,  when  there  are  only 
changes,  however  many  and  important,  wrought 
in  an  existing  system,  a  knowledge  of  the  earlier 
state  of  things  is  an  absolutely  essential  part  of 
any  knowledge  of  the  latter.  Tlie  Norman  Con- 
quest of  England  is  sim[)ly  an  insoluble  puzzle 
without  a  clear  notion  of  the  condition  of  Eng- 
land ami  the  ?]nglish  people  at  the  time  when 
the  Conqueror  and  his  followers  first  set  foot  on 
our  shores. —  The  Norman  Conquest,  Introduc- 
tion. 

COMPARATIVE    MAGNITUDE    OF   THE    COKQUEST. 

The  Norman  Conquest  again  is  an  event  which 
stands  by  itself  in  the  history  of  Europe.  It 
took  place  at  a  transitional  period  in  the  world's 
development.     Those  elements,  Roman  and  Ten- 


EDWARD  AUGUSTUS  FREEMAN.-4 

tonic,  Imperial  and  Ecclesiastical,  which  stood, 
as  it  were,  side  by  side  in  the  system  of  the  early 
middle  ay^e,  were  then  beiiiij;  fused  together  into 
the  later  system  of  feudal,  papal,  crusading 
Europe.  The  Concpiest  was  one  of  the  most  im- 
portant steps  in  the  change.  A  kingdom  which 
had  hitherto  been  ])urely  Teutonic  was  brought 
within  the  sphere  of  the  laws,  the  manners,  the 
speech  of  the  Romanic  nations.  At  the  very 
moment  when  Pope  and  Ctesar  held  each  other 
in  the  death-grasp,  a  Church  which  had  hitherto 
maintained  a  sort  of  insular  and  barl>aric  inde- 
pendence was  brought  into  a  far  more  intimate 
connection  with  the  Roman  See.  And  as  a  con- 
quest, compared  with  earlier  and  with  later  con- 
quests, the  Norman  Conquest  of  England  liolds  a 
middle  position  between  the  two  classes,  and 
shares  somewhat  of  the  nature  of  both.  It  was 
something  less  than  such  conquests  as  form  the 
main  subject  of  history  during  the  great  Wander- 
ing of  the  Nations.  It  was  something  more  tlian 
those  political  concpiests  which  fill  up  too  large  a 
space  in  the  history  of  modern  tiiiies.  It  was 
much  less  than  a  natural  migration  ;  it  was  mucli 
more  than  a  mere  change  of  frontier  or  dynasty. 
It  was  not  such  a  change  as  when  the  first  Eng- 
lish con(pierors  slew,  expelled,  or  enslaved  the 
whole  nation  of  the  vampiished  Britons.  It  was 
not  even  such  a  change  as  when  the  Goths  or 
Biirgundians  sat  down  as  a  ruling  people  preserv- 
ing their  own  language  and  their  own  law,  and 
leaving  the  language  and  law  of  Rome  to  the 
vanquished  Romans.  But  it  was  a  far  greater 
change  than  commonly  follows  on  the  transfer  of 
a  province  from  one  s(jvereign  to  another,  or  even 
the  forcii>le  acquisition  of  a  crown  by  an  alien 
dynasty. 

The  Conquest  of  England  by  William  wrought 
less  imme<liate  change  than  the  Conquest  of 
Africa  by  Genseric;  it  wrought  a  greater  imme- 
diate change  than  the  Conquest  of  Sicily  by 
Charles  of  Arat^on.  It  brought  with  it  not  only 
u  new  dynasty,  but  a  new   nobility  ;  it  did  not 


,  EDWARD  AUGUSTUS  FREEMAN.^ 

expel  or  transplant  the  English  nation,  or  any 
~  part  uf  it,  hut  it  graihially  deprived  the  leading 
'  men  and  fauiiiies  uf  England  of  their  lands  and 
^  oflBces,  and  thrust  them  down  into  a  secondary 
position  under  alien  intruders.  It  did  not  at 
'  once  sweep  away  the  old  laws  and  liberties  of 
the  land  ;  but  it  at  once  changed  tlie  manner  and 
spirit  of  their  administration,  and  it  opened  the 
way  for  endless  later  changes  in  the  laws  them- 
selves. It  did  not  abolish  the  English  language ; 
but  it  brought  in  a  new  language  by  its  side, 
which  for  a  while  supplanted  it  as  the  language 
of  polite  intercourse,  and  which  did  not  yield  to 
the  surviving  elder  speech  till  it  had  affected  it 
by  the  largest  infusion  that  the  vocabulary  of 
one  European  tongue  ever  received  from  another. 
The  most  important  of  the  formal  changes  in 
legislation,  in  language,  in  the  system  of  govern- 
ment, were  no  immediate  consequences  of  the 
CoiKjuest,  no  mere  innovations  of  the  reign  of 
William.  They  were  the  gradual  developments 
of  later  times,  when  the  Norman  as  well  as  the 
Englishman  found  himself  under  the  yoke  of  a 
foreign  master.  But  the  reign  of  William  paved 
the  way  for  all  the  later  changes  which  were  to 
come,  and  the  immediate  clianges  which  he  him- 
self wrought  were,  after  all,  great  and  weight}'. 
They  were  none  the  less  great  and  weighty  be- 
cause tliey  affe<:te<l  the  practical  condition  of  the 
peojile  far  mure  than  they  affected  its  written 
laws  and  institutions.  When  a  nation  is  driven 
to  receive  a  foreigner  as  its  King,  wlien  that  for- 
eign King  divides  the  highest  oflices  and  the 
greatest  estates  of  the  lan<l  among  his  foreign 
followers,  though  such  a  change  must  be  carefully 
distinguislie<l  from  changes  itj  the  written  law, 
still  the  change  is,  for  the  time,  practically  tho 
greatest  whicli  a  nation  and  its  leaders  can 
undergo. —  T/ir  Xnnnun  Cont/ucul,  Introduction. 

DEATH     OK     WII.I.IAM    TMK     CONQUEROR. 

Tlio  deathbed  of  William  was  a  death-bed  of 
all    fornial    devotion,    a   death-bed   of    penitence 


EDWARD  AUGUSTUS  FREEMAN.— fl 

wliicli  we  may  trust  was  more  than  formal.  The 
English  Chronicler,  William  of  Malmesbury, 
after  weighing  the  good  and  evil  in  him,  sends 
him  out  of  the  world  with  a  charitable  prayer 
for  his  soul's  rest;  and  his  repentance,  late  and 
fearful  as  it  was,  at  once  marks  the  distinction 
between  the  Conqueror  on  his  bed  of  death  and 
his  successor  cut  ofE  without  a  thought  of  peni- 
tence in  the  midst  of  his  crimes.  Ue  made  his 
will.  The  mammon  of  unrighteousness  which 
lie  h;id  gathered  together  amid  the  groans  and 
tears  of  England  he  now  strove  so  to  dispose  of  as 
to  pave  his  way  to  an  everlasting  habitation.  All 
his  treasures  were  distributed  among  the  poor 
and  the  churches  of  his  dominions.  A  special 
sum  was  set  apart  for  the  rebuilding  of  the 
churches  which  had  been  burned  at  Mantes, 
and  gifts  in  money  and  books  and  orna- 
ments of  every  kind  were  to  be  distributed 
among  all  the  churches  of  England  according  to 
their  rank.  He  then  spoke  of  his  own  life  and 
of  the  arrangements  which  he  wished  to  make 
for  his  dominions  after  his  death.  The  Normans, 
he  said,  were  a  brave  and  unconquered  race ;  but 
they  needed  the  curb  of  a  strong  and  a  righteous 
master  to  keep  them  in  the  path  of  order.  Yet 
the  rule  over  them  must  by  all  law  pass  to- 
Robert.  Robert  was  his  eldest  born ;  he  had 
promised  him  the  Norman  succession  before  he 
won  the  crown  of  England,  and  he  had  received 
the  homage  of  the  barons  of  the  Duchy.  Nor- 
niandy  and  Maine  must  therefore  pass  to  Robert, 
and  for  them  he  must  be  the  man  of  the  French 
king.  Yet  he  well  knew  how  sad  would  be  the 
fate  of  the  land  which  had  to  be  ruled  by  one 
so  proud  and  foolish,  and  for  whom  a  career  of 
shatne  and  sorrow  was  surely  doomed. 

But  what  was  to  be  done  with  England  ?  Now 
at  last  the  heart  of  William  smote  him,  To  Eng- 
land he  dared  not  appoint  a  successor  \  he  could 
only  leave  the  disposal  of  the  island  realm  to  the 
Almighty  Ruler  of  the  world.  The  evil  deeds 
pf  his  past  life  crowded  upon  his  soul.     Now  at 


EDWARD  AUGUSTUS  FREEMAN.— 7 

last  his  heart  confessed  that  he  had  won  Eng- 
land by  no  right,  by  no  claim  of  birth ;  that  he 
had  won  the  English  crown  by  wrong,  and  that 
what  he  had  won  by  wrong  he  had  no  right  to 
give  to  another.  He  had  won  his  realm  by  war- 
fare and  bloodshed  ;  he  had  treated  the  sons  of 
the  English  soil  with  needless  harshness  ;  he  had 
cruelly  wronged  nobles  and  commons  ;  he  had 
spoiled  many  men  wrongfully  of  their  inherit- 
ance ;  he  had  slain  countless  multitudes  by 
hunger  or  by  the  sword.  The  harrying  of 
Northumberland  now  rose  up  before  his  eyes  in 
all  its  blackness.  The  dying  man  now  told  how 
cruelly  he  had  burned  and  plundered  the  land, 
what  thousands  of  every  age  and  sex  among  the 
noble  nation  which  he  had  conquered  had  been 
done  to  death  at  his  bidding.  The  sceptre  of 
the  realm  which  he  had  won  by  so  many  crimes 
he  dared  not  hand  over  to  any  but  to  God  alone. 
Yet  he  would  not  hide  his  wish  that  his  son  Wil- 
liam, who  had  ever  been  dutiful  to  him,  might 
reign  in  England  after  him.  He  would  send  him 
beyond  the  sea,  and  he  would  pray  Lanfranc  to 
place  the  crown  upon  his  head,  if  the  Primate  in 
his  wisdom  deemed  that  such  an  act  could  be 
rightly  done. 

Of  the  two  sons  of  whom  he  spoke,  Robert 
was  far  away,  a  banished  rebel  ;  William  was  by 
hi.s  bedside.  By  his  bedside  also  stood  his 
youngest  son,  the  English  ^F^theling,  Henry  the 
Clerk.  "  .\tid  what  dost  thou  give  to  me,  my 
father?"  said  the  youth.  "  Five  thousand  pounds 
of  silver  from  my  hoard,"  was  the  Conqueror's 
answer.  "  But  of  what  use  is  a  hoard  to  me  if  I 
have  no  place  to  <l\vell  in  ?"  "  Be  patient,  my 
son,  and  trust  in  the  Lord,  and  let  thine  ddors  go 
before  tlicc."  It  is  perhaps  by  the  light  of  later 
events  that  our  clironicl(;r  goes  on  to  make  Wil- 
liam tell  his  youngest  son  that  the  day  would 
come  when  ho  would  succeed  both  his  brothers 
in  their  dominions,  aixl  would  be  richer  and 
mightier  than  either  of  them.  The  king  then 
dictated  a  letter  to  Lanfranc,  setting  forth  his 
nt 


EDWARD  AUGUSTUS  FREEMAN.— 8 

wishes  with  regard  to  tlic  kingdom.  He  sealed 
it  and  gave  it  to  his  son  William,  and  bade  him, 
with  Ids  last  blessing  and  his  last  kiss,  to  cross  at 
once  into  England.  William  llufus  straightway 
set  fortli  for  Witsand,  and  there  heard  of  his 
father's  deatli.  Meanwhile  Henry,  too,  left  his 
father's  bedside  to  take  for  himself  the  money 
that  was  left  to  him,  to  see  that  nothing  was  lack- 
ing in  its  weight,  to  call  together  his  comrades 
on  whom  he  could  trust,  and  to  take  measures  for 
stowing  the  treasure  in  a  place  of  safety.  And 
now  those  who  stood  around  the  dying  king  be- 
gan to  implore  his  mercy  for  the  captives  whom 
he  held  in  prison,    lie  granted  the  prayer 

The  last  earthly  acts  of  the  Conqueror  were 
now  done.  He  had  striven  to  make  his  peace 
with  God*  and  man,  and  to  make  such  provision 
as  he  could  for  the  children  and  the  subjects 
whom  he  had  left  bcliind  him.  And  now  his 
last  hour  was  come.  On  a  Thursday  morning  in 
September,  when  the  sun  had  already  risen  upon 
the  earth,  the  sound  of  the  great  bell  of  the  me- 
tropolitan minster  struck  on  the  ears  of  the  dy- 
ing king.  lie  asked  why  it  sounded.  He  was 
told  that  it  rang  for  prime  in  the  church  of  our 
Lady.  William  lifted  his  eyes  to  heaven,  lie 
stretched  forth  his  hands,  and  spake  his  last 
words  :  "  To  my  Lady  Mary,  the  Holy  Mother 
of  God,  I  commend  myself,  that  by  her  holy 
prayers  she  may  reconcile  me  to  her  dear  Son, 
our  Lord  Jesus  Christ."  He  prayed,  and  his  soul 
passed  away.  William,  king  of  the  English  and 
duke  of  the  Normans,  the  man  whose  fame  has 
filled  the  world  in  his  own  and  in  every  follow- 
ing age,  had  gone  the  way  of  all  flesh.  No  king- 
dom was  left  him  now  but  his  seven  feet  of 
ground,  and  even  to  that  his  claim  was  not  to  be 
undisputed. 

The  death  of  a  king  in  those  days  came  near 
to  a  break-up  of  all  civil  society.  Till  a  new. 
king  was  chosen  and  crowned,  there  was  no 
longer  a  power  in  the  land  to  protect  or  to  cbarf- 
tise.    All  bonds  were  loosed :  all  public  authority 


EDWARD  AUGUSTUS  FREEMAN.— 9 

was  in  abeyance ;  each  man  had  to  look  to  his 
own  as  he  best  might.  Xo  sooner  was  the  breath 
out  of  William's  body  than  the  great  company 
which  liad  patiently  watched  around  him  during 
the  night  was  scattered  hither  and  thitlier.  The 
great  men  mounted  their  horses  and  rode  with 
all  speed  to  their  homes,  to  guard  their  houses 
and  goods  against  the  outburst  of  lawlessness 
which  was  sure  to  break  forth  now  that  the  land 
had  no  longer  a  ruler.  Their  servants  and  fol- 
lowers, seeing  their  lords  gone,  and  deeming  that 
there  was  no  longer  any  fear  of  punishment,  be- 
gan to  make  spoil  of  the  royal  chamber.  Weap- 
ons, clothes,  vessels,  the  royal  bed  and  its  furni- 
ture, were  carried  otf,  and  for  a  whole  day  the 
body  of  the  Con4ueror  lay  well-nigh  bare  on  the 
floor  of  the  room  in  which  he  died. —  The  Nor- 
man Conquest. 

THE    STUDY    OF    GREEK    AXD    LATIN. 

The  weak  side  of  the  old  study  of  Greek  and 
Latin  lay  in  this,  that  they  were  studied  apart 
from  other  languages.  They  were  su^jposed  to 
have  some  mysterious  character  about  them,  some 
supreme  virtue  peculiar  to  themselves,  which  made 
it  needful  to  look  at  them  all  by  themselves,  and 
made  it  in  a  manner  disrespectful  to  class  any 
other  languages  with  them.  This  belief,  or  rather 
feeling,  grew  naturally  out  of  the  circumstances 
of  what  is  called  the  revival  of  learning  in  the 
fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries.  The  learning 
then  revived  was  an  exclusively  Greek  and  Latin 
learning,  and  it  could  hardly  have  been  otherwise. 
And  besides  this,  the  crnM',  like  othei  errors, 
contains  a  certain  measure  of  truth  :  it  is  a  half- 
truth  thrust  out  of  its  proper  place.  For  pur- 
poses purely  educational  the  Greek  and  Latin 
tongues  have  Homcthing  which  is  peculiar  to 
themselves,  something  which  does  set  them  apart 
from  all  others.  That  is,  they  arc  better  suited 
than  any  other  languages  to  be  the  groimdwork 
of  study. — Esmy  on  Language  and  Literature, 


FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH.— 1 

FREILIGKATII,  Ferhinand,  a  German 
poet,  born  in  1810  ;  died  in  1876.  At  the 
age  of  tifteen  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  gro- 
cer at  Soest,  and  wassul)seqi]ently  employed 
in  mercantile  clerkships  at  various  places. 
While  serving  his  apprenticeship,  lie  mas- 
tered the  English.  French,  and  Italian  lan- 
guages, and  began  to  write  verses  for  news- 
papei's.  His  first  book,  a  series  of  transla- 
tions from  the  Odes  and  Songs  of  Victor 
Hugo,  appeared  in  1830.  This  was  followed 
two  years  later  by  his  first  oi'iginal  volume 
of  Gedlchte.  In  1842  he  endeavored  to  es- 
tablish a  periodical  to  be  called  Britannica  : 
fur  Englisches  Lehen  iind  Englische  Lit- 
erature and  received  promises  of  contribu- 
tion from  Bulwer  and  Dickens  ;  and  in  that 
year  he  received  a  pension  of  300  thalers 
from  King  William  IV.  of  Prussia.  Up 
to  this  time  he  had  taken  no  part  in  polit- 
ical agitations ;  but  about  184-1  he  threw 
up  his  pension,  identitied  himself  with  the 
liberal  party  in  Germany,  and  was  forced 
to  leave  the  country.  In  1848  he  was  on 
the  point  of  emigrating  to  America.  The 
amnesty  of  1849  permitted  him  to  return 
to  Germany,  taking  up  bis  residence  at 
Diisseldorf ;  but  he  was  soon  after  prose- 
cuted on  account  of  a  poem  entitled  Die 
Todten  an  die  Lehenden  ;  he  was  acquit- 
ted by  the  jury ;  but  new  prosecutions 
drove  him  to  London  in  1851,  where  he 
became  a  clerk  in  a  banking  establish- 
ment, at  the  same  time  making  adnn'rable 
translations  into  German  from  British  poets. 
A  volume  of  these  translations  appeared  in 
1854  under  the  title  of  The  Rose,  Thistle, 
and  Shamroch.  Among  his  nnmci'ous 
translations  from  the  English  into  German 
are  Shakespeare's   Cymheline  and  Winter's 


FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH.— 2 

Tale,  Longfellow's   IIiav:atha,  and  nearly 
the  whole  of  the  poems  of  Burns.     He  re- 
sided in  England  until  ISGG,  when  the  sus- 
pension of  the  banking  institution  bv  which 
he  was  employed  threw  him  into  pecuniary 
straits.  But  a  national  subscrij^tiou,  amount- 
ing to  60,000  thalers,  was  raised  in  Germany, 
with  which  an  ample  annuity  was  purchased 
fur  him.  A  general  amnesty  for  all  political 
offenders  was  proclaimed   in  Germany  in 
1808,  and  Freiligrath  returned  to  his  native 
country,  settling  at  Stuttgart,  and  in  1875  at 
Cannstadt,  where  he  died  the  next  year.  An 
edition  of  his  collected  works  in  six  volumes 
appeared  in  New  York  in  1859.  After  this, 
during   the  Franco-German  Avar,  he  wrote 
the  popular  songs  Hurrah  Germania  !  the 
Trompete  con  Gravelotte,  and  some  others. 
The  year  after  his  death  appeared  in  Ger- 
niany  a  new  and  much  enlarged  edition  of 
his  works.     A   volume  of  selections  from 
his   Poems,  not   very  well  translated  into 
English  by  his  daughter,  appeared  in  1870, 
in     Tauchnitz's    '•  Collection    of    German 
Authors."    Freiligrath's  political  poems  are 
perhaps  more  highly  esteemed  in  Germany 
than  his  earlier  works.     He  is  there  stvled 
"  the  poet-martyr,''  •'  the  bard  of  freedom," 
and  "  the  inspired  singer  of  the  revolution." 
But  for  readers  of  the  English  language 
translations  of  his  earlier  non-political  i)oems 
will  give  a  better  idea  of  his  peculiar  genius. 

MV    rriKMES. 

"  Most  weary  man  !  why  wrcatlicst  thou 
Again  and  yet  again,"  nictiiinks  I  hear  yon  ask, 
"  The  turban  on  thy  snnhnrnt  brow  \ ' 
Wilt  never  varv 
Thy  tri.stful  task ; 
But  sing,  still  sing,  of  sand  and  seas,  as  now 
Housed  in  thy  willow  zund^ul  on  the  dromedary? 
m 


FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH.— 3 

"  Tliy  tent  lias  now  o'er  many  times 
Been  pitched  in  treeless  places  on  old  Ammon's 
plains  ; 
We  long  to  greet  in  blander  climes 
The  love  and  laughter 
Thy  soul  disdains. 
"Why  wanderest  ever  thus,  in  prolix  rhymes, 
Through  snows  and  stony  wastes,  while  we  come 
toiling  after  ? 
"  Awake  !  thou  art  as  one  who  dreams  ! 
Thy  quiver  overflows  with  melancholy  sand  ! 
Thou  faintest  in  the  noontide  beams ! 
Thy  crystal  beaker 
Of  juice  is  banned  ! 
Filled  with  juice  of  poppies  from  dull  streams 
In   sleepy  Indian    dells,  it   can   but  make  thee 
weaker ! 
"  0,  cast  away  the  deadly  draught, 
And  glance  around  thee,  then,  with  an  awakened 
eye! 
The  waters  healthier  bards  have  quaffed 
At  Europe's  fountains 
Still  bubble  by, 
Bright   now    as   when   the  Grecian  Summer 
laughed 
And  Poesy's  first  flowers  bloomed  on  Apollo's 
mountains  ! 
"  So  many  a  voice  thine  era  hath, 
And  thou  art  deaf  to  all !     0,  study  mankind  ! 
probe 
The  heart  I  lay  bare  its  love  and  wrath. 
Its  joys  and  sorrows  ! 
Not  round  the  globe, 
O'er  flood  and  field  and  dreary  desert-path, 
But,  into  thine  own  bosom  look,  and  thence  thy 
marvels  borrow ! 
"  Weep  !     Let  us  hear  thy  tears  resound 
From   the   dark   iron   concave  of  life's  cup  of 
woe ! 
Weep  for  the  souls  of  mankind  bound 
In  chains  of  error ! 
Our  tears  will  flow 


FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH.-4 

In   sympathy    with    thine    when    thou    hast 
wound 
Our  feelings  up  to  the  proper  pitch  of  grief  or 
terror. 
"  Unlock  the  life-gates  of  the  flood 
That  rushes  through  thy  veins  !     Like  vultures 
we  delight 
To  glut  our  appetites  with  blood  ! 
Remorse,  Fear,  Torment, 
The  blackening  blight 
Love  smits  young  hearts  withal — these  be  the 
food 
For  us!  without   such  stimulants  our  dull   souls 
lie  dormant ! 
"  But  no  long  voyages — 0,  no  more 
Of  the  weary  East  or  South — no  more  of  the  Si- 
moom— 
No  apples  from  the  Dead  Sea  shore — 
No  fierce  volcanoes, 
All  fire  and  gloom  ! 
Or  else,  at  most,  sing  basso,  we  implore, 
Of  Orient  sands,  whilst  Europe's  flowers 
Monopolize  thy  sopranos/  " 
Thanks,  friends,  for  this,  your  kind  advice  ! 
Would  I  could  follow  it — could  bide  in  balmier 
land! 
But  those  far  Arctic  tracts  of  ice, 
Those  wildernesses 
Of  wavy  sand, 
Are   the   only    home    I    liavc.     They    must 
suffice 
For   one  whose   lonely  hearth   no  smiling  Peri 
blesses. 
Yet  count  me  not  the  more  forlorn 
F'or  my  barbarian  tastes.      Pity  me  not.     0,  no ! 
The  heart  laiil  waste  l>y  grief  or  scorn, 
Which  oi.ly  knoweth 
Its  own  dceit  woe, 
Is  the  only  desert.      T/iere  no  spring  is  born 
Amid    the    sands — in    that  no  shady   palm-tree 
groweth. 

Transl.  in  Dnhlin  Univ.  Magazine, 
nt 


FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH.— 5 

SAND-SONOS. 
I. 

Sing  of  sand ! — not  such  as  gloweth 
Hot  upon  the  path  of  the  tiger  and  the  snake  : 
Rather  such  sand  as,  wlien  the  loud  winds  wake, 

Each  ocean  wave  knoweth. 

Like  a  Wraith  with  pinions  burning. 
Travels  the  red  sand  of  the  desert  abroad ; 
While  the  soft  sea-saud  glisteneth  smooth  and 
untrod 

As  eve  is  returning. 

Here  no  caravan  or  camel ; 
Here  the  weary  mariner  alone  finds  a  grave, 
Lightly  mourned  by  the  moon,  that  now  on  yon 
grave 

Sheds  a  silver  enamel. 

II. 
Weapon  like,  this  ever-wounding  wind 

Striketli  sharp  upon  the  sandf ul  shore ; 
So  fierce  Thought  assaults  a  troubled  mind, 

Ever,  ever,  evermore. 

Darkly  unto  past  and  coming  years, 

Man's  dee|)  heart  is  linked  by  mystic  bands ; 

Marvel  not  tlien  if  his  dreams  and  fears 
Be  a  myriad  like  the  sands. 

III. 
'Tvvere  worth  much  love  to  understand 
Thy  nature  well,  thou  ghastly  sand, 
Who  wreckest  all  that  seek  the  sea. 
Yet  savest  them  that  cling  to  thee. 

The  wild-gull  banquets  on  thy  charms. 
The  fish  dies  in  thy  barren  arms ; 
Bare,  yellow,  flowerless,  there  thou  art. 
With  vaults  of  treasure  in  thy  heart ! 

T  met  a  wanderer,  too,  this  morn, 
Wlio  eyed  thee  with  such  sullen  scorn  : 
Yet  I,  when  with  thee,  feel  my  soul 
Flow  over,  like  a  too-full  bowl. 


f'ERDINAND  FREILIGRATH.— 6 

IV. 

Gulls  ire  flying-one,  two;  three; 
Silently  and  heavily. 
Heavily  as  winged  lead, 
Through  the  sultry  air  over  my  languid  heai 
Whence  they  come,  or  whither  they  flee> 
They,  nor  I,  can  tell  ;  I  see 
On  the  bright  brown  sand  I  tread. 
Only  the  black  shadows  of  their  wings  outspread. 
Ha  I  a  feather  flatteringly 
Falls  down  at  my  feet  for  me  ! 
It  shall  serve  my  turn,  instead 
Of  an  eagle's  quill,  till  all  my  songs  be  read. 
Transl.  in  Dublin  Univ.  Magazine. 

THE    lion's    ride. 

The  lion  is  the  desert's  king ;  through  his  do- 
minion so  wide 

Right  swiftly  and  right  royally  this  night  he 
means  to  ride. 

By  the  steady  brink,  where  the  wild  herds  drink, 
close  crouches  the  grim  chief  : 

The  trembling  sycamore  above  whispers  with 
every  leaf. 

At  evening  on  the  Table  Mount,  when  ye  can  see 

no  more 
The  changeful  play  of  signals  gay  ;    when  the 

gloom  is  speckled  o'er 
With    kraal- fires,    when   the  Kaffir  wends   home 

through  the  lone  karroo, 
When  the  boshl.ok  in  the  thicket  sleeps,  and  by 

the  stream  the  gnu. 
Then  bend   your  gaze  across  the  waste : — what 

sec  ye?     The  giraffe 
Majestic  stalks  towards  the   lagoon,  the  turbid 

lymph  to  fjuaff; 
With  outst retched   neck   and   tongiic  adust,    he 

knocis  him  down  to  cof)I 
His  hot  thirst  with  a  welcome  draught  from  the 

foul  and  brackish  pool. 
A  rustling  sound — a  roar — a  bound — the  lion  sits 

astride 

3*1 


FEllDINANb  FRElLIGRATfl.-*^ 

Upon  his  giant  courser's  back.     Did  ever  king  sd 

ride  ? 
Had   ever   king  a  steed  so  rare,  caparisons   of 

state, 
To  match  that  dappled  skin  whereon  that  rider 

sits  elate  ? 

In  the  muscles  of  the  neck  his  teeth  are  plunged 
with  ravenous  greed  ; 

His  tawny  mane  is  tossing  round  the  withers  of 
the  steed. 

IJpleaping  with  a  hollow  yell  of  anguish  and  sur- 
prise, 

Away,  away,  in  wild  dismay,  the  camelopard 
flies. 

His  feet  have  wings ;  see  how  he  springs  across 

the  moonlit  plain ! 
As  from  the  sockets  they  would  burst,  his  glaring 

eyeballs  strain  ; 
In  thick  black  streams  of  purling  Hood  full  fast 

his  life  is  fleeting, 
The  stillness  of  the  desert  hears  his  heart's  tu- 
multuous beating. 
Like  the  cloud  that  through   the  wilderness  the 

path  of  Israel  traced — 
Like  an  airy  phantom,  dull  and  wan,  a  spirit  of 

the  waste — 
From  the  sandy  sea  uprising  as  the  water-spout 

from  ocean  ; 
A  whirling  cloud   of  dust  keeps   pace  with  the 

courser's  fiery  motion. 

Croaking  companions  of  their  flight,  the  vulture 
whirs  on  high. 

Below,  the  terror  of  the  fold,  the  panther  fierce 
and  sly. 

And  the  hyenas  foul,  round  graves  that  prowl, 
join  in  the  horrid  race  ; 

By  the  footprints  red  with  gore  and  sweat,  their 
monarch's  course  they  trace. 

They  see  him  on  his  living  throne,  and  quake 
with  fear,  the  while 

With  claws  of  steol  lie  tears  piecemeal  his  cush- 
ion's painted  pile. 

iti 


FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH.— 8 

On,  on !  no  pause  nor  rest,  giraffe,  while  life  and 

strength  remain  ! 
The  steed  by  such  a  rider  backed,  may  madly 

plunge  in  vain. 

Reeling  upon  the   desert's  verge,  he  falls  and 

breathes  his  last; 
The  courser,  stained  with  dust  and  foam,  is  the 

rider's  dread  repast. 
O'er   Madagascar,    eastward   far,  a  faint  flush  is 

descried : — 
Thus  nightly  o'er  his  broad  domain  the  king  of 

beasts  doth  ride. 

Transl.  Anonymous. 

THE    SHEIK    OF     MOUNT    SINAI. 
[A  Narrative  of  1830.] 

"  How  sayest  thou  ?     Came  to-day  the  caravan 
From  Africa  ?     And  is  it  here  ?     'Tis  well ; 
Bear   me  beyond  the  tent,  me  and  mine  otto- 
man; 
I  would  myself  behold  it.     I  feel  eager 
To  learn  the  youngest  news.     As  the  gazelle 
Rushes  to  drink,  will  I  to  hear,  and  gather  thence 
fresh  vigor." 

So  spake  the  Sheik.     They  bore  him  forth,  and 

thus  began  the  Moor  : — 
"  Old  man !  upon  Algeria's  towers  the  tri-color  is 

flying. 
Bright  silks  of  Lyons  rustle  at  each  balcony  and 

door; 
In  the  streets  the  loud  reveil  resounds  at  break  of 

day  ; 
Steeds  prance  to  the  Marseillaise  o'er  heaps  of 

dead  and  dying : 
The  Franks  came  from  Toulon,  men  say. 

"  Southward  their  legions  marched  through  burn- 
ing lands ; 
The  Barbary  sun  flashed  on  their  arms ;  about 
Their  chargers'  manes  were  blown  clouds  of  Tu- 
nisian sands. 
Knowest  thou  where  the  giant  Atlas  rises  dim 
In  the  hot  sky  ?     Thither  in  disastrous  rout, 


FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH.— 9 

The    wild   Kabyles   fled  with   their   herds   and 

women. 
"  The  Franks  pursued.     Hu !    Allah  ! — each  de* 

file 
Grew  a  very  liell-gulf  then,  with  smoke,  and  fire, 

and  bomb  ! 
The  lion  left  the  deer's  half-cranched  remains 

the  while ; 
Ho  snuffed  upon  the  winds  a  daintier  prey ! 
Hark  the  shout,  '  En  Avant !  '     To  the  topmost 

peak  upclomb 
The  conquerors  in  that  bloody  fray  ! 
"  Circles  of  glittering  bayonets  crowned  the  moun- 
tain's height. 
The  hundred  cities  of  the  plain,  from  Atlas  to  the 

sea  afar, 
From  Tunis  forth  to  Fez  shone  in  the  noonday 

light. 
The  spearmen  rested  by  their  steeds,  or  slacked 

their  thirst  at  rivulets ; 
And  round  them  through  dark  myrtles  burned 

each  like  a  star. 
The  slender  golden  minarets. 
"  But  in  the  valley  blooms  the  odorous  almond- 
tree. 
And  the   aloe   blossoms   on   the   rock,  defying 

storms  and  suns. 
Here  was  their  conquest  sealed.    Look  ! — yonder 

heaves  the  sea. 
And  far  to  the  left  lies  Franquistan.  The  banners 

flouted  the  blue  skies; 
The  artillery-men  came  up.     Mashallah  !  how  the 

guns 
Did  roar  to  sanctify  their  prize  !  " 
"'Tis  they,"  the   Sheik  exclaimed,   "I   fought 

among  them,  I, 
At  the  battle  of  the  Pyramids  !     Red,  all  along 

the  day,  ran — 
Red  as  thy  turban  folds — the  Nile's  high  billows 

by! 
But  their  Sultan  ?     Speak ! — he  was  once  my 

guest 


FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH.— 10 

His  lineaments — gait — garb  ? — Sawest  thou  the 

man  ? " 
The   Moor's   hand  slowly  felt  its  way  into  his 

breast. 
"  No,"  he  replied,  "  he  bode  in  his  warm  palace 

halls. 
A  Pasha  led  his  warriors  through  the  fire  of  hos- 
tile ranks ; 
An  Aga  thundered   for  him  before  Atlas's  iron 

walls. 
His  lineaments,  thou  sayest?     On  gold,  at  least, 

they  lack 
The  kingly  stamp.     See  here  !     A  Spahi  of  the 

Franks 
Gave  me  this   coin,    in    chaffering,    some    days 

back." 

The  Kasheef  took  the  gold  ;  he  gazed  upon  the 

head  and  face. 
Was  this  the  great  Sultan  he  had  known  long 

years  ago  ? 
It  seemed  not ;  for  he  sighed,  as  all  in  vain  to 

trace 
The  still  remembered  features.     "  Ah,  no ! — this," 

he  said,  "is 
Not  his  broad  brow  and  piercing  eye.    Who  this 

man  is  I  do  not  know  : 
How  very  like  a  pear  his  head  is." 

Transl.  in  the  Dublin  Univ.  Magazine. 

THE    EMIGRANTS. 

I  cannot  take  my  eyes  away 

From  you,  yc  busy  bustling  band  ! 

Your  little  all  to  see  you  lay. 

Each  in  the  waiting  seaman's  hand ! 

Ye  men,  who  from  your  necks  set  down 

The  heavy  basket  on  the  earth, 
Of  broad  from  German  corn,  baked  brown, 

By  German  wives,  on  German  hearth. 

And  you  with  braid  queues  so  neat, 
Black-Forest  maidens,  slim  and  brown, 

How  careful  on  the  sloop's  green  scat 
You  set  your  pails  and  pitchers  down  ! 


FERDINAND  FREILIGHATn.— 11 

Ah  !  oft  liavc  liome's  cool  shady  tanks 
These  pails  and  pitchers  filled  for  you: 

On  far  Missouri's  silent  hanks 

Shall  these  the  scenes  of  home  renew : — 

The  stone-rinmied  fount  on  village  street, 
That,  as  ye  stopped,  hetrayed  your  smiles; 

The  hearth,  and  its  familiar  seat; 
The  mantel  and  the  pictured  tiles. 

Soon,  in  the  far  and  wooded  West, 

Shall  log-house  walls  therewith  be  graced, 

Soon,  many  a  tired  tawny  guest 

Shall  sweet  refreshment  from  tliem  taste. 

From  them  shall  drink  the  Cherokee, 
Faint  from  the  hot  and  dusty  chase; 

No  more  from  German  vintage  ye 

Shall  bear  them  home  in  leaf-crowned  grace. 

0,  say,  why  seek  ye  other  lands  ? 

The  Neckar's  vale  hath  wine  and  corn, 
Full  of  dark  firs  the  Schwarzwald  stands. 

In  Stressart  rings  the  Alp-herd's  horn. 

Ah!  in  strange  forests  how  ye'U  yearn 
For  the  green  mountains  of  your  home, 

To  Deutschland's  yellow  wheat-fields  turn, 
In  spirit  o'er  her  vine-hills  roam. 

How  will  the  forms  of  days  grown  pale 
In  golden  dreams  float  softly  by  ? 

Like  some  unearthly  mystic  tale, 

'Twill  stand  before  fond  memory's  eye.    . 

The  boatman  calls  !  go  hence  in  peace  ! 

God  bless  ye,  man  and  wife  and  sire? 
Bless  all  your  fields  with  rich  increase, 

And  crown  each  true  heart's  pure  desire  ! 
Transl.  of  Charles  T.  Brooks, 


JESSIE  BEXTOX  FRf:MONT.— 1 

FREMONT,  Jessie  (Bexton),  daughter 
of  Tliomas  H.  Benton,  born  in  Virginia,  in 
1S24.  In  1841  she  married  John  C.  Fre- 
mont, whom  she  has  aided  most  effectually 
in  all  his  labors.  She  has  written  Tlie  Story 
of  the  Guard  (1863),  ^-1  Year  of  American 
Travel  (1878),  and  Souvenirs  of  my  Time 
(1887.)  To  her  husband's  Memoirs  (1887) 
she  prefixed  a  biographical  sketch  of  her 
father. 
HOW  fb^mgn't's  second  expedition  was  saved. 

Coining  lionie  from  scliool  in  an  Easter  holi- 
day, I  found  Mr.  Fremont  part  of  my  father's 
"Oregon  work."  It  was  the  Spring  of  1841; 
in  October  wc  were  married;  and  in  1842  the 
first  expedition  was  sent  out  under  Mr.  Fremont. 
This  first  encouragement  to  the  emigration  west- 
ward fitted  into  so  large  a  need  that  it  met  in- 
stant favor,  and  a  second  was  ordered  to  connect 
with  it  further  survey  to  the  sea-coast  of  Oregon. 
At  last  my  father  could  feel  his  idea  "  moved." 
Of  his  intense  interest  and  pride  and  joy  in  these 
expeditions  I  knew  best ;  and  when  it  came  in 
my  way  to  be  of  use  to  them,  and  protect  his 
life-work,  there  was  no  shadow  of  hesitation. 

In  May,  1843,  Mr.  Fremont  was  at  the  frontier 
getting  his  camp  into  complete  traveling  condi- 
tion for  his  second  expedition,  when  there  came 
an  order  recalling  him  to  NN'ashington,  where  lie 
was  to  explain  wliv  he  had  armed  his  party  with 
a  howitzer;  tliat  the  howitzer  had  been  charged 
to  him  ;  that  it  was  a  scientific  and  not  a  military 
expedition,  and  should  not  have  been  so  armed ; 
and  that  he  must  return  at  once  to  Washington 
and  "  explain."  Fortunately  I  was  alone  in  St. 
Louis,  my  father  being  out  of  town.  It  was  be- 
fore telegraphs;  and  nearly  a  week  was  re(piircd 
to  get  letters  cither  to  the  frontier  or  to  Wash- 
ington. I  was  but  eighteen — an  age  at  which 
consequences  do  not  weii^h  against  the  present. 
The  important  thing  was  to  save  the  expedition, 
and  gain  time  for  a  good  start  which  sliould  put 


■:» 


JESSIE  BENTON  FREMONT.— 2 

it  beyond  interference.  I  liurried  off  a  mes^ 
senger  to  Mr.  Fremont,  writing  that  he  must 
start  at  once,  and  never  mind  the  grass  and  ani- 
mals; they  could  rest  and  fatten  at  Bent's  Fort : 
only  go,  and  leave  the  rest  to  my  father;  that 
he  could  not  have  the  reason  for  haste — but 
there  was  reason  enough. 

To  the  Colonel  of  the  Topographical  Bureau, 
who  had  given  the  order  of  recall,  I  answered 
more  at  leisure.  I  wrote  to  him  exactly  what  I 
had  done,  and  to  him  I  gave  the  reason  ;  that  I 
liad  not  sent  forward  the  order,  nor  let  Mi'.  Fi'e- 
mont  know  of  it,  because  it  was  given  on  insufii- 
cient  knowledge,  and  to  obey  it  would  ruin  the 
expedition  ;  that  it  would  require  a  fortnight  to 
settle  the  party,  leave  it,  and  get  to  Wasliington, 
and  indefinite  delay  there ;  another  fortnight  for 
the  return — and  by  that  time  tlie  early  grass 
would  be  past  its  best,  and  the  underfed  animals 
would  be  thrown  into  the  mountains  for  the  win- 
ter; that  the  country  of  the  Blackfeet  and  other 
fierce  tribes  had  to  be  crossed,  and  they  knew 
nothing  of  the  rights  of  science. 

AVhen  my  father  came,  he  approved  of  my 
wrong-doing,  and  wrote  to  Wasliington  that  he 
would  be  responsible  for  my  act ;  and  that  lie 
would  call  for  a  court-martial  on  the  point  charged 
against  Mr.  Fremont.  ]5ut  there  was  never 
further  question  of  the  wisdom  of  arming  his 
party  sufficienlly.  The  precious  time  had  been 
secured,  and  "  they'd  have  fleet  feet  who  fol- 
low," when  such  purpose  leads  the  advance.  I 
had  grown  up  to  and  into  my  father's  large  pur- 
pose ;  and  now  that  my  husband  could  be  of 
such  aid  to  him  in  its  accomplishment,  I  had  no 
hesitation  in  risking  for  him  all  the  consequences. 
We  three  understood  each  other  and  acted  to- 
gether— then  and  later^without  question  or 
delay. 

That  expedition  led  directly  to  our  acquiring 

California,  which  was  accomplished  during  the 

third,  and  last,  of  the  expeditions  made  under 

the  government.     My  father  was  a  man  grown 

se» 


JESSIE  BENTON  FREMONT.— 3 

when  our  western  boundary  was  on  the  Missis- 
sippi;  in  1821  he  commenced  in  the  Senate  his 
championship  of  a  quarter  of  a  century  for  our 
new  territory  on  the  Pacitic ;  now,  with  Cali- 
fornia added,  he  could  say  in  that  Senate  :  "  We 
own  the  country  from  sea  to  sea — from  the  At- 
lantic to  the  Pacific — and  upon  a  breadth  equal 
to  the  lencrth  of  the  Mississippi,  and  embracing 
the  whole  Temperate  Zone."  The  long  contest 
— the  indifference,  the  ignorance,  the  sneering 
doubts,  were  in  the  past.  .  From  his  own  hearth 
had  gone  forth  the  one  who  had  carried  his 
hopes  to  their  fullest  execution ;  and  who  now, 
after  many  perils  and  anxieties,  was  back  in 
safety,  even  to  a  seat  in  the  Senate  beside  him ; 
who  had  enabled  him  to  make  true  his  prophetic 
words  carved  on  the  pedestal  of  his  statue  in 
St.  Louis,  wliose  bronze  hand  points  West  : 
"  There  is  the  East ;  there  is  the  road  to  India." 
— Sketch  of  Benton. 

AN    IXN    IX    THE    TYROL. 

We  stopped  over  night  at  such  an  inn  in  the 
village  of  Werfen  ;  just  a  street  of  detached,  low, 
stone  houses,  but  with  a  village  square  and  foun- 
tiiin  where  the  women  gathered  before  sundown 
with  their  pitchers  and  gossipped.  Costumes, 
fountain,  gossips,  all  was  a  scene  from  Faust. 
High  mountains  shut  in  the  narrow  line  of  vil- 
lage. On  a  height  above  it  w;ts  an  old  fortified 
castle,  now  used  as  a  military  prison.  The  others 
walked  up  there — a  ladder-like  climb  I  was  not 
up  to,  as  I  had  lamed  my  knee  in  Denmark, 
and  for  want  of  rest  had  been  getting  seriously 
lamed.  But  I  looked  out  at  the  Faust  scene 
and  the  sunset  lights  on  tin-  inountaitis,  and  the 
landla<lv  and  myself  h.nl  a  talk  in  pantomime  all 
to  ourselves.  Their  (rcrman  had  become  a  dia- 
lect here,  and  my  German  was  scant  anyway  ; 
but  when  two  women  want  to  talk  they  can  man- 
age with  eyes  and.  hands  and  Oh's  and  Ah's, 
and  so  wc  progres,sc<l,  1  assenting  to  all  she 
proposed  for  dinner,  checking  off  on  her  fingers 

3«> 


i^SSl^  BENTON  FREMONT. -4 

unknown  dishes,  to  which  I  nodded  approval 
until  she'cYicd  "  enough."  Then  she  led  me  to 
tlie  oak  presses  which  were  in  my  room  and,  un- 
locking them  with  pride,  displayed  her  treasures 
to  me.  She  had  reason  for  liousewifely  pride 
in  them.  Piled  up  in  quantity  was  fine  linen  for 
bed  and  table.  Napkins  tied  in  dozens  with 
their  original  ribbons — lier  marriage  portion. 
"  Meinc  nuidder"  had  given  her  this  and  that. 
She  led  me  to  a  window  looking  down  upon  the 
crowded  gravestones  of  the  clmrch  adjoining 
her  inn — "  Meine  mudder"  was  there  ;  touching 
her  black  head-dress  and  woolen  mourning  gown ; 
her  husband  too ;  it  was  bright  with  growing 
flowers,  dahlias  chiefly  then,  and  wreaths  on  the 
crosses. 

But  she  smiled  again  when  she  displayed  her 
many  eider-down  puffy  quilts  of  bright-colored 
silks  and  satins,  and  taking  her  favorite  she 
spread  it  over  my  bed,  first  smiling  and  putting 
its  clear  blue  near  my  white  hair  to  show  it 
would  be  becoming.  Then,  incjuiringly.  Would 
I  choose  for  the  others  ?  So  the  General  had 
green  for  the  hills,  and  Frank  his  gold  color, 
while,  as  I  had  the  blue,  the  girls  had  to  take 
pink  and  crimson.  It  was  charming  to  feel  the 
friendly  one-ness  of  hospitality  which  was  quite 
apart  from  the  relation  of  traveller  ami  hostess, 
and  which  belonged  in  with  the  courtesy  of  the 
people  everywhere  in  Austria.  Her  best  silver, 
each  spoon  and  fork  wrapped  separately  in  silver 
paper,  she  also  took  out  from  this  range  of  oak 
presses  which  made  one  wall  of  a  large  room. 

When  the  others  came  back,  they  found  the 
wood-fire  bright  in  the  open  part  of  the  huge 
white  porcelain  stove,  the  table  with  wax  lights 
in  twisted-branched  silver  candlesticks,  flowers 
(dahlias  from  the  graveyard,  and  geraniums — I 
saw  the  daughter  cutting  these  funeral-grown 
flowers  for  the  feast),  and  in  their  rooms  more 
silver  candlesticks  on  lace-trimmed  toilet  tables, 
lighting  up  the  pretty  satin  quilts. — Souvenirs 
of  my  Time. 


JOHN  CHARLES  FRf:MONT.— 1 

FREMONT,  John  Chakles,  au  Amer- 
ican soldier  and  explorer,  born  at  Savannah, 
Georgia,  January  21,  1S13.  At  lifteen  he 
entered  the  junior  class  at  Charleston  Col- 
lege; but  remained  only  a  short  time,  after 
which  he  became  a  private  tutor.  In  1833 
was  appointed  teacher  of  mathematics  on 
the  U.  S.  sloop-of-war  Natchez,  which  was 
about  to  sail  upon  a  two  years'  cruise  to  the 
coast  of  South  America.  Upon  his  return 
he  became  a  railroad  surveyor  and  engineer. 
In  1838  he  received  a  commission  as  Second 
Lieutenant  iu  the  U.  S.  Corps  of  Topogra- 
phical Engineers.  In  1841  he  was  married 
to  a  daughter  of  Thomas  H.  Benton,  U.  S. 
Senator  from  Missouri.  In  the  follo\ving 
year  he  projected  a  geographical  survey  of 
the  entire  territory  of  the  United  States  from 
the  Missouri  River  to  the  Pacific  Ocean  ; 
and  was  instructed,  to  explore  the  Rocky 
Mountain  region.  This  exploration  occupied 
four  months.  He  then  planned  a  second 
and  more  extensive  expedition,  to  explore 
the  then  unknown  region  lying  between 
the  Rocky  M<juntuins  and  the  Pacitic  Ocean. 
Ti)e  expedition,  consisting  of  30  men,  set 
out  in  May,  1S43,  and  early  in  September 
came  in  sight  of  the  Great  Salt  Lake,  of 
which  nothing  reliable  was  as  yet  known. 
From  the  Great  Salt  Lake  he  proceeded  to 
the  upper  tributaries  of  the  Columbia  River, 
down  which  he  went  nearly  to  the  Pacific  ; 
and  in  Novdmber  set  out  to  return  to  the 
States  by  a  different  route,  much  of  it 
through  an  almo.^t  unknown  region  crossed 
by  high  and  rugged  mountain  chains. 
Early  in  March  he  reached  Sutter's  Fort  on 
the  Sacranient^j  River,  in  California,  having 
RufTcred  severe  hardships,  and  lost  half  of 
the  horses  and  mules  with  whicli  he  had  set 


JOHN  CHARLES  FREMONT.— 3 

out.  He  finally  returned  to  the  States  in 
July,  1844,  after  an  absence  of  fourteen 
months. 

In  the  Spring  of  1845,  Fremont,  who  had 
been  brevetted  as  captain,  set  out  upon  a 
third  expedition  to  explore  the  Great  J3asin 
and  the  maritime  region  of  Oregon  and 
California.  In  May,  1846,  when  making 
liis  way  homeward,  he  received  dispatches 
from  the  Government,  directing  him  to  look 
after  the  interests  of  the  United  States  in 
California,  there  being  reason  to  apprehend 
that  this  province  would  be  transferred  by 
the  Mexicans  to  Great  Britain.  He  retraced 
his  steps  to  California.  Early  in  1847  he 
concluded  a  treaty  with  the  California 
population,  which  terminated  the  war  in 
California,  leaving  that  country  in  the  pos.- 
session  of  the  United  States.  In  the  mean 
while  a  question  had  arisen  between  Com- 
modore Stockton  and  General  Kearny,  as  to 
which  should  hold  the  command  in  Cali- 
fornia. The  upshot  was  that  Kearny  pre- 
ferred charges  against  Fremont,  who  de- 
manded a  speedy  trial  by  court-martial. 
The  court  found  him  guilty  of  the  charges, 
and  sentenced  him  to  be  dismissed  from 
the  service.  President  Polk  confirmed  a 
part  of  the  verdict,  but  remitted  the  pen- 
alty. Fremont  at  once  resigned  his  com 
mission  as  Lieutenant  Colonel. 

In  October,  1848,  he  organized  a  fourth 
expedition  at  his  own  expense,  the  oMect 
being  to  find  a  practicable  route  to  Cali- 
fornia, where  he  had  acquired  large  landed 
interests.  He  subsequently  took  up  his 
residence  in  California,  and  when  the  Terri- 
tory was  admitted  into  the  Union  as  a  State, 
he  was  elected  one  oi  the  U.  S.  Senators. 
In  drawing  lots  for  the  long  or  short  term, 


JOHN  CHARLES  FREMONT.— S 

he  received  tlie  latter,  so  that  his  senator- 
ship  lasted  only  three  weeks.  In  1852  he 
went  to  Europe  ;  but  in  the  following  year 
Congress  made  an  appropriation  for  the 
survey  of  three  routes  from  the  Mississippi 
valley  to  the  Pacitic.  He  organized  on  his 
own  account  a  fourth  party  to  complete  the 
explorations  which  he  had  begun  in  1848. 

In  1850  Fremont  was  made  the  Presi- 
dential candidate  of  the  newly-formed  Re- 
publican party.  He  received  the  114 
electoral  votes  of  eleven  States;  Mr. 
Buchanan,  the  Democratic  candidate,  hav- 
ing the  174  electoral  votes  of  nineteen 
States.  The  popular  vote  stood  1,838,000 
for  Puchanan  ;  1,341,000  for  Fremont ;  and 
874,000  for  Fillmore,  who  receiv^ed  no 
electoral  vote. 

Soon  after  the  breaking  out  of  the  Civil 
War  Fremont  was  made  a  Major-General 
in  the  U.  S.  Army,  and  was  assigned  to  the 
command  of  the  Western  District.  On 
August  30,  1801,  he  issued  an  order  emanci- 
pating the  slaves  of  those  persons  in  his 
district  who  were  in  arms  against  the  United 
States.  This  order  Mas  annulled  by  Presi- 
dent Lincoln,  and  Fremont  was  relieved 
from  his  command  ;  but  at  the  beginning  of 
1802  he  was  placed  in  command  of  the 
"Mountain  District,''  comj>rising  parts  of 
Virginia,  Kentucky,  and  Tennessee.  In 
June,  (jeii.  Pop(;  was  placed  in  command  of 
the  forces  in  Xortlierii  Virgitiia.  Fremont 
claimed  that  he  outranked  Pope,  refused  to 
serve  under  him,  and  resigned  his  com- 
mission. 

After  the  conclusion  of  the  war,  Fre- 
mont busiofl  himself  in  ])ronioting  the  con- 
struction of  a  southern  railroad  across  the 
continent.     In  connection  with  this  enter- 


JOHN  caARLES  FRiiMONT.— 4 

prise  he  was  in  1873  charged  with  fraud- 
ulent transactions  in  France  ;  was  tried  dur- 
ing his  absence  from  that  country,  and 
sentenced  to  line  and  imprisonment.  From 
1878  to  1881  he  was  Governor  of  the  Terri- 
tory of  Arizona,  lie  then  began  the  com- 
position of  his  autobiography,  the  first  vol- 
ume of  which  appeared  in  1887,  the  title 
being  Memoirs  of  unj  Life^  hy  John  Charles 
Fremont.  This  volume,  the  only  one  which 
has  yet  appeared  (November,  1887)  brings 
the  narrative  down  to  the  close  of  liis  third 
expedition,  1846.  He  thus  sets  forth  tlie 
scope  of  the  entire  work  : 

SCOPE    OF    THE    "  MEMOIRS." 

The  narrative  contained  in  these  volumes  is 
personal.  It  is  intended  to  draw  together  the 
more  important  and  interesting  parts  in  the 
journals  of  various  expeditions  made  by  me  in 
the  course  of  Western  exploration,  and  to  give 
my  knowledge  of  political  and  military  events  in 
which  I  have  myself  liad  part.  The  principal 
subjects  of  which  the  book  will  consist,  and 
which  with  me  make  its  raison  cVetre,  are  three : 
The  Geographical  Explorations  made  in  the  in- 
terest of  Western  expansion;  the  Presidential 
Campaign  of  1856,  made  in  the  interest  of  an 
undivided  country ;  and  the  Civil  AVar  made  in 
the  same  interest.  Connecting  tliese,  and  natu- 
rally growing  out  of  them,  will  be  given  enough 
of  the  threads  of  ordinary  life  to  justify  the 
claim  of  the  work  to  its  title  of  Memoirs :  pur- 
porting to  be  the  history  of  one  life,  but  being 
in  reality  tliat  of  three,  because  in  substance  the 
course  of  my  own  life  was  chiefly  determined 
by  its  contact  with  the  other  two — the  events 
recorded  having  in  this  way  been  created,  or 
directly  inspired  and  influenced,  by  tliree  dif- 
erent  minds,  each  having  the  same  objects  for  a 
principal  aim 

Concerning    the    Presidential    Campaign    of 


JOHN  CHARLES  FREMONT.— 5 

.1856,  in  which  I  was  engaged,  statements  have 
been  made  which  I  wish  to  correct ;  and  in  that 
of  1864  there  were  governing  facts  which  have 
not  been  made  public.  These  I  propose  to  set 
out.  Some  events  of  the  Civil  War  in  which  I 
■was  directly  concerned  have  been  incorrectly 
stated,  and  I  am  not  willing  to  leave  the  result- 
ing erroneous  impressions  to  crystallize  and 
harden  into  the  semblance  of  facts. 

The  general  record  is  being  made  up.  This 
being  done  from  different  points  of  view,  and  as 
this  view  is  sometimes  distorted  by  in)perfect  or 
prejudiced  knowledge,  I  naturally  wish  to  use 
the  fitting  occjision  which  offers  to  make  my 
own  record.  It  is  not  the  written,  but  the  pub- 
lished fact,  which  stands ;  and  it  stands  to  hold 
its  ground  as  fact  when  it  can  meet  every  chal- 
lenge by  the  testimony  of  documentary  and  re- 
corded evidence. 

Towards  the   close   of  the  volume  Fre- 
mont thus  characterizes  three  of  his  com- 
rades  who  figure  largely    throughout    the 
•  entire  narrative  of  his  explorations : 

CARSON",    OWENS,    AND    GODEY. 

From  Fort  Benton  I  sent  [August,  1845,]  an 
express  to  Carson  at  a  ranc/io,  or  stock-farm, 
which  with  his  friend  Richard  Owens  he  had 
established  on  the  Cimarron,  a  tributary  to  the 
Arkansas  River ;  but  he  had  promised  that  in 
the  event  I  shoiiM  need  him  he  would  join  me, 
and  I  knew  tliat  lie  would  not  fail  to  come.  My 
messenger  foutnl  him  busy  starting  the  congenial 
work  of  making  up  a  stock-ranch.  There  was 
no  time  to  be  lost,  and  he  did  not  hesitate.  He 
sold  everything  at  a  sacrifice — farm  and  cattle — 
and  not  only  came  himself,  but  brought  his 
friend  Owens  to  join  the  f)arty.  This  was  like 
Carson — projupt,  self-sacrificing,  and  true.  That 
Owens  was  a  goo'l  man,  it  is  enough  to  say  that 
he  and  Carson  were  friends.  Cool,  brave,  and 
of   good    judgment ;  a   good  hunter  and    good 


JOHN  CHARLES  FRMoNT.— fl 

shot,  experienced  in  mountain  life,  he  was  an 
acquisition,  and  proved  valuable  through  the 
campaign. 

Godey  had  proved  himself  during  the  pre- 
ceding journey,  which  liad  brought  out  his  dis- 
tinguishing qualities  of  resolute  and  aggressive 
courage.  Quick  in  deciding  and  prompt  in  act- 
ing, he  had  also  the  French  elan  and  their 
gayety  of  courage  :  "  Gal,  gal,  avanfons  nous.'^ 
1  mention  him  here  because  the  three  men  come 
fitly  together;  and  because  of  the  peculiar  qual- 
ities which  gave  them  in  the  highest  degree 
efficiency  for  the  service  in  wliich  they  were 
engaged.  The  three,  under  Napoleon,  might 
have  become  Marshals — chosen  as  he  chose  men. 
Carson,  of  great  courage;  quick  and  complete 
perception,  taking  in  at  a  glance  the  advantages, 
as  well  as  the  chances  for  defeat.  Godey,  in- 
sensible to  danger,  of  perfect  coolness  and  stub- 
born resolution.  Owens,  equal  in  courage  to  the 
others,  and  in  coolness  equal  to  Godey, "had  the 
coup-d'all  of  a  chess-player,  covering  with  a 
glance  that  sees  the  best  move.  Ilis  dark  hazel 
eye  was  the  marked  feature  of  his  face — large  ' 
and  flat  and  far-sighted. 

Godey  was  a  Creole  Frenchman  of  St.  Louis, 
of  medium  height,  with  black  eyes,  and  silky, 
curling  black  hair.  In  all  situations  he  had  that 
care  of  his  person  which  good  looks  encourage. 
Once  when  we  were  in  Washington,  he  was  at  a 
concert;  immediately  behind  him  sat  the  wife 
of  the  French  Minister,  Madame  Pageot,  who, 
with  the  lady  by  her,  was  admiring  his  hair; 
which  was  really  beautiful.  But,  she  said,  "cV«< 
unc perruque.''''  They  were  speaking  unguardedly 
in  French.  Godey  had  no  idea  of  having  his 
hair  disparaged ;  and  with  the  prompt  coolness 
Avith  which  he  would  have  repelled  any  other  in- 
dignity, turned  instantly  to  say,  "  Pardon,  Ma- 
dame, c'est  hlca  a  moiy  The  ladies  were  silenced 
as  suddenly  as  the  touch  of  a  tree-trunk  silences 
a  katydid. — Memoirs,  Chap.  XII. 


itlorninfl  pragcr?, 


JOHN  CHARLES  FRfiMONT.— 7 

A    HERD     OF    BUFFALOES. 

The  air  was  keen  at  sunrise  [June  30,  1842,] 
the  thermometer  standing  at  44  .  A  few  miles 
brought  us  into  the  midst  of  the  buffalo,  swarm- 
ing in  immense  numbers  over  the  plains  where 
they  had  left  scarcely  a  blade  of  grass  standing. 
Mr.  Preuss,  who  was  sketching  at  a  little  distance 
in  the  rear,  had  at  first  noted  them  as  large 
groves  of  timber.  In  the  sight  of  such  a  mass  of 
life  the  traveler  feels  a  strange  emotion  of  grand- 
eur. We  had  heard  from  a  distance  a  dull  and 
confused  murmuring,  and  when  we  came  in  view 
of  their  dark  masses  there  was  not  one  among 
us  who  did  not  feel  his  heart  beat  quicker.  It 
was  the  early  part  of  the  day,  when  the  herds 
are  feeding;  and  everywhere  they  were  in  mo- 
tion. Here  and  there  an  old  bull  was  rolling  in 
the  grass,  and  clouds  of  dust  rose  in  the  air  from 
various  parts  of  the  bands,  each  the  scene  of 
some  obstinate  fight.  Indians  and  buffalo  make 
the  poetry  and  life  of  the  pniirie.  and  our  camp 
was  full  of  their  exhilaration.  In  place  of  the 
quiet  monotony  of  the  march,  relieved  only  by 
the  cracking  of  the  whip,  and  an  "  Avance  done  f 
enfant  de  yurce  T  shouts  and  songs  resounded 
from  every  part  of  the  line,  and  our  evening 
camp  wjus  alwavs  the  commencement  of  a  feast 
which  terminated  only  with  our  departure  on  the 
following  morning.  At  any  time  of  the  night 
might  be  seen  pieces  of  the  most  delicate  and 
choicest  meat  roasting  en  oppolas  on  sticks 
around  the  fire,  and  the  guard  were  never  with- 
out con)pany.  With  j)Ieasant  weather,  and  no 
enemy  to  fear,  an  abundance  of  tiie  most  excel- 
lent of  meat,  an<l  no  scarcity  of  bread  or  tobacco, 
they  were  enjoying  the  oasis  of  a  voyagour's  life. 
Three  cows  were  killed  to-day.  Kit  Carson  had 
shot  one,  and  was  continuing  the  cliasc  of  an- 
other herd,  when  his  horse;  fell  headlong,  but 
Bpning  iij)  and  joined  the  flying  band,  'i'liough 
consiijcrably  hurt,  In;  had  the  good  fortune  to 
break  no  bones;  and  Maxwell,  who  was  mounted 
on  a  fleet  hunter,  captured  tlie  runaway  after  a 
VI 


JOHN  CHARLES  FUliMONT.— 8 

hard  chase.  Astronomical  observations  placed 
us  in  longitude  100°  05'  47",  latitude  40°  49' 
55". — Memoirs,  Chap.  IV. 

A    FIGHT    WITH     BUFFALOES. 

Next  morning  [July  Ij  as  we  were  riding 
quietly  along  the  bank,  a  grand  herd  of  buffaloes, 
some  seven  or  eight  hundred  in  number,  came 
crowding  up  from  the  river  where  they  had  been 
to  drink,  and  commenced  crossing  the  plain 
slowly,  eating  as  they  went.  The  ground  was 
apparently  good,  and  the  distance  across  the 
prairie  (two  or  three  miles)  gave  us  a  fine  oppor- 
tunity to  charge  them  before  they  could  get 
among  the  river  hills.  Halting  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, the  hunters  were  brought  up  and  saddled, 
and  Kit  Carson,  Maxwell,  and  I  started  together. 
The  buffaloes  were  now  somewhat  less  than  half 
a  mile  distant,  and  we  rode  easily  along  until 
within  about  three  hundred  yards,  when  a  sudden 
agitation,  a  wavering  in  the  band,  and  a  gallop- 
ing to  and  fro  of  some  that  were  scattered  along 
the  skirts  gave  us  the  intimation  that  we  were 
discovered.  We  started  together  at  a  hand-gallop, 
riding  steadily  abreast  of  each  other.  We  were 
now  closing  upon  them  rapidly,  and  the  front 
of  the  mass  was  already  in  rapid  motion  for  the 
hills,  and  in  a  few  seconds  tlie  movement  had 
communicated  itself  to  the  whole  herd. 

A  crowd  of  bulls,  as  usual,  brought  up  the  rear, 
and  every  now  and  then  some  of  them  faced  about, 
and  then  dashed  on  after  the  band  a  short  distance, 
and  turned  and  looked  again,  as  if  more  than 
half  inclined  to  fight.  In  a  few  moments,  how- 
ever, during  which  we  had  been  quickening  our 
pace,  the  rout  was  universal,  and  we  were  going 
over  the  ground  like  a  hurricane.  When  at 
about  thirty  yards,  we  gave  the  usual  shout  (the 
hunter's  pas  dc  charge),  and  broke  into  the  herd. 
We  entered  on  the  side,  the  mass  giving  way  in 
every  direction  in  their  heedless  course.  Many 
of  the  bulls,  less  active  and  fleet  than  the  cows, 
paying  no  attention  to  the  ground,  and  occupied 

818 


JOHN  CHARLES  FREMONT.- 9 

solely  with  the  hunter,  were  precipitated  to  the 
earth  with  great  force,  rolling  over  and  over 
with  the  violence  of  the  shock,  and  hardly  dis- 
tinguishable in  the  dust. 

We  separated  on  entering,  each  singling  out 
his  game.  My  horse  was  a  trained  hunter, 
famous  in  the  West  under  the  name  of  "  Pro- 
veau ;"  and  with  his  eyes  flashing  and  the  foam 
flying  from  his  mouth,  sprang  on  after  the  cow 
like  a  tiger.  In  a  few  moments  he  brought 
me  alongside  of  her,  and  rising  in  the  stirrups  I 
fired  at  the  distance  of  a  yard,  the  ball  entering 
at  the  termination  of  the  long  hair,  and  passing 
near  the  heart.  She  fell  headlong  at  the  report 
of  the  gun ;  and,  checking  my  horse,  I  looked 
around  for  my  companions.  At  a  little  distance 
Kit  was  on  the  ground,  engaged  in  tying  his 
horse  to  the  liorns  of  a  cow  he  was  preparing  to 
cut  up.  Among  the  scattered  bands,  at  some 
distance  below,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Maxwell ; 
and  while  I  was  looking,  a  light  wreath  of  smoke 
curled  away  from  his  gun,  from  which  I  was  too 
far  to  hear  the  re[)ort. 

Nearer,  and  between  me  and  the  hills  towards 
which  they  were  directing  their  course,  was  the 
body  of  the  herd  ;  and  giving  my  liorse  the  rein, 
we  dashed  after  them.  A  thick  cloud  of  dust 
hung  uj)on  their  rear,  which  tilled  my  mouth  and 
eyes,  and  nearly  smothered  me.  In  the  n)idst 
of  this  I  could  see  nothing,  and  the  bi'ffaloes 
were  not  distinguishable  until  within  thirty  feet. 
They  crow(k'(l  together  more  densely  still  as  I 
came  upon  them,  and  rushed  along  in  such  a 
compact  bodv  that  1  could  not  obtain  an  en- 
trance— t!)e  horse  almost  leajiing  upon  them.  In 
a  few  momenta  the  tnass  divided  to  the  right  and 
left,  the  horns  clattering  with  a  noise  lieard 
above  cvcrytliing  else,  and  my  liorsc  darted  into 
the  opening.  Five  or  six  bulls  charged  on  us  as 
we  dasliod  along  the  line,  but  were  left  far  be- 
liind ;  and  singling  out  a  cow,  I  gave  lier  my 
fire,  but  struck  too  high.  She  gave  a  tremendous 
leap,  and  scoured  on  swifter  than  before.  1 
111 


JOHN  CHARLES  FREMONT.— 10 

reined  up  my  horse,  and  tlie  band  swept  on  like 
a  torrent,  and  left  the  place  quiet  and  clear. 

Our  chase  had  led  us  into  dangerous  ground. 
A  prairie-dog  village,  so  thickly  settled  that  there 
were  three  or  four  holes  in  every  twenty  yards 
square,  occupied  the  whole  bottom  for  nearly 
two  miles  in  length.  Looking  around,  I  saw 
only  one  of  the  hunters,  nearly  out  of  sight,  and 
the  long  dark  line  of  our  caravan  crawling  along 
three  or  four  miles  distant.  After  a  march  of 
twenty-four  miles  we  encamped  at  nightfall  one 
mile  and  a  half  above  the  lower  end  of  Brady's 
Island.  The  breadth  of  this  arm  of  the  river 
was  880  yards,  and  the  water  nowhere  two  feet 
in  depth.  The  island  bears  the  name  of  a  man 
killed  on  this  spot  some  years  ago. — Memoirs, 
Chap.  IV. 

FIRST    GLIMPSE    OF    THE    ROCKY    MOUNTAINS. 

On  the  morning  of  July  9  we  caught  the  first 
faint  glimpse  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  about 
sixty  miles  distant.  Though  a  tolerably  bright 
day,  there  was  a  slight  mist,  and  we  were  just 
able  to  discern  the  snowy  summit  of  "  Long's 
Peak"  [Les  Devx  OreUles  of  the  Canadians), 
showing  itself  like  a  cloud  near  the  horizon.  I 
found  it  easily  distinguishable,  there  being  a 
perceptible  difference  in  its  appearance  from  the 
white  clouds  that  were  floating  about  the  sky. 
I  was  pleased  to  find  that  among  the  traders  the 
name  of  "  Long's  Peak"  had  been  adopted,  and 
become  familiar  in  the  country. — Memoirs,  Chap. 
IV. 

ON  THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  ROCKY  MOUNTAINS. 

August  15. — We  were  of  opinion  that  a  long 
defile  which  lay  to  the  left  of  yesterday's  route 
would  lead  us  to  the  foot  of  the  main  peak ;  and 
we  determined  to  ride  up  the  defile  as  far  as 
possible,  in  order  to  husband  our  strength  for 
the  main  ascent.  Though  this  was  a  fine  pas- 
sage, still  it  was  a  defile  of  the  most  rugged 
mountains  known.  The  sun  rarely  shone  here; 
snow  lay  along  the  border  of  the  main  stream 


John  charlbs  FRf:Mo.NT.— li 

which  flowed  through  it,  and  occasional  icy 
passages  made  the  footing  of  the  nuiles  very  in- 
secure, and  the  rocks  and  ground  were  moist 
•with  the  trickling  waters  in  tliis  spring  of  mighty 
rivers.  We  soon  had  the  satisfaction  to  tind 
ourselves  riding  along  the  huge  wall  which  forms 
the  central  summits  of  the  chain.  There  at  last 
it  rose  by  our  sides,  a  nearly  perpendicular  mass 
of  granite,  terminating  2,000  to  3,000  feet  above 
our  heads  in  a  serrated  line  of  broken,  jagged 
cones.  We  rode  on  until  we  came  almost  im- 
mediately below  the  main  peak,  which  I  denomi- 
nated the  Snow  Peak,  as  it  exhibited  more  snow 
to  the  eye  than  any  of  the  neighboring  summits. 
Here  were  three  small  lakes,  perhaps  of  1,000  feet 
diameter. 

Having  divested  ourselves  of  every  unneces- 
sary encumbrance,  we  commenced  the  ascent. 
We  did  not  press  ourselves,  but  climbed  leisurely, 
sitting  down  so  soon  as  we  found  breath  begin- 
ning to  fail.  At  intervals  we  reached  places 
where  a  number  of  springs  gushed  from  the 
rocks,  and  about  1 800  feet  above  the  lakes  came 
to  the  snow-line.  From  this  point  our  progress 
was  uninterrupted  climbing.  I  availed  myself  of 
a  sort  of  coml)  of  the  mountain,  which  stood 
against  the  wall  like  a  buttress,  and  which  the 
wind  and  the  solar  radiation,  joined  to  the  steep- 
ness of  the  smooth  rock,  had  kept  almost  entirely 
free  from  snow.  Up  this  I  made  my  way 
rapidly. 

In  a  few  minutes  we  reached  a  point  where  the 
buttress  was  overhanging,  and  there  was  no  other 
way  of  surmounting  the  dilli(  ulty  than  by  pass- 
ing around  one  side  of  it,  which  was  the  fac-e  of 
a  vortical  precipice  of  several  hundred  feet. 
Putting  hands  and  feet  in  the  crevices  between 
the  rocks,  1  sufrccded  in  getting  over  it;  and 
when  I  reached  the  top,  foimd  my  companions 
in  a  small  valley  below.  Descending  tf)  them, 
we  continued  (•liinl)itig,  and  in  a  short  time 
reached  the  crest.  I  sprang  upon  the  summit, 
and  another  step  would   liave   precipitated  mo 


JOHN  CIIAKLES  FRl^MONT.— 12 

into  an  immense  snow-ficlJ  five  hundred  feet 
below.  To  the  edi^e  of  this  field  was  a  slicer  icy 
precipice;  and  then,  with  a  gradual  fall, tlie  field 
sloped  off  for  about  a  mile,  until  it  struck  the 
foot  of  another  lower  ridge.  I  stood  on  a  nar- 
row crest,  about  three  feet  in  width,  with  an  in- 
clination of  about  20°  N.,  51°  E. 

As  soon  as  I  had  gratified  my  first  feelings  of 
curiosity,  I  descended,  and  each  man  ascended 
in  his  turn;  for  I  would  allow  only  one  at  a  time 
to  mount  the  unstable  and  precarious  slab,  which 
it  seen)ed  a  breath  would  hurl  into  the  abyss 
below.  We  mounted  the  barometer  in  the  snow 
of  the  summit,  and  fixing  a  ramrod  in  a  crevice, 
unfurled  the  national  flag  to  wave  in  the  breeze, 
wliere  never  flag  waved  before. 

During  our  morning's  ascent  we  had  met  no 
sign  of  animal  life  except  a  small  sparrow-like 
bird.  A  stillness  the  most  profound,  and  a 
terrible  solitude,  forced  themselves  constantly  on 
the  mind  as  the  great  features  of  the  place. 
Here  on  the  summit  wliere  the  silence  was  abso- 
lute, unbroken  by  any  sound,  and  solitude 
complete,  we  thought  ourselves  beyond  the  region 
of  animated  life;  but  while  we  were  sitting  on 
the  rock,  a  solitary  bee  [Bromiis,  "the  humble- 
bee")  came  winging  his  flight  from  the  eastern 
valley,  and  lit  on  the  knee  of  one  of  the  men. 
It  was  a  strange  place — the  icy  rock  and  the 
highest  peak  of  the  Rocky  Mountains — for  a 
lover  of  warm  sunshine  and  flowers;  and  we 
pleased  ourselves  with  the  idea  that  he  was  the 
first  of  his  species  to  cross  the  mountain  barrier 
— a  solitary  pioneer  to  foretell  the  advance  of 
civilization.  I  believe  that  a  moment's  thought 
would  have  made  us  let  him  continue  his  way 
unharmed.  But  we  carried  out  the  law  of  this 
country,  where  all  animated  nature  seems  at 
war  ;  and  seizing  him  immediately,  put  him  in  at 
least  a  fit  place — ^in  the  leaves  of  a  large  book, 
amont;  the  flowers  we  had  collected  on  our  way. 
The  barometer  stood  at  1 8-293,  the  attached  ther- 
mometer at  4i'^ ;  givmg  for  the  elevation  of  this 

S8S 


JOHN  CHARLES  FREMONT— IS 

summit  13,570  feet  above  the  Gulf  of  Mexico, 
which  may  be  called  the  highest  flight  of  the 
bee.  It  is  certainly  the  highest  known  flight  of 
that  insect. — Memoirs,  Chap.  V. 

The  foregoing  extracts  relate  to  Fre- 
mont's first  expedition,  made  in  1842. 
Those  which  ensue  belong  to  the  second 
expedition,  1843-44. 

THE  GREAT  SALT  LAKE  VALLEY  IN  1843. 

August  21. — An  hour's  travel  this  morning 
brought  us  into  the  fertile  and  picturesque  val- 
ley of  Bear  Ilivcr,  the  principal  tributary  to  the 
Great  Salt  Lake.  The  stream  is  here  two  hun- 
dred feet  wide,  fringed  with  willows  and  occa- 
sional groups  of  hawthorn.  AVe  were  now 
entering  a  region  which  for  us  possessed  a 
strange  and  extraordinary  interest.  We  were 
upon  the  waters  of  the  famous  lake  which  forms 
a  salient  point  among  the  remarkable  geographi- 
cal features  of  the  country,  and  around  which 
the  vague  and  superstitious  accounts  of  the 
trappers  had  thrown  a  delightful  obscurity  which 
we  anticipated  pleasure  in  dispelling;  but  which 
in  the  mean  time  left  a  crowded  field  for  the  ex- 
ercise of  the  imagination.  In  our  occasional 
conversations  with  the  few  old  hunters  who  had 
visited  the  region,  it  had  been  a  subject  of  fre- 
quent speculation ;  and  the  wonders  which  they 
related  were  not  the  less  agreeable  because  they 
were  highly  exaggerated  and  impossible. 

Hitherto  this  lake  had  been  seen  only  by 
trappers  who  were  wandering  through  the  coun- 
try in  search  of  new  beaver-streams,  caring  very 
little  for  geography.  Its  islands  had  never  been 
visited,  and  none  were  found  who  had  entirely 
made  the  circuit  of  its  shores;  and  no  instru- 
mental observations  or  geographical  survey  of 
any  description  had  ever  been  made  anywhere 
in  the  neighboring  region.  It  was  generally 
supposed  that  it  iiad  no  visible  outlet ;  but 
anjong  the  trappers — including  those  in  my  own 
camp — were  many  who  believed  that  somewhere 


»«n 


JOHN  CHARLES  PR]5mONT.-14 

on  its  surface  was  a  terrible  whirlpool  through 
which  its  waters  found  their  way  to  the  ocean 
by  some  subterranean  communication.  All 
these  things  had  made  a  frequent  subject  of 
discussion  in  our  desultory  conversations  around 
the  fires  at  night;  and  my  own  mind  had  be- 
come tolerably  well  filled  with  their  indefinite 
pictures,  and  insensibly  colored  with  their 
romantic  descriptions,  which,  in  the  pleasure  of 
excitement,  I  was  well  disposed  to  believe,  and 
lialf  expected  to  realize. 

Where  we  descended  into  this  beautiful  val- 
ley it  is  three  to  four  miles  in  breadth,  perfectly 
level,  and  bounded  by  mountainous  ridges,  ono 
above  another,  rising  suddenly  from  the  plain. 
AVe  continued  our  road  down  the  river,  and  at 
night  encamped  with  a  family  of  emigrants — 
two  men,  women,  and  several  children,  who  ap- 
peared to  be  bringing  up  the  rear  of  the  great 
caravan.  It  was  strange  to  see  one  small  family 
traveling  along  through  such  a  country,  so  re- 
mote from  civilization.  Some  nine  years  since 
such  a  security  might  have  been  a  fatal  one;  but 
since  their  disastrous  defeats  in  the  country  a 
little  north,  the  Blackfeet  have  ceased  to  visit 
these  waters.  Indians,  however,  are  very  un- 
certain in  their  localities ;  and  the  friendly  feel- 
ings also  of  those  now  inhabiting  it  may  be 
changed. 

According  to  barometrical  observation  at  noon, 
the  elevation  of  the  valley  was  6,400  feet  above 
the  sea ;  and  our  encampment  at  night  in' lati- 
tude 42°  03'  47",  andlongitudelll°'lO'  53' by 
observation.  This  encampment  was  therefore 
within  the  territorial  limit  of  the  United  States; 
our  traveling  from  the  time  we  entered  tin;  val- 
ley of  the  Green  River  on  the  15th  of  August 
having  been  south  of  42°  north  latitude,  and 
consequently  on  Mexican  territory;  and  this  ia 
the  route  all  the  emigrants  now  travel  to  Oregon. 

The  next  morning,  in  about  tliree  miles  from 
our  encampment,  we  reached  Smith's  Fork,  a 
stream  of  clear  water,  about  50  feet  in  breadth, 


JOHN  CHARLES  FREMONT.— 15 

It  is  timbered  with  cotton-wood,  willow,  and 
aspen,  and  makes  a  beautiful  deboucheraent 
through  a  pass  about  600  yards  wide,  between 
remarkable  mountain  hills,  rising  abruptly  on 
either  side,  and  forming  gigantic  columns  to  the 
gate  by  which  it  enters  Bear  Kiver  Valley.  The 
bottoms,  which  below  Smith's  Fork  had  been 
two  miles  wide,  narrowed  as  we  advanced  to  a 
gap  500  yards  wide ;  and  during  the  greater 
part  of  the  day  we  had  a  winding  route ;  the 
river  making  very  sharp  and  sudden  bends;  the 
mountains  steep  and  rocky ;  and  the  valley 
occasionally  so  n;irrow  as  only  to  leave  space  for 

a  passage  through 

Crossing,  in  the  afternoon,  the  point  of  a  nat- 
ural -spur,  we  descended  into  a  beautiful  bottom, 
formed  by  a  lateral  valley,  which  presented  a 
picture  of  home  beauty  that  went  directly  to  our 
hearts.  The  edge  uf  the  wood  for  several  miles 
along  the  river  was  dotted  with  the  white  covers 
of  the  emigrant-wagons,  collected  in  groups  at 
different  camps,  where  the  smoke  was  rising 
lazily  from  the  fires,  around  which  the  women 
were  occupied  preparing  the  evening  meal,  and 
the  children  playing  in  the  grass;  and  herds  of 
cattle,  grazing  about  ip  the  bottom,  had  an  air 
of  quiet  security  and  civilized  comfort  that  made 
a  rare  sight  for  the  traveler  in  such  a  remote 
wilderness.  In  common  with  all  the  emigration, 
they  had  been  reposing  for  several  davs  in  this 
delightful  valley  in  order  to  recruit  their  animals 
on  its  luxuriant  pasturage  after  their  lung  jour- 
ney, and  prepare  tiiem  for  the  hard  travel  along 
the  C(>inj)arativ('ly  sterile  banks  of  the  Upper 
(Jolumbia. — Memoirn,  Chap.  VI. 

A.V  EXPLOIT  OF  CAUSON  AND  OODET 

In  the  afternoon  [of  April  27,  1844,|  a  war- 
whoop  wa.s  heard,  such  na  Indians  make  when 
returning  from  a  victorious  enterprise;  and  soon 
Carson  and  Codt-y  ap[)eared,  driving  before  them 
a  band  of  horses,  rcfognized  l»y  Kuentcs  to  be 
part  of  those  ho  had  lost.     Two  bloody  scalps 


JOHN  CHARLES  FREMONT.— 16 

dangling  from  tlic  end  of  Godcy'sgun  announced 
that  they  liad  overtaken  the  Indians  as  well  as 
the  horses. . 

Tliey  informed  us  that  after  Fuentes  left 
them,  from  the  failure  of  his  horse,  they  con- 
tinued the  pursuit  alone,  and  towards  nightfall 
entered  the  mountains  into^  which  the  trail  led. 
After  sunset  the  moon  gave  light,  and  they  fol- 
lowed the  trail  by  moonshine  until  late  in  the 
night,  when  it  entered  a  narrow  defile, -and  was 
ditKcult  to  follow.  Afraid  of  losing  it  in  the 
darkness  of  the  defile,  they  tied  up  their  horses, 
struck  no  fire,  and  lay  down  to  sleep  in  silence 
and  in  darkness.  Here  they  lay  from  midnight 
until  morning.  At  daylight  they  resumed  the 
pursuit,  and  about  sunrise  discovered  the  horses; 
and  immediately  dismounting  and  tying  up 
their  own,  they  crept  cautiously  to  a  rising 
ground  which  intervened,  from  the  crest  of 
which  they  perceived  the  encampment  of  four 
lodges  close  by.  They  proceeded  quietly,  and 
had  got  within  thirty  or  forty  yards  of  their  ob- 
ject, when  a  movement  among  the  horses  dis- 
covered them  to  the  Indians.  Giving  the  war- 
shout,  they  instantly  charged  into  the  camp,  re- 
gardless of  the  numbers  which  the  four  lodges 
would  imply. 

The  Indians  received  them  with  a  flight  of 
arrows  shot  from  their  long-bows,  one  of  which 
passed  through  Godey's  shirt-collar,  barely  miss- 
ing the  neck.  Our  men  fired  their  rifles  upon 
a  steady  aim,  and  rushed  in.  Two  Indians  were 
stretched  upon  the  ground,  fatally  pierced  with 
ballets;  the  rest  fled,  except  a  little  lad  that  was 
captured.  The  scalps  of  the  fallen  were  in- 
stantly stripped  off;  but  in  the  process  one  of 
them,  who  had  two  balls  through  his  body, 
sprang  to  his  feet,  the  blood  streaming  from  his 
head,  and  uttering  a  hideous  howl.  An  old 
squaw,  possibly  his  mother,  stopped  and  looked 
back  from  the  mountain-side  she  was  climbing, 
threatening  and  lamenting.  The  frightful  spec- 
tacle appalled  the  stout  hearts  of  our  men ;  but 


JOHN  CflARLES  FREMONT.— 17 

they  did  what  humanity  required,  and  quickly 
terminated  the  agonies  of  the  gory  savage. 

Tliey  were  now  masters  of  the  camp,  which 
was  a  pretty  little  recess  in  the  mountain,  with  a 
fine  spring,  and  apparently  safe  from  invasion. 
Great  preparations  had  been  made  to  feast  a 
large  party,  for  it  was  a  very  proper  place  to 
rendezvous,  lindforthe  celebration  of  such  orgies 
as  robbers  of  the  desert  would  delight  in. 
Several  of  the  best  horses  had  been  killed,  skin- 
ned, and  cut  up ;  for  the  Indians,  living  in  the 
mountains,  and  only  coming  into  the  plains  to 
rob,  and  murder,  make  no  other  uses  of  horses 
than  to  eat  them.  Large  earthen  vessels  were  on 
the  fire,  boiling  and  stewing  the  horse-beef; 
and  several  baskets,  containing  fiftv  or  sixty  pairs 
of  moccasins,  indicated  the  presence,  or  expecta- 
tion, of  a  considerable  party.  They  released 
the  boy,  who  had  given  strong  evidence  of  the 
stoicism,  or  something  else,  of  the  savage  charac- 
ter, in  comjnencing  his  breakfast  upon  a  horse's 
licad,  as  soon  as  he  found  that  he  was  not  to  be 
killed,  but  only  tied  as  a  prisoner.  Their  object 
accomplished,  our  men  gathered  up  all  the  sur- 
viving horses,  15  in  number,  returned  upon  their 
trail,  and  rejoined  us  at  our  camp  in  the  after- 
noon of  the  same  day.  They  had  rode  about 
100  miles,  in  the  pursuit  and  return,  and  all  in 
.30  hours. 

The  time,  place,  object,  and  numbers  con- 
sidered, this  expedition  of  Carson  and  Godey 
may  be  consirlered  among  the  l»ol(h»st  and  most 
disinterested  which  the  annals  of  Western  ad- 
venture, so  full  of  daring  deeds,  can  present. 
Two  men,  in  a  savage  desert,  pursue  day  and 
night  an  unknown  body  of  Indians  into  a  defile 
of  an  unknown  mountain;  attack  them  on  sight, 
without  counting  numbers,  and  defeat  them  in 
an  instant — and  for  what  ?  To  punish  the  rob- 
bers of  the  desert,  and  to  avenge  the  wrongs  of 
Mexicans  whom  they  did  not  know.  I  repeat : 
It  was  Carson  and  Godey  wjio  did  tliis :  the 
former  an  American,  born  in  Boonslick  County, 
mi 


j"OIlN  CHARLES  FKI;M0NT.-18 

Missouri,  the  latter  a  Frenchman,  born  in  St. 
Louis,  and  both  trained  to  Western  enterprise 
from  early  life. — Memoirs,  Chap.  X. 

This  second  exploring  expedition  started 
from  "  the  little  town  of  Kansas,  near  the 
junction  of  the  Kansas  river  with  the  Mis- 
souri," in  May,  1843.  In  September,  1844, 
Fremont  returned  to  Washington,  and  set 
himself  to  the  work  of  preparing  his  official 
Report  of  that  expedition,  most  of  which  is 
embodied  in  the  Memoirs. 

PREPARING    THE    REPORT    OF    THE     SECOND    EXPE- 
DITION. 

The  interesting  character  of  the  regions  visited 
by  this  expedition — California  chiefly — drew 
much  attention,  and  brought  me  many  letters 
and  personal  inquiries.  It  became  impossible  to 
reconcile  attention  to  visitors  with  work  in  hand  ; 
and  in  order  therefore  to  avoid  this  serious  em- 
barrassment, I  took  for  my  workshop  a  small 
wooden  two-story  house,  not  far  from  the  resi- 
dence of  Mr.  Benton.  This  was  well  apart  from 
other  buildingp,  and  had  about  it  large  enclosed 
grounds.  I  had  here  with  me  as  assistant,  Mr. 
Joseph  C.  Hubbard,  who,  although  no  older  than 
myself,  was  already  a  practical  astronomer  and  a 
rapid  and  skilful  computer,  and  with  his  aid  the 
various  calculations  went  fast.  This  was  the 
occupation  of  the  daylight.  To  keep  ourselves  in 
practice — both  being  fond  of  astronomical  obser- 
vations— we  mounted  a  transit  instrument,  and 
the  house  being  isolated,  we  were  able  to  vary 
our  work  and  have  still  an  interesting  point  to 
it. 

Wishing  to  prove  the  accuracy  of  a  sextant 
by  trying  it  against  other  observations,  we  went 
for  several  nights  together,  quite  late,  when  the 
streets  were  quiet,  and  few  passers  to  disturb  the 
mercury,  to  a  church  near  by,  where  there  was  a 
large  stone  carriage-step  near  the  curb  on  which 
to  set  the  horizon.     AVaiting  for  the  stars  which 

S8» 


JOHN  CHARLES.  FlliMONT.— 19 

I  wanted  to  come  into  position,  I  rested  more 
agreeably  on  the  ground,  half  lying  against  the 
stone.  A  few  days  afterward  a  deacon  of  this 
church,  who  lived  opposite,  called  upon  Mr. 
Benton,  regretting  that  he  had  disagreeable  in- 
formation to  give,  which  still  he  thought  it  his 
duty  to  impart  to  him.  He  said  that  for  several 
nights  he  had  seen  his  son-in-law,  in  a  state  of 
gross  intoxication,  lying  on  the  pavement  in 
front  of  the  church,  and  apparently  unwilling  to 
allow  a  more  sober  companion  who  was  with 
him,  to  take  him  to  the  house.  Mr.  Benton  did 
not  receive  this  charitable  information  in  the 
grateful  spirit  which  the  informer  had  expectc<L 

After  the  computation,  came  the  writing  of 
the  Report.  This  had  its  great  interest,  but 
was  still  a  task  which  required  concentrated, 
systematic  labor.  Mrs.  Fremont  now  worked 
with  me  daily  at  the  little  wooden  house;  but 
for  her  the  work  had  its  peculiar  interest.  Talk- 
ing incidents  over  made  her  familiar  with  the 
minuter  details  of  the  journey,  outside  of  those 
which  we  recorded,  and  gave  her  a  realizing 
sense  of  the  uncertainties  and  precarious  chances 
that  attend  such  travel,  and  which  day  and  night 
lie  in  wait ;  and  it  gave  her  for  every  day  an 
object  of  interest  unusual  in  the  life  of  a  woman. 
There  was  but  brief  tin)e  in  which  to  do  this 
writing.  In  the  evenings  the  note-books  were 
consulted,  and  the  work  thought  out  and  prepared 
for  the  morning.  Jacob  kept  up  the  camp  habit, 
and  very  early  brought  me  coffee ;  and  punc- 
tually at  nine  o'clock  Mrs.  Fremont  joined  mc 
at  the  workshop.  From  that  hour  until  one,  the 
writing  went  on,  with  seldom  anything  to  break 
the  thread — tlie  dictation  sometimes  continuing' 
for  liours,  interrupt<'d  only  when  an  occasional 
point  of  cxooi)tioiial  interest  brought  out  in- 
fpiiry  or  discussion.  After  the  four-hours' 
stretch  there  was  tea,  with  a  sliglit  luncheon,  and 
then  a  walk  to  the  river;  and  after,  work  again 
until  dusk 

The  completed  lieport  of  the  journey  was 
m 


JOHN  CHARLES  FRf:MONT.— 20 

given  in  on  March  1st,  1845,  and  10,000  extra 
copies  of  the  First  and  Second  Reports  were 
ordered  by  Congress.  An  important  event  conse- 
quent upon  the  publication  of  these  Reports  was 
the  settlement  by  the  Mormons  of  the  valley  of 
the  Great  Salt  Lake. — Memoirs,  Chap.  XII. 

Mr.  Fremont  goes  on  to  give  a  detailed 
narrative  of  his  third  expedition,  1845-46, 
which  involved  more  adventure  tlian  either 
of  the  previous  ones,  and  resulted  in  the 
taking  possession  of  California  by  the  United 
States.  The  concluding  act  of  this  series 
of  transactions  is  thus  described  : 

THK    TREATY    OF    COUENGA. 

We  entered  the  Pass  of  San  Bernardo  on  the 
morning  of  the  12th  of  January,  1847,  expecting 
to  find  the  enemy  there  in  force ;  but  the  Cali- 
fornians  had  fallen  back  before  our  advance,  and 
the  Pass  was  undisputed.'  In  the  afternoon  wc 
encamped  at  the  Mission  of  San  Fernando,  the 
residence  of  Don  Andres  Pico,  who  was  at  pres- 
ent in  chief  command  of  the  Californian  troops. 
Their  encampment  was  within  two  miles  of  the 
Mission,  and  in  the  evening  Don  Jesus  Pico, 
a  cousin  of  Don  Andres,  with  a  message  from 
me,  made  a  visit  to  Don  Andres.  The  next 
morning,  accompanied  only  by  Don  Jesus,  I  rode 
over  to  the  camp  of  the  Californians ;  and,  in  a 
conference  with  Don  Andres,  the  important 
features  of  a  treaty  of  capitulation  were  agreed 
upon.  A  truce  was  ordered;  commissioners  on 
each  side  appointed,  and  the  same  day  a  capitu- 
lation agreed  upon.  This  was  approved  by  my- 
self, as  Military  Commandant  representing  the 
United  States,  and  Don  Andres  Pico,  Com- 
mander-in-Chief of  the  Californians.  Witli  this 
treaty  of  Couenga  hostilities  ended,  and  Cali- 
fornia left  peaceably  in  our  possession ;  to  be 
finally  secured  to  us  by  the  treaty  of  Guadalupe 
Hidalgo,  in  1848. — Memoirs,  Chap.  XV. 

Mr.  Fremont  thus  closes  the  First  Yol- 


JOHN  CHARLES  FRflMONT.— 21 

ume  of  his  Memoirs — which  brings  the 
narrative  down  to  within  a  week  of  his 
thirty-lif  th  birthday : 

RETROSPECTIVE  AND  PROSPECTIVE. 

With  this  event  [the  treaty  of  CoiiengaJ  I  close 
the  volume  which  contains  that  part  of  my  life 
which  was  of  m}'  own  choosing ;  which  was  occu- 
pied in  one  kind  of  work,  and  had  but  one  chief 
aim.  I  lived  its  earlier  part  with  the  true  Greek 
joy  in  existence — in  the  gladness  of  living.  An 
unreflecting  life,  among  ehosen  companions;  all 
with  the  same  object — to  enjoy  the  day  as  it  came, 
without  thuught  for  the  morrow  that  brought 
with  it  no  reminders,  but  was  all  fresh  with  its 
own  promise  of  enjoyment.  Quickly,  as  the  years 
rolled  on,  and  life  grew  serious,  the  light  pleas- 
ures took  wing;  and  the  idling  days  became 
full  of  purpose;  and,  as  always,  obstacles  rose 
up  in  the  way  of  the  fixed  objects  at  which  I  had 
come  to  aim.  But  it  had  happened  to  me  that 
the  obstacles  which  I  had  to  encounter  were 
natural  ones,  and  I  could  calculate  unerringly 
upon  the  amount  of  resistance  and  injury  I 
should  have  to  meet  in  surmounting  them.  Their 
very  opposition  roused  strength  to  overcome 
them 

So  that  all  this  part  of  my  narrative  has  been 
the  story  c)f  an  unrestrained  life  in  the  open  air, 
and  the  faces  which  I  had  to  look  upon  were 
those  of  Nature's  own — unchanging  and  true. 
Now  this  was  to  end.  I  was  to  begin  anew, 
and  what  I  have  to  say  would  be  from  a  dilfer- 
ent  frame  of  miixl.  I  close  the  page  because 
my  path  of  life  led  me  out  from  among  tho 
grand  and  lovely  features  of  Nature,  and  itsi 
pure  and  wholesome  air,  into  the  poisoned 
atmosphere  an<l  jarring  circuniBtances  of  conflict 
among  men  made  subtle  and  malignant  by  clash- 
ing interests. — Memoirs,  Chap.  XV. 


i*HILIP  FRENEAU.— 1 

FRENEAIT,  Philip,  an  American  sea- 
captain,  journalist,  and  poet,  born  in  New 
York,  in  1752  ;  died  near  Freehold,  N.  J., 
in  1832.  lie  studied  at  the  College  at 
Princeton,  N,  J.,  where  James  Madison 
was  his  room-mate,  and  where  he  wrote 
his  Poetical  History  of  the  PropJiet  Jonah. 
During  the  war  of  the  Revolution  he  wrote 
numerous  burlesques  in  prose  and  verse, 
which  were  very  ])opular  at  the  time. 
These  were  jniblisked  in  book- form  sev- 
eral times  during  the  author's  lifetime,  and 
were  in  1805  brought  together  and  edited, 
with  a  Memoir  and  Notes,  by  Evert  A. 
Duyckinck.  Freneau  had  intended  to  study 
law,  but  instead  of  tliis  he  "followed  the 
sea."  In  1780,  while  on  a  voyage  to  the 
AVest  Indies,  he  was  captured  by  a  British 
vessel,  and  confined  in  the  prison-ship  at 
New  York,  an  event  which  he  commem- 
orated in  his  poem  71ie  British  Prison 
/Ship.  In  1789  Mr.  Jefferson  became  Sec- 
retary of  State,  and  to  Frenean  was  given 
the  place  of  French  translator  in  his  de- 
partment, and  at  the  same  time  he  was 
editor  of  the  Hatio^ial  Gazette,  a  newspaper 
hostile  to  the  administration  of  Washing- 
ton. This  journal  was  discontinued  in  1793, 
and  two  years  after  he  started  a  newspaper 
in  New  Jersey,  and  still  later,  in  New  York, 
The  Time  I'iene,  a  tri-weekly,  in  which  ap- 
peared his  cleverest  prose  essays.  His 
newspaper  undertakings  were  unsuccessful, 
and  he  again  entered  upon  sea- faring  occu- 
pations. During  the  second  war  with  Gi'cat 
Britain  he  wrote  several  spirited  poems, 
glorifying  the  successes  of  the  American 
arms.  His  mercantile  undertakings  were 
not  prosperous,  and  he  at  length  retired  to 
a  little  farm  which  he  had  in  New  Jersey. 
m 


PHILIP  FRENEAU.— 2 

At  the  age  of  eighty  lie  lost  his  way  at  night 
in  a  violent  snow-storm,  and  was  found 
next  morning  dead  in  a  swamp  near  his  re- 
sidence. 

Freneau  may  fairly  he  styled  the  earliest 
American  poet ;  and  apart  from  this,  not  a  . 
few  of  his  poems  deserve  a  permanent  place 
in  our  literature.  Some  of  his  prose  essays 
are  clever  and  witty.  Of  these  we  present 
portions  of  .two: 

ADVICE    TO    AITHORS. 

If  vou  are  so  poor  that  you  arc  compelled  to 
live  in  some  miserable  garret  or  cottage,  do  not 
repine,  but  give  thanks  to  Heaven  tliat  you  are 
not  forced  to  pass  your  life  in  a  tub,  as  was  the 
fate  of  Diogenes  of  old.  Few  authors  in  any 
country  are  rich,  because  a  man  must  first  be  re- 
duced to  a  state  of  penury  before  he  will  com- 
mence author.  Being  poor  therefore  in  externals, 
take  care,  gentlemen,  that  you  say  or  do  nothing 
that  may  argue  a  poverty  of  spirit.  Riches,  we 
have  often  heard,  are  by  no  means  the  standard 
of  the  value  of  a  man.  This  maxim  the  world 
allows  to  be  true,  and  yet  contradicts  it  every 
hour  and  minute  of  the  year.  Fortune  most 
commonly  bestows  wealth  and  abundance  upon 
fools  and  idiots  ;  and  men  of  the  dullest  natural 

f)arts  are,  notwithstanding,  generally  best  calcu- 
ated  to  acf^uire  large  estates,  and  hoard  up  im- 
mense sums  from  small  bcgiimings. 

Never  borrow  money  of  any  man,  for  if  you 
should  once  be  mean  enough  to  fall  into  such  a 
habit  you  will  find  yourselves  unwelcome  guests 
everywhere.  If  upon  actual  trial  you  are  at 
length  convinced  you  possess  no  abilities  that 
will  command  the  esteem,  veneration,  or  gratitude 
of  mankind,  a[)ply  yourselves  without  loss  of 
time  to  soMJC  of  the  lower  arts,  since  it  is  far 
more  honorable  to  be  a  good  bricklayer  or  a 
skilful  weaver  than  an  inditTerent  poet.  If  you 
cannot  at  all  exist  without  now  and  then  gratify- 
ing your  itch  for  scril)bling,  follow  my  example, 


PHILIP  FRENEAU.-3 

who  can  both  weave  Rtockin2;s  and  write  poemS. 
]>ut  if  you  really  possess  that  sprightliness  of 
fancy  and  elevation  of  soul  which  alone  con- 
stitute an  author,  do  not  on  that  account  be 
troublesome  to  your  friends.  A  little  rejection 
will  point  out  other  means  to  extract  money  from 
the  hands  and  pockets  of  your  fellow-citizens 
than  by  poorly  borrowing  what  perhaps  you  will 
never  be  able  to  repay 

If  you  are  in  low  circumstances,  do  not  forget 
that  there  is  such  a  thing  in  the  world  as  a 
decent  pride.  They  arc  only  cowards  and  mis- 
creants that  poverty  can  render  servile  in  their 
behavior.  Your  haughtiness  should  always  rise 
in  proportion  to  the  wretchedness  and  desperation 
of  your  circumstances.  If  you  have  only  a  single 
guinea  in  the  world,  be  complaisant  and  obliging 
to  every  one.  If  you  are  absolutely  destitute  of 
a  shilling,  imjnediately  assume  the  air  of  a 
despot ;  pull  off  your  hat  to  no  one ;  let  your 
discourse  in  every  company  turn  upon  the  vanity 
of  riches,  the  insignificancy  of  the  great  men  of 
the  earth,  the  revolution  of  empires,  and  the 
final  consummation  of  all  things.  By  such 
means  you  will  at  least  conceal  a  secret  of  some 
importance  to  yourself — that  you  have  not  a 
shilling  in  the  world  to  pay  for  your  last  night's 
lodgings 

If  fortune  seems  absolutely  determined  to 
starve  you,  and  you  can  by  no  means  whatever 
make  your  works  sell,  to  keep  up  as  much  as  in 
you  lies  the  dignity  of  authorship,  do  not  take 
to  drinking,  gambling,  or  bridge-building,  as 
some  have  done,  thereby  bringing  the  trade  of 
authorship  into  disrepute;  but  retire  to  some 
uninhabited  island  or  desert,  and  there,  at  your 
leisure,  end  your  life  with  decency. 

DIRECTIONS    FOR    COURTSHIP. 

When  you  discover  a  serious  liking  to  a  young 
woman,  never  discover  your  passion  to  her  by 
way  of  letter.  It  will  cither  give  the  lady  an 
idea  that  you  are  a  bashful  booby,  or  that  you 


PHILIP  FRENEA.U.— 4 

have  not  any  address  in  conversation :  both  which 
defects  are  sufficient  to  ruin  you  in  the  estimation 
of  only  tolerable  good  sense. 

During  the  time  of  courtship  be  careful  never 
to  discourse  with  the  lady  upon  serious  subjects, 
or  matters  that  are  not  immediately  pertinent  to 
the  purpose  you  are  upon.  If  she  asks  you  what 
news,  you  must  not  tell  her  a  long  story  out  of 
the  Dutch  or  English  gazettes  about  the  decline 
of  trade,  the  fall  of  stocks,  or  the  death  of 
Mynheer  Van  dcr  Possum.  She  looks  for  no 
such  answers.  You  must  relate  a  melancholy 
tale  of  two  or  three  young  gentlemen  of  fortune 
and  handsome  expectations,  that  have  lately 
drowned  themselves  in  the  Schuylkill,  or  thrown 
themselves  headlong  from  their  third-story  win- 
dows, and  been  dashed  to  pieces  on  the  pave- 
ment, for  the  sake  of  a  certain  inexorable  fair 
one,  whose  name  you  cannot  recollect;  but  the 
beauty  and  s])afts  of  whose  eyes  these  poor 
young  gentlemen  could  not  possibly  w  ithstand. 
Such  intelligence  as  this  will  instantly  put  her 
into  good  humor 

Have  a  care  that  you  do  not  pester  her  with 
descriptions  of  the  Al[)s,  the  Apennines,  and  the 
river  I'o.  A  lady  is  not  supposed  to  know  any- 
thing of  such  matters;  besides,  you  must  be  a 
very  cold  lover  if  those  far-fetclicd  things  can 
command  your  attention  a  moment  in  the  com- 
pany of  a  fine  woman.  Whatever  she  thinks 
proper  to  assert,  it  is  your  business  to  defend, 
.and  prove  to  be  true.  If  she  says  black  is  w  hite, 
it  is  not  for  men  in  your  probationary  situation 
to  contradict  her.  On  tlie  contrary,  you  must 
swear  and  protest  that  she  is  right ;  and  in  de- 
monstrating it,  be  very  cautious  of  using  pedantic 
arguments,  making  nice  logical  distim'tions,  or 
affecting  hard  and  unintelligible  terms. 

TIIK    EARLY     NEW    ENOI.ANDEIIS. 

These  exiles  were  formed  in  a  whimsical  mould, 
And  were  awed  by  their  priests,  like  the  He- 
brews of  old, 


PHILIP  FRENEAU.— 6 

Disclaimed  all  pretenses  to  jesting  and  laughter, 
And  sighed  their  lives  through  to  be  happy  here- 
after. 
On  a  crown  immaterial  their  hearts  were  intent, 
Tliey  looked  toward  Zion,  wherever  they  went. 
Did  all  things  in  hopes  of  a  future  reward, 
And    worried   mankind — for   the   sake   of    ih6 

Lord 

A  stove  in  their  churches,  or  peAvs  lined  with 

green, 
"Were  horrid  to  think  of,  much  less  to  be  seen ; 
Their  bodies  were  warmed  with  the  linings  of 

love, 
And  the  fire  was  sufficient   that  tlashed  from 

above 

On  Sundays  their  faces  were  dark  as  a  cloud; 
The  road  to  the  meeting  was  only  allowed ; 
And  those  they  caught  rambling,  on  business  or 

pleasure, 
Were  sent  to  the  stocks,  to  repent  at  their  leisure. 
This  day  was  the  mournfulest  day  of  the  week ; 
Except  on  religion  none  ventured  to  speak; 
This  day  was  the  day  to  examine  their  lives, 
To  clear  off  old  scores,  and  to  preach  to  their 

wives 

This  beautiful  system  of  Nature  below 
They  neither  considered,  nor  wanted  to  know, 
And  called  it  a  dog-house  wherein  they  were  pent, 
Unworthy  themselves,  and  their  mighty  descent. 
They  never  perceived  that  in  Nature's  wide  plan 
There  must  be  that  whimsical  creature  called 

Man — 
Far  short  of  the  rank  he  affects  to  attain, 
Yet    a    link,    in    its    place,    in   creation's  vast 

chain 

Thus  feuds  and  vexations  distracted  theirreign — 
And  perhaps  a  few  vestiges  still  may  remain ; — 
But  time  has  presented  an  offsprmg  as  bold. 
Less  free  to   believe,  and   more  wise  than  the 

old 

Proud,  rough,  independent,  undaunted  and  free. 
And  patient  of  hardships,  their  task  is  the  sea; 
Their  country  too  barren  their  wish  to  attain, 


PHILIP  FRENEAU.— 6 

They  make  up  the  loss  by  exploring  the  main. 
Wherever  bright  Phoebus  awakens  the  gales, 
I  see  the  bold  Yankees  expanding  their  sails, 
Throughout    the    wide    ocean    pursuing    their 

schemes, 
And  chasing  the  whales  on  its  uttermost  streams. 
No  climate  for  them  is  too  cold  or  too  warm  ; 
They  reef  the  broad  canvas,  and  fight  with  the 

storm ; 
In  war  with  the  foremost  their  standards  display. 
Or  glut  the  loud  cannon  with  death,  for  the  fray. 
No  valor  in  fable  their  valor  exceeds ; 
Their  spirits  are  fitted  for  desperate  deeds ; 
No  rivals  have  they  in  our  annals  of  fame. 
Or,  if  they  are  rivaled,  'tis  York  has  the  claim. 

THE    DCTCH    AND    THE    ENGLISH     IX    NEW    YORK. 

The  first  that  attempted  to  enter  this  Strait 
(In  anno  one  thousand  six  hundred  and  eight) 
Was  Hudson  (the  same  that  we  mentioned  be- 
fore), 
Who  was  lost  in  the  gulf  that  he  went  to  explore. 
For  a  sum  that  they  paid  him  (we  know  not  how 

much) 
This  captain  transferred   all    his   rights  to  the 

Dutch; 
For  the  time  has  been  here  (to  the  world  be  it 

known), 
When  all  a  man  sailed  by,  or  saw,  was  his  own. 
The  Dutch  on  their  purchase  sat  quietly  down. 
And  fixed  on  an  island  to  lay  out  a  town ; 
They  modelled  their  streets  from  the  horns  of  a 

ram  ; 
And  the  name  that  best  pleased  them  was  New 

Amsterdam. 
Tlu-y  purchased  largo  tracts  from  the  Indians  for 

beads. 
An  1  sadly  tormented  some  runaway  Swedes, 
\\  b«>  (none  knows  for  what)  from  their  country 

had  flown. 
To  live  here  m  peace,  undisturbed  and  alone. 
New  Belgia  the  Dutch  called  their  province,  be 

sure; 

MT 


PHILIP  FRENEAU.— 7 

But  names  never  yet  made  possession  secure, 
For  Charley  (the  Second  tliat  honored  the  name) 
Sent  over  a  squadron  asserting  his  claim. 
Had  his  sword  and  his  title  been  equally  slender, 
In  vain  had   they    summoned   Mynheer  to  sur- 
render. 
The  soil  they  demanded,  and  threatened  the  worst. 
Insisting  that  Cabot  had  looked  at  it  first. 
The  want  of  a  squadron  to  fall  on  their  rear 
Made  tlie  argument  perfectly  plain  to  Mynheer. 
Force  ended  the  contest ;  the  right  was  a  sham, 
And  the  Dutch  were  sent  packing  to  hot  Surinam. 
'Twas  hard  to  be  thus  of  their  labors  deprived. 
But  the  Age  of  Republics  had  not  yet  arrived. 
Fate  saw  (though  no  wizard  could  tell  them  as 

much) 
That  the  Crown,  in  due  time,  was  to  fare  like  the 
Dutch. 

THE    BATTLE    OF     STONINGTON,    CONN.,    AUGUST, 
1814. 

Four  gallant  ships  from  England  came 
Freighted  deep  with  fire  and  flame, 
And  other  things  we  need  not  name, 
To  have  a  dash  at  Stonington. 

Now  safely  moored,  their  work  begun ; 
They  thought  to  make  the  Yankees  run, 
And  have  a  mighty  deal  of  fun 

In  stealing  sheep  at  Stonington. 

A  deacon  then  popped  up  his  head. 
And  Parson  Jones  his  sermon  read, 
In  which  the  reverend  Doctor  said 

•That  they  must  fight  for  Stonington, 

A  townsman  bade  them,  next,  attend 

To  sundry  resolutions  penned, 

By  which  they  promised  to  defend 

With  sword  and  gun  old  Stonington. 

The  ships  advancing  different  ways, 
The  Britons  soon  began  to  blaze. 
And  put  old  women  in  amaze. 

Who  feared  the  loss  of  Stonington, 


PfilLlP  FRENEAU.— 8 

The  Yankees  to  their  fort  repaired, 
And  njade  as  though  they  little  cared 
For  all  that  came — tliougli  very  hard 

The  cannon  played  on  Stonington. 
The  "Raniilies"  began  the  attack, 
"  Despatch"  came  forward,  bold  and  black, 
And  none  can  tell  what  kept  them  back 

From  settinii;  fire  to  Stonino;ton. 
The  bombardiers,  with  bomb  and  ball, 
Soon  made  a  farmer's  barrack  fall, 
And  did  a  cow-house  sadly  maul. 

That  stood  a  mile  from  Stonington. 
They  killed  a  goose,  they  killed  a  hen, 
Three  hogs  they  wounded  in  a  pen ; 
They  dashed  away,  and  pray  what  then? — 

This  was  not  taking  Stonington. 

The  shells  were  tlirown,  tlic  rockets  flew, 
But  not  a  shell  of  all  they  threw — 
Tliougli  every  house  was  full  in  view — 

Could  burn  a  house  at  Stonington. 
To  liave  tlieir  turn  they  thouglit  but  fair; 
The  Yankees  brought  two  guns  to  bear; 
And,  Sir,  it  would  have  made  you  stare 
P  This  smoke  of  smokes  at  Stonington. 

They  bored  the  "  Pactolus"  through  and  through, 
And  killed  and  wounded  of  her  crew 
So  many,  that  she  bade  adieu 

To  the  gallant  boys  of  Stonington. 

The  brig  "Despatch"  was  hulled  and  torn — 
So  crippled,  riddled,  so  forlorn. 
No  more  she  cast  an  eye  of  scorn 

On  the  little  fort  at  Stonington. 
The  "Ramilies"  gave  up  the  affray, 
And  with  her  comrades  sneaked  away: 
Such  was  the  valor,  on  that  dav. 

Of  IJriti.sh  tars  near  Stonington. 
But  some  assert,  on  certain  ground."^ — 

Besides  the  dama'^c  and  tlie  wounds 

It  cost  the  king  ten  thousand  pounds 

To  have  a  daah  at  Stonington. 


PHILIP  FRENEAU.-9 

THE    WILD    HONEYSUCKLE. 

Fair  flower,  that  dost  so  comely  grow, 

Hid  in  this  silent  dull  retreat, 
Untouched  thy  honeyed  blossoma  blow, 
Unseen  tliy  little  branches  greet. 

No  roving  foot  shall  find  thee  here, 
No  busy  hand  provoke  a  tear. 

By  Nature's  self  in  white  arrayed, 

She  bade  thee  shun  the  vulgar  eye. 
And  planted  here  the  guardian  shade 
And  sent  soft  water  inunnuriiig  by. 
Thus  quietly  thy  Summer  goes, 
Thy  days  declining  to  repose. 

Sniit  with  tliese  charms  that  must  decay, 

I  grieve  to  see  thy  future  doom ; 
They  died — nor  were  those  flowers  less  gay 
(The  flowers  that  did  in  Eden  bloom). 

Unpitying  Frost,  and  Autumn's  power. 
Shall  leave  no  vestige  of  this  flower. 

From  Morning  suns  and  Evening  dews 

At  first  thy  little  being  came  : 
If  nothing  once,  you  nothing  lose, 
For  when  you  die  you  are  tlie  same ; 

The  space  between  is  but  an  hour. 

The  mere  idea  of  a  flower. 

MAY    TO    APRIL. 

Without  your  showers 

I  breed  no  flowers; 
Each  field  a  barren  waste  appears ; 

If  you  don't  weep 

My  blossoms  sleep. 
They  take  such  pleasure  in  your  tears. 

As  your  decay 

Made  room  for  May, 
So  must  I  part  with  all  that's  mine ; 

My  balmy  breeze. 

My  blooming  trees, 
To  torrid  suns  their  sweets  resign. 

•  800 


JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE.— 1 

FEEEE,  John  Hookham,  an  English 
diplomatist,  scholar,  and  poet,  born  at 
London  in  1769 ;  died  at  Malta  in  1846. 
He  was  educated  at  Eton  and  Cambridge. 
At  Eton  be  was  one  of  the  brilliant  lads  who 
carried  on  that  clever  journal  called  The 
Mi<-/'oco!>m,  and  afterwards  he  was  associated 
with  Canning  and  others  in  the  conduct  of 
Anti-Jacohin.  Several  of  the  cleverest 
pieces  in  this  journal  were  the  joint  pro- 
duction of  Frere  and  Canning.  Frere  en- 
tered public  service  in  the  Foreign  Office 
during  the  administration  of  Lord  Gren- 
ville,  and  from  1796  to  1802  sat  in  Parlia- 
ment fur  the  ''  pocket  borouglr''  of  Love. 
In  1799  he  succeeded  Canning  as  Under 
Secretary  of  State;  in  1800  he  was  sent  a8 
Envoy  Extraordinary  to  Portugal,  and  in 
1802  he  was  transferred  to  Spain,  whither 
he  was  again  sent  in  180S.  But  he  incurred 
no  little  censure  at  home  on  account  of  his 
Ijaving  urged  Sir  John  Moore  to  undertake 
his  disastrous  retreat  to  Corunna;  and  he 
was  in  1809  recalled,  being  succeeded  by 
the  ^larquis  of  Wellesley.  "With  this  recall 
the  official  career  of  Frei-e  came  to  an  early 
close,  although  the  embassy  to  Kussia  was 
j)roffered  to  him,  and  he  twice  refused  the 
offer  of  a  |)eerage.  In  1820  he  took  up 
his  residence  at  Malta,  on  account  of  the  fee- 
ble health  of  his  wife  ;  and  that  island  was 
thenceforth  liis  home,  although  he  made  sev- 
eral extended  visits  to  London.  During  his 
abode  at  Malta  he  devoted  his  leisure  to  lit- 
erary pur>uits:  studied  some  of  his  favorite 
Greek  authors,  and  made  admiral)le  transla- 
tions of  several  of  the  comedies  of  Aristo))h- 
ancs,  and  from  Theognis.  In  1871  his  entire 
works  were  edited  l>y  his  nei)hews  W.  E. 
and  Sir  Bartle  Frere,  with  a  Memoir  by  the 


JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE.— 2 

latter  (born   in  1815),  who  has  also  done 
good  service  as  a  diplomatist. 

Among  the  minor  productions  of  Frere  is 
a  translation  from  one  of  the  Spanish  Ro- 
mances of  the  Cid,  which  was  greatly  ad- 
mired by  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

AN  EXPLOIT  OF  THE  CID. 

The  gates  were  tlien  thrown  open,  and  forth  at 
once  they  rushed, 

The  outposts  of  tlie  Moorish  hosts  back  to  the 
camp  were  pushed  ; 

The  cainp  was  all  in  tumult,  and  there  was  such 
a  thunder 

Of  cymbals  and  of  drums,  as  if  the  earth  would 
cleave  in  sunder. 

There  you  might  see  the  Moors  arming  them- 
selves in  haste, 

And  the  two  main  battles,  how  they  were  form- 
ing fast ; 

Ilorsemen  and  footmen  mixt,  a  countless  troop 
and  vast. 

The  Moors  are  moving  forward,  tlie  battle  soon 
must  join  ! 

"  My  men,  stand  here  in  order,  ranged  upon  a 
line ! 

Let  not  a  man  move  from  his  rank  before  I  give 
the  sign !  " 

Pero  Berrauez  heard  the  word,  but  he  could  not 
refrain ; 

He  held  the  banner  in  his  hand,  he  gave  the 
horse  the  rein; 

"  You  see  yon  foremost  squadron  there,  the  thick- 
est of  the  foes ; 

Noble  Cid,  God  be  your  aid,  for  there  your  ban- 
ner goes  ! 

Let  him  that  serves  and  lionors  it,  show  the  duty 
that  he  owes  !  " 

Earnestlv  the  Cid  called  out,  "  For  Heaven's 
sake,  be  still  !  " 

Bermuez  cried,  "  I  cannot  hold  !  "  so  eager  was 
his  will. 

He  spurred  his  horse,  and  drove  him  on  amid 
the  Moorish  rout ; 


JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE.-3 

They  strove  to  win  the  banner,  and   compassed 

him  about. 
Had  not  his  armor  been  so  true,   he  had  lost 

either  life  or  limb  ; 
The  Cid  called  out  again,  "  For  Heaven's  sake 

succor  him  ! " 
Their  shields  before  their  breasts,  forth  at  once 

they  go, 
Their  lances  in  the  rest,  leveled  fair  and  low. 
Their  banners  and  their  crests  waving  in  a  row. 
Their  heads  all  stooping  down  towards  the  saddle- 
bow. 
The  Cid  was  in  the  midst,  his  shout  was  heard 

afar: 
"  I  am  Rui  Diaz,  the  champion  of  Bivar  I 
Strike  among  them,  gentlemen,  for  sweet  mercy's 

sake ! " 
There  where    Bermuez  fought  amidst   the  foe 

they  brake ; 
Three  hundred  bannered  knights — it  was  a  gal- 
lant sliow ; 
Three  hundred    Moors  they  killed — a   man   at 

every  blow  ; 
When  they  wheeled  and  turned,  as  many  more 

lay  slain  ; 
You  might  see  them  raise  their  lances,  and  level 

them  again. 
There  you  might  see  the  breastplates,  how  they 

were  cleft  in  twain, 
And  many  a  Moorish  shield  lie  scattered  on  the 

plain. 
The  pennons  that  were  white   marked    with   a 

crimson  stain  ; 
The  jjorses  running  wild  whose  riders  liad  been 

slain. 

Ill  1817  appeared  anonymously  tlic  most 
notable  of  Frere's  <»riginal  poeiiip.  It  was 
a  small  volume  of  mofk-lieroic  verse  cnti- 
tlefl,  "  Prospoetus  and  Specimen  of  an  in- 
tended National  Work  by  William  and  IJol)- 
crt  Wliintlecraft,  of  Stowmarket,  in  Suffolk, 
Harness  and   Collar   Makers,  intended    to 

Ml 


JOHN  IIOOKHAM  FRERE.— 4 

comprise  the  most  interesting  particulars 
relating  to  King  Arthur  and  his  Round  Ta- 
ble." The  poem  isin  four  Cantos,  with  an 
explanatory  rrologue : 

KING  ARTHUR  AND  IIIS  ROUND  TABLE. 
I. 

I've  often  wished  tliat  I  could  write  a  book, 
Such  as  alf  English  people  might  peruse  ; 

I  never  should  regret  the  pains  it  took, 

That's  just  the  sort  of  fame  that  I   should 
choose. 

To  sail  about  the  world  like  Captain  Cook, 
I'd  sling  a  cot  up  for  my  favorite  Muse, 

And  we'd  take  verses  out  to  Demarara, 

To  New  South  Wales,  and  up  to  Niagara. 

VII. 

I  think  that  Poets  (whether  Whig  or  Tory), 
(Whether  they  go  to  meeting  or  to  church), 

Should  study  to  promote  their  country's  glory 
With  patriotic,  diligent  research  ; 

That  children  yet  unborn  may  learn  the  story, 
With  grammars,  dictionaries,  canes,  and  birch  : 

It  stands  to  reason. — This  was  Homer's  plan. 

And  we  must  do — like  him — the  best  we  can. 

IX. 

King  Arthur,  and  the  Knights   of    his  Round 
Table, 

Were   reckoned   the  best  King   and  bravest 
Lords, 
Of  all  that  flourished  since  the  Tower  of  Babel, 

At  least  of  all  that  history  records; 
Therefore  I  shall  endeavor,  if  I'm  able. 

To  paint  their  famous  actions  by  my  Avords  : 
Heroes  exert  themselves  in  hopes  of  Fame, 
And  having  such  a  strong  decisive  claim, 

X. 

It  grieves  me  much,  that  names  that  were  re- 
spected 

In  former  ages,  persons  of  such  mark. 
And  countrymen  of  ours,  should  be  neglected. 

Just  like  old  portraits  lumbering  in  the  dark. 


JOHN  iiOOKIlAM  FREilE.— 5 

An  error  such  a;;  this  should  he  corrected 

And  if  my  muse  can  strike  a  single  spark, 
Why  then  (as  poets  say)  Til  string  my  lyre ; 
And  then  I'll  light  a  great  poetic  fire. 

The  Prologue. 

KING  Arthur's  feast  at  Carlisle. 
I. 
Beginning  (as  my  Bookseller  desires) 

Like  an  old  minstrel  with  his  gown  and  beard, 
"  Fair  Ladies,  gallant  Knights,  and  gentle  Squires, 

Now  the  lust  service  from  the  board  is  cleared, 
And  if  this  noble  Company  requires, 

And  if  amidst  your  mirth  I  may  be  heard, 
Of  sundry  strange  adventures  1  could  tell  • 
That  oft  were  told  before,  but  never  told  so  well. 

II. 
The  great  King  Artliur  made  a  sumptuous  Feast, 

And  held  his  Koyal  Christmas  at  Carlisle, 
And  thither  came  the  Vassals,  most  at  least, 

From  every  corner  of  the  British  Isle ; 
And  all  were  entertained,  l)0th  man  and  beast, 

According  to  their  rank,  in  proper  style  ; 
The  steeds  were  fed  and  littered  in  the  stable, 
The  ladies  and  the  knights  sat  down  to  table. 

III. 
The  bill  of  fare  (as  you  may  well  suppose) 

Was  suited  to  those  i»lentifnl  old  times, 
Before  our  modern  luxuries  arose, 

With  trutHi's  and  ragouts,  and  various  crimes; 
And  thcreffjpc,  from  the  original  in  prose 

I  sliall  arrange  the  catalogue  in  rhymes: 
They  sf'rv?d  up  salmon,  venison,  and  wild  boars. 

By  hundreds,  and  by  dozens,  and  by  scores. 

IV. 

Hogsheads  of  hoiiov,  kilderkins  of  mustard. 
Muttons  and  fatted  beeves,  and  bacon  swine; 

Herons  and  bitterns,  peacock,  swan,  and  bustard. 
Teal,   mallard,  pigeons,  widgeons,  and,  in   fine, 

I'lunj-[)nddings,  j)an'akcs,  ap[)le-pies  and  custard: 
And  tlicniwitlial  tliov  drank  good  (iascon  wine. 

With  mcail,  an<l  ale,  ;uiil  cider  of  our  own, 

For  porter,  punch,  an<l  negus  were  not  known. 

10* 


JOHN  nOOKHAM  PRERE.-6 

VII, 

All  sorts  of  people  there  were  seen  together, 
All  sorts  of  characters,  all  sorts  of  dresses; 

The  fool  with  fox's  tail  and  peacock's  feather, 
Pilgrims,  and  penitents,  and  grave  burgesses; 

The  country  people  with  their  coats  of  leather, 
Vintners  and  victuallers  with  cans  and  messes, 

Grooms,  archers,  varlets,  falconers,  and  yeomen, 

Damsels  and  waiting-maids,  and  waiting  women. 

X. 

And  certainly  they  say,  for  fine  behaving 

King  Arthur's  Court  has  never  had  its  match ; 

True  point  of  honor,  without  pride  or  braving, 
Strict  etiquette  forever  on  the  watch  : 

Their  manners  were  refined  and  perfect — saving 
Some    modern  graces   which  they   could  not 
catch. 

As  spitting  through  the  teetli,  and  driving  stages, 

Accomplishments  reserved  for  distant  ages. 

XII. 

The  ladies  looked  of  an  heroic  race — 

At  first  a  general  likeness  struck  your  eye, 

Tall  figures,  open  features,  oval  face. 

Large  eyes,  with  ample  eyebrows  arched  and 
high  ; 

Their  manners  had  an  odd,  peculiar  grace, 
Neither  repulsive,  affable  nor  shy, 

Majestical,  reserved  and  somewhat  sullen  ; 

Their  dresses  partly  silk,  and  partly  woolen. 

Canto  I. 

SIR  LAUNCELOT,  SIR  TRISTRAM,  AND  SIR  GAWAIN. 
XIII. 

In  form  and  figure  far  above  the  rest, 
Sir  Launcelot  was  chief  of  all  the  train, 

In  Arthur's  Court  an  ever  welcome  guest ; 
Britain  will  never  see  his  like  again. 

Of  all  the  Knights  she  ever  had  the  best. 
Except,  perhaps,  Lord  Wellington  in  Sj)ain  : 

1  never  saw  his  picture  nor  his  print. 

From  Morgan's  Chronicle  I  take  my  hint. 

30« 


JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE.-7 

XV. 

Yet  oftentimes  his  courteous  cheer  forsook 
His  countenance,  and  then  returned  again, 

As  if  some  secret  recollection  shook 

His  inward  heart  with  unacknowledged  pain ; 

And  something  haggard  in  his  eyes  and  look 
(More  than   his  years  or  hardships  could  ex- 
plain) 

Made  him  appear,  in  person  and  in  mind, 

Less  perfect  than  what  nature  had  designed. 

XVI, 

Of  noble  presence,  but  of  different  mien, 

Alert  and  lively,  voluble  and  gay. 
Sir  Tristram  at  Carlisle  was  rarely  seen. 

But  ever  was  regretted  while  away  ; 
With  easy  mirth,  an  enemy  to  spleen, 

His  ready  converse  charmed  the  wintry  day  ; 
No  tales  he  told  of  sieges  or  of  fights, 
Of  foreign  marvels,  like  the  foolish  Knights. 

XVII. 

Songs,  music,  languages,  and  many  a  lay 
Asturian  or  Armoriac,  Irish,  Basque, 

His  ready  memory  seized  and  bore  away; 
And  ever  when  the  ladies  cliose  to  ask. 

Sir  Tristram  was  prepared  to  sing  and  play. 
Not  like  a  minstrel  earnest  at  his  task, 

But  witli  a  sportive,  careless,  easy  style. 

As  if  he  seemed  to  mock  himself  the  while. 

XXIII. 

Sir  Gawain  may  be  painted  in  a  word — 

He  was  a  perfect  loyal  Cavalier. 
His  courteous  manners  stand  upon  record, 

A  stranger  to  the  very  thought  of  fear. 
Tiic  proverb  says,  "As  brave  as  his  own  sword  ;  " 

And  like  his  wca|)on  was  that  worthy  Peer, 
Of  admirable  temper,  dear  anrl  bright. 
Polished  yet  keen,  though  pliant  yet  upright. 

XXIV. 

On  every  point,  in  earnest  or  in  jest, 

His  jndfjineiit,  and  his  prudence,  and  liis  wit, 

Were  deemed  the  virry  touchstone  and  the  test 
Of  what  was  proper,  graceful,  just,  and  fit; 

Ml 


JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE.-8 

A  word  from  him  set  everything  at  rest, 
His  short  decision  never  failed  to  hit ; 
His  silence,  his  reserve,  his  inattention, 
Were  felt  as  the  severest  reprehension. 

XXVIII. 

In  battle  he  was  fearless  to  a  fault , 

The  foremost  in  the  thickest  of  the  field  ; 

His  eager  valor  knew  no  pause  nor  halt, 
And  the  red  rampant  Lion  in  his  shield 

Scaled  towns  and  towers,  the  foremost  in  assault, 
With  ready  succor  where  the  battle  reeled  : 

At  random  like  a  thunderbolt  he  ran, 

And  bore  down  shields  and  pikes,  and  horse  and 
man. 

Canto  I. 

THE    MARAUDING    GIANTS. 
IV. 

Before  the  Feast  was  ended,  a  report 

Filled  every  soul  with  horror  and  dismay ; 

Some  Ladies  on  their  journey  to  the  Court, 
Had  been  surprised,  and  were  conveyed  away 

By  the  Aboriginal  Giants  to  their  fort — 

An  unknown  fort — for  Government,  they  say, 

Had  .ascertained  its  actual  existence. 

But  knew  not  its  direction  nor  its  distance. 

V. 

A  waiting-damsel,  crooked  and  mis-shaped. 
Herself  a  witness  of  a  woful  scene. 

From  which,  by  miracle,  she  had  escaped. 
Appeared  before  the  Ladies  and  the  Queen. 

Her  figure  was  funereal,  veiled  and  craped. 
Her  voice  convulsed  with  sobs   and  sighs  be- 
tween. 

That  with  the  sad  recital,  and  the  sight, 

Revenge  and  rage  inflamed  each  worthy  Knight. 

VI. 

Sir  Gawain  rose  without  delay  or  dallying ; 

"  Excuse  us,  Madame,  we've  no  time  to  waste :" 
And  at  the  palace-gate  you  saw  him  sallying. 

With  other  Knights  equipped  and  armed  in 
haste ; 

EOI 


JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE.— 9 

And  there  was  Tristram  making  jests,  and  rally. 
ing 
The  poor  mis-shapen  damsel,  whom  he  placed 
Behind  him  on  a  pillion,  pad,  or  pannel ; 
lie  took,  besides,  his  falcon  and  his  spaniel 

VII. 

But  what  with  horror,  and  fatigue  and  fright, 
Poor  soul,  she  could  not  recollect  the  way. 

They  reached  the  mountains  on  the  second  night, 
And  wandered  up  and  down  till  break  of  day, 

AVhen  they  discovered  by  the  dawning  light, 
A  lonely  glen,  where  heaps  of  embers  lay. 

They  found  unleavened  fragments  scorched  and 
toasted. 

And  the  remains  of  mules  and  horses  roasted. 

VIII. 

Sir  Tristram  understood  the  Giants'  courses  ; 

He  felt  the  embers  but  the  heat  was  out ; 
He  stood  contemplating  the  roasted  iiorses; 

And  all  at  once,  without  suspense  or  doubt, 
His  own  decided  judgment  thus  enforces  : 

"  The  Giants  must  be  somewhere  hereabout." 
Demonstrating  the  carcasses,  he  shows 
That  they  remained  untouched  by  kites  or  crows 

IX. 

"  You  see  no  traces  of  their  sleeping  here, 
No  heap  of  leaves  or  heath,  no  Giant's  nest ; 

Their  usual  habitation  must  be  near  : 
They  feed  at  sunset,  and  retire  to  rest ; 

A  moment's  search  will  set  the  matter  clear." — 
Tin;  fact  turned  out  precisely  as  he  guessed  ; 

And  shortly  after,  scrambling  through  a  gully, 

He  verified  his  own  conjecture  fully. 

X. 

He  fountl  a  valley,  closed  on  every  side. 
Resembling  that  which  Kasselas  describes; 

Six  miles  in  length,  and  half  as  many  wide. 
Whore  the  dcscniKlants  of  the  Giant  tribes 

Lived  in  their  aiificnt  fortress  undescried. 
(Invadffs  troad  upon  oarh  other's  kibes) 

First  came  the  I>riton,  afterward  the  Koinan  ; 

Our  patrimonial  lands  belong  to  no  mau, 

5<.» 


JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE.— 10 

XII. 

Huge  mountains  of  immeasurable  height, 
Encompassed  all  the  level  valley  round, 

With  mighty  slabs  of  rock  that  sloped  upright, 
An  insurmountable,  enormous  mound ; 

The  very  river  vanished  out  of  sight. 

Absorbed  in  secret  channels  underground. 

That  vale  was  so  sequestered  and  secluded, 

All  search  for  ages  past  it  had  eluded. 

XIII. 

High  overhead  was  many  a  cave  and  den, 

That,  with  its  strange  construction  seemed  to 
mock 

All.  thought  of  how  they  were  contrived,  or  when 
Hewn  inward  in  the  huge  suspended  rock 

The  tombs  and  monuments  of  mighty  men  : 
Such  were  the  patriarchs  of  this  ancient  stock. 

Alas  !   what  pity  that  the  present  race 

Should  be  so  barbarous,  and  depraved,  and  base. 

XIV. 

For  they  subsisted  (as  I  said)  by  pillage. 

And  the  wild  beasts  which  they  pursued  and 
chased  ; 

Nor  house,  nor  herdsman's  hut,  nor  farm,  nor  vil- 
lage. 
Within  the  lonely  valley  could  be  traced, 

Nor  roads,  nor  bounded  fields,  nor  rural  tillage  ; 
But  all  was  lonely,  desolate,  and  waste. 

The  Castle  which  commanded  the  domain 

Was  suited  to  so  rude  and  wild  a  reign. 

XVII. 

Sir  Gawain  tried  a  parley,  but  in  vain  : 

A  true-born  Giant  never  trusts  a  Knight. — 

He  sent  a  herald,  who  returned  again 

All  torn  to  rags  and  perishing  with  fright. 

A  trumpeter  was  sent,  but  he  was  slain  : — 
To  trumpeters  they  bear  a  mortal  spite. 

When  all  conciliatory  measures  failed. 

The  castle  and  the  fortress  were  assailed. 

XVIII. 

But  when  the  Giants  saw  them  fairly  under, 
They  shoveled  down  a  cataract  of  stones, 


JOHN  HOOKHAM  PRERE.— 11 

A  hideous  volley  like  a  peal  of  thunder, 

Bouncing  and  bounding  down,  and  breaking 
bones, 

Rending  the  earth,  and  riving  rocks  asunder. 
Sir  Gawain  inwardly  laments  and  groans. 

Retiring  last,  and  standing  most  exposed ; — 

Success  seemed  hopeless,  and  the  combat  closed. 

XIX. 

A  council  then  was  called,  and  all  agreed 
To  call  in  succor  from  the  country  round; 

By  regular  approaches  to  proceed, 

Intrenching,  fortifying,  breaking  ground. 

That  morninLT  Tristram  happened  to  secede : 
It  seems  his  falcon  was  not  to  be  found. 

He  went  in  search  of  her;  but  some  suspected 

He  went  lest  his  advice  should  be  neglected. 

XX. 

At  Gawain's  summons  all  the  country  came; 

At  Gawain's  summons  all  the  people  aided  ; 
They  called  upon  each  other  in  his  name. 

And  bid  their  neighbors  work  as  hard  as  they 
did.- 
So  well  beloved  was  he,  for  very  shame 

They  dug,  they  delved,  they  palisaded, 
Till  all  the  fort  was  thoroughly  blockaded 
And  every  ford  where  Giants  might  have  waded. 

XXIV. 

Good  humor  was  Sir  Tristram's  leading  quality, 
An<l  in  the  present  case  he  j)rovcd  it  such; 

If  he  forebore,  it  was  that  in  reality 

His  conscience  smote  him  with  a  secret  touch, 

For  liaving  shocked  liis  worthy  friend's  formal- 
ity- 
He  thought  SirGawain  had  not  said  too  much  ; 

He  walks  apart  with  him;  and  he  discourses 

About  their  pre[)aration  and  their  forces: 

XXV. 

Approving  everything  that  had  l)ecn  done  ; — 
"  It  serves  to  [)ut  the  Giants  off  their  guard  ; 

Less  hazard  and  less  daiiLCer  will  be  run  ; 
I  doubt  not  we  shall  find  theiu  unprepared. 
Ill 


John  iiookiiam  frere.— la 

The  castle  will  more  easily  l»e  won, 

And  many  valuable  lives  be  spared  ; 
The  Ladies  else,  while  we  blockade  and  threaten, 
Will  most  infallibly  be  killed  and  eaten." 

XXVI. 

Sir  Tristram  talked  incomparably  well ; 

His  reasons  were  irrefragably  strong. 
As  Tristram  spoke  Sir  Gawain's  spirits  fell, 

For  he  discovered  clearly  before  long 
(What  Tristram   never  would  presume  to  tell), 

Tliat  his  whole  system  was  entirely  wrong. 
In  fact,  his  confidence  had  much  diminished 
Since  all  the  preparations  had  been  finished. 

XXVII. 

"Indeed,"    Sir   Tristram    said,  "for    aught    we 
know — 

For  aught  that  we  can  tell — this  very  night 
The  valley's  entrance  may  be  closed  with  snow. 

And  we  may  starve  and  perish  here  outright. 
'Tis  better  risking  a  decisive  blow. — 

I  own  this  weather  puts  me  in  a  fright." 
In  fine,  this  tedious  confeilince  to  shdrten, 
Sir  Gawain  trusted  to  Sir  Tristram's  fortune. 

XLIX. 

Behold  Sir  Gawain  with  liis  valiant  band  : 

Ue  enters  on  the  work  with  warmth  and  haste, 

And  slays  a  brace  of  Giants  out  of  hand. 

Sliced  downwards  from  the  shoulder  to  the 
waist. 

But  our  ichnography  must  now  be  planned, 
The  Keep  or  Inner  Castle  must  be  traced. 

I  wish  myself  at  the  concluding  distich, 

Although  I  think  the  thincf  characteristic. 


Facing  your  entrance,  just  tliree  yards  behind. 
There  was  a  mass  of  stone  of  moderate  height ; 

It  stood  before  you  like  a  screen  or  blind  ; 
And  there — on  either  hand  to  left  and  right — 

Were  sloping  parapets  or  planes  inclined. 

On  which  two  massy  stones  were  placed  up- 
right, 


JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERE.— 13 

Secured  by  staples  and  by  leathern  ropes 
AVhich   hindered   thorn   from   sliding  down  the 
slopes. 

LI. 

"  Cousin,  these  dogs  have  some  device  or  gin  ! 

I'll  run  the  gauntlet  and  I'll  stand  a  knock  !  " — 
He  dashed  into  the  gate  through  thick  and  thin  ; 

He  hewed  away  the   bands   which  held  the 
block  ; 
It  rushed  along  the  slope  with  rumbling  din, 

And  closed  the  entrance  with  a  thundering 
shock, 
(Just  like  those  famous  old  Symplegades 
Discovered  by  the  classics  in  their  seas.) 

LII. 

This  saw  Sir  Tristram  :  As  you  may  suppose, 
He  found  some  Giants  wounded,  others  dead; 

He  shortly  equalizes  these  with  those. 

But  one  poor  devil  there  was  sick  in  bed, 

In  whose  behalf  the  Ladies  interpose. 

Sir  Tristram  spared  his  life,  because  they  said 

That  he  was  more  Inimane,  and  mild,  and  clever, 

And  all  the  time  had  had  an  a^ue-fever. 

LIII. 

The  Ladies  ? — They  were  tolerably  well ; 

At  least  as  well  as  could  have  been  expected. 
Many  details  I  must  forbear  to  tell : 

Their  toilet  had  been  very  much  neglected ; 
But  by  supreme  good  luck  it  so  befell 

That  when  the  Castle's  capture  was  effected, 
When  those  vile  cannibals  were  overpowered, 
Only  two  fat  duennas  were  devoured. 

LI  v. 
Sir  Tristram  having  thus  secured  the  fort, 

And  seen  all  safe,  was  climbing  to  the  wall, 
(Meaning  to  leap  into  the  outer  court;) 

But  when  he  came,  he  saved  himself  the  fall. 
Sir  Gawain  had  l»een  spoiling  all  the  spurt: 

The  Giants  wen;  demolished  one  and  all. 
He  pulled  them   u[)  the   wall.       Tiny  ( liiiib  and 

enter : 
Such  was  the  winding  up  of  this  adventure. 

Canto  II, 


JOHN  HOOKHAM  FREtlE.-14 

A    PAUSE    IN    THE    STORY. 

And  now  tlic  tliread  of  our  romance  unravels, 
Prcscntiiiii  new  performances  on  tlic  stage  : 

A  Giant's  education  and  liis  travels 

Will  occupy  the  next  succeeding  page. — 

But  I  begin  to  tremble  at  the  cavils 
Of  this  fastidious,  supercilious  age. 

Reviews  and  paragraphs  in  morning  papers; 

The  prospect  of  them  gives  my  Muse  the  vapors. 

Close  of  Canto  II. 

THE    MONKS    AND    THE    GIANTS. 
IV. 

Some  ten  miles  off,  an  ancient  abbey  stood, 

Amidst  the  mountains,  near  a  noble  stream ; 
A  level  eminence,  enshrined  with  wood. 

Sloped  to  the  river's  bank  and  southern  beam  ; 
Within  were  fifty  friars  fat  and  good, 

Of  goodly  presence  and  of  good  esteem. 
That  passed  an  easy  exemplary  life, 

Remote  from  want  and  care,  and  worldly  strife. 

V. 

Between  the  Monks  and  Giants  there  subsisted, 
In  the  first  Abbot's  lifetime,  much  respect; 

The  Giants  let  them  settle  where  they  listed  : 
The  Giants  were  a  tolerating  sect. 

A  poor  lame  Giant  once  the  Monks  assisted. 
Old  and  abandoned,  dying  with  neglect; 

The  Prior  found  him,  cured  his  broken  bone, 

And  very  kindly  cut  him  for  the  stone. 

VI. 

This  seemed  a  glorious,  golden  opportunity 
To  civilize  the  whole  gigantic  race  ; 

To  draw  them  to  pay  tithes,  and  dwell  in  unity. 
The  Giants'  valley  was  a  fertile  place, 

And  might  have  much  enriched  the  whole  com- 
munity. 
Had  the  old  Giant  lived  a  longer  space. 

But    he   relapsed,  and    though   all    means  were 
tried, 

They  could  but  just  baptize  him — when  he  died. 


JOHN  HOOK  HAM  FRERE.— 15 

VIII. 

They  never  found  another  case  to  cure, 
But  their  demeanor  cahn  and  reverential, 

Their  gesture  and  their  vesture  grave  and  pure, 
Their  conduct  sober,  cautious  and  prudential, 

Engaged  respect,  sufficient  to  secure 

Their  properties  and  interests  most  essential ; 

They  kept  a  distant  courteous  intercourse, 

Salutes  and  gestures  were  their  sole  discourse. 

XV. 

In  castles  and  in  courts  Ambition  dwells. 
But  not  in  castles  or  in  courts  alone  ; 

She  breathes   a  wish  throughout   those  sacred 
cells, 
For  bells  of  larger  size  and  louder  tone. 

Giants  abominate  the  sound  of  bells. 

And  soon  the  fierce  antipathy  was  shown. 

The  tinkling  and  the  jingling  and  the  clangor, 

Roused  their  irrational,  gigantic  anger. 

XVI. 

Unhappy  mortals!  ever  blind  to  fate  ! 

Unhappy  Monks  !  you  see  no  danger  nigh  ; 
Exulting  in  their  sound  and  size  and  weight. 

From  morn  till  noon  the  merry  peal  you  ply ; 
The  belfry  rocks,  your  bosoms  are  elate, 

Your  spirits  with  the  ropes  and  pulleys  fly  ; 
Tired  but  transported,  panting,  ])ulliiig,  hauling. 
Ramping  and  stampmg,  overjoyed  and  bawling. 

XVII. 

Meanwhile  the  solemn  mountains  that  surrounded 
The  silent  valley  where  the  convent  lay, 

With  tintinnabular  uproar  were  astounded. 
When  the  first  peal  broke  forth  at  break  of 
day ; 

Feeling  their  granite  ears  severely  wounded. 
They  scarce   knew  what  to  think  or  what  to 
«ay. 

And  (though  large  mountains  commonly  conceal 

Their  sentiments,  dissembling  what  they  feel), 

XIX. 

Those  giant  mountains  inwardly  were  moved, 
Jiut  never  made  an  outward  change  of  place. 


JOHN  HOOKHAM  FRERBr-16 

Not  so  the  Mountain-Giants  (as  behoved 
A  more  alert  and  locomotive  race), 

Hearing  a  clatter  vvliich  they  disapproved 

They  ran  straight-forward  to  besiege  the  place 

With  a  discordant,  universant  yell, 

Like  house-dogs  howling  at  a  dinner-bell. 

XX. 

Historians  are  extremely  to  be  pitied, 
Obliged  to  persevere  in  the  narration 

Of  wrongs  and  horrid  outrages  committed, 
Oppression,  sacrilege,  assassination ; 

The  following  scenes  I  wished  to  have  omitted, 
But  truth  is  an  imperious  obligation. 

So  "  my  heart  sickens  and  I  drop  ray  pen," 

And  am  obliged  to  pick  it  up  again. 

Canto  III. 

THE    CLOSE    OF    THE    WAR. 

XLVIII.  ^ 

The  Giant-troops  invariably  withdrew 

(Like  mobs  in  Naples,  Portugal,  and  Spain), 

To  dine  at  twelve  o'clock  and  sleep  till  two, 
And  afterwards  (except  in  case  of  rain) 

Returned  to  clamor,  hoot,  and  pelt  anew. 
The  scene  was  every  day  the  same  again. 

Thus  the  blockade  grew  tedious,     I  intended 

A  week  ago,  myself  to  raise  and  end  it. 

LVI. 

Our  Giants'  memoirs  still  remain  on  hand, 
For  all  my  notions  being  genuine  gold, 

Beat  out  beneath  the  hammer  and  expand 
And  multiply  themselves  a  thousandfold 

Beyond  the  first  idea  that  I  planned. 

Besides — thus  present  copy  must  be  sold; 

Besides — I  promised  Murray  t'other  day. 

To  let  him  have  it  by  the  lenth  of  May. 

Canto  IV. 


■     GUSTAV  FREYTAG.— 1 

FREYTAG,  Gustav,  a  German  novel- 
ist, dramatist,  and  journalist,  born  in  1816. 
He  was  educated  at  Oels,  Breslau,  and  Ber- 
lin, and  received  bis  degree  of  Doctor  of 
Pbilosopby  in  1S38.  In  1845  be  publisbed 
a  volume  of  iwems  eutitled  I71  £reslmi,  ^nd 
an  historical  comedy,  77ie  Espousal  of 
Kuntz  von  Rosen.  He  went  in  1847  to 
Leipsic  and,  in  conjunction  with  Julian 
Schmidt,  became  editor  of  Grenzhoten  "  The 
Messenger  of  the  Frontier."  In  this  and  the 
following  year,  he  published  the  dramas  Val- 
entine and  Count  Waldeinar,  in  1854,  a 
comedy,  Die  Journalisten,  and  in  1859  a 
classical  drama  Die  Fabier.  Others  of  his 
dramatic  works  are  Der  Gelehrte^o.  irdigedy^ 
and  Eine  arme  Schneiderseele^  a  comedy. 
His  novel.  Soil  %md  Hahen  (1855)  at  once 
•gave  him  a  high  place  among  German 
writers  of  fiction.  It  was  translated  into 
English  under  the  title  of  *^  Debit  and 
Credits  Bilder  axis  der  Deutschen  Ver- 
gangenheit  was  followed  in  1862  by  Neue 
Bilder  aus  dem  Lehen  des  Deutschen  Volkes, 
translated  into  English  under  the  title  of 
"  Pictures  of  German  Life."  Another  novel, 
Die  Verlorne  Ilandschrift,  appeared  in 
1864,  and  a  series  of  tales  collected  under  the 
title  of  Die  Ahnen  ("Presentiments")  in 
1876.  In  1870  Freytag  resigned  the  editor- 
ship of  the  Grenzhoten^  and  took  charge  of 
Im  neuen  lieich,  a  weekly  journal  at  Leipsic. 

THE    BURDEN    OF    A    CRIME. 

The  murderer  stood  for  a  few  moments  mo- 
tionless in  the  darkness,  leanini^  against  tho 
staircase  railings.  Then  lie  .slowly  went  up  tho 
steps.  While  doing  so  he  felt  his  trousers  to 
see  how  high  they  were  wet.  He  thought  to 
himself  that  he  must  dry  them  at  the  stove  this 
very  night,  and  saw  in  fancy  the  lire  in  the 
an 


GUSTAV  FREYTAG.— 3 

stove,  and  himself  sitting  before  it  in  his 
dressing-gown,  as  he  was  accustomed  to  do 
when  tlunl<ing  over  liis  business.  If  he  had 
ever  in  his  life  known  comfortable  repose,  it  had 
been  when,  weary  of  the  cares  of  the  day,  he  sat 
before  his  stove-tire  and  watched  it  till  his  heavy 
eyelids  drooped.  He  realized  how  tired  he  was 
now,  and  what  good  it  would  do  him  to  go  to 
sleep  before  a  warm  fire.  Lost  in  the  thought, 
he  stood  for  a  moment  like  one  overcome  with 
drowsiness,  when  suddenly  he  felt  a  strange 
pressure  within  him — something  that  made  it 
difficult  to  breathe,  and  bound  his  breast  as  with 
iron  bars.  Then  he  thought  of  the  bundle  that 
he  had  just  thrown  into  the  river;  he  saw  it 
cleave  the  Hood ;  lie  .heard  the  rush  of  water, 
and  remembered  tliat  the  hat  which  he  had 
forced  over  the  man's  face  had  been  the  last  thing 
visible  on  the  surface — a  round,  strange-looking 
thing.  He  saw  the  hat  quite  plainly  before  him 
— battered,  the  rim  half  off,  and  two  grease-spots 
on  the  crown.  It  had  been  a  very  shabby  hat. 
Thinking  of  it,  it  occurred  to  him  that  he 
could  smile  now  if  he  chose.  But  he  did  not 
smile. 

Meanwhile  he  had  got  up  the  steps.  As  he 
opened  the  staircase  door,  he  glanced  along 
the  dark  gallery  through  which  two  had  passed 
a  few  minutes  before,  and  only  one  returned. 
He  looked  down  at  the  gray  surface  of  the 
stream,  and  again  he  was  sensible  of  that  singu- 
lar pressure.  He  rapidly  crept  tlirough  the 
large  room  and  down  the  steps,  and  on  the 
ground  floor  ran  up  against  one  of  the  lodgers 
in  the  caravansera.  Both  hastened  away  in  dif- 
ferent directions  witliout  exchanging  a  word. 

This  meeting  turned  his  thoughts  in  another 
direction.  Was  he  safe?  Tlie  fog  still  lay 
thick  on  the  street.  No  one  had  seen  him  go 
in  witli  Hippas,  no  one  liad  recognized  him  as 
he  went  out.  The  investigation  would  only 
begin  when  they  found  the  old  man  in  the 
river.     Would  he  be  safe  then  ?     These  thoughts 


GUSTAV  FREYTAG.— 3 

passed  through  the  murderer's  mind  as  calmly 
as  though  he  was  reading  them  in  a  book. 
Mingled  with  them  came  doubts  as  to  whether 
he  had  his  cigar-case  with  him,  and  as  to  why 
he  did  not  smoke  a  cigar.  He  cogitated  long 
about  it,  and  at  length  found  himself  returned 
to  his  dwelling.  He  opened  the  door.  The 
last  time  he  had  opened  the  door  a  loud  noise 
had  been  heard  in  the  inner  room ;  he  listened 
for  it  now ;  he  would  give  anything  to  hear  it. 
A  few  minutes  ago  it  had  been  to  be  heard. 
Oh,  if  those  few  minutes  had  never  been  !  Again 
he  felt  that  hollow  pressure,  but  more  strongly, 
even  more  strongly  than  before. 

He  entered  the  room.  The  lamp  still  burned, 
the  fragments  of  the  rum-bottle  lay  about  the 
sofa,  the  bits  of  broken  mirror  shone  like  silver 
dollars  on  the  floor.  Veitel  sat  down  exhausted. 
Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  his  mother  had 
often  told  him  a  childish  story  in  which  silver 
dollars  fell  upon  a  poor  man's  floor.  He  could 
see  the  old  Jewess  sitting  at  the  hearth,  and  he,. 
a  small  boy,  standing  near  her.  He  could  see 
himself  lookinij  an.xiously  down  on  the  dark 
earthen  floor,  wondering  whether  the  white  dol- 
lars would  fall  down  for  him.  Now  he  knew — his 
room  looked  just  as  if  there  had  been  a  rain  of 
white  dollars.  He  felt  something  of  the  rest- 
less delight  which  that  tale  of  his  mother  had 
always  awaked,  when  again  came  suddenly 
that  same  hollow  pressure.  Heavily  he  rose, 
stooped,  and  collected  the  broken  glass.  He 
put  all  the  pieces  into  the  corner  of  the  cup- 
board, detached  the  frame  from  the  wall,  and 
put  it  wrong-side  out  in  a  corner.  Then  he  took 
the  lamp,  and  the  glass  which  he  used  to  fill  with 
water  for  the  night;  but  as  lie  touched  it  a 
shudder  came  over  him,  and  he  put  it  down. 
He  who  was  no  more  had  drunk  out  of  that 
glass.  He  took  the  lamp  to  his  bedside,  and 
undressed.  He  hid  his  trousers  in  the  cup- 
board, and  brought  out  another  pair,  which  he 
rubbed  against  his  boots  till  they  were  dirty  at 


GUST  A  V  PREYTAG.-4 

the  bottom.  Then  lie  put  out  the  lamp,  and  as 
it  flickered  before  it  went  quite  out,  the  thought 
struck  him  that  human  life  and  a  flame  had 
something  in  common.  He  had  extinguished  a 
flame.  And  again  that  ])ain  in  the  breast,  but 
less  clearly  felt,  for  his  strength  was  exhausted, 
his  nervous  energy  spent.     The  murderer  slept. 

But  v^hen  he  wakes !  Then  the  cunning  will 
be  over  and  gone  with  which  his  distracted 
mind  has  tried,  as  if  in  delirium,  to  snatch  at 
all  manner  of  trivial  things  and  thoughts  in  order 
to  avoid  the  one  feeling  which  ever  weighs  him 
down.  When  he  wakes !  Henceforth,  while 
still  half  asleep,  he  will  feel  the  gradual  en- 
trance of  terror  and  misery  into  his  soul.  Even 
in  his  dreams  he  will  have  a  sense  of  the  sweet- 
ness of  unconsciousness  and  the  horrors  of 
thought,  and  will  strive  against  waking;  while, 
in  spite  of  his  strivings,  his  anguish  grows 
stronger  and  stronger,  till,  in  despair,  his  eye- 
lids start  open,  and  he  gazes  into  the  hideous 
.present,  the  hideous  future. 

And  again  his  mind  will  seek  to  cover  over  the 
fact  with  a  web  of  sophistry  ;  he  will  reflect 
how  old  the  dead  man  was,  how  wicked,  how 
wretched;  he  will  try  to  convince  himself  that  it 
was  only  an  accident  that  occasioned  his  death — 
a  push  given  by  him  in  sudden  anger — how 
unlucky  that  the  old  man's  foot  should  have 
slipped  as  it  did  !  Then  will  recur  the  doubt  as 
to  his  safety ;  a  hot  flush  will  suffuse  his  pale 
face,  the  step  of  his  servant  will  fill  him  with 
dread,  the  sound  of  an  iron-shod  stick  on  the 
pavement  will  be  taken  for  the  tramp  of  the 
armed  band  whom  justice  sends  to  apprehend 
him.  Again  he  will  retrace  every  step  taken 
yesterday,  every  gesture,  every  word,  and  will 
seek  to  convince  himself  that  discovery  is  im- 
possible. No  one  had  seen  him,  no  one  had 
heard  ;  the  wretched  old  man,  half  crazy  as  he 
was,  had  drawn  his  own  hat  over  his  eyes  and 
drowned  himself. 

And  yet,  through  all  this  sophistry,  he  is  con- 


GUSTAV  FREYTAG.— 5 

scions  of  that  fearful  weight,  till,  exhausted  by 
the  inner  conflict,  he  flies  from  his  house  to  his 
business,  amid  the  crowd  anxiously  desiring  to 
find  something  that  shall  force  him  to  forget. 
If  any  one  on  the  street  looks  at  him,  he  trem- 
bles; if  he  meet  a  policeman,  he  mitst  rush 
home  to  hide  his  terror  from  those  discernino- 
eyes.  Wherever  he  finds  familiar  faces,  he  will 
press  into  the  thick  of  the  assembly,  he  will 
take  an  interest  in  anything,  will  laugh  and  talk 
more  than  heretofore;  but  his  eyes  will  roam 
recklessly  around,  and  he  will  be  in  constant 
dread  of  hearing  something  said  of  the  mur- 
dered man,  something  said  about  his  sudden 
end. . . . 

And  when,  late  of  an  evening,  he  at  length 
returns  home,  tired  to  death  and  worn  out  by 
his  fearful  struggle,  he  feels  lighter  hearted,  for 
he  has  succeeded  in  obscuring  the  truth,  he  is 
conscious  of  a  melancholy  pleasure  in  his  weari- 
ness, and  awaits  sleep  as  the  only  good  thing 
earth  has  still  to  offer  him.  And  again  he  will 
fall  asleep,  and  when  he  awakes  the  next  morn- 
ing he  will  have  to  begin  his  fearful  task  anew. 
So  will  it  be  this  day,  next  day,  always,  so  long 
as  he  lives.  Ilis  life  is  no  longer  like  that  of 
another  man  ;  his  life  is  henceforth  a  horrible 
battle  with  a  corpse,  a  battle  unseen  by  all,  yet 
constantly  going  on.  All  his  intercourse  with 
living  men,"  whether  in  businessor  in  society,  is 
but  a  mockery,  a  lie.  Whether  he  laughs  and 
shakes  hands  with  one,  or  lends  money  and 
takes  fifty  per  cent  from  another,  it  is  all  mere 
illusion  on  their  part.  He  knows  that  he  is 
severed  from  liuman  companionship,  and  that  all 
lie  docs  is  but  empty  seeming;  there  is  only  one 
who  occupies  him,  against  whom  he  struggles, 
because  of  whom  he  drinks  and  talks,  and  mingles 
with  the  crowd,  and  that  (.no  is  the  corpse  of  the 
old  man  in  the  water. — Debit  and  Credit, 
vn 


JEAN  FROISSART.— 1 

FKOISSART,  Jean,  a  Frencli  ecclesi- 
astic and  chronicler,  born  at  Valenciennes 
in  1337  ;  died  about  1410.  He  was  educated 
for  the  Church,  and  at  the  age  of  eighteen 
he  Lad  not  only  mastered  the  usual  course 
of  study,  but  had  gained  some  repute  as  a 
versifier.  At  twenty,  upon  the  request  of 
Robert  of  Namur,  he  undertook  to  compile 
from  the  Chronicle  of  Jean  le  Bel  a 
rhymed  account  of  the  wars  of  his  time. 
In  1360  he  went  to  England,  pi'ovided  with 
letters  of  recotnmendation  from  his  uncle  to 
Philippa  of  Hainault,  the  Queen  of  Edward 
III.,  who  made  him  her  secretary  and  clerk 
of  her  chapel.  King  John  of  France,  who 
had  been  captured  at  tlie  battle  of  Poitiers, 
was  now  a  prisoner  in  England,  and  Frois- 
sart  became  one  of  his  household.  By  this 
twofold  connection  Froissart  was  brought 
into  close  intercourse  with  many  men  who 
had  acted  an  important  part  on  both  sides 
during  the  war  betw^een  the  English  and  the 
French.  Queen  Philippa  urged  him  to  con- 
tinue his  rhymed  chronicle  ;  and  to  gather 
information  he  made  journeys  into  Scotland 
and  Wales.  Then  he  went  to  the  Continent, 
staying  for  awhile  at  the  English  Court  in 
Bordeaux,  and  Avas  there  at  the  time  of  the 
birth  of  Richard  (afterwards  the  unfortunate 
Richard  II.)  the  son  of  the  English  "  Black 
Prince."  In  1369  he  went  to  his  native 
district,  where  the  living  of  Lestines  was 
conferred  upon  him.  But  the  duties  of  his 
clerical  office  were  nowise  to  his  liking; 
and  from  time  to  time  he  attached  himself 
to  the  Duke  of  Brabant,  the  Count  of  Blois, 
and  the  Count  of  Foix  ;  the  latter  of  whom 
made  him  Canon  and  Treasurer  of  the 
church  at  Chimay  and  urged  him  to  write 
in  prose  a  continuous  chronicle  of  the  events 
of  his  own  time. 

nt 


JEAN  FROISSART.— 2 

Froissart,  now  nearly  forty,  fell  in  with 
this  suggestion,  and  travelled  far  and  wide 
in  order  to  glean  the  information  Avliicli  he 
wanted.  The  Chronicles  were  the  work  of 
more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  ap- 
peared at  intervals  in  detached  portions,  as 
they  were  written.  Thev  begin  with  the 
reign  of  Edward  III.  of  England  (1327-7T), 
and  properly  end  with  the  death  of  Richard 
11.  (1400),  but  there  are  a  few  paragraphs 
relating  to  events  which  took  place  as  late 
as  l-iO-T.  It  is  uncertain  how  long  Froissart 
lived  after  this,  but  it  is  probable  that  he 
was  alive  in  1410.  Some  accounts  say  that 
he  died  in  great  povertv  not  earlier  than 
1420. 

The  Chronicles  of  Froissart,  which  were 
widely  circulated  in  manuscript,  were  iirst 
printed  at  Paris  in  1498,  in  four  folio  vol- 
umes under  the  title  Chroniques  de  France^ 
(T Amjleterre,  (TEcosse,  de  Bretagne^  de  Gas- 
cofjne,  Flanders  et  lieux  d'alentorir.  They 
were  translated  into  English  during  the 
reign  of  Henry  VIII.,  by  Lor<l  Berners 
[q.v.).  His  version  is  spirited,  though  not  al- 
ways quite  accui'ate.  A  better  translation, 
upon  the  whole,  is  that  of  Thomas  Johnes 
(12  vols.,  1805,  and  subse({uently  reprinted 
in  many  forms.)  The  first  of  the  following 
citations  is  from  the  translation  of  Lord 
Berners;  the  original  spelling  being  re- 
tained. The  other  citations  are  from  the 
translation  of  Johnes. 

KINO    EDWARD    III.     AND     THE     COINTESS     OF 
HALISIUIIV. 

As  sonc  as  tlic  lady  kncwc  of  tlir  Kyngcs 
coinyiig,  slic  set  o[)yti  tlio  gates  and  came  out  so 
riolily  bosf-nc  tliat  ouory  man  manicylcd  of  licr 
beauty,  and  ooiule  nat  cease  to  reganl  lier  noble- 
ness,  with  her  great  beauty  and  the    gracyoua 


iTEAN  FR0ISSART.-8 

Wordes  and  countenanncc  that  she  made.  When 
she  came  to  the  Kyiig  slic  kiielyd  dovvne  to  the 
yerth,  thanking  liyni  of  his  sucours,  and  so  ledde 
hym  into  the  castell  to  make  hym  chere  and 
honour  as  she  that  coudc  rylit  well  do  iti  Eilery 
man  regarded  lier  manichisly ;  the  Kynge  hym- 
selfe  coud  not  witliolde  liis  regardyng  of  her, 
for  he  tlioiiglit  tliat  he  neuer  saw  before  so  noble 
nor  so  fayrc  a  lady :  lie  was  stryken  therwith 
to  the  hert  with  a  spcrcle  of  fine  lone  that  en- 
dured long  after ;  he  thought  no  lady  in  the 
worlde  so  worthy  to  be  beloued  as  she.  Thus 
they  entered  into  the  castell  hande  in  hande  ; 
the  lady  ledde  hym  first  into  the  hall,  and  after 
into  the  chambre  nobly  aparelled.  The  King 
regarded  so  the  lady  that  she  was  abasshcd  ;  at 
last  he  went  to  a  wyndo  to  rest  hym,  and  so  fell 
into  a  great  study.  The  lady  went  about  to  make 
chore  to  the  lordes  and  knyghtes  that  were  ther, 
and  comaunded  to  dresse  the  hall  for  dyner. 
When  she  had  al  deuysed  and  comaunded  them 
she  came  to  the  Kynge  with  a  mery  chere  (who 
was  in  a  great  study)  and  she  said, 

"  Dere  sir,  why  do  you  study  so,  for  your 
grace  nat  dys})leased,  it  aparteyneth  nat  to  you  so 
to  do:  rather  ye  shulde  make  good  chere  and  be 
joyfull  seying  ye  liane  chased  away  your  enmies 
who  durst  nat  abyde  you  ;  let  other  men  study 
for  the  remynant." 

Then  the  Kyng  sayd,  "  A,  dere  lady,  know 
for  treuthe  that  syth  I  entred  into  the  castell 
ther  is  a  study  come  to  my  mynde  so  that  I  can 
nat  chuse  but  to  muse,  nor  can  I  nat  tell  wliat 
shall  fall  thereof;  put  it  out  of  my  herte  I  can 
nat." 

"  A,  sir,"  quotli  the  lady,  "  ye  ought  alwayes  to 
make  good  chere  to  comfort  therewitli  your 
peple.  God  liath  ayded  you  so  in  your  besynes 
and  hath  shewn  you  so  great  graces  that  ye  be 
the  moste  douted  and  honoured  prince  in  all  the 
ertlie,  and  if  the  Kynge  of  Scotts  haue  done  you 
any  despyto  or  damage  ye  may  well  amende  it 
whan  it   shall    please    you,    as    ye   haue    done 

894 


JEAN  FROISSART.— 4 

dyaers  lymes  or  this.  Sir,  leaue  your  musing 
and  come  into  the  hall  If  it  please  you ;  your 
dyner  is  all  redy." 

' "  A,  fayre  lady,"  quoth  the  Kyng,  "  other 
thynges  lyeth  at  my  hert  that  ye  know  not  of, 
but  surely  your  swete  behauyng,  the  perfect 
wvsedom,  the  good  grace,  noblcncs  and  ex- 
cellent beauty  that  I  see  in  you,  hath  so  sore 
surprised  my  hert  that  I  can  not  but  loue  yoii; 
and  without  your  loue  I  am  but  deed." 

Then  the  lady  sayde :  "  A,  ryght  noble  prince 
for  Goddes  sakemocke  hor  tempt  me  nat;  I  can 
nat  beleue  that  it  is  true  that  ye  say,  nor  that  so 
noble  a  prince  as  ye  be  wolde  thynke  to  dys- 
honour  me  and  my  lorde  my  husbande,  who  is 
so  valyant  a  knyght  and  hath  done  your  grace  so 
gode  service  and  as  yet  lyeth  in  prison  for  your 
quarel.  Certely  sir  ye  shulde  in  this  case  haue 
but  a  small  prayse  and  nothing-  the  better  therby. 
I  had  neuer  as  yet  such  a  thoght  in  my  hert,  nor 
I  trust  in  God,  neuer  shall  have  for  no  man 
lyueng :  if  I  had  any  such  intencyon  your  grace 
ought  nat  all  onely  to  blame  me,  but  also  to  pun- 
ysshe  my  body,  jie  and  by  true  iustice  to  be  dis- 
m  em  bred." 

Therwith  the  lady  departed  fro  the  Kyng  and 
went  into  the  hall  to  hast  the  dyner;  then  she 
returned  agayne  and  broght  some  of  hisknyghtcs 
with  her,  and  sayd,  "  Sir,  yf  it  please  you  to  come' 
into  the  hall  your  knygtes  abideth  for  you  to 
wasshe;  ye  have  ben  to  long  fastyng." 

Then  the  King  went  into  the  hall  and  wassht, 
and  sat  down  among  liis  lordes  and  the  la<ly 
also.  The  Kyng  ate  but  lytell ;  lie  sat  sty II 
miising,  and  as  he  durst  he  cast  his  eyen  upon 
the  lady.  Of  his  sadncsse  his  knyghtes  liad 
maruel  for  he  was  not  accustomed  so  to  be  ;i 
s«jme  thought  it  was  ])e(";iusc  the  Scotts  were  cs-' 
caj)cd  fro  Iiym.  All  that  day  the  Kvng  taryd 
thcr  and  wyst  nat  what  to  «lo.  Sometime  ho 
ymagined  that  honour  and  troutli  defended  hym: 
to  wt  his  h(!rt  in  such  a  ca.sc  to  dy.shonour  such 
a  lady  an<i  so  true  a  knight  a.s  her  husband  was 
an 


JEAN  FROISSAIit.— S 

who  had  alwayes  well  and  truely  scrued  hym.  Oil 
thothor  part  lone  so  constrayned  hym  that 
the  power  tlicrof  surmounted  honour  and  troiith. 
Thus  the  Kyng  debated  in  hymself  all  that  day 
and  all  that  night.  In  the  mornynghe  arose  and 
dysslogcd  all  his  hoost  and  drewe  after  the 
Scottes  to  chase  them  out  of  his  realme.  Then 
lie  toke  leaue  of  the  lady,  saying,  "  My  dere 
lady  to  God  I  comende  you  tyll  I  returne 
agayne,  requiryng  you  to  aduyse  you  otherwyse 
tlian  ye  haue  sayd  to  me." 

"  Noble  prince,"  quoth  the  lady,  "  God  the 
father  glorious  be  your  conduct,  and  put  you  out 
of  all  vylayne  thoughts.  Sir,  I  am  and  ever  shel 
be  redy  to  do  your  grace  servyce  to  your  honour 
and  to  myne."  Therwith  the  Kyng  departed  all 
abashe. — Trans,  of  Lord  Berners. 

A    DUEL    FOR    LIFE    OR    DEATH. 

About  this  time  (1386)  there  was  much  con- 
versation in  France  respecting  a  duel  which  was 
to  be  fought  for  life  or  death  at  Paris.  It  had 
been  thus  ordered  by  the  Parlement  of  Paris, 
where  the  cause,  which  had  lasted  a  year,  had 
been  tried  between  a  squire  called  James  le  Gris 
and  John  de  Carogne,  both  of  them  of  the 
household  of  Peter,  Count  d'Alcn90n,  and  es- 
teemed by  him ;  but  more  particularly  James  le 
Gris,  whom  he  loved  above  all  others,  and  placed 
his  whole  confidence  in  him.  As  this  duel  made 
a  great  noise,  many  from  distant  parts  on  hearing 
it  came  to  Paris  to  be  spectators.  I  will  relate 
the  cause  as  I  was  then  informed. 

It  chanced  that  Sir  John  de  Carogne  took  it 
into  his  head  lie  should  gain  glory  if  he  under- 
took a  voyage  to  the  Holy  Land,  having  long 
had  an  inclination  to  go  thither.  He  took  leave 
of  his  lord,  the  Count  d'  Alen^on,  and  of  his 
wife,  who  was  then  a  young  and  handsome  lady, 
and  left  her  in  his  castle,  called  Argenteil,  on  the 
borders  of  Perche,  and  began  his  journey  to- 
wards the  seaside.  The  lady  remained  in  this 
castle  living  in  the  most  decent  manner.     Now  it 


JEAN  FROISSART.— 6 

happened  (this  is  the  matter  of  quarrel)  that  the 
devil,  by  divers  and  perverse  temptations,  entered 
the  body  of  James  le  Gris,  and  induced  him  to 
commit  a  crime  for  which  he  afterwards  paid. 

He  cast  his  thoughts  on  the  lady  of  Sir  John 
de  Carogne  whom  he  knew  to  be  residing  with 
her  attendants  at  the  castle  of  Argenteil.  One 
day  therefore,  he  set  out,  mounted  on  the  finest 
horse  of  the  Count,  and  arrived,  full  gallop  at 
Argenteil,  where  he  dismounted.  The  servants 
made  a  handsome  entertainment  for  him,  because 
they  knew  he  was  a  particular  friend,  and  at- 
tached to  the  same  lord  as  their  master ;  and 
the  lady  thinking  no  ill,  received  him  with 
pleasure,  led  him  to  her  apartments  and  showed 
him  many  of  her  works.  James,  fully  intent  to 
accomplish  liis  wickedness,  begged  of  her  to 
conduct  him  to  the  dungeon,  for  that  his  visit 
was  partly  to  examine  it.  The  lady  instantly 
complied,  and  led  him  thither;  for  as  she  had 
the  utmost  confidence  in  his  honor,  she  was 
not  accompanied  by  valet  or  chambermaid.  As 
soon  as  they  had  entered  the  dungeon  James  Ic 
Gris  fastened  the  door,  unnoticed  by  the  lady, 
who  was  before  him,  thinking  it  might  have  been 
the  wind,  as  he  gave  her  to  understand. 

When  they  were  thus  alone,  James  embraced 
lier,  and  discovered  what  his  intentions  were. 
Tiie  lady  was  much  astonished,  and  would  will- 
ingly have  escaped  liad  she  been  able,  but  the 
door  was  fastened ;  and  James,  who  was  a  strong 
man,  held  her  tight  in  his  arms,  and  flung  her 
down  on  the  floor,  and  had  his  will  of  her.  Im- 
mediately afterwards  he  opened  the  door  of  the 
dungeon,  and  made  himself  ready  to  depart. 
The  lady,  exasperated  with  rage  at  what  had 
passed,  remained  silent  in  tears ;  but  on  his 
departure  she  said  to  him,  "  James,  James,  you 
have  not  done  well  in  thus  deflowering  me  ;  the 
blame  liowever,  shall  not  be  mine,  but  the  whole 
be  laid  on  you,  if  it  please  God  my  liusband  ever 
return." 

James  mounted    his  horse,  and,  quitting  the 


JEAN  FROISSART.— 7 

'castlo  hastened  back  to  his  lord,  the  Count 
d'x\Icn9on,  in  time  to  attend  his  rising  at  nine 
o'clock.  He  had  been  in  the  hotel  of  the 
Count  at  four  o'clock  that  morning.  I  am  thus 
particular  because  all  these  circumstances  were 
inquired  into,  and  examined  by  the  commission- 
ers of  the  Parlement  when  the  cause  was  before 
them. 

The  Lady  de  Carogne,  on  the  day  this  un- 
fortunate event  befel  her,  remained  in  her  castle, 
and  passed  it  off  as  well  as  she  could,  without 
mentioning  one  word  of  it  to  either  chamber- 
maid or  valet,  for  she  thought  by  making  it 
public  she  would  have  more  shame  than  honor. 
But  she  retained  in  her  memory  the  day  and  hour 
James  le  Gris  had  come  to  the  castle. 

The  Lord  de  Carogne  returned  from  his 
voyage,  and  was  joyfully  received  by  his  lady 
and  household,  who  feasted  him  well.  When 
night  came  Sir  John  Avent  to  bed,  but  his  lady 
excused  herself ;  and  on  his  kindly  pressing  })er 
to  come  to  him,  she  walked  very  pensively  up 
and  down  the  chamber.  At  last,  when  the  house- 
hold were  in  bed,  she  flung  herself  on  her  knees 
at  his  bedside,  and  bitterly  bewailed  the  insult  she 
had  suffered.  The  knight  would  not  believe  it 
could  have  happened  :  but  at  length  she  urged  it 
so  strongly  he  did  believe  her,  and  said,  "  Cer- 
tainly, lady,  if  the  matter  has  passed  as  you  say, 
I  forgive  you ;  but  the  Squire  shall  die ;  and 
I  shall  consult  your  and  my  relations  on  the 
subject.  Should  you  have  told  me  a  falsehood, 
never  more  shall  you  live  with  me."  The  lady 
again  and  again  assured  him  that  what  she  had 
said  was  the  pure  truth. 

On  the  morrow  the  Knight  sent  special  mes- 
sengers with  letters  to  his  friends  and  nearest 
relations  of  his  wife,  desiring  them  to  come 
instantly  to  Argenteil,  so  that  in  a  few  days  they 
were  all  at  his  castle.  When  they  were  assem- 
bled lie  led  them  into  an  apartment,  and  told 
them  the  reason  of  his  sending  for  them,  and 
made  his  lady  relate  most  minutely  everything 


JEAN  FE0ISSART.-8 

that  had  passed  during  his  absence.  "When  they 
had  recovered  their  astonishment  he  asked  their 
advice  how  to  act.  They  said  he  sliould  wait  on 
his  lord,  the  Count  d'AJengon,  and  tell  him  the 
fact.  This  he  did ;  but  the  Count,  who  much 
loved  James  le  Gris,  disbelieved  it,  and  appointed 
a  day  for  the  parties  to  come  before  him,  and 
desired  that  the  lady  might  attend  to  give  her 
evidence  against  the  man  whom  she  thus  accused. 
She  attended  as  desired,  accompanied  by  a  great 
number  of  her  relations ;  and  the  examinations 
and  pleadings  were  carried  on  before  the  court  to 
a  great  length.  James  le  Gris  boldly  denied  the 
charge,  declared  that  it  was  false,  and  wondered 
how  he  could  have  incurred  such  mortal  hatred 
from  the  lady.  lie  proved  by  the  household  of 
the  Count  that  he  had  been  seen  in  the  castle  at 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning;  the  Count  said  that 
he  was  in  his  bed-chamber  at  nine  o'clock,  and 
that  it  was  quite  impossible  for  any  one  to  have 
ridden  three-and-twenty  leagues,  and  back  again, 
and  do  what  he  was  charged  with,  in  about  four 
hours  and  a  half.  The  Count  told  the  lady  he 
would  support  his  squire,  and  that  she  must  have 
dreamed  it.  H-e  commanded  that  henceforward 
all  must  be  buried  in  oblivion,  and,  under  pain 
of  incurring  his  displeasure,  nothing  further  be 
done  in  the  business.  The  Knight,  being  a  man 
of  courage,  and  believing  what  his  wife  had  told 
him,  would  nut  submit  to  this,  but  went  to  Paris 
and  appealed  to  the  Parlcment.  The  Parlement 
summoned  James  le  Gris,  who  rej)lied,  and  gave 
pledges  to  obey  whatever  judgment  they  should 
give. 

The  cause  lasted  upwards  of  a  year,  and  they 
could  not  any  way  compromise  it;  for  the 
Knight  was  positive,  from  his  wife's  information 
of  the  fact,  and  declared  that,  since  it  was  now 
so  public,  he  would  pursue  it  until  death.  The 
Count  d'Alcn(;on  for  this  conceived  a  great  dislike 
against  the  Knight,  and  would  have  had  him  put 
to  death,  had  he  not  {>laccd  himself  uii  ier  the 
safeguard  of  the  rarlcmcnt.     It  was  long  pleaded, 


JEAN  FROISSART.— 9 

and  the  Pailemcnl  at  last,  because  tlicy  could 
not  produce  other  evidence  than  herself  against 
James  le  Gris,  jiulij;ed  it  should  be  decided  in  the 
tilt-yard  by  a  duel  for  life  or  death.  The  Knight 
the  Squire,  and  the  lady,  were  instantly  put  under 
arrest,  until  the  day  of  this  mortal  combat, 
which,  by  order  of  Parlement,  was  fixed  for 
the  ensuing  Monday  in  the  year  1387;  at  which 
time  the  King  of  France  and  his  barons  were  at 
Shiys,  intending  to  invade  England. 

The  King,  on  hearing  of  this  duel,  declared  he 
would  be  present  at  it.  The  Dukes  of  Berry, 
Burgundy,  Bourbon,  and  the  Constable  of 
France,  being  also  desirous  of  seeing  it,  agreed 
it  was  proper  he  should  be  there.  The  King,  in 
consequence,  sent  orders  to  Paris  to  prolong  the 
day  of  the  duel,  for  that  he  would  be  present. 
This  order  was  punctually  obeyed,  and  the  King 
and  his  lords  departed  for  France.  The  King 
kept  the  Feast  of  the  Kalends  at  Arras,  and  the 
Duke  of  Burgundy  at  Lillo.  In  the  mean  time 
the  men-at-arms  made  for  their  different  homes, 
as  had  been  ordered  by  the  marshals;  but  the 
principal  chiefs  went  to  Paris  to  witness  the 
combat. 

When  the  King  of  France  was  returned  to 
Paris,  lists  were  made  for  the  champions  in  the 
Place  of  St.  Catherine,  behind  tlic  Temple  ;  and 
the  lords  had  erected  on  one  side  scaffolds,  the 
better  to  see  the  sight.  The  crowd  of  people 
was  wonderful.  The  two  champions  entered  the 
lists  armed  at  all  points,  and  each  was  seated  in  a 
chair  opposite  the  other.  The  Count  de  St.  Pol 
directed  Sir  John  dc  Carogne,  and  the  retainers 
of  the  Count  de  Alen^on  James  le  Gris.  On  the 
Knight  entering  the  field  he  went  to  his  lady, 
who  was  covered  with  black  and  seated  on  a 
chair,  and  said:  "Lady,  from  your  accusation, 
and  in  your  quarrel,  am  I  thus  venturing  my  life 
to  combat  James  le  Gris:  you  know  whether 
my  cause  be  loyal  and  true."  "  My  lord,"  she 
rei)licd,  "  it  is  so ;  and  you  may  fight  it  securely, 
for  your  cause  is  good." 


JEAN  FROISSART.— 10 

The  lady  remained  seated,  inalcing  fervent  pray- 
ers to  God  and  tlie  Virgin,  entreating  humbly  that 
through  her  grace  and  intercession  she  might 
gain  the  victory,  according  to  her  right.  Her 
affliction  was  great,  for  her  life  depended  on  the 
event;  and  should  her  husband  lose  the  victory, 
she  would  have  been  burnt,  and  he  would  have 
been  hanged.  I  am  ignorant  (for  I  never  had 
any  conversation  with  her  or  the  Knight)  whcthe! 
she  had  not  frequently  repented  of  having  poshed 
matters  so  far  as  to  place  herself  and  her  husband 
in  such  peril.  But  it  was  now  too  late,  and  she 
must  abide  the  event. 

The  two  champions  were  then  advanced  and 
placed  opposite  to  each  other ;  when  they  mount- 
ed their  horses,  and  made  a  handsome  appearance, 
for  they  were  botli  expert  men-at-arms.  They 
ran  their  first  course  without  hurt  to  either. 
After  the  tilting  they  dismounted,  and  made 
ready  to  continue  the  fight.  They  behaved  with 
courage;  but  Sir  John  de  Carogne  was  at  the 
first  onset  wounded  in  the  thigh,  which  alarmed 
all  his  friends.  Notwithstanding  this,  he  fought 
so  desperately  that  he  struck  down  his  adver- 
sarv,  and,  thrusting  his  sword  through  the  body, 
caused  instant  death ;  when  he  demanded  of  the 
spectators  if  he  had  done  his  duty.  They  re- 
plied that  he  had. 

The  body  of  James  le  Gris  was  delivered  to 
the  hangman,  who  dragged  it  to  Montfaucon,  and 
there  hanged  it.  Sir  John  de  Carogne  ap- 
proached the  King  and  fell  on  his  knees.  The 
King  made  him  rise,  and  ordered  one  thousand 
francs  to  be  paid  him  that  very  day.  He  also 
retained  him  of  his  household,  with  a  pension  of 
two  huridrcrl  livrcs  a  year,  which  he  received  as 
long  as  he  lived.  Sir  John,  after  thanking  the 
King  ami  his  lords,  went  to  liis  lady  an<l  kissed 
her.  Th(!y  went  together  to  make  their  offering 
in  the  (Church  of  Notre  I>iiiMe,  aiicl  then  returned 
to  their  home.  —  I'rannl.  of  Johnes. 
n\ 


JEAN  FROISSARt.-U 

THE    ABDICATION    OF    KING    UICIIARD    II.    OP 
ENGLAND. 

Ititelliiiencc  was  carried  to  the  Duke  of  Lan- 
caster [King  Henry  I  V.J  that  Richard  of  Bor- 
deaux liad  a  great  desire  tG  speak  to  him.  The 
Duke  left  his  house  in  the  evening,  entered  his 
barge  with  liis  kniglits,  and  was  rowed  down  the 
Thames  to  the  Tower,  which  he  entered  by  a 
postern  gate,  and  went  to  the  apartment  of  the 
King.  The  King  rcceired  liim  with  great  kind- 
ness, and  humbled  himself  exceedingly,  like  to 
one  who  perceived  that  he  is  in  a  dangerous 
state.     He  addressed  him  : 

"  Cousin,  I  have  been  considering  my  situa- 
tion, which  is  miserable  enough,  and  I  have  no 
longer  thoughts  of  wearing  my  crown  or  govern- 
ing my  people.  As  God  may  have  my  soul,  I 
wish  1  were  at  this  moment  dead  of  a  natural 
death,  and  the  King  of  France  had  his  daughter 
again  ;  for  we  have  never  had  any  great  happi- 
ness together,  nor,  since  I  brought  her  hither, 
have  I  had  the  love  my  {)cople  bore  me  formerly. 
Cousin  of  Lancaster,  when  I  look  back  I  am 
convinced  I  have  behaved  very  ill  to  vou,  and  to 
other  nobles  of  my  blood  ;  for  which  I  cannot 
expect  peace  nor  pardon.  All  things,  therefore, 
considered,  I  ani  willing  freely  to  resign  to  you 
the  crown  of  f]ngland  ;  and  I  beg  you  will  accept 
the  resignation  as  a  gift." 

The  Duke  replied,  "That  it  would  be  neces- 
sary the  three  estates  of  the  realm  should  hear 
this  :  I  have  issued  summonses  for  the  assem- 
bling the  nobles,  the  prelates,  and  deputies  from 
the  principal  towns;  and  within  three  days  a 
sufficiency  will  be  collected  for  you  to  make  your 
resignation  in  due  form.  By  this  act  you  will 
greatly  appease  the  hatred  of  the  nation  against 
you. 

"  To  obviate  the  mischief  that  had  arisen  from 
the  courts  of  justice  being  shut,  and  which  had 
created  an  almost  universal  anarchy,  I  was  sent 
for  from  beyond  the  sea.  The  people  wanted  to 
crown  me  ;  for  the  common  report  in  the  country 
m 


JEAN  FROISSART.-IS 

is,  that  I  have  a  better  right  to  the  crown  than 
you  have.  This  was  told  to  our  grandfather, 
King  Edward,  of  happy  memory,  when  he 
educated  you,  and  had  you  acknowledged  heir 
to  the  throne  ;  but  his  love  was  so  strong  for  his 
son,  the  Prince  of  Wales,  nothing  could  make  hira 
alter  his  purpose,  but  that  you  must  be  king.  If 
you  had  followed  the  example  of  the  Prince,  or  at- 
tended to  the  advice  of  his  counsellors,  like  a  good 
son,  who  should  be  anxious  to  tread  in  the  steps 
of  a  father,  you  might  still  have  been  king.  But 
you  have  always  acted  so  contrary  as  to  occasion 
the  rumor  to  be  generally  believed  throughout 
England  and  elsewhere,  that  you  are  not  the  son 
of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  but  of  a  priest  or  canon. 

"  I  have  heard  several  knights  who  were  of  the 
household  of  my  uncle  the  Prince,  declare 
that  he  was  jealous  of  the  Princess's  conduct. 
She  was  cousin-gcrman  to  King  Edward,  who 
began  to  dislike  her  for  not  having  children  by 
liis  son,  since  he  had,  by  her  former  marriage 
with  Sir  Thomas  Holland,  stood  godfather  to 
two  sons.  She  knew  well  how  to  keep  the 
Prince  in  her  chains,  liaving  through  subtlety 
enticed  liim  to  marry ;  but  fearful  of  being 
divorced  by  his  father,  for  want  of  heirs,  and 
that  the  Prince  would  marry  again,  it  was 
said  that  she  got  connected  with  some  one, 
by  whom  she  had  you  and  another  son,  who 
died  in  his  infancy,  and  no  judgment  can  be 
formed  of  liis  character.  But  you,  from  your 
planners  and  mode  of  acting — so  contrary  to  the 
gallantry  and  prowess  of  the  Prince — are  thought 
to  be  the  son  of  a  priest  or  canon :  for  at 
tlie  time  of  your  birth  there  were  many  young 
and  handsome  onos  in  the  household  of  the  Prince 
at  Ilxnlcaux.  Such  is  the  report  of  this  oountrv, 
which  vour  ronducf  has  fonfirmed  ;  for  vou  have 
ever  sliown  great  affection  to  the  French,  and  an 
inclination  to  live  f  n  good  terms  with  them,  to 
tlie  loss  and  dishonor  of  England.  P>ecjiuse  my 
uncle  of  (iloucpster  and  the  Karl  of  Arundel 
wished  you  would  loyally  defend  the  honor  of 
m 


JEAN  FROISSART.— 13 

tlie  kingdom,  by  following  the  steps  of  your 
ancestors,  you  have  treacherously  put  them  to 
death. 

"  With  regard  to  yon,  I  have  taken  you  under 
niy  protection,  and  will  guard  and  preserve  your 
life,  through  compassion,  as  long  as  I  shall  be 
able.  I  will  likewise  entreat  the  Londoners  on 
your  behalf,  and  the  heirs  of  those  you  have  put 
to  death." 

"  Many  thanks,"  answered  the  King :  "  I  have 
greater  confidence  in  you  than  in  any  other  per- 
son in  England." 

"  You  are  in  the  right,"  replied  the  Duke ;  "  for 
had  I  not  stepped  forward  between  you  and  the 
people,  they  would  have  seized  you,  and  dis- 
gracefully killed  you,  in  return  for  all  your 
wicked  acts,  which  are  the  cause  of  the  danger- 
ous state  you  are  now  in." 

King  Richard  heard  all  this  patiently,  for  he 
saw  that  neither  arguments  nor  force  could  avail, 
and  that  resignation  and  humility  were  his  only 
arms.  He  therefore  humbled  himself  exceed- 
ingly to  the  Duke,  earnestly  begging  that  his 
life  might  be  spared.  The  Duke  of  Lancaster 
remained  with  the  King  upward  of  two  hours, 
and  continued  in  his  conversation  to  reproach 
him  for  all  the  faults  he  was  accused  of.  He 
then  took  leave,  re-entered  his  barge,  and  returned 
to  his  house ;  and  on  the  morrow  renewed  his 
orders  for  the  assembly  of  the  three  estates  of  the 
realm. 

The  Duke  of  York  and  his  son,  the  Earl  of 
Rutland,  came  to  London,  as  did  the  Earl  of 
Northumberland  and  his  brother.  Sir  Thomas 
Percy,  to  whom  the  Duke  of  Lancaster  gave  a 
hearty  welcome,  with  numbers  of  prelates, 
bishops  and  abbots.  The  Duke  of  Lancaster, 
accompanied  ])y  a  large  body  of  dukes,  prelates, 
earls,  barons,  knights,  and  principal  citizens,  rode 
to  the  Tower  of  London,  and  dismounted  in  the 
court.  King  Richard  was  released  from  his 
prison,  and  entered  the  hall  which  had  been 
prepared   for   the  occasion,  royally  dressed,  the 

S34 


JEAN  FROISSART.— 14 

sceptre  in  his  hand,  and  the  crown  on  his  head, 
but  without  supporters  on  either  side.  He 
addressed  the  company  as  follows : 

"  I  have  reigned  King  of  England,  Duke  of 
Aquitaine,  and  Lord  of  Ireland,  about  twenty- 
two  years,  which  royalty,  lordsliip,  sceptre,  and 
crown,  I  now  freely  and  willingly  resign  to  my 
cousin,  Henry  of  Lancaster,  and  entreat  him,  in 
the  presence  of  you  all,  to  accept  the  sceptre." 

He  then  tendered  the  sceptre  to  the  Duke  of 
Lancaster,  who  took  it  and  gave  it  to  ,the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury.  King  Richard  next 
raised  the  crown  with  his  two  hands  from  his 
head  ;  and  placing  it  before  him  said  :  "  Henry, 
fair  cousin,  and  Duke  of  Lancaster,  I  present  and 
give  to  you  this  crown  with  which  I  was  crowned 
King  of  England,  and  all  the  rights  dependent 
upon  it." 

The  Duke  of  Lancaster  received  it  and  de- 
livered it  over  to  the  Arclibisliop  of  Canterbury, 
who  was  at  hand  to  take  it.  These  two  things 
being  done,  and  the  resignation  accepted,  the 
Duke  of  Lancaster  called  in  a  public  notary,  that 
an  authentication  should  be  drawn  up  of  this 
proceeding,  and  witnessed  by  the  lords  and 
prelates  then  present.  Soon  after,  the  King  was 
conducted  to  where  he  had  come  from,  and 
the  Duke  and  other  Lords  mounted  their  horses 
to  return  home.  The  two  jewels  were  safely 
packed  up,  and  given  to  proper  guards,  to  place 
them  in  the  treasury  of  Westminster  Abbey, 
until  they  should  be  called  for  when  the  Parlia- 
ment were  assembled. 

On  a  Wednesday,  the  last  day  of  September, 
1399,  Henry  Duke  of  Lancaster  held  a  Parlia- 
ment at  Westminster,  at  which  were  assembled 
the  greater  part  of  the  clergy  and  nobility  of 
England,  and  a  sufficient  number  of  deputies 
from  the  different  towns  according  to  tlieir  extent 
and  wealth.  In  this  Parliament  the  Duke  of 
Lancaster  cliallcnged  the  crown  of  England,  and 
claimed  it  as  his  own  for  three  reasons:  First, 
by   conquest ;  secondbj,    from  being    the    right 


JEAN  FROISSART,— 15 

heir  to  it ;  and  thirdly,  from  the  pure  and 
free  resignation  of  it  to  him  by  King  Richard, 
in  the  presence  of  the  prelates,  dukes,  and  earls 
in  the  hall  of  the  Tower  of  London.  These  three 
claims  being  made,  he  required  the  Parliament 
to  declare  their  opinion  and  will.  Upon  this 
they  unanimously  replied  tliat  it  was  their  will 
that  he  should  be  King,  for  they  would  have 
no  other.  Ue  again  asked  if  they  were  positive 
in  their  declaration  ;  and  when  they  said  they 
were,  he  seated  himself  on  the  royal  throne. 
The  throne  was  elevated  some  feet  from  the 
floor,  with  a  rich  canopy  of  cloth  of  gold,  so  that 
he  could  be  seen  by  all  present.  On  the  King's 
taking  his  seat,  the  people  clapped  their  hands 
for  joy,  and  held  them  up,  promising  him  fealty 
and  homage.  The  Parliament  was  then  dissolved, 
and  the  day  of  coronation  was  appointed  for  the 
Feast   of  St.  Edward,  which  fell  on  a  Monday, 

the  13th  of  October 

The  procession  [at  the  coronation]  entered 
the  church  about  nine  o'clock  ;  in  the  middle 
of  which  was  a  scaffold  covered  with  crimson 
cloth,  and  in  the  centre  a  royal  throne  of  cloth 
of  gold.  When  the  Duke  entered  the  church, 
he  seated  himself  on  the  throne,  and  was  thus 
in  royal  state  except  having  the  crown  on  his 
head.  The  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  pro- 
claimed from  the  four  corners  of  the  scaffold 
how  God  had  given  them  a  man  for  their 
lord  and  sovereign,  and  then  asked  the  people 
if  they  were  consenting  to  his  being  conse- 
crated and  crowned  king.  They  unanimously 
shouted  out,  "  Aye  I "  and  held  up  their  hands 
promising  fealty  and  homage.  After  this  the 
Duke  descended  from  his  throne,  and  advanced 
to  the  altar  to  be  consecrated.  The  ceremony 
was  performed  by  two  archbishops  and  ten 
bishops.  He  was  stripped  of  all  his  royal 
state  before  the  altar,  naked  to  his  shirt,  and 
was  then  anointed  and  consecrated  at  six  places; 
that  is  to  say,  on  the  head,  the  breast,  the  two 
bhoiilders,  before  and  behind,  on  the  back  and 


^AN  FR0ISSART.-16 

hands.  They  then  placed  a  bonnet  on  his  head; 
and  while  this  was  doing,  the  clergy  chanted 
the  litany,  or  the  service  that  is  now  performed 
to  hallow  a  font. 

The  King  was  now  dressed  in  a  churchman's 
clothes  like  a  deacon  ;  and  they  put  on  him  shoes 
of  crimson  velvet,  after  the  manner  of  a  prelate. 
They  then  added  spurs  with  a  point,  but  no 
rowel,  and  the  sword  of  justice  was  drawn, 
blessed,  and  delivered  to  the  King,  who  put 
it  into  the  scabbard,  when  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  girded  it  about  him.  The  crown  of 
St.  Edward,  which  is  arched  over  like  a  cross, 
was  next  brought  and  blessed,  and  placed  by  the 
Archbishop  on  the  King's  head.  When  Mass 
was  over,  the  King  left  the  church,  and  returned 
to  the  palace  in  the  same  state  as  before.  There 
w^as  in  the  court  yard  a  fountain  that  constantly 
ran  with  red  and  white  wine  from  various 
mouths.  The  King  went  first  to  his  closet,  and 
then  returned  to  the  hall  to  dinner 

When  dinner  was  half  over,  a  knight  of  the 
name  of  Dymock  entered  the  hall  completely 
armed,  and  tnounted  on  a  handsome  steed,  richly 
barbed,  with  crimson  housings.  The  knight  was 
armed  for  wager  of  battle,  and  was  preceded 
by  another  kniglit  bearing  his  lance;  he  him- 
self had  his  drawn  sword  in  one  hand,  and  his 
naked  djigger  by  his  side.  The  knight  presented 
the  King  with  a  written  paper,  the  contents  of 
which  were,  that  if  any  knight  or  gentleman 
sliould  dare  to  maintain  that  King  Henry  was  not 
a  lawful  sovereign,  he  was  ready  to  offer  him 
c(5mbat  in  the  presence  of  the  King,  when 
and  where  he  should  be  pleased  to  appoint.  The 
King  ordered  this  cliHllengo  to  be  proclaimed 
by  heralds  in  six  different  parts  of  the  town 
and  the  hall,  to  which  no  answer  whs  made. 
After  King  Henry  had  dined,  and  partaken 
of  wine  and  Hpiccs  in  the  hall,  lie  retired  to  hi.s 
private  apartments,  and  all  the  company  went  to 
their  homes,  'J'hus  passed  the  coronation  day  of 
King  Henry. — Trand.  of  Johnes. 

U1 


NATHANIEL  L.  FROTHlNGHAM.— 1 

FROTHINGHAM,  Nathaniel  Lang- 
don,  an  American  clergyman  and  poet,  born 
at  Boston  in  1793  ;  died  there  in  1870.  Ho 
graduated  at  Harvard  in  1811,  and  in  the  fol- 
lowing year  became  instructor  there  in 
rhetoric  and  oratory.  In  1815  he  was  or- 
dained pastor  of  the  First  Congregational 
Church  in  Boston,  retaining  that  position 
until  1850,  when  impaired  health  compelled 
him  to  resign.  He  published  a  volume  of 
Sermons  m  1852,  and  in  1855  a  collection  of 
Metrical  Pieces,  Translated  arid  Original. 
Towards  the  close  of  his  life  he  became  blind, 
a  calamity  indicated  in  the  following  poem: 

THE     SIGHT    OF    THE    BLIND. 

"  I  always  see  in  dreams,"  she  said, 
"  Nor  then  believe  that  I  am  bUnd." 
That  simple  thought  a  shadowy  pleasure  shed 
Within  my  mind. 

In  a  like  doom,  the  nights  afford 
A  like  display  of  mercy  done  : 
How  oft  I've  dreamed  of  sight  as  full  restored  1 
Not  once  as  gone. 

Restored  as  with  a  flash  !     I  gaze 
On  open  books  with  letters  plain  , 
And  scenes  and  faces  of  the  dearer  days 
Are  bright  again. 

O  Sleep  !  in  pity  thou  art  made 
A  double  boon  to  such  as  we : 
Beneath  closed  lids  and  folds  of  deepest  shade ^ 
We  think  we  see. 

O  Providence  !   when  all  is  dark 
Around  our  steps,  and  o'er  Thy  will, 
The  mercy-seat  that  hides  the  covenant-ark 
lias  angels  still. 

Thou  who  art  light!  illume  the  page 
\Yithin  ;  renew  these  respites  sweet, 
And  show,  beyond  the  films  and  wear  of  age, 
Both  walk  and  seat. 


NATHANIEL  L.  FROTHINGHAM.— 2 

THE  M'LEAN  asylum  FOK  THE  INSANE. 

A  rich,  gay  mansion  once  wert  thou ; 

And  he  who  built  it,  chose  its  site 
On  that  hill's  proud  but  gentle  brow, 

For  an  abode  of  splendor  and  delight. 

Years,  pains,  and  cost  have  reared  it  high, 

The  stately  pile  we  now  survey. 
Grander  than  ever  to  the  eye  ; 

But  all  its  fireside  pleasures — where  are  they  ? 

A  stranger  might  suppose  tlie  spot 

Some  seat  of  learning,  shrine  of  thought; 

Ah !  here  alone  Mind  ripens  not. 

And  nothing  reasons ;  nothing  can  be  taught. 

Or  he  might  deem  thee  a  retreat 

For  the  poor  body's  need  and  ail, 
When  sudden  injuries  stab  and  beat, 

Or  in  slow  waste  its  inward  forces  fail. 

Ah,  heavier  hurts  and  wastes  are  here  ! 

The  ruling  brain  distempered  lies; 
When  Mind  flies  reeling  from  its  sphere, 

Life,  health,  aye,  mirth  itself,  are  mockeries. 

0  House  of  Sorrows  !     Sorer  shocks 

Than  c;in  our  frame  or  lot  befall 
Arc  hid  behind  thy    jealous  locks; 

Man's  Thought  Jin  infant,  and  his  Will  a  thrall. 

0  House  of  Mercy  !    Refuge  kind 

For  Nature's  most  unnatural  state! 
Place  for  the  absent,  wandering  mind; 

Its  healing  helper  and  its  sheltering  gate. 

Yes,  Love  has  planned  thee,  Love  endowed  ; — 
And  blessings  on  each  pitying  heart. 

That  from  the  first  its  gifts  bestowed. 

Or  bears  in  thee  each  day  its  healthful  part. 

Was  e'er  the  Christ  diviner  seen 

Than  when  tlie  wretch  no  force  could  bind — 
The  roving,  raving  Gadarene — 

Sat  at  llis  blessed  feet,  and  in  his  perfect  naind? 
»»? 


OCTAVIUS  B.  FROTHINGHAM.— 1 

FROTIIINGHAM,  Octavius  Brooks, 
an  Amerieau  clergyman,  son  of  N.  L. 
Frothinghani,  born  at  Boston  in  1822.  He 
graduated  at  Harvard  in  1843,  studied  at 
the  Cambridge  Divinity  School,  and  in  1847 
became  pastor  of  the  North  Church  (Unita- 
rian), Salem,  Mass.  In  1855  he  removed 
to  Jersey  City,  and  in  1860  became  minis- 
ter of  a  newly-formed  society  in  New 
York,  which  took  the  name  of  the  "  Third 
Unitarian  Congregational  Church."  He  re- 
tained this  position  until  1879,  when  the 
society  was  dissolved,  and  Mr.  Frothingham 
spent  the  subsequent  two  years  in  Europe. 
After  his  return  he  devoted  himself  en- 
tirely to  literary  work.  Besides  numerous 
published  sermons,  and  frequent  contribu- 
tions to  periodicals,  he  has  put  forth  The 
ParaMes  (1864);  HeUgion  of  I  hi  inanity 
(1873) ;  Life  of^  Theodore  Parker  (1874) ; 
Transcendentalisra  in  New  England 
(1 876) ;  Smrit  of  the  New  Faith  (1877) ; 
Biography  of  Gei'rit  Smith  (1878);  with 
Felix  Adler,  The  Badical  Pulpit  (1883) ; 
and  Metiioir  of  William  Ellery  Channing 
(1887.) 

THE    BELIEFS    OF    UNBELIEVERS. 

In  every  age  of  Christendom  there  have  been 
men  wlioin  the  Churcli  named  "  infidels,"  and 
thrust  down  into  the  abyss  of  moral  reprobation. 
The  oldest  of  these  are  forgotten  with  the  gen- 
erations that  gave  them  birth.  Tlic  only  ones 
now  actively  anathematized  Uved  within  the  last 
hundred  years,  and  owe  the  blackness  of  their 
reputation  to  the  assaults  they  made  on  supersti- 
tions that  are  still  powerful,  and  dogmas  that  arc 
still  supreme.  The  names  of  Chubb,  Toland, 
and  Tindal,  of  Herbert  of  Cherbury,  Shaftes- 
bury, and  Bolingbrokc,  though  seldom  spoken 
now,  are  mentioned,  when  they  are  mentioned, 
with   bitterness.    The   names   of   Voltaire   and 


OCTAVIUS  B.  FROTHINGHAM.— 2 

Rousseau  recall  at  once  venomous  verdicts  that 
our  own  ears  have  heard.  The  memory  of 
Thomas  Paine  is  still  a  stench  in  modern  nostrils, 
thouo;h  he   has  been  dead  sixty  years,  so  deep 

a  damnation  has  been  fixed  on  his  name . . 

Skeptics  these  men  and  others  were :  I  claim 
for  them  that  honor.  It  is  their  title  to  immor- 
talitv.  ^Doubtless  they  were,  in  many  things, 
dcniers — "infidels,"  if  you  will.  They  made 
short  work  of  creed  and  catechism,  of  sacra- 
ment and  priest,  of  tradition  and  formula.  Mirac- 
ulous revelations,  inspired  Bibles,  authoritative 
dogmas,  dying  Gods,  and  atoning  Saviours,  in- 
falfible  apostles,  and  churches  founded  by  the 
Uoly  Ghost,  ecclesiastical  heavens  and  hells, 
with  other  fictions  of  the  sort,  their  minds  could 
not  harbor.  They  criticised  mercilessly  the 
drama  of  the  Redemption,  and  .spoke  more 
roughly  than  prudently  of  the  great  mysteries  of 
the' Godhead.  But,  "after  their  fashion,  they 
were  great  believers.'  In  the  interest  of  faitli 
they  doubted  ;  in  the  interest  of  faith  they  de- 
nied. Tlieir  "  Nay"  was  an  uncouth  method  of 
pronouncing  "  Yeii."  They  were  after  the  truth, 
and  supposed  themselves  to  be  removing  a  rub- 
bish pile  to  reach  it.  Toland,  whose  Chrislianity 
not  Mi/sterioHs  was  presented  by  the  Grand 
Jury  of  Dublin,  and  condemned  to  the  flames 
by  the  Irish  Parliament,  while  the  author  tied 
from  Government  prosecution  to  England,  pro- 
fessed himself  sincerely  attached  to  the  pure 
religion  of  Jesus,  and  anxious  to  exhibit  it  free 
from  the  corruption  of  after-times.  Thomas 
Paine  wrote  his  A 'jc  of  Reason  as  a  check  to 
the  progress  of  French  atheism,  fearing  "  lest  in 
the  general  wreck  of  superstition,  of  false  sys- 
tems of  government,  and  false  theology,  wc  lose 
sight  of  morality,  of  humanity,  and  of  the  theol- 
ogy that  is  true." 

i'liese  devout  unbeliefs  were  born  of  the  spirit 
of  the  age.  It  was  an  age — rather  let  me  call 
it  a  series  of  ages — in  which  groat  events  oc- 
curred.   There   had  been  a  terrible  shaking  of 

Ml 


OCTAVIUS  B.  FROTHINGHAM.— 8 

thrones  and  altars.  The  axe  had  fallen  on  the 
neck  of  a  king,  and  the  halberd  had  smitten 
the  image  of  many  saints.  Scarcely  an  author- 
ity stood  fast.  None  was  unchallenged.  The 
brain  of  Bacon  had  discharged  its  force  into 
the  intellectual  world.  Newton's  torch  was 
flinging  its  beams  to  the  confines  of  creation. 
The  national  genius  sparkled  in  constellations  of 
brilliant  men  ;  Continental  literature  was  pour- 
ing into  England  the  speculative  mind  of  Hol- 
land, the  dramatic  writing  and  criticism  of 
France.  There  was  new  thought  and  fresh  pur- 
pose ;  a  determination  to  know  and  do  some- 
thing ;  a  sense  of  intellectual  and  moral  power, 
that  portended  great  changes  in  Church  and 
State.  The  infidels  were  the  men  who  felt  this 
spirit  first.  They  were  its  children  ;  they  gave 
it  voice  ;  it  gave  them  strength.  They  trusted 
in  it.  Fidelity  to  its  call  was  their  faith.  They 
believed  in  the  sovereignty  of  Reason,  the  rights 
of  the  individual  Conscience ;  and  they  cher- 
ished a  generous  confidence  in  the  impulses  of 
an  emancipated  and  ennobled  humanity.  They 
had  that  faith  in  human  nature  which,  indeed, 
is,  and  ever  has  been,  the  faith  of  faiths.  It  is 
a  faith  hard  to  hold.  These  infidels  must  have 
found  it  so  in  their  times.  "When  shall  we  honor, 
at  its  due,  the  heroism  of  Protest,  the  valor  of 
Disbelief?  When  shall  we  give  to  the  martyr- 
dom of  Denial  its  glorious  crown  ? — Belief  of  the 
Unbelievers. 

THEODORE  PARKER. 

With  him  the  religions  element  was  supreme. 
It  had  roots  in  his  bt-itig  wholly  distinct  from  its 
mental  or  sensible  forms  of  ex[)ression — com- 
pletely distinguished  from  theology, which  claimed 
to  give  an  account  of  it  in  words,  and  from  cere- 
monies, which  claimed  to  embody  it  in  rites  and 
symbols.  Never  evaporating  in  mystical  dreams, 
nor  entangled  in  the  meshes  of  cunning  specula- 
tion, it  preserved  tlie  freshness  and  bloom  and 
fragrance  in  every  passage  of  his  life,     lljs  sense 


OcTAVirs  B.  PROTHINCHAM.— 4 

of  divine  things  was  as  strong  as  was  ever  felt 
by  a  man  of  such  clear  intelligence.  His  feel- 
ing for  divine  things  never  lost  its  glow ;  never 
was  damped  by  misgiving,  dimmed  by  doubt,  or 
clouded  by  sorrow.  The  intensity  of  his  faith 
in  Providence,  and  of  his  assurance  of  personal 
immortality,  seems  almost  fanatical  to  modern 
men  who  sympathize  in  general  with  his  phi- 
losophy  All  the  materialists  in  and  out  of 

Christendom,  had  no  power  to  shake  his  convic- 
tion of  the  infinite  God,  and  the  immortal  exist- 
ence: nor  would  have  had,  had  he  lived  until  he 
was  a  century  old ;  for,  in  his  view  the  convic- 
tions were  phmted  deep  in  human  nature,  and 
were  demanded  by  the  exigencies  of  human  life. 
The  services  they  rendered  to  mankind  would 
have  been  their  sutiicient  justification,  had  he 
found  no  other ;  and  in  this  aspect  they  inter- 
ested him  chiefly 

It  has  been  said  that  Parker  accomplished 
nothing  final  as  a  religious  reformer;  that  if  he 
thought  of  himself  as  the  inaugurator  of  a  sec- 
ond Reformation — a  reformation  of  Protestant- 
ism— the  leader  of  a  new  "  departure,"  as  sig- 
nificant and  momentous  as  that  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  he  dec<.ived  himself.  Luther,  it  is  said, 
found  a  stopping-place,  a  terminus,  and  erected 
a  "station,"  where  nearly  half  of  Christendom 
liavc  been  content  to  stay  for  three  hundred 
years,  and  will  linger,  perhaps,  three  hundred 
years  longer,  Parker  stretched  a  tent  near  what 
j)roved  to  be  a  "  branch-road,"  where  a  consider- 
able number  of  travellers  will  pause  on  their 
journey,  and  refresh  themselves,  while  waiting 
for  the  "  through-train."  That  Parker  thought 
ollierwise,  that  he  believed  himself  sent  to  j)ro- 
claim  and  dc-fitie  the  faith  of  the  next  thousand 
years,  merely  gives  another  illustration  of  the 
delusions  to  whieh  even  great  min<ls  are  subject. 
Alrcarly  thought  has  swept  beyond  him  ;  already 
faith  has  struck  into  other  f>aths,  and  taken  up 
new  positions.  The  scientific  method  has  sup- 
plemented the  theologieal   and  the  sentimental, 

Ui 


OCTAVIUS  B.  FR0THINGHAM.-5 

and  has  carried  many  over  to  the  new  regions  of 
belief.  Parker  is  a  great  name,  was  a  great 
power,  and  will  be  a  great  memory;  but  it  is 
doubtful  if  he  did  the  work  of  a  Voltaire  or  a 
Kousseau :    that   he  did  not    do  the   work  of  a 

Luther    is    not    doubtful    at  all Certainly, 

Parker  was  not  a  discoverer.  He  originated  no 
doctrine;  he  struck  out  no  path.  Ills  religious 
philosophy  existed  before  his  day,  and  owed  to 
him  no  fresh  development.  But  he  was  the 
first  great  popular  expounder  of  it;  the  first  who 
undertook  to  make  it  the  basis  of  a  faith  for  the 
common  people  ;  the  first  who  planted  it  as  the 
corner-stone  of  the  working-religion  of  man- 
kind, and  published  it  as  the  ground  of  a  new 
spiritual  structure,  distinct  from  both  Romanism 

and  Protestantism 

The  ethics  of  Theodore  Parker  grew  from 
the  same  root  as  his  religion,  and  were  part  of 
the  same  system.  These,  too,  rested  on  the 
spiritual  philosophy — the  philosophy  of  intui- 
tion. He  l)clieved  that  to  the  human  conscience 
was  made  direct  revelation  of  the  eternal  law  ; 
that  the  moral  nature  looked  righteousness  in 
the  face.  He  was  acquainted  with  the  objec- 
tions to  this  doctrine.  The  opposite  philosophy 
of  Utilitarianism — whether  taught  by  Benthani 
or  by  Mill — was  well  known  to  him,  but  was 
wholly  unsatisfactory.  Sensationalism  in  mor- 
als was  as  absurd,  in  his  judgment,  as  sensation- 
alism in  faith.  The  Quaker  doctrine  of  the 
I' inner  light"  was  nearer  the  truth,  as  he  saw 
it,  than  the  "  experience"  doctrine  of  Herbert 
Spencer.  Experience  might  assist  conscience, 
but  create  it  never.  Conscience  might  consult 
even  expediency  for  its  methods  ;  but  for  its 
parentage  it  must  look  elsewhere.  Conscience, 
for  him,  was  the  authority,  divine,  ultimate.  He 
obeyed,  even  if  it  commanded  the  cutting  oS 
of  the  right  hand  or  the  plucking  out  of  the 
right  eye.  He  would  not  compromise  a  princi- 
ple, wrong  a  neighbor,  take  what  was  not  fairly 
his,  tell  a   falsehood,    betray    a  trust,  break    a 


OCTAVIUS  B.  FROTHINGHAM.— 6 

pledge,  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  the  cry  of  human 
miser}',  for  all  the  world  could  give  him.  At 
the  heart  of  every  matter  there  was  a  right  and 
a  wrong,  both  easily  discernible  by  the  simplest 
mind.  The  right  was  eternally  right;  the 
wrong  was  eternally  wrong ;  and  eternal  conse- 
quences were  involved  in  either.  Philosophers 
might  find  fault  with  his  psychology — they  did 
find  fault  with  it.  He  answered  them,  if  he 
could  ;  if  he  could  not,  he  left  them  answerless : 
but  for  himself,  he  never  doubted,  but  leaned 
against  his  pillar.  A  cloudy  pillar  it  was:  both 
base  and  capital  were  lost  in  the  mist  of  eternity  ; 
but  so  long  as  it  bore  up  the  moral  universe,  he 
cared  not  what  it  was  made  of.  No  casuist  he. 
The  school  of  fidelity  was  for  him  the  school  of 
wisdom. — Biography  of  llieodore  Parker. 


James  antiiony  froude.— i 

FROUDE,  James  Anthony,  an  English 
Iiistorian  and  Liograplier,  born  in  1818.  He 
was  educated  at  Westminster  School,  and  at 
Oriel  College,  Oxford,  and  in  1842  became 
a  Fellow  of  Exeter  College,  In  1844  he 
was  ordained  a  deacon  in  the  Established 
Church,  and  for  some  time  was  reckoned  as 
one  of  the  High  Church  party  of  whom  J. 
H.  Newman  was  a  leader.  At  this  time  he 
wrote  many  biographies  in  the  series  enti- 
tled Lives  of  the  English  Saints.  In  1847 
he  published  anonymously  a  volume  of 
fiction  entitled  Shadows  of  the  CUmds. 
In  1848  appeared  his  Nemesis  of  Faith, 
which  evinced  that  he  had  come  to  differ 
widely  from  the  doctrines  of  the  Anglican 
Chuich.  His  two  works  were  severely  cen- 
sured by  the  authoi'ities  of  the  University. 
He  then  resigned  his  Fellowship,  and  was 
obliged  to  give  up  an  ap])ointment  which  he 
had  received  of  a  teachei'ship  in  Tasmania. 
After  this,  for  some  years  he  wrote  largely 
for  the  Westminster  Becieic  and  for  Era- 
ser's Magazine,  becoming  ultimately  for  a 
short  time  the  editor  of  the  latter  period- 
ical. He  had  in  the  mean  time  begun  his 
History  of  England  from  the  Fall  of 
Wolsey  to  tlie  Defeat  of  tlw  Spanish  Ar- 
mada. This  History  extends  to  twelve 
volumes,  of  which  the  first  two  appeared  in 
1850,  and  the  last  two  in  1870.  In  1867 
lie  put  forth  a  volume  of  Sho?'t  Studies  on 
Great  Suhjects,  consisting  of  Essays  which 
h^d  already  been  printed  in  various  peri- 
odicals, in  1842  he  formally  laid  down 
his  function  of  deacon  in  tlie  Anglican 
Church,  and  in  the  same  year  made  a  tour 
in  the  United  States,  where  he  delivered  a 
series  of  lectures  on  the  relations  existing 
between  England    and  Ireland.     Near  the 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE.— 2 

close  of  1874,  Mr.  Froiide  was  commis- 
sioned by  the  Secretary  of  State  for  the 
Colonies  to  visit  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope 
in  order  to  investigate  the  causes  which  led 
to  the  CaflFre  insurrection.  His  latest  works 
are.  The  English  in  Ireland  in  the  Eigh- 
teenth Centu/'i/ {lSll-74:),  CcBsar,  a  Sketch, 
(1879),  Biograpliy  of  Thomas  Carlyle 
(188^84),  and  Oceana^  an  account  of  a 
tour  through  the  British  Colonial  posses- 
sions (1886).  Besides  writing  the  "  Biog- 
raphy  of  Carlyle,"  he  edited  his  "  Remi- 
niscences.'' 

CHARACTER    OF    IIEXRY    VIII. 

Nature  had  been  prodigal  to  liim  of  her  rarest 
gifts.  In  person  he  is  said  to  have  resembled 
his  grandfather,  Edward  IV.,  who  was  the  hand- 
somest man  in  Europe.  His  form  and  bearing 
were  princely;  and  amidst  the  easy  freedom  of 
his  address,  his  manner  remained  majestic.  No 
knight  in  England  could  match  him  in  the  tour- 
nament, except  the  Duke  of  Suffolk ;  lie  drew 
with  case  as  strong  a  bow  as  was  borne  by  any 
yeoman  of  his  guard ;  and  these  powers  were 
sustained  in  unfailing  vigor  by  a  temperate  habit 
and  by  constant  exercise.  Of  his  intellectual 
ability  we  are  not  left  to  judge  from  the  suspi- 
cious panegyrics  of  his  contemporaries.  His 
state-papers  and  letters- may  be  placed  by  the 
side  of  those  of  Wolsey  or  of  Cromwell,  and 
they  lose  nothing  in  the  comparison.  Though 
they  arc  broadly  different,  the  perception  is 
equally  clear,  the  expression  equally  powerful, 
and  they  breathe  throughout  an  irresistible 
vigor  of  purpose.  In  atMition  to  this,  ho  had  a 
fine  musical  taste,  carefully  cultivated  ;  he  spoke 
and  wrote  in  four  languages ;  and  liis  knowledge 
of  a  miiltituilc  of  other  subjects,  with  which  hi.s 
versatile  ability  made  liim  convers.mt,  would 
have  foniu'cl  the  reputation  f)f  any  ordinary  man, 

lie  was  amonu  the  best  physicians  of  his  a<rc : 
1  1  ■  ...  f>    ^ 

(jc  wa.s  Ills  own  engineer,  inventing  improvemcnta 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE.— 3 

in  artillery,  and  new  constructions  in  sliip-build- 
ing ;  and  this  not  with  the  condscending  incapa- 
city of  a  royal  amateur,  but  with  thorough  work- 
manlike understanding.  His  reading  was  vast, 
especially  in  theology,  whicli  has  been  ridicu- 
lously ascribed  by  Lord  Herbert  to  his  father's 
intention  of  educating  him  for  the  archbishopric 
of  Canterbury — as  if  the  scientific  mastery  of 
such  a  subject  could  have  been  acquired  by  a  boy 
of  twelve  years  of  age — for  lie  was  no  more 
when  he  became  Prince  of  Wales.  He  must 
have  studied  theology  with  the  full  maturity  of 
his  understanding ;  and  he  had  a  fixed,  and  pcr- 
ha})s  unfortunate,  interest  in  the  subject  itself. 

In  all  directions  of  human  activity,  Henry  dis- 
played natural  powers  of  the  highest  order,  at 
the  highest  stretch  of  industrious  culture.  He 
was  "  attentive,"  as  it  is  called,  to  his  "  religious 
duties,"  being  present  at  the  services  in  the  chapel 
two  or  three  times  a  day  with  unfailing  regulari- 
ty, and  showing  to  outward  appearance  a  real 
sense  of  religious  obligation  in  the  energy  and 
purity  of  his  life.  In  private,  he  was  good- 
humored  and  good-natured.  His  letters  to  his 
secretaries,  though  never  undignified,  are  simple, 
easy  and  unrestrained  ;  and  the  letters  written  by 
them  to  him  are  similarly  plain  and  business-like, 
as  if  the  writers  knew  that  the  person  whom 
they  were  addressing  disliked  compliments,  and 
chose  to  be  treated  as  a  man.  Again,  from  their 
correspondence  with  one  another,  when  they  de- 
scribe interviews  with  him,  we  gpther  the  same 
pleasant  impression.  He  seems  to  have  been 
always  kind,  always  considerate  ;  inquiring  into 
their  private  concerns  with  genuine  interest,  and 
winning,  as  a  consequence,  their  warm  and  un- 
affected attachment. 

As  a  ruler,  he  had  been  eminently  popular. 
AH  his  wars  had  been  successful.  He  had  the 
splendid  tastes  in  which  the  English  people  most 
delighted,  and  he  had  substantially  acted  out  his 
own  theory  of  his  duty,  which  was  expressed  in 
the  following  words : 

348 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE.— 4 

"  Scripture  taketli  princes  to  be,  as  it  were, 
fathers  and  nurses  to  their  subjects,  and  by- 
Scripture  it  appeareth  that  it  appertaineth  unto 
the  office  of  princes  to  see  that  right  religion 
and  true  doctrine  be  maintained  and  taught,  and 
that  tlieir  subjects  may  be  well  ruled  and  gov- 
erned by  good  and  jUst  laws ;  and  to  provide 
and  care  for  them  that  all  things  necessary  for 
them  may  be  plenteous  ;  and  that  the  people  and 
commonweal  may  increase  ;  and  to  defend  them 
from  oppression  and  invasion,  as  well  within  the 
realm  as  without ;  and  to  see  that  justice  be  ad- 
ministered unto  them  indifferently ;  and  to  hear 
benignly  all  their  complaints ;  and  to  shew  to- 
wards them,  although  they  offend,  fatherly 
pity." 

These  principles  do  really  appear  to  have  de- 
termined Henry's  conduct  in  his  earlier  years. 
He  had  n)ore  than  once  been  tried  with  insur- 
rection, wlucli  lie  had  soothed  down  without 
bloodshed,  and  extinguished  in  forgiveness;  and 
London  long  recollected  the  great  scene  which 
followed  "evil  May-day,"  1517,  when  the  ap- 
prentices were  brought  down  to  Westminster 
Hall  to  receive  their  pardons.  There  had  been  a 
dangerous  riot  in  the  streets,  which  miglit  have 
provoked  a  mild  government  to  severity;  but  the 
king  contented  himself  with  punishing  the  five 
ringleaders,  and  four  liundred  otlicr  prisoners, 
after  being  paraded  down  the  streets  in  wliite 
sliirts  witli  lialters  round  tlicir  necks,  were  dis- 
missed with  an  a(hiionition,  Wolsey  weeping  as 
he  pronounced  it. — Jliatory  of  England. 

KXECI'TION  OF  MARY,   QL'EEH  OF  SCOTS. 

Briefly,  solemnly,  and  sternly,  the  Commis- 
sioners delivered  tlieir  awful  inessage.  They  in- 
formed her  that  tlicy  had  received  a  eommission 
under  the  great  seal  to  sec  her  executed,  and  she 
was  told  tliat.  bIic  must  prepare  to  suffer  on  the 
following  morning.  She  was  dreadfully  agi- 
tated. For  a  moment  slic  refused  to  believe 
them.     Then,  as  tlic   truth    forced    itself   upon 

Ml 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE.— 5 

her,  tossing  lier  head  in  tlisilain,  and  struggling 
to  control  herself,  she  called  her  physician,  and 
began  to  speak  to  him  of  money  that  was  owed 
to  her  in  France.  At  last  it  seems  that  she 
broke  down  altogether,  and  they  left  her  with  a 
fear  cither  that  she  would  destroy  herself  in  the 
night,  or  that  she  would  refuse  to  come  to  the 
scaffold,  and  that  it  might  be  necessary  to  drag 
her  there  by  violence. 

The  end  had  come.  She  had  long  professed 
to  expect  it,  but  the  clearest  expectation  is  not 
certainty.  The  scene  for  which  she  had  affected 
to  prepare  she  was  to  encounter  in  its  dread 
reality,  and  all  her  bnsy  schemes,  her  dreams  of 
vengeance,  her  visions  of  a  revolution,  with  her- 
self ascending  out  of  the  convulsion  and  seating 
herself  on  her  rival's  throne — all  were  gone.  She 
had  played  deep,  and  the  dice  had  gone  against 
her. 

Yet  in  death,  if  she  encountered  it  bravely, 
victory  was  still  possible.  Could  she  but  sustain 
to  the  last  the  character  of  a  calumniated  sup- 
pliant accepting  heroically  for  God's- sake  and 
her  creed's  the  concluding  stroke  of  a  long  series 
of  wrongs,  she  might  stir  a  tempest  of  indigna- 
tion which,  if  it  could  not  save  herself,  might  at 
least  overwhelm  her  enemy.  Persisting,  as  she 
persisted  to  the  last,  in  denying  all  knowledge  of 
Babington,  it  would  be  affectation  to  credit  her 
with  a  genuine  feeling  of  religion;  but  the  im- 
perfection of  her  motive  exalts  the  greatness  of 
her  fortitude.  To  an  impassioned  believer  death 
is  comparatively  easy 

At  eight  in  the  morning  the  provost-marshal 
knocked  at  the  outer  door  which  communicated 
with  her  suite  of  apartments.  It  was  locked,  and 
no  one  answered,  and  he  went  back  in  some 
trepidation  lest  the  fears  might  prove  true  which 
liad  been  entertained  the  [)receding  evening.  On 
his  return  with  the  sheriff,  however,  a  few  min- 
utes later,  the  door  was  open,  and  they  were 
confronted  with  the  tall,  majestic  figure  of  Mary 
Stuart  standing  before  them  in  splendor,     Th^ 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE.— 6 

plain  gray  dress  had  been  exchanged  for  a  robe 
of  black  satin;  her  jacket  was  of  black  satin 
also,  looped  and  slashed  and  trimmed  with  velvet. 
Her  false  hair  was  arranged  studiously  with  a 
coif,  and  over  her  head  and  falling  down  over 
her  back  was  a  white  veil  of  delicate  lawn.  A 
crucifix  of  gold  hung  from  her  neck.  In  her 
hand  she  held  a  crucifix  of  ivory,  and  a  number 
of  jewelled  paternosters  was  attached  to  her  gir- 
dle. Led  by  two  of  Paulet's  gentlemen,  the 
sheriff  walking  before  her,  she  passed  to  the 
chamber  of  presence  in  which  she  had  been 
tried,  where  Shrewsbury,  Kent,  Paulet,  Drury, 
and  others  were  waiting  to  receive  her.  Andrew 
Melville,  Sir  Robert's  brother,  who  had  been 
master  of  lier  household,  was  kneeling  in  tears. 
"  Melville,"  she  said,  "  you  should  rather  rejoice 
than  weep  that  the  end  of  my  troubles  is  come. 
Tell  my  friends  I  die  a  true  Catholic.  Commend 
me  to  my  son.  Tell  him  I  have  done  nothing  to 
prejudice  his  kingdom  of  Scotland,  and  so,  good 
Melville,  farewell."  She  kissed  him,  and  turning, 
asked  for  her  chaplain  Du  Preau.  He  was  not 
present.  There  had  been  a  fear  of  some  reli- 
gious melodrama  which  it  was  thought  well  to 
avoid.  Her  ladies,  who  had  attempted  to  follow 
her,  had  been  kept  back  also.  She  could  not 
afford  fo  leave  the  account  of  her  death  to  be  re- 
ported by  enemies  and  Puritans,  and  she  rc(|uired 
assistance  for  the  scene  which  she  meditated. 
Missing  them,  she  asked  the  reason  of  their 
absence,  and  said  slie  wished  them  to  see  her 
die.  Kent  said  he  feared  they  might  scream  or 
faint,  or  attempt  perhaps  to  dip  their  liandker- 
chiefs  in  her  blood.  She  undertook  that  they 
should  be  qui<;t  and  obedient.  "The  queen," 
she  said,  "  would  never  deny  lier  so  slight  a 
request ;"  and  when  Kent  still  hesitated,  she 
added,  with  tears,  "  Vou  know  I  am  cousin  to 
your  Queen,  of  the  blood  of  Henry  the  Seventh, 
a  married  Queen  of  France,  and  anointed 
Queen  of    Scotland." 

It  was  impossible  to  refuse.     She  was  allowed 

Ml 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE.— "S* 

to  take  six  of  lier  own  people  with  lier,  and  select 
them  herself.  She  chose  her  physician  Bur- 
goyne,  Andrew  Melville,  the  apothecary  Gorion, 
and  her  surgeon,  with  two  ladies,  Elizabeth  Ken- 
nedy and  Curie's  young  wife  Barbara  Mowbray, 
whose  child  she  had  baptized.  "  AUons  donc,^^ 
she  then  said,  "  let  us  go ;"  and  passing  out 
attended  by  the  earls,  and  leaning  on  the  arm  of 
an  officer  of  the  guard,  she  descended  the  great 
staircase  to  the  hall.  The  news  liad  spread  far 
through  the  country.  Thousands  of  people  were 
collected  outside  the  w^alls.  About  tliree  hundred 
knights  and  gentlemen  of  the  country  had  been 
admitted  to  witness  the  execution.  The  tables 
and  forms  ]>ad  been  removed,  and  a  great  wood 
fire  was  blazing  in  the  chimney.  At  tlie  upper 
end  of  the  hall,  above  the  fireplace,  but  near  it, 
stood  the  scaffold,  twelve  feet  square,  and  two 
feet  and  a  half  high.  It  was  covered  with  black 
cloth ;  a  low  rail  ran  round  it  covered  with  black 
cloth  also,  and  the  sheriff's  guard  of  halberdiers 
were  ranged  on  the  floor  below  on  the  four  sides, 
to  keep  off  the  crowd.  On  the  scaffold  was  the 
block,  black  like  the  rest;  a  square  black  cushion 
was  placed  behind  it,  and  behind  the  cushion  a 
black  chair ;  on  the  right  were  two  other  chairs 
for  the  earls.  The  axe  leant  against  the  rail,  and 
two  masked  figures  stood  like  mutes  "on  either 
side  at  the  back.  The  Queen  of  Scots,  as  she 
swept  in,  seemed  as  if  coming  to  take  a  part  in 
some  solemn  pageant.  Not  a  muscle  of  her  face 
could  be  seen  to  quiver ;  she  ascended  the  scaf- 
fold with  absolute  composure,  looked  round  her 
smiling,  and  sat  down.  Shrewsbury  and  Kent 
followed,  and  took  their  places,  the  sheriff  stood 
at  her  left  hand,  and  Beale  then  mounted  a  plat- 
form, and  read  the  warrant  aloud 

She  laid  her  crucifix  on  her  chair.  The  chief 
executioner  took  it  as  a  perquisite,  but  was  or- 
dered instantly  to  lay  it  down.  The  lawn  veil 
was  lifted  carefully  off,  not  to  disturb  the  hair, 
and  was  hung  upon  the  rail.  The  black  robe  was 
next  removed.    Below  it  was  a  petticoat  of  crim- 

3(S 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE.— 8 

son  velvet.  The  black  jacket  followed,  and 
under  the  jacket  was  a  body  of  crimson  satin. 
One  of  her  ladies  handed  her  a  pair  of  crimson 
sleeves,  with  which  she  hastily  covered  her 
arms  :  and  thus  she  stood  on  the  black  scaffold 
•with  the  black  figures  all  around  her,  blood-red 
from  head  to  foot.  Her  reasons  for  adopting  so 
extraordinary  a  costume  must  be  left  to  conjec- 
ture. It  is  only  certain  that  it  must  have  been 
carefully  studied,  and  that  the  pictorial  effect 
must  have  been  appalling. 

The  women,  whose  firmness  had  hitherto 
borne  the  trial,  began  now  to  give  way  ;  spas- 
modic sobs  bursting  from  them  which  they 
could  not  check.  '■'■Ne  criez  vous,^''  she  said, 
"fay  2^^'Oinis  pour  vousy  Struggling  bravely, 
they  crossed  their  breasts  again  and  again,  she 
crossing  them  in  turn,  and  bidding  them  pray 
for  her.  Then  she  knelt  on  the  cushion.  Barbara 
Mowbray  bound  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief. 
"xlrfi'eM,"  she  said,  smiling  for  the  last  time,  and 
waving  her  hand  to  tliem  ;  "  adieu,  au  revob-y 
They  stepped  back  from  off  the  scaffold,  and 
left  her  alone.  On  her  knees  she  repeated  the 
psalm,  " In  te,  Dom'me,  conjido,"  "  In  thee,  O 
Lord,  have  I  put  my  trust."'  llcr  shoulders 
being  exposed,  two  scars  became  visible,  one  on 
cither  side,  and  the  earls  being  now  a  little  be- 
hind her,  Kent  pointed  to  them  with  his  white 
wand,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  his  companion. 
Shrewsbury  whispered  that  they  were  the  remains 
of  two  abscesses  from  which  she  had  suffered 
while  living  with  him  at  Sheffield. 

When  the  j).salni  was  finished  she  felt  for  the 
block,  and,  laying  down  her  head,  muttered: 
"In  mannn,  Dniiiinc,  (na.<i,  coiamendo  (inimam 
meam.'"  The  hard  wood  seemed  to  hurt  her, 
for  she  placed  her  hands  under  licr  neck.  The 
oxecutioners  gontly  removed  them,  lest  they 
slioidd  deaden  the  l>low,  and  then  one  of  them 
holding  her  slightly,  tlic  other  raised  the  axe 
and  struck.  The  scene  had  been  too  trying 
even  for  the  practised  licadsman  of  the  tower. 

3M 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE.— 9 

His  aim  wandered.  Tlie  blow  fell  on  the  knot 
of  the  haiidkei chief,  and  scarcely  broke  the 
skin.  She  neither  spoke  nor  moved.  lie  struck 
again,  this  time  effectively.  The  head  hung  bv 
a  shred  of  skin,  which  he  divided  without  with- 
drawing the  axe  ;  and  at  once  a  metamorphosis 
was  witnessed,  strange  as  was  ever  wrought  by 
wand  of  fabled  enchanter.  The  coif  fell  off 
and  the  false  plaits.  The  labored  illusion  van- 
ished. The  lady  who  had  knelt  before  the 
block  was  in  the  maturity  of  grace  and  loveliness. 
The  executioner,  when  he  raised  the  head,  as 
usual,  to  show  to  the  crowd,  exposed  the  with- 
ered features  of  a  grizzled,  wrinkled  old  woman. 
"So  perish  all  enemies  of  the  Queen,"  said 
the  Dean  of  Peterborough.  A  loud  amen 
rose  over  the  hall.  "  Such  end,"  said  the  Earl  of 
Kent,  rising  and  standing  over  the  body,  "  to 
the  Queen's  and  the  Gospel's  enemies." — His- 
tory of  England. 

THE   WHITE   TERRACE,  LAKE   TARAWARA,  NEW 
ZEALAND. 

In  the  morning  we  had  to  start  early,  for  we 
had  a  long  day's  work  cut  out  for  us.  We  were 
on  foot  at  seven.  The  weather  was  fine,  with  a 
faint  cool  breeze,  a  few  clouds,  but  no  sign  of 
rain.  Five  Maori  boatmen  were  in  attendance 
to  carry  coats  and  luncheon-basket.     Kate  *  prc- 

*  Kate  had  already  been  described,  "a  bi.ir,  l)alf- 
caste,  bony  woman  of  forty,  stone-deaf,  witli  a  form 
like  an  Amazon's,  features  liice  a  prize-fighter's,  and 
an  arm  that  would  fell  an  ox.  Slie  liad  a  blue  petti- 
coat on,  a  brown  jacket,  and  a  red  liandliercliief 
about  her  hair.  I  inquired  if  this  virago  (for  such 
slie  appeared)  liad  a  husband.  I  was  told  that  she 
had  had  eight  iuisbands,  and  on  my  asking  what  iiad 
become  of  them,  I  got  for  answer  iliat  lliey  had  died 
away  someliow.  Poor  Kate!  I  don't  know  tiiat  she 
had  ever  had  so  much  as  one.  Tliere  were  lying 
tongues  at  Wairoa  as  well  as  in  other  places.  She 
was  a  little  elated;  I  believe,  wiien  we  first  saw  her; 
but  was  quiet  and  womanly  eiiougli  next  day.  Her 
strengtli  slie  had  done  good  service  with,  and  she 
herself  was  probably  better,  and  not  worse,  thaa 
many  of  her  neighbors." 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE.— 10 

sented  herself  with  a  subdued  demeanor,  a^ 
aorreeable  as  it  was  unexpected.  She  looked  pic- 
turesque, with  a  gray,  tight-fitting  woollen  bod- 
dice,  a  scarlet  skirt,  a  light  scarf  about  her  neck, 
and  a  grav  billicock  hat  with  a  pink  ribbon. 
She  had  a' headache,  she  said,  but  was  mild  and 
gentle.  I  disbelieved  entirely  in  the  story  of  the 
eight  husbands. 

"\Ve  descended  to  the  lake  head.  The  boat 
was  a  long,  light  gig,  unfit  for  storms,  but  Lake 
Tarawara  lay  unruffled  in  the  sunshine,  tree  and 
mountain  peacefully  mirrored  on  the  surface. 
The  color  was  again  green,  as  of  a  shallow  sea. 
Heavy  bushes  fringed  the  shore ;  high,  wooded 
mountains  rose  on  all  sides  of  us,  as  we  left  the 
creek  and  came  out  upon  the  open  water.  The 
men  rowed  well,  laughing  and  talking  among 
themselves,  and  carried  us  in  a  little  more  than 
an  hour  to  a  poiTit  eight  miles  distant.  We 
were  now  in  an  arm  of  the  lake  which  reached 
throe  miles  further.  At  the  head  of  this  we 
landed  by  the  mouth  of  a  small  rapid  river,  and 
looked  about  us.  It  was  a  pretty  spot,  overhung 
by  precipitous  cliffs,  with  ivy  fern  climbing  over 
them.  A  hot-spring  was  bubbling  violently 
through  a  hole  in  the  rock.  The  ground  was 
littered  with  the  sliells  of  unnumbered  crayfish 
wliicli  had  been  boiled  in  this  caldron  of  Nature's 
providing. 

Uerc  we  were  joined  by  a  native  girl,  Mari- 
leha  by  name,  a  bright-looking  lass  of  eigh- 
teen witli  merry  eyes,  and  a  thick  well-combed 
mass  of  raven  hair  (shot  with  orange  in  the  sun- 
light) which  she  tossed  about  over  her  shoulders. 
On  her  back,  thrown  jaujitily  on,  she  had  a 
shawl  of  feathers,  which  Eli)hinstonc  wanted  to 
l)iiv,  but  found  tlie  young  lady  coy.  She  was 
a  friend  of  Katij's,  it  appeared,  was  (|ualifyiiig  for 
a  guide,  and  wa.s  to  be  o.ir  companion,  we  were 
told,  through  the  day.  I  licard  the  news  with 
some  anxiety,  for  there  was  said  to  he  a  delicious 
basin  of  lukewarm  water  on  one  of  the  terraces, 
in  which  custom  required  us  to  bathe.     Our  two 

3I( 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE.— 11 

lady-gnidcs  would  provide  towels,  and  officiate, 
ill  fact,  as  batliing-wometi.  Tlie  fair  Polycasta 
had  bathed  Tclcinaclms,  and  the  (jueenly  Helen 
with  her  own  royal  hands  had  bathed  Ulysses 
when  he  came  disguised  to  Troy.  So  Kate  was 
to  bathe  us,  and  Miss  Marileha  was  to  assist  in 
the  process. 

We  took  off  our  boots  and  stockings,  and 
put  on  canvas  shoes  which  a  wetting  would  not 
spoil,  and  followed  our  two  guides  through  the 
bush,  waiting  for  what  fate  had  in  store  for  us, 
Miss  Mari  laughing,  shouting,  and  singing,  to 
amuse  Kate,  whose  head  still  ached.  After  a 
winding  walk  of  half  a  mile,  we  came  again  on 
the  river,  which  was  rushing  deep  and  swift 
through  reeds  and  Ti-tree.  A  rickety  canoe  was 
waiting  there,  in  which  we  crossed,  climbed  up 
a  bank,  and  stretched  before  us  we  saw  the  White 
Terrace  in  all  its  strangeness;  a  crystal  staircase, 
glittering  and  stainless  as  if  it  were  ice,  spread- 
ing oat  like  an  open  fan  from  a  point  above  us 
on  the  hillside,  and  projecting  at  the  bottom  into 
a  lake,  where  it  was  perhaps  two  hundred  yards 
wide.  The  summit  was  concealed  behind  the 
volumes  of  steam  rising  out  of  the  boiling  foun- 
tain, from  which  the  siliceous  stream  proceeded. 
The  stairs  were  twenty  in  number,  the  height  of 
each  being  six  or  seven  feet.  The  floors  divid- 
ing them  were  horizontal,  as  if  laid  out  with  a 
spirit-  level.  They  were  of  uneven  breadth ; 
twenty,  thirty,  fifty  feet,  or  even  more;  each  step 
down  being  always  perpendicular,  and  all  form- 
ing arcs  of  a  circle  of  which  the  crater  was  the 
centre.  On  reaching  the  lake  the  silica  flowed 
away  into  the  water,  where  it  lay  in  a  sheet  half- 
submerged,  like  ice  at  the  beginning  of  a  thaw. 
There  was  nothing  in  the  fall  of  the  ground  to 
account  for  the  regularity  of  shape. 

A  crater  has  been  opened  through  the  rock 
120  feet  above  the  lake.  The  water,  which 
comes  up  boiling  from  below,  is  charged  as 
heavily  as  it  will  bear  with  silicic  acid.  The 
silica  crystalizes  as  it  is  exposed  to  the  air.     The 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FR0UDE.-12 

water  continues  to  flow  over  the  hardened  sur- 
face, continually  adding  a  fresh  boating  to  thfe 
deposits  already  laid  down ;  and,  for  reasons 
which  men  of  science  can  no  doubt  supply,  th^ 
crystals  take  the  form  which  I  have  described: 
The  process  is  a  rapid  one;  A  piece  of  newspa^ 
per  left  behind  by  a  recent  visitor^  was  already 
stifi  as  the  starched  collar  of  a  shirt;  Tourists 
ambitious  of  immortality  have  pencilled  theit' 
names  and  the  date  of  their  visit  on  the  white 
surface  over  which  the  stream  was  running. 
Some  of  the  inscriptions  were  six  and  seven  years 
old,  yet  the  strokes  were  as  fresh  as  on  the  day 
thev  were  made,  being  protected  by  tne  film  of 
glass  which  was  instantly  drawn  over  them. 

The  thickness  of  the  crust  is,  I  believe,  unas- 
certained>.  the  Maoris  objecting  to  scientific  ex- 
amination of  their  treasure.  It  struck  me,  how- 
ever, that  this  singular  cascade  must  have  been 
of  recent-^indeed  measurably  recent — origin. 
In  the  middle  of  the  terrace  were  the  remains  of 
a  Ti-tree  bush,  which  was  standing  where  a  small 
patch  of  soli  was  still  uncovered.  Part  of  this, 
where  the  silica  had  not  reached  the  roots,  was 
in  leaf  and  alive.  The  rest  had  been  similarly 
alive  withm  a  year  or  two,  for  it  had  not  yet 
rotted,  but  had  died  as  the  crust  rose  round  it. 
It  appeared  to  mc  that  this  particular  staircase 
was  not  perhaps  a  hundred  years  old,  but  that 
terraces  like  it  had  successively  been  formed  all 
along  the  hillside,  as  the  crater  opened  now  at 
one  spot,  and  now  at  another.  Wherever  the 
rock  showed  elsewhere  through  the  soil,  it  was 
of  the  same  material  as  that  whicli  I  saw  grow- 
ing. If  the  supply  of  silicic  acid  was  stopped, 
tlic  surface  would  dry  and  crack.  Ti-trees  would 
then  spring  up  over  it.  The  crystal  steps  would 
crumble  into  less  regular  outlines,  and  in  a  cen- 
tury or  two  the  fairy-like  wonder  which  we  were 
gazing  at  would  be  indistinguishable  from  the 
adjoining  slopes.  We  walked,  or  rather  waded 
ujiward  to  the  boiling  pool.  It  was  not  in  this 
tliat  we  were  to  be  bathed.     It  was  about  sixty 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE.— 1^ 

feet  across,  and  was  of  unknown  depth.  The 
licat  was  too  intense  to  allow  us  to  a{)])roacli  tlie 
edge,  and  we  could  sec  little  from  the  dense 
clouds  of  steam  wliich  la\-  upon  it.  We  were 
more  fortunate  afterwards'  at  the  crater  of  the 
second  terrace.  The  crystallization  is  ice-like, 
and  the  phenomena,  except  for  the  alternate  liori- 
zontal  and  vertical  arrangement  of  the  deposited 
silica,  is  like  what  would  be  seen  in  any  North- 
ern region  when  a  severe  frost  suddenly  seizes 
hold  of  a  waterfall  before  snow  has  fallen  and 
buried  it. —  Oceana,  Chap.  XVI. 

THE    devil's    hole. 

A  fixed  number  of  minutes  is  allotted  for  each 
of  the  "siglits."  Kate  was  peremptory  with 
Eli)hinstone  and  myself.  Miss  Marilelia  had 
charge  of  my  son.  ''Come  along,  boy  !"  I  heard 
lier  say  to  liim.  We  were  dragged  off  the  White 
Terrace  in'spite  of  ourselves, "but  soon  forgot  it 
in  the  many  and  various  wonders  which  were 
waiting  for  us.  Columns  of  steam  were  risijig 
all  round  us.  We  had  already  lieard,  near  at 
liand,  a  noise  like  tlie  l)last-pipc  of  some  enor- 
mous steam-engine.  Climbing  up  a  rocky  path 
through  the  bush,  we  came  on  a  black  gaping 
chasm,  the  craggy  sides  of  which  we  could  just 
distinguish  through  the  vapor.  Water  was  boil- 
ing furiously  at  the  bottom,  and  it  was  as  if  a 
legion  of  imprisoned  devils  were  warring  to  be 
let  out.  "  Devil's  Hole"  they  called  the  place, 
and  the  name  suited  well  with  it.  Behind  a 
rock  a  few  yards  distant  we  found  a  large  open 
pool,  boiling  also  so  violently  that  great  columns 
of  water  heaved  and  rolled  and  spouted  as  if  m 
»■  gigantic  saucepan  standing  over  a  furnace.  It 
was  full  of  sulphur.  Heat,  noise,  and  smoke 
were  alike  intolerable.  To  look  at  the  thing  and 
then  escape  from  it,  was  all  that  we  could  do; 
and  we  were  glad  to  be  led  away  out  of  sight 
and  hearing. 

Again  a  climb,  and  we  were  on  an  open  level 
plateau,  two  acres  or  so  in  extent,  smoking  rocks 


JAMES  a^-tho:ny  FKOUDE.— 14 

all  round  it,  and  scatteicd  ovci*  its  surface  a 
number  of  pale  brown  nuid-hills,  exactly  like 
African  ant-hills.  Each  of  these  was  the 
cone  of  some  sulphurous  Geyser.  Some  were 
quiet,  some  were  active.  Suspicious  bubbles 
of  steam  spurted  out  under  our  feet  as  we  trod, 
and  we  were  warned  to  be  careful  where  we 
went.  Here  we  found  a  photographer,  who 
had  bought  permission  from  the  Maoris,  at  work 
with  his  instruments,  and  Marileha  was  made  to 
stand  for  her  likeness  on  the  top  of  one  of  the 
mud-piles.  We  did  not  envy  him  his  occupa- 
tion, for  the  whole  place  smelt  of  brimstone 
and  of  the  near  neighborhood  of  the  Nether  Pit. 
Our  own  attention  was  directed  especially  to  a 
hole  filled  with  mud  of  a  peculiar  kind,  much  rel- 
ished by  the  natives,  and  eaten  by  them  as  por- 
ridge. To  us,  who  had  oecn  curious  about  their 
food,  this  dirty  mess  was  interesting.  It  did  not, 
however,  solve  the  problem.  Mud  could  hardly 
be  as  nutritious  as  they  professed  to  find  it, 
though  it  may  liave  had  medicinal  virtues  to  as- 
sist the  digestion  of  the  crawfish. —  Oceana,  Chap. 
XVI. 

Ll'.VCH-TIME. 

The  lake  into  which  the  Terrace  descended 
lay  close  below  us.  It  was  green  and  hot  (the 
temperature  near  100°),  patclied  over  with  beds 
of  rank  reed  and  rush,  which  were  forced  into 
unnatural  luxuriance.  After  leaving  the  mud- 
heaps  we  wont  down  to  the  water- side,  where  we 
found  our  luncheon  laid  out  in  an  open-air  saloon, 
with  a  smooth  floor  of  silica,  and  natural  slabs  of 
silica  ranged  round  the  sides  as  benrhes.  Steam- 
fountains  were  playing  in  half-a-dozen  {)laccs. 
The  floor  was  hot — a  mere  skin  between  us  and 
Cocytus.  The  slabs  were  hot  just  to  the  point 
of  being  agreeable  to  sit  upon.  This  spot  was  a 
favorit(!  winter  resort  of  the  .Maori — their  palav- 
ering liall,  where  they  had  their  Constitutional 
DebateH,  tlicir  store-room,  their  kitchen,  ami 
their  <lining-rooin.  I  lore  they  had  their  inno- 
cent meals  on  dried  fish  and  fruit ;  here  also  their 
u» 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FllOUDE.— 15 

less  innocent,  on  dried  slices  of  their  enemies. 
At  present  it  seemed  to  be  made  over  to  visitors 
like  ourselves. —  Oceania,  Chap.  XVI. 

THE    PINK    TERRACE,    LAKE    TARAWARA. 

We  were  now  to  be  ferried  across  the  lake. 
The  canoe  had  been  brought  up — a  scooped-out 
tree-trunk  as  long  as  a  racing  eight-oar,  and  about 
as  narrow.  It  was  leaky,  and  so  low  in  the  water 
that  the  lightest  ripple  washed  over  the  gunwale. 
The  bottom,  however,  was  littered  with  fresh- 
gathered  fern,  which  for  the  present  was  dry,  and 
we  were  directed  to  lie  down  upon  it.  Marileha 
stood  in  the  bow,  wielding  her  paddle,  with  her 
elf-locks  rolling  wildly  down  her  back.  The  hot 
waves  lapped  in,  and  splashed  us.  The  lake  was 
■weird  and  evil-looking.  Here  Kate  had  earned 
her  medal  from  the  Humane  Society.  Some 
gentleman,  unused  to  boats,  had  lost  his  balance, 
or  his  courage,  and  had  fallen  overboard.  Kate 
had  dived  after  him  as  he  sank,  and  fished  him 
up  again. 

The  Pink  Terrace,  the  object  of  our  voyage, 
opened  out  before  us  on  the  opposite  shore.  It 
was  formed  on  the  same  lines  as  the  other,  save 
that  it  was  narrower,  and  was  flushed  with  a  pale 
rose-color.  Oxide  of  iron  is  said  to  be  the  cause, 
but  there  is  probably  something  besides.  The 
water  has  not,  I  believe,  been  completely  analyzed. 
Miss  Mari  used  her  paddle  like  a  mistress. 
She  carried  us  over  with  no  worse  misfortune 
than  a  slight  splashing,  and  landed  us  at  the  Ter- 
race-foot. It  was  here,  if  anywhere,  that  ablu- 
tions were  to  take  place.  To  my  great  relief  I 
found  that  a  native  youth  was  waiting  with  the 
towels,  and  that  we  were  to  be  spared  the  ladies' 
assistance.  They — Kate  and  Mari — withdrew  to 
wallow,  rhinoceros-like,  in  a  mud-pool  of  their 
own. 

The  youth  took  charge  of  us,  and  led  us  up 
the  shining  stairs.  The  crystals  were  even  more 
beautiful  than  those  which  we  had  seen,  falling 
like  clusters  of  rosy  icicles,  or  hanging  in  festoons 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE.— 16 

like  creepers  trailing  from  a  rail.  At  the  foot 
of  each  cascade  the  water  lay  in  pools  of  ultra- 
marine, their  exquisite  color  being  due  in  part,  I 
suppose,  to  the  light  of  the  sky,  refracted  up- 
wards from  the  bottom.  In  the  deepest  of  these 
we  were  to  bathe.  The  temperature  was  94^^  or 
9.5*^.  The  water  lay  inviting  in  its  crystal  basin. 
Tlie  warer  was  deep  enough  to  swim  in  comfort- 
ably, though  not  over  our  heads.  We  lay  on 
our  backs  and  floated  for  ten  minutes  in  exquis- 
ite enjoyment,  and  the  alkali  or  the  flint,  or  the 
perfect  purity  of  the  clement,  seemed  to  saturate 
our  systems.  I,  for  one,  when  I  was  dressed 
again,  could  have  fancied  myself  back  in  the  old 
days  when  I  did  not  know  that  I  had  a  body, 
and  could  run  up  hill  as  lightly  as  down. 

The  bath  over,  we  pursued  our  way.  The 
niarsel  of  the  Terrace  was  still  before  us,  re- 
served to  the  last,  like  the  finish  in  a  pheasant 
battue.  The  crater  at  the  Wjiite  Terrace  had 
been  boiling;  the  steam  rusliing  out  of  it  had 
filled  the  air  with  a  cloud  ;  and  the  scorching  heat 
had  kept  us  at  a  distance.  Here  the  tempera- 
ture was  twenty  degrees  lower;  there  was  still 
vapor  hovering  over  the  surface,  but  it  was 
lighter  and  more  transparent,  and  a  soft  breeze 
now  and  then  blew  it  completely  aside.  We 
could  stand  on  the  brim  and  gaze  as  through  an 
opening  in  the  earth  into  an  azure  infinity  beyond. 
Down  and  down,  and  fainter  and  softer  as  they 
receded,  the  white  crystals  projected  from  the 
rocky  walls  over  the  abyss,  till  they  seemed  to 
dissolve  not  into  darkness  but  into  light.  The 
hue  of  the  water  was  something  which  I  had 
never  seen,  and  shall  never  again  see  on  this  side 
of  eternity.  Not  the  violet,  not  the  harebell, 
nearest  in  its  tint  to  heaven  of  all  nature's  flow- 
ers;  not  turquoise,  not  sapphire,  not  the  unfath- 
omable a-llier  itself,  could  convey  to  one  who 
had  not  looked  on  it,  a  sense  of  that  supernatu- 
ral loveliness.  The  only  color  I  ever  saw  in  sky 
or  oti  earth  in  the  lea-st  rosoinbling  the  aspect  of 
this  extraordinary  pool  wxs  the  flame  of  burning 

2(1 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE.— 17 

sulphur.  Here  was  a  bath,  if  mortal  flesh  could 
have  borne  to  dive  into  it !  Had  it  been  in  Nor- 
way, we  should  have  seen  far  do^vn  the  floating 
Lorelei  inviting  us  to  })hinge,  and  leave  life  and 
all  belonging  to  it  for  such  a  home  and  such 
companionship.  It  was  a  bath  for  the  gods  and 
not  for  man.  Artemis  and  her  nymphs  should 
have  been  swimming  there,  and  we  Actieons  dar- 
ing our  fate  to  gaze   on  them. —  Oceana,  Chap. 

xVi. 

The  visit  to  tlie  Pink  and  White  Terraces 
of  LakeTarawara  took  place  in  March,  1885 
— that  is,  in  early  Autumn  in  the  Southern 
Hemispliere.  A  year  or  so  afterwards  these 
wonderful  Terraces  were  well-nigh  de- 
stroyed by  the  great  cataclysm  of  1886. 

ENGLAND  AND  HER  COLONIES. 

The  Colonists  are  a  part  of  us.  They  have  as 
little  thought  of  leaving  us  as  an  affectionate 
wife  thinks  of  leaving  her  husband.  The  mar- 
ried pair  may  have  their  little  disagreements,  but 
their  partnership  is  for  "as  long  as  they  both 
shall  live."  Our  differences  with  the  Colonists 
have  been  aggravated  by  the  class  of  persons 
with  whom  they  'have  been  brought  officially 
into  contact.  The  administration  of  the  Colo- 
nial Oflice  has  been  generally  in  the  hands  of 
men  of  rank,  or  of  men  who  aspire  to  rank ;  and 
altliough  these  high  persons  are  fair  representa- 
tives of  the  interests  which  they  have  been  edu- 
cated to  understand,  they'  are  not  the  fittest  to  con- 
duct our  relations  with  connnunities  of  English- 
men with  whom  they  have  imperfect  sympathy, 
in  the  absence  of  a  well-informed  public  ojjinion 
to  guide  them.  The  Colonists  are  socially  their 
inferiors,  out  of  their  sphere,  and  without,  per- 
sonal point  of  contact.  Secretaries  of  State  lie 
yet  under  the  shadow  of  the  old  impression  that 
Colonies  exist  only  for  the  benefit  of  the  Mother 
Country.  When  they  found  that  they  could  no 
longer  tax  the  Colonics,  or  lay  their  trade  under 

Hi 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE.— 18 

restraint,  for  England's  supposed  advantage,  they 
utilized  them  as  penal  stations.  Tliey  distrib- 
uted the  colonial  patronage,  the  lucrative  places 
of  public  eniplo3ment,  to  j)rovide  for  friends  or 
for  pofttical  supporters.  When  this,  too,  ceased 
to  be  possible,  they  acquiesced  easily  in  the  theory 
that  the  Colonies  were  no  longer  of  any  use  to 
us  at  all.  The  alteration  of  the  suffrage  may  make 
a  difference  in  the  personnel  of  our  Departments, 
but  it  will  not  probably  do  so  to  any  great  ex- 
tent. A  seat  in  the  House  of  Commons  is  an 
expensive  privilege,  and  the  choice  is  'practically 
limited.  Not  every  one,  however  public-spirited 
he  may  be,  can  afford  a  large  sum  for  the  mere 
honor  of  serving  liis  country ;  and  those  whose 
fortune  and  station  in  society  is  already  secured, 
and  who  have  no  private  interests  to  serve,  are, 
on  the  whole,  the  most  to  be  depended  upon. 
But  the  People  are  now  sovereign,  and  ofhcials 
of  all  ranks  will  obey  their  masters.  It  is  with 
the  People  that  the  Colonists  feel  a  real  relation- 
ship. Let  the  Peo{)le  give  the  otheials  to  under- 
stand that  the  bond  which  holds  the  Empire  to- 
gether is  not  to  be  weakened  any  niore,  but  is  to 
be  maintained  and  strengthened,  and  they  will 
work  as  readily  for  purposes  of  union  as  they 
worked  in  the  other  direction,  when  "the  other 

direction"  was  the  prevvailing  one 

After  all  is  said,  it  Is  on  ourselves  that  the  fu- 
ture depends.  We  are  passinir  through  a  crisis 
in  our  national  existence,  atnl  the  wisest  can  not 
say  what  lies  before  us.  If  the  English  charac- 
ter comes  out  of  the  trial  true  to  its  old  tradi- 
tions— bold  in  heart  and  clear  in  eye,  seeking 
notliing  which  is  not  its  own,  but  resolved  to 
maintain  its  own  with  its' hand  upon  its  sword — 
the  far-olT  Kiigli^h  dependi-ncies  will  cling  to 
their  old  h<»me,  and  will  look  up  io  her  and  be 
still  proud  to  belong  to  her,  and  will  seek  tlieir 
own  greatness  in  promoting  hers.  If,  on  the 
contrary  (for  among  the  possibilities  there  is  a 
contrary),  the  erratic  policy  is  to  be  continued 
whicli  for  the  hist  few  years  hun  been  the  world'* 

Ml 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE— 19 

wonder ;  if  \vc  sliow  that  we  have  no  longer  any 
settled  principles  of  action,  that  we  let  ourselves 
drift  into  into  idle  wars  and  unprovoked  blood- 
shed ;  if  we  are  incapable  of  keeping-  or4,er  even 
in  our  own  Ireland,  and  let  it  fall  away  from  us 
or  sink  into  anarchy ;  if,  in  short,  we  let  it  be 
seen  that  we  have  chanoed  our  nature,  and  arc 
not  the  same  men  with  those  who  once  made  our 
name  feared  and  honored,  then,  in  ceasing  to  de- 
serve respect,  we  shall  cease  to  be  respected. 
The  Colonies  will  not  purposely  desert  us,  but 
they  will  look  each  to  itself,  knowing  that  from 
us,  and  from  their  connection  with  us,  there  is 
nothing  more  to  be  hoped  for.  The  cord  will 
Avear  into  a  thread,  and  one  accident  will  break 
it. —  Oceana,  Chap.  XXI. 

EKASMUS    IN    ENGLAND. 

Erasmus  was  a  restless  creature,  and  did  no 
like  to  be  caged  or  tethered.  He  declined  the 
ofier  of  a  large  pension  which  King  Henry 
made  him  if  he  would  remain  in  England,  and 
Mountjoy  settled  a  pension  on  him  instead. 
He  had  now  a  handsome  income,  and  he  under- 
stood the  art  of  enjoying  it.  He  moved  about 
as  he  pleased — now  to  Cambridge,  now  to 
Oxford,  and,  as  the  humor  took  him,  back 
again  to  Paris;  now  staying  with  Sir  Thomas 
More  at  Chelsea,  now  going  a  pilgrimage  with 
Dean  Colet  to  Becket's  tomb  at  Canterbury — 
but  always  studying,  always  gathering  knowl- 
edge, and  throwing  it  out  again,  steeped  in  his 
own  mother-wit,  in  shining  Essays  or  Dialogues, 
which  were  the  delight  and  the  despair  of  his 
contemporaries.  Everywhere,  in  his  love  of 
pleasure,  in  his  habits  of  thought,  in  his  sarcas- 
tic skepticism,  you  see  the  healthy,  clever,  well- 
disposed,  tolerant,  epicurian,  intellectual  man  of 
the  world. — Historical  Essays. 


^     ANDREW  FULLER.-l 

FULLER,  Andrew,  an  English  clergy- 
man, born  in  175-i;  died  in  1815.  In  1775 
he  became  minister  of  a  Baptist  congrega- 
tion at  Soham.  and  in  1782  of  one  at  Ket- 
tering, in  Northamptonshire,  the  place  of 
his  birth,  and  of  his  residence  daring  the 
remainder  of  his  life.  His  first  published 
work  was  a  treatise  entitled  The  Gospel 
Worthij  of  All  Acceptation  (1781:).  In 
1799-1806  he  put  forth  a  series  of  Dia- 
logues and  Letti^rs.  In  1791:  he  published 
The  Calvinistic  and  Socinian  System  com- 
pared. To  this  Dr.  Toulmin  replied  in  a 
work  defending  the  Unitarian  doctrine, 
and  Mr.  Fuller  rejoined  in  a  treatise  enti- 
tled Socinianisni  indefensible,  on  the 
Ground  of  its  Moral  Tendency.  He  pub- 
lished many  sermons  and  other  theological 
treatises,  and  took  an  active  part  in  the  es- 
tablishment and  management  of  the  Bap- 
tist Missionary  Society,  of  which  he  was 
the  first  Secretary.  His  Complete  Works 
■were  published  in  8  octavo  volumes  in 
1824: ;  and  in  1852  in  one  large  volume,  with 
a  Miinoir  by  his  son.  This  Memoir  em- 
bodies much  autobiography,  some  of  the 
salient  points  of  which  are  here  presented : 

MR.    FILLER   ANU    MR.   DIVER. 

Tlie  Summer  of  1770  was  a  time  of  great  re- 
ligious pleasure.  I  loved  my  pastor,  and  all  my 
bretiiren  in  the  cliurcli  ;  and  tliey  expressed  great 
affection  towards  mc  in  return.  I  e9tcemo(l  the 
righteous  as  the  most  excellent  of  the  earth,  in 
whom  was  all  my  delight.  Those  who  knew  not 
Christ  seemed  to  mc  almost  another  species,  to- 
wards whom  I  was  incapahle  of  attachment. 
About  this  time  I  formed  an  intimacy  with  a  Mr. 
Joseph  Diver,  a  wise  and  good  man,  who  had 
been  baptized  with  mc.  He  was  about  forty 
years    of  age,  and   liad    lived   many   years  in  a 


ANDREW  FULLER.— 2    ' 

very  recluse  wav,  giving  liiinself  much  to  read- 
ing and  reflection,  lie  liad  a  great  deliglit  in 
searching  after  truth,  which  rendered  his  conver- 
sation, peculiarly  interesting  to  me;  nor  was  he 
less  devoted  to  universal  practical  godliness.  I 
count  this  connection  one  of  the  greatest  bless- 
ino-s  of  my  life.  Notwithstanding  the  disparity 
as  to  years,  we  loved  each  otlier  like  David  and 
Jonathan. 

CALL    TO    THE  MINISTRY, 

In  November,  lYVl,  as  I  was  riding  out  on 
business,  on  a  Saturday  morning,  to  a  neighbor- 
ino-  village,  my  mind  fell  into  a  train  of  interest- 
ing and  affecting  thoughts,  from  that  passage  of 
Scripture,  "  Weeping  may  endure  for  a  night; 
but  joy  Cometh  in  the  morning."  I  never  had 
felt  such  freedom  of  mind  in  thinking  upon  a 
divine  subject  before ;  nor  do  I  recollect  ever 
having  had  a  thought  of  the  ministry  ;  but  I  then 
felt  as  if  I  could  preach  from  it,  and  indeed  I 
did  preach,  in  a  manner,  as  T  rode  along.  I 
thought  no  more  of  it,  however,  but  returned 
home,  when  I  had  done  my  business.  In  the 
afternoon  I  went  to  see  my  mother.  As  we  rode 
a  few  miles  together,  she  told  me  she  had  been 
thinking  much  about  me,  while  in  town,  and 
added,  "  My  dear,  you  have  often  expressed 
your  wish  for  a  trade.  I  have  talked  with  your 
uncle  at  Kensington,  and  he  has  procured  a  good 
place  for  you,  where,  instead  of  paying  a  pre- 
mium, you  may,  if  you  give  satisfaction,  in  a  lit- 
tle time  receive  wages    and  learn  the  business. 

That  which    my    mother   suggested,  was 

very  true.  I  had  always  been  inclined  to  trade  ; 
but,  how  it  was  I  cannot  tell,  my  heart  revolted 
at  the  proposal  at  this  time.  It  was  not  from 
any  desire  or  thought  of  the  ministry,  nor  any- 
thing else  in  particular,  unless  it  were  a  feeling 
towards  the  little  scattered  Society  of  which  I 
was  a  member.  I  said  but  little  to  my  mother, 
but  seemed  to  wish  for  time  to  consider  it. 
This  was  on  Saturday  evening. 

The  next  morning,  as  I  was  walking  by  myself 

3«« 


ANDREW  FULLER.— 3 

to  meeting,  expecting  to  hear  the  brethren  prav, 
and  ray  friend  Joseph  Diver  expound  the 
Scriptures,  I  was  met  by  one  of  the  members 
whom  he  had  requested  me  to  see,  who  said, 
"  Brother  Diver  has  by  accident  sprained  his 
ankle,  and  cannot  be  at  meeting  to-day,  and  he 
wishes  me  to  say  to  you  that  he  hopes  the  Lord 
will  be  with  youT — "  The  Lord  be  with  me  !  "' 
thought  L  "  What  does  Brother  Diver  mean  ? 
He  cannot  suppose  that  I  can  take  his  place,  see- 
ing that  I  have  never  attempted  anything  of  the 
kind,  nor  been  asked  to  do  so."  It  then  oc- 
curred, liowever,  that  I  had  had  an  interesting 
train  of  thought  the  day  before,  and  had  imag- 
ined at  the  time  I  could  speak  it,  if  I  were 
called  to  do  it.  But  though  I  had  repeated- 
ly engaged  in  prayer  publicly,  yet  I  had  never 
been  requested  to  attempt  anything  further,  and 

therefore  I  thought  no  more  of  it 

Early  in  1773,  Brother  Diver  was  absent 
again  through  an  affliction,  and  I  was  invited 
once  more  to  take  his  j)lace.  Being  induced  to 
renew  the  attempt,  I  spoke  from  tliose  words  of 
Our  Lord,  "  The  Son  of  Man  came  to  seek  and 
save  that  wliich  is  lost."  On  this  occasion  I 
not  only  felt  greater  freedom  tlian  I  had  ever 
found  before,  but  the  attention  of  the  people 
was  fixed,  and  several  young  persons  in  the 
congregation  were  impressed  with  tlie  subject, 
and  afterwards  joined  the  church.  From  this 
time  the  brethren  seemed  to  entertain  the  idea 
of  my  engaging  in  the  ministrv,  nor  was  I 
without  serious  thoughts  of  it  myself.  Some- 
times I  felt  a  desire  after  it  ;  at  other  times  I 
was  much  discouraged,  especially  through  a  con- 
RcioiisncsR  of  my  want  of  spirituality  of  mind, 
which  I  considered  as  a  qualification  of  the  first 
importance 

DOCTRINAL    VIEWS. 

Being  now  devoted  to  the  ministry,  I  took  a 
review  of  the  doctrine  I  should  preaoii,  and 
spent  pretty  much  of  my  time  in  reading,  and  in 

Ml 


ANDREW  FULLER.— 4 

making  up  my  mind  as  to  various  things  rela- 
tive  to  the  gospel With    respect    to  the 

system  of  doctrine  which  I  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  hear  from  my  youth,  it  was  in  the  high 
Calvinistic — or  rather  hyper-Calvinistic  strain — 
admitting  nothing  spiritually  good  to  be  the 
duty  of  the  unregencrated,  and  nothing  to  be 
addressed  to  them  in  a  way  of  exhortation, 
excepting  what  related  to  external  obedience. 
Outward  services  might  be  required :  such  as 
attendance  on  the  means  of  grace;  and  abstinence 
from  gross  evils  might  be  enforced;  but  nothing 
was  said  to  them  from  the  pulpit,  in  the  way  of 
warning  them  to  flee  from  the  wrath  to  come,  or 
inviting  them  to  apply  to  Christ  for  salvation. 

Though  our  late  disputes  had  furnished  me 
with  some  few  principles  inconsistent  with  these 
notions,  yet  I  did  not  perceive  their  bearings  at 
first ;  and  durst  not  for  some  years  address  an  in- 
vitation to  the  unconverted  to  come  to  Jesus.  I 
began,  however,  to  doubt  whether  I  had  got  the 
truth  respecting  this  subject.  This  view  of 
things  did  not  seem  to  comport  with  the  idea 
which  I  had  imbibed,  concerning  the  power  of 
man  to  do  the  will  of  God.  I  perceived  that 
the  will  of  God  was  not  confined  to  mere  out- 
ward actions ;  but  extended  to  the  inmost 
thoughts  and  intents  of  the  heart.  The  distinc- 
tion of  duties,  therefore,  into  internal  and  exter- 
nal, and  making  the  latter  only  concern  the  unre- 
generate,  wore  a  suspicious  appearance.  But  as 
I  perceived  that  this  reasoning  would  affect  the 
whole  tenor  of  my  preaching,  I  moved  on  with 
slow  and  trembling  steps  ;  and  having  to  feel  my 
way  out  of  a  labyrinth,  it  was  a  long  time  ere  I 
felt  satisfied. 

Here  must  be  briefly  noted,  as  told  by  his 
son,  some  incidents  relating  to  the  early 
years  of  the  ministry  of  Andrew  Fuller. 
"His  whole  yearly  income  from  the  people 
having  never  exceeded  £13,  and  his  at- 
tempts to  derive  support,  first  from  a  small 


ANDREW  FULLER.— 5 

shop  and  then  from  a  school,  both  proving 
unsuccessful ;  so  that,  notwithstanding  all 
his  exertions,  he  could  not  prevent  an  an- 
nual inroad  upon  his  little  property,  most 
distressing  to  himself,  and  ruinous  to  the 
prospects  of  a  rising  family.  Under  such 
complicated  trials  his  health  suffered  a 
shock  from  which  he  with  ditiiculty  recov- 
ered." Indeed,  there  seems  to  iiave  been  a 
mighty  amount  of  praying  and  psalm-sing- 
ing, and  all  that ;  but  someliow  the  brethren 
at  Soha:m,  where  Andrew  Fuller  began  his 
ministry,  kept  a  close  grip  upou  their 
pocket-books;  as  witness  the  following 
memorandum  made  by  a  good  deacon 
^Vallis,  who  was  empowered  to  lay  certain 
questions  in  controversy  before  a  Mr. 
Kubiuson,  of  Cambridge,  who  should  pro- 
nounce judgment  as  to  what  should  be 
done.  Mr.  Robinson's  decision  was, 
"That  Mr.  Fuller  ought  to  continue  pas- 
tor of  the  said  church  for  one  whole  year, 
from  this  day,  and  after  that  time  if  it 
should  aj)pear  that  he  can  live  on  his  in- 
come ;  and  that  the  people  ought  to  abide 
by  their  proposal  to  raise  Mr.  Fuller's  in- 
come to  £25  a  year,  as  they  had  proposed, 
clear  of  all  deductions." 

As  a  preacher  Andrew  Fuller  never 
mini.stered  except  to  a  small  congregation 
l)eloiiging  to  a  small  and,  in  his  day  and 
country,  a  thoroughly  de.'^pised  sect.  In 
fact,  a  century  ago,  it  would  have  been 
thought  less  contemptuous  to  call  a  man  an 
"Iiitidel"  than  to  call  him  a  '-Baptist." 
His  written  works  are  his  best  monument. 
The  tablet  ])laced  near  by  the  ])ulpit  at 
Kettering  bears  an  inscription  which  may 
take  the  place  of  any  extended  biography  : 


ANDREW  t'tJLLER.-e 

Inscription  upon  andrkw  fuller's  monu- 
ment. 

In  memory  of  their  revered  Pastor,  the  Rev- 
erend Andrew  Fuller,  the  Church  and  Conjrrega- 
tion  have  erected  tliis  Tablet. — His  ardent  Piety, 
the  strength  and  soundness  of  his  Judgment,  his 
intimate  knowledge  of  the  Human  Heart,  and 
his  profound  acfjuaintance  witli  the  Scriptures, 
eminently  qualified  liim  for  the  Ministerial 
Office,  which  lie  sustained  amongst  them  thirty- 
two  years.  The  force  and  originality  of  his 
Genius,  aided  by  undaunted  Firmness,  raised  him 
from  obscurity  to  high  distinction  in  the  Reli- 
gious World.  By  the  wisdom  of  his  plans,  and 
by  his  unwearied  diligence  in  executing  them,  he 
rendered  the  most  important  services  to  the  Bap- 
tist Missionary  Society,  of  which  he  was  the  Sec- 
retary from  its  commencement,  and  to  the  pros- 
perity of  which  he  devoted  his  life.  In  addition 
to  his  other  labors,  his  writings  are  numerous 
and  celebrated. 

FULLER,  MarG'Veet.  See  Ossoli, 
Maegabet  Fuller,  Marchioness. 


THOMAS  FULLER.— 1 

FULLER,  Thomas,  an  English  clergy- 
man and  author,  born  in  1608;  died  in  1661. 
He  was  educated  at  Queen's  College,  Cam- 
bridge, winning  the  highest  university  hon- 
ors, and  was  presented  to  the  living  of  St. 
Benoits,  Cambridge,  where  he  came  to  be 
noted  as  an  eloquent  preacher,  and  was 
also  made  Prebendary  of  Salisbui-y.  After 
some  years  he  went  to  London,  where  he 
received  the  lectureship  of  the  Savoy. 
Upon  the  outbreak  of  the  civil  war  between 
the  Parliament  and  Charles  I.,  Fuller  warm- 
ly espoused  the  royal  cause,  became  a  chap- 
lain in  the  army,  and  suffered  some  in- 
conveniences during  the  Protectorate  of 
Cromwell.  After  the  restoration  of  Charles 
IL,  he  was  made  chaplain-extraordinary  to 
the  King,  regained  his  prebendary  of  which 
he  had  been  deprived,  and  it  was  in  con- 
templation to  raise  liim  to  a  bishopric;  but 
he  died  before  this  intention  was  carried  out. 
His  principal  works  are:  llistorie  of  the 
IL,hj  Warre  (1039),  IloJy  and  Profane 
Statt'^  proposing  examples  for  imitation  and 
avoidance  (1042;,  Church  History  of  Brit- 
ain from  the  Birth  of  Jesus  Christ  until 
the  'Year  MDCXL  VIII  (1055),  and  IIIh- 
tonj  of  the  Worthies  of  KuijlamJ,  jjublished 
in  1002,  soon  after  his  death.  This  last 
work,  a  collection  of  out-of-the-way  biogni- 

Ehies,  is  the  one   by  which   Fuller  is  now 
est  known.     This  was  reprinted  in   1811, 
and  again  in  1840. 

TIIK    C;OOU    SCHOOLMASTER. 

There  is  scarcely  any  profession  in  the  com- 
moriwfallh  more  necessary,  wliich  is  so  slit^litly 
pcrforiiictl.  The  reasons  whereof  I  conceive  to 
be  these  :  First,  yonn<^  schohirs  make  this  call- 
in<5  their  refiitjo ;  yea,  percliance,  before  they 
have  taken  any  degree  in  the  university,  coiiv 
ni 


THOMAS  FULLER.— 3 

mcnce  schoolmasters  in  the  country,  as  if  noth- 
ing else  were  required  to  set  up  this  profession 
but  only  a  rod  and  a  fcruhi.  Secondly,  others 
wlio  are  ahle,  use  it  only  as  a  passage  to  better 
preferment,  to  patch  the  rents  in  their  present 
fortune,  till  they  can  provide  a  new  one,  and  be- 
take then:selves  to  some  more  gainful  calling. 
Thirdly,  they  are  disheartened  from  doing  their 
best  with  the  miserable  reward  which  in  some 
places  they  receive,  being  masters  to  their  chil- 
dren and  slaves  to  their  parents.  Fourthly,  be- 
ing grown  rich,  they  grow  negligent,  and  scorn 
to  touch  the  school,  but  by  the  proxy  of  the 
usher.  But  see  how  well  our  schoolmaster  be- 
haves himself 

He  studieth  his  scholar's  natures  as  carefully 
as  they  their  books ;  and  ranks  their  dispositions 
into  several  forms.  And  though  it  may  seem 
difficult  for  him  in  a  great  school  to  descend  to 
all  particulars,  yet  experienced  schoolmasters  may 
quickly  make  a  grammar  of  boys'  natures,  and 
reduce  them  all — saving  some  few  exceptions — 
to  these  general  rules  : 

1.  Those  that  are  ingenious  and  industrious. 
The  conjunction  of  two  such  planets  in  a  youth 
presage  much  good  unto  him.  To  such  a  lad  a 
frown  may  be  a  whipping,  and  a  whipping  a 
death ;  yea,  where  their  master  whips  them  once, 
shame  whips  them  all  the  week  after.  Such  na- 
tures he  uscth  with  all  gentleness. 

2.  Those  that  are  ingenious  and  idle.  These 
think,  with  the  hare  in  the  fable,  that  running 
with  snails — so  they  count  the  rest  of  their 
schoolfellows — they  shall  come  soon  enough  to 
the  post,  though  sleeping  a  good  while  before 
their  starting.  0  !  a  good  rod  would  finely  take 
them  napping  ! 

3.  Those  that  are  dull  and  diligent.  Wines, 
the  stronger  they  be,  the  more  lees  they  have 
when  they  are  new.  Many  boys  are  muddy- 
headed  till  they  be  clarified  with  age,  and  such 
afterwards  prove  the  best.  Bristol  diamonds 
are  both  bright,  and  sqiiared,  and  pointed  by  na- 


THOMAS  FULLER.— 3 

ture,  and  yet  are  soft  and  worthless ;  whereas 
orient  ones  in  India  are  rough  and  rugged  nat- 
urally. Hard,  rugged,  and  dull  natures  of  youth 
acquit  themselves  afterwards  the  jewels  of  the 
country,  and  therefore  their  dulness  at  first  is  to 
be  borne  with,  if  they  be  diligent.  The  school- 
master deserves  to  be  beaten  himself  who  beats 
nature  in  a  boy  for  a  fault.  And  I  question 
whether  all  the  whipping  in  the  world  can  make 
their  parts  which  are  naturally  sluggish  rise  one 
minute  before  the  hour  nature  hath  appointed. 

4.  Those  that  are  invincibly  dull,  and  negli- 
gent also.  Correction  may  reform  the  latter, 
not  amend  the  former.  All  the  whetting  in  the 
world  can  never  set  a  razor's  edge  on  that  which 
hath  no  steel  in  it.  Such  boys  he  consigneth 
over  to  other  professions.  Shipwrights  and 
boat-makers  will  choose  those  crooked  pieces  of 
timber  which  other  carpenters  refuse.  Those 
may  make  excellent  merchants  and  mechanics 
who  will  not  serve  for  scholars. 

He  is  able,  diligent,  and  methodical  in  his 
teaching;  not  leading  them  rather  in  a  circle 
than  forwards.  He  minces  his  precepts  for 
children  to  swallow,  hanging  clogs  on  the  nim- 
blencss  of  liis  own  soul,  that  liis  scholars  may 
go  along  with  him. — The  Ilobj  and  Profane 
State. 

ON"    noOKS. 

It  is  a  vanity  to  persuade  the  world  one  hath 
much  learning  by  getting  a  great  library.  As 
soon  shall  I  ln-licve  every  one  is  valiant  that  hath 
a  well-furnished  armory.  I  guess  good  house- 
keeping by  the  smoking,  not  the  number  of  the 
tunnels,  as  knowing  that  many  of  tliem — built 
merely  for  uniformity — are  without  chinmeys, 
and  more  without  tires. 

Some  bfxjks  arc  only  cursorily  to  be  tasted 
of  :  namely,  first,  vobiniinous  books,  the  task  of 
a  man's  life  to  read  them  over;  secondlv,  auxili- 
ary lM)oks,  only  to  be  r('|)aired  to  on  occasions; 
thirdly,  such  as  arc  mere  pieces  of  formalityj  so 
tiiat  if  you  look  on  them  you  look  through  them, 
ait 


THOMAS  FULLER.— 4 

and  he  that  peeps  through  the  casement  of  the 
index,  sees  as  much  as  if  he  were  in  the  liouse. 
But  the  laziness  of  those  cannot  be  excused 
who  perfunctorily  pass  over  authors  of  conse- 
quence, and  only  trade  in  their  tables  and  con- 
tents. These,  like  city  cheaters,  having  gotten  the 
names  of  all  country  gentlemen,  make  silly  peo- 
ple believe  they  have  long  lived  in  those  places 
wliere  they  never  were,  and  flourish  with  skill  in 
those  authors  they  never  seriously  studied, — The 
Holy  and  Profane  State. 

HENRY  DE  ESSEX,  STANDARD-BEARER  TO  HENRY  II. 

It  happened  in  the  reign  of  this  king  there 
was  a  fierce  battle  fought  in  Flintshire,  in  Coles- 
hall,  between  the  English  and  Welsh,  wherein 
this  Henry  de  Essex  animum  et  signum  simul 
abjecit — betwixt  traitor  and  coward,  cast  away 
both  his  courage  and  banner  together,  occasion- 
ing a  great  overthrow  of  English.  But  he  that 
had  the  baseness  to  do,  had  the  boldness  to  deny 
the  doing  of  so  foul  a  fact ;  until  he  was  chal- 
lenged in  combat  by  Robert  de  Momford,  a 
knight,  eye-witness  thereof,  and  by  him  over- 
come in  a  duel.  AYhereupon  his  large  inheri- 
tance was  confiscated  to  the  king,  and  he  him- 
self, partly  thrust,  partly  going,  into  a  convent, 
hid  his  head  in  a  cowl;  under  which,  between 
shame  and  sanctity,  he  blushed  out  the  remain- 
der of  his  life. — The  Wor tides  of  England. 

Fuller  is  especially  notable  for  the  quaint 
and  pitlij  sayings  scattered  through  his 
writings,  often  where  one  would  least  ex- 
pect them.  Thus  he  says  :  "  The  Pyramids, 
themselves  doting  with  age,  have  forgotten 
the  names  of  their  founders."  Negroes 
are  felicitously  characterized  as  "  God's 
image  cut  in  ebony,"  And  again,  he  says, 
"  As  smelling  a  turf  of  fresh  earth  is  whole- 
some for  the  body,  no  less  are  one's  tlionghts 
of  mortality  cordial  to  the  soul."  The  fol- 
lowing are  selected  at  random  from  several 
of  Fuller's  books : 

374 


TfiOMAS  i?ULLER.— 5 

MISCELLAXEOrS    APHORISMS. 

It  is  dangerous  to  gather  flowers  that  grow  on 
the  banks  of  the  pit  of  hell,  for  fear  of  falling 
in  ;  yea,  they  which  play  with  the  devil's  rattles 
will  be  brought  by  degrees  to  wield  his  sword ; 
and  from  niakiug'of  sport,  they  couie  to  doing 
of  mischief. 

The  true  cliurch  antiquary  doth  not  so  adore 
the  ancients  as  to  despise  the  moderns.  Grant 
them  but  dwarfs,  yet  stand  they  on  giants'  shoul- 
ders, and  may  see  the  farther. 

Light,  Heaven's  eldest  daughter,  is  a  principal 
beauty  in  a  building,  yet  it  shines  not  alike  from 
all  parts  of  lieaven.  An  east  window  welcomes 
the  beams  of  the  sun  before  they  are  of  a 
strength  to  do  any  harm,  and  is  offensive  to 
none  but  a  sluggard.  In  a  west  window,  in  sum- 
mer time  towards  night,  the  sun  grows  low  and 
over-familiar,  with  more  light  than  delight. 

A  public  office  is  a  guest  which  receives  the 
best  usage  from  them  who  never  invited  it. 

Scoff  not  at  tlie  natural  defects  of  any,  which 
are  not  in  their  power  to  amend.  Oh!  'tis  cru- 
elty to  beat  a  cripple  with  his  own  crutclies. 

"Generally,  nature  hangs  out  a  sign  of  simplic- 
ity in  the  face  of  a  fool,  and  there  is  enough  in 
his  countenance  for  a  hue  and  cry  to  take  him 
on  suspicion ;  or  else  it  is  stamped  in  the  figure 
of  his  body ;  their  heads  sometimes  so  little, 
that  tliere  is  no  room  for  wit ;  sometimes  so  long, 
that  there  is  no  wit  for  so  much  room. 

Learning  has  gained  most  by  those  books  by 
wliich  the  printers  liavc  lost. 

Is  there  no  way  to  bring  home  a  wandering 
sheep  but  by  worrying  liim  to  death  ? 

Moderation  is  the  silken  string  running 
thri)U<,'h  the  yx'arl-cliain  of  all  virtues. 

Tombs  are  the  clothes  of  the  dead.  A  grave 
is  but  a  jtlain  suit,  and  a  rich  monument  is  one 
embroidered. 

m 


LADY  GEORGIANA  FULLERTON.— 1 

FULLERTON,  Lady  Georgiana  Chab- 
LOTi'E  an  English  author,  born  in  1812. 
She  was  the  second  daughter  of  the  first 
Earl  of  CTranville.  In  1833  she  married 
Captain  Fullerton,  and  removed  to  Ire- 
land. Her  iirst  novel,  Ellen  3fiddleton, 
was  published  in  1844.  She  subsequently 
wrote  many  works,  among  them,  Grantley 
Manor  (1849),  Lcuhj-Bird  (1852),  The 
Life  of  St.  Francis  of  Borne  (1855),  La 
Comtesse  de  Bonneval  and  Histoire  du 
Temps  de  LotiisXI  V.  (1857),  Base  Leblanc 
(I860),  Laureidia,  a  Tale  of  Japan  (1861), 
Too  Strange  Not  to  he  True  (18G4),  Con- 
stance  Sherwood  (1865),  A  Stormy  Life 
(1867),  J/7'5.  Gerald's  Niece  {\m%  The 
Gold-Digger  and  Other  Verses  (1872),  and 
Dramas  from  the  Lives  of  the  Saints 
(1872.)  She  also  made  many  translations 
from  the  French. 

A    CHILD    OF    THE    WILDERNESS. 

Maitre  Simon's  barge  was  lying  at  anchor  near 
the  village.  It  had  just  huided  a  party  of  emi- 
grants on  their  way  back  from  the  Arkansas  to 
NeAv  Orleans,  lie  was  storing  it  with  provisions 
for  the  rest  of  the  voyage,  and  was  standing  in 
the  midst  of  cases  and  barrels,  busily  engaged 
in  this  labor,  when  Colonel  d'Auban  stepped  into 
the  boat,  bade  him  good  morning,  and  inquired 
after  his  daughter.  On  his  first  arrival  in 
America  he  had  made  the  voyage  up  the  Mis- 
sissippi in  one  of  Simon's  boats,  and  the  barge- 
man's little  girl,  then  a  child  of  twelve  years  of 
age,  was  also  on  board.  Simonette  inherited 
from  her  mother,  an  Illinois  Indian,  the  dark 
complexion  and  peculiar-looking  eyes  of  that 
race ;  otherwise  she  was  thoroughly  French,  and 
like  her  father,  whose  native  land  was  Gascony. 
From  her  infancy  she  had  been  the  plaything 
of  the  passengers  on  his  boat,  and  they  were, 
indeed,  greatly  in  need  of  amusement  during  the 


LADY  GEORGIANA  FULLERTOK— 2 

wearisome  weeks  when,  lialf  imbedded  in  the 
floating  vegetation  of  the  wide  river,  they 
slowly  made  their  way  against  its  mighty  cur- 
rent. As  she  advanced  in  years;  the  child  be- 
came a  sort  of  attendant  on  the  women  on 
board,  and  rendered  them  many  little  services. 

She  was  an  extraordinary  being.  Quicksilver 
seemed  to  run  in  her  veins.  She  never  remained 
two  minutes  together  in  the  same  spot  or  the 
same  position.  She  swam  like  a  fish,  and  ran 
like  a  lapwing.  Iler  favorite  amusements  were 
to  leap  in  and  out  of  the  boat,  to  catch  hold  of 
the  swinging  branches  of  the  wild  vine,  and  run 
up  the  trunks  of  trees  with  the  agility  of  a 
squirrel,  or  to  sit  laughing  with  her  playfellows, 
the  monkeys,  gathering  bunches  of  grapes  and 
handfuls  of  wild  cherries  for  the  passengers.  She 
had  a  wonderful  handiness,  and  a  peculiar  talent 
for  contrivances.  There  were  very  few  things 
Simonette  could  not  do,  if  she  once  set  about 
them 

Simonette  heard  Mass  on  Sunday,  and  said 
short  prayers  night  and  morning;  but  her  piety 
was  of  the  active  order.  She  studied  her  cate- 
chism up  in  some  tree,  seated  on  a  branch,  or  else 
swinging  in  one  of  the  nets  in  which  Indian 
women  rock  their  children.  She  could  hardly 
sit  still  during  a  sermon,  and  from  sheer  rest- 
lessness envied  the  birds  as  they  flew  past  the 
windows.  But  if  Father  Maret  had  a  message 
to  send  across  the  prairie,  or  if  food  and  medi- 
cine were  to  be  carried  to  the  sick,  she  was  his 
ready  messenger — his  "  carrier  pigeon,"  as  he 
called  her.  Through  tangled  thickets  and 
marshy  lands  she  made  her  way,  fording  with 
her  naked  feet  the  tributary  streams  of  the 
great  river,  or  swimming  acri>ss  them  if  neces- 
sary ;  jumping  over  fallen  trunks,  and  singing  as 
she  went,  the  bird-like  creature  made  friends 
and  played  with  every  anin)al  .she  met,  and  fed 
on  berries  and  wild  honey.  —  Too  Stramjc  Not  to 
be  True. 


HORACE  HOWARD  FURNES9.-1 

FUENESS,  Horace  Howard,  an  Ameri- 
can Sliakespearean  scliolar,  son  of  William 
H.  Furness,  born  at  Philadelphia,  in  1833. 
He  was  educated  at  Harvard  University, 
studied  law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  Phila- 
delphia bar  in  1859.  He  has  edited  a  V(i7"io- 
Tuin  Edition  of  Shakespeare^  a  valuable  con- 
tribution to  Shakespearean  literature  (1871.) 

THE    "  FIRST    FOLIO  "    OF    SHAKESPEARE. 

When  reading  Shakespeare,  we  resign  our- 
selves to  the  mighty  current,  and  let  it  bear  us 
along  whithersoever  it  will ;  we  sec  no  shoals, 
heed  no  rocks,  need  no  pilot.  Whether  spoken 
from  rude  boards  or  printed  in  homely  form,  the 
words  are  Shakespeare's,  the  hour  is  his,  and  a 
thought  of  texts  is  an  impertinence.  But  when 
we  study  Shakespeare,  then  our  mood  changes ; 
no  longer  are  we  '  sitting  at  a  play,'  tlie  passive 
recipients  of  impressions  through  the  eye  and 
ear,  but  we  weigh  every  word,  analyze  every 
expression,  sift  every  phrase,  that  no  grain  of 
art  or  beauty,  which  we  can  assimilate,  shall 
escape.  To  do  this,  we  must  have  Shakespeare's 
own  words  before  us.  No  other  words  will 
avail,  even  though  they  be  those  of  the  wisest 
and  most  inspired  of  our  day  and  generation. 
We  must  have  Shakespeare's  own  text;  or,  fail- 
ing this,  the  nearest  possible  approach  to  it. 
We  shall  be  duly  grateful  to  the  wise  and  learned, 
who,  where  phrases  are  obscure,  give  us  the 
words  which  we  believe  to  have  been  Shake- 
speare's ;  but  as  students  we  must  have  under 
our  eyes  the  original  text,  which,  howcvei  stub- 
born it  may  seem  at  times,  may  yet  open  its 
treasures  to  our  importunity,  and  reveal  charms 
before  undreamed  of. 

This  original  text  is  to  be  found  in  the  first 
edition  of  liis  Works,  published  in  1623,  and 
usually  known  as  the  '■'■Fh-Ht  Fol'io^''  which  was 
presumably  printed  from  the  words  written  by 
Shakespeare's  own  hand  or  from  stage  copies 
adapted  from  his  mamiscrij^ts.     Be  it  that  the 


HORACE  HOWARD  FURNESS.—S 

pages  of  this  First  Folio  are  little  better  than 
proof-sheets,  lackino;  supervision  of  the  author  or 
of  any  other,  yet  •  those  who  had  Shakespeare's 
manuscript  before  them  were  more  likely  to  read 
it  right  than  we  who  read  it  only  in  imagination,' 
as  Dr.  Johnson  said.  Even  grant  that  the  First 
Folio  is,  as  has  been  asserted,  one  of  the  most  care- 
lessly printed  books  ever  issued  from  the  press, 
it  is,  nevertheless,  the  oidy  text  that  we  have  for 
at  least  sixteen  of  the  plays ;  and  condemn  it 
as  we  may,  '  still  is  its  name  in  great  account,  it 

hath  power  to  charm '  for  all  of  them If 

misspellings  occur  here  and  there,  surely  our  com- 
mon-school education  is  not  so  uncommon  that 
we  cannot  silently  correct  them.  If  the  punc- 
tuation be  deficient,  surely  it  can  be  supplied 
without  an  exorbitant  demand  upon  our  in- 
telligence. And  in  lines  incurably  maimed  by 
the  printers,  of  what  avail  is  the  voice  of  a 
solitary  editor  amid  the  Babel  that  vociferates 
around,  each  voice  proclaiming  the  virtues  of  its 
own  specific  ?  Who  am  I  that  I  should  thrust 
myself  in  between  the  student  and  the  text,  as 
though  in  me  resided  the  power  to  restore  Shake- 
speare's own  words.  Even  if  a  remedy  be  pro- 
posed which  is  by  all  acknowledged  to  be  effica- 
cious, it  is  not  enough  for  the  student  that 
he  should  know  the  remedy  ;  he  must  see  the  ail- 
ment. Let  the  ailment,  therefore,  appear  in  all 
its  severity  in  the  text,  and  let  the  remedies  be 
exhibited  in  the  notes;  by  this  means  we  may 
make  a  text  for  ourselves,  and  thus  made,  it  will 
become  a  part  of  ourselves,  and  speak  to  us  with 
more  power  than  were  it  made  for  us  by  the 
wisest  editor  of  them  all. — Preface  to  The  Moor 
of  Venice. 


WILLIAM  HENRY  FURNESS.— 1 

FURNESS,  William  Henry,  an  Ameri- 
can clergyman  and  author,  born  in  Boston, 
in  1802.  He  M'as  educated  at  Harvard  Uni- 
versity, studied  theology  at  Cambridge,  and 
in  1825  became  pastor  of  the  First  Congre- 
gational (Unitarian)  Church  in  Philadelphia. 
He  is  the  author  of  Remarks  on  the  Four 
Gospels  (1836),  Jesus  and  His  Biographers 
(1838),  a  lUstorij  of  Jesus  (1850),  Thoughts 
on  tJie  Life  and  Character  of  Jesus  of 
Nazareth  (1859),  The  Veil  partly  Lifted  and 
Jesus  hecoming  Visible  (1864),  Jesus  (1870), 
and  The  Story  of  the  Resurrection  of 
Christ  Told  Once  More  (1885.)  He  has 
also  published  Domestic  Worship,  a  volume 
of  prayers  (1850),  a  volume  of  Discourses 
(1855);  and  numerous  L^oems,  original,  or 
translated  from  the  German. 

THE  PERSONAL  PRESENCE  OF  JESUS. 

Tlie  jyreatest  act  may  be  spoiled  by  the  way  in 
which  it  is  done,  and  the  homeliest  office  of  kind- 
ness may  be  discharged  with  a  grace  that  shall 
hint  of  heaven.  It  is  not  in  the  form  or  in  the 
word,  but  in  the  spirit  that  lies  the  power.  And 
the  great  personal  power  of  Jesus  cannot,  I  con- 
ceive, be  fully  accounted  for  without  bringing 
distinctly  into  view  what  it  seldom  occurs  to  us 
to  think  of,  as  it  is  scarcely  once  alluded  to 
in  the  Gospels,  and  if  it  wore  alluded  to,  was  not 
a  thing  that  admitted  of  being  readily  described: 
His  personal  presence,  in  a  word,  his  manner. 
All  that  we  read  in  the  records  in  regard  to 
it  is,  that  his  teaching  was  marked  by  a  singular 
air  of  authority.  No,  this  was  not  a  thing  to  be 
described.  It  was  felt  too  deeply.  It  penetrated 
to  that  depth  in  the  hearts  of  men  whence  no 
words  come,  whither  no  words  reach.  It  was  the 
strong  humanity  expressed  in  the  whole  air  of 
him,  and  unabstracted  by  any  thought  of  him- 
self, that  drew  the  crowd  around  him,  or  at  l^ast 


WILLIAM  HENRY  FURNESS.-9 

fixed  them  in  the  attitude  of  breathless  attention. 
Many  a  heart,  I  doubt  not,  was  made  to  thrill  and 
glow  by  the  intonations  of  his  voice  attuned  to  a 
divine  sincerity,  or  by  the  passing  expression  of 
his  countenance  beaming  with  the  truth,  which  is 
the  presence  and  power  of  the  Highest.  In  fine, 
it  was  his  manner  that  rendered  perfect*  the 
expression  of  his  humanity,  and  gave  men  as- 
surance of  his  thorough  sincerity.  And  the 
peculiar  charm  of  His  humanity  is,  that  it 
bloomed  out  in  this  fulness  of  beauty,  not  in  the 
sunlight  of  joy,  but  under  the  deep  gloom  of  an 
early,  lonely,  and  cruel  death,  ever  present  to 
him  as  the  one  special  thing  which  he  was 
bound  to  suffer. 

Although  he  had  renounced  every  private  con- 
cern, and  bound  himself  irrevocably  to  so  terrible 
a  fate,  he  nevertheless  retained  the  healthiest  and 
most  cordial  interest  in  men  and  things.  Life 
lost  not  one  jot  of  value  in  his  eyes,  although  he 
knew  that  he  had  no  lot  in  it  but  to  die  in 
torture,  forsaken  and  defamed.  On  the  con- 
trary, who  ever,  within  so  brief  a  space  of  time — 
or  indeed  in  any  space  of  time,  though  extended 
to  the  utmost  limit  of  this  mortal  existence — 
made  so  much  out  of  it,  or  so  enhanced  its 
value,  as  he  ?  With  what  light  and  beauty  has 
he  transfigured  this  life  of  ours  !  The  world  had 
nothing  for  him  but  the  hideous  Cross,  and  yet 
he  has  flooded  tlie  world  through  that  Cross  with 
imperishable  splendors,  unconcpiorablc  Faith,  and 
immortal  Hope.  Notwithstanding  the  deadly 
hatred  of  men,  he  h^vcd  them  with  a  love 
stronger  than  death,  and  put  faith  in  them  jis  no 
otlier  ever  has  done.  The  outcast  he  treated 
with  a  brother's  tenderness,  identifying  himself 
with  the  meanest  of  his  fellow-men,  and  in  the 
most  emphatic  manner  teaching  that  sympathy 
withheld  from  the  least  is  dishonor  cast  upon 
the  greatest. —  The  Veil  parity  Lifted, 


WILLIAM  HENRY  FURNESS.— 3 

A    SINGLE    EYE. 

Lot  tliine  eye  be  single, 

And  no  carlh-born  visions  mingle 

With  thy  j)iire  ideal. 
Then  will  its  iindimmed  liglit 
Make  all  within  thee  bright, 

And  all  around  thee  real. 

But  if  thine  eye  be  double, 
Black  care  will  rise  to  trouble 

And  veil  that  light. 
Then  blindly  wilt  thou  grope, 
Cheated  of  faith  and  hope 

By  pliantoms  of  the  night. 

ETERNAL    LIGHT. 

Slowly,  by  God's  hand  unfurled, 
Down  around  the  weary  world, 
Falls  the  darkness ;  0  how  still 
Is  the  working  of  his  will  1 

Mighty  Spirit,  ever  nigh. 
Work  in  me  as  silently; 
Veil  the  day's  distracting  sights, 
Show  me  heaven's  eternal  lights. 

Living  stars  to  view  be  brought 
In  the  boundless  realms  of  thought; 
High  and  infinite  desires, 
Flaming  like  those  upper  fires. 

Holy  Truth,  Eternal  Right, 
Let  tliem  break  upon  my  sight; 
Let  them  sliine  serene  and  still, 
And  with  light  my  being  fill. 


ARNOLDO  FUSINATO.— 1 

rUSIKATO,  Arxoldo,  an  Italian  poet, 
born  near  Vicenza  in  1817.  ILe  was  edu- 
cated at  the  seminary  of  Padua,  studied  law, 
and  received  bis  degree,  but  gave  more  at- 
tention to  poetry  than  to  legal  practice.  A 
sumptuous  edition  of  his  I^oesies  was  pub- 
lished at  Venice  in  1853.  In  1870  he  went 
to  Rome  as  Chief  lievisor  of  the  Steno- 
graphic Parliamentary  Reports.  In  1871 
appeared  at  Milan  a  volume  of  his  Po- 
esie  patriottlcJie  inedlte,  which  contained, 
among  other  pieces  the  popular  Students  of 
Padua.  In  1849  the  Austrians,  who  had 
some  months  before  been  driven  from  Ven 
ice,  returned,  and  bombard  cd  the  city, 
which,  having  been  reduced  to  famine,  and 
tlie  cholera  prevailing,  surrendered,  raising 
the  white  flag  over  the  lagoon  bridge,  by 
which  the  railway  traveler  enters  the  city. 
The  poet  imagines  himself  in  one  of  the 
little  towns  on  the  nearest  mainland  : 

VENICE    IN  1849. 
The  twilitrlit  is  deepening,  still  is  the  wave; 
I  sit  by  the  window,  mute  as  by  a  grave; 
Silent,  companionlcss,  secret  I  pine; 
Through  tears  where  thou  licst  I  look,  Venice 

mine. 
On  the  clouds  brokenly  strewn  through  the  west 
Lies  the  last  ray  of  the  sun  sunk  to  rest ; 
And  a  sad  sil>ilaiifc  under  the  iiioon 
Sighs  from  the  broken  heart  of  the  lagoon. 

Out  of  the  city  a  boat  drawcth  near : 
"You  of  the  gondola!  tell  us  what  cheer!" 
"  Bn-ad  lacks,  the  cholera  deadlier  grows; 
From  the  lagoon  bridge  the  white  banner  blows." 

No,  no,  nevermore  on  so  great  woe. 
Bright  sun  of  Italy,  nevermore  glow  1 
But  o'er  Venetian  hopes  shattered  so  soon, 
Moan  in  tliy  sorrow  forever,  lagoon  I 


ARNOLDO  FUSINAT0.-2 

Venice,  to  thee  comes  at  last  tlie  last  hour ; 
Martyr  illustrious,  in  thy  foe's  power; 
Bread  lacks,  the  cholera  deadlier  grows  ; 
From  the  lagoon  bridge  the  white  banner  blows. 

Not  all  the  battle-flames  over  thee  streaming; 
Not  all  the  numberless  bolts  o'er  thee  screaming  ; 
Not  for  these  terrors  thy  free  days  are  dead : 
Long  live  Venice  !  She's  dying  for  bread  ! 

On  thy  immortal  page  sculpture,  0  Story, 

Others'  iniquity,  Venice's  glory  ; 

And  three  times  infamous  ever  be  he 

Who  triumphed  by  famine,  0  Venice,  o'er  thee. 

Long  live  Venice  !  Undaunted  she  fell ; 
Bravely  she  fought  for  her  banner  and  well ; 
But  bread  lacks  ;  the  cholera  deadlier  grows  ; 
From  the  lagoon  bridge  the  white  banner  blows. 

And  now  be  shivered  upon  tlie  stone  here 
Till  thou  be  free  again,  0  lyre  I  bear. 
Unto  thee,  Venice,  shall  be  my  last  song, 
To  thee  the  last  kiss  and  tlie  last  tear  belong. 

Exiled  and  lonely,  from  hence  I  depart. 
But  Venice  forever  shall  live  in  my  heart; 
In  my  heart's  sacred  place  Venice  shall  be 
As  is  the  face  of  my  first  love  to  me. 

But  the  wind  rises,  and  over  the  pale 
Face  of  its  waters  the  deep  sends  a  wail ; 
Breaking,  the  chords  shriek,  and  the  voice  dies. 
On  the  lagoon  bridge  the  white  banner  flies. 
Trans,  of  W.  D.  Uowells. 

<84 


JAMES   GAIRDNER.— 1 

GAIRDXER,  James,  a  British  his- 
torian, born  at  Edinburgh  in  1828.  He  was 
educated  at  Edinburgh,  and  in  1846  re- 
ceived an  appointment  as  clerk  in  the  Pub- 
lic Record  Otiice,  London,  of  which  he  was 
made  Assistant  Keeper  in  1859.  He  has 
edited  several  ancient  works,  the  manu- 
scripts of  which  are  preserved  in  the 
Record  Office  and  elsewhere,  notable  among 
which  is  a  very  much  enlarged  edition  of 
The  Faston  Letters.  His  principal  original 
works  are :  The  Houses  of  Lancaster  and 
York  (1874),  History  of  the  Life  and 
Reign  (f  Richard  III.  (1878),  and  Stud- 
ies in  LngJi'^h  History,  consisting  of  essays 
by  himself  and  Henry  Spedding,  repub- 
lished from  various  periodicals  (1886.) 

THE    TRUE    CHARACTER    OF    RICHARD    III. 

It  is  a  good  quarter  of  a  century  since  I  first 
read  Walpole's  Historic  Doubts;  and  tbey  cer- 
tainly exercised  upon  me,  in  a  very  strong  de- 
gree, the  influence  which  I  perceive  they  have 
had  on  many  other  minds.  I  hegan  to  doubt 
whether  Richard  III,  was  really  a  tyrant  at  aU.  I 
more  than  doubted  that  principal  crime  of 
which  he  is  so  generally  reputed  guilty  ;  and  as 
for  everything  else  laid  to  his  charge  it  was 
easy  to  show  that  the  evidence  was  still  more  un- 
satisfactory. The  slendcrness  and  insufficiency 
of  the  original  testimony  could  hardly  be  de- 
nied ;  and  if  it  were  only  admitted  that  the 
prejudices  of  Lancastrian  writers  mi;;ht  have 
perverted  facts,  which  tiie  policy  of  the  Tudors 
would  not  have  allowed  otiier  writers  to  state 
fairly,  a  very  plausihle  case  might  have  been 
established  for  a  more  favorable  rendering  of 
Richard's  cliaractcr. 

It  was  the  opinion  of  the  late  Mr.  Buckle 
that  a  certain  skeptical  tr'n<lcncy — a  predisposi- 
tion to  douht  all  comiMMhly  received  o[iini(ms 
until  they  were  found  to  stand  the  test  of  argu- 


JAMES  GAIRDNER.— 2 

ment — was  the  first  essential  to  the  discovery  of 
new  truth.  I  must  confess  that  uiy  own  experi- 
ence does  not  verify  this  remark  ;  and  whatever 
may  be  said  for  it  as  regards  science,  I  cannot 
but  think  the  skeptical  spirit  a  most  fatal  one  in 
history.  It  is  an  easy  thing  to  isolate  particular 
facts  and  events,  cross-examine  to  our  own  satis- 
faction the  silent  witnesses  or  first  reporters  of  a 
celebrated  crime,  and  appeal  to  the  public  for 
a  verdict  of  "  not  proven."  But,  after  all,  we 
have  only  raised  a  question ;  we  have  not  ad- 
vanced one  step  toward  its  solution.  We  have 
succeeded  in  rendering  a  few  things  doubtful, 
which  may  have  been  too  hastily  assumed  before. 
But  if  these  doubts  are  to  be  of  any  value  as 
the  avenue  to  new  truths,  they  must  lead  to  a 
complete  reconsideration  of  very  many  things 
besides  the  few  dark  passages  at  first  isolated  for 
investigation.  They  require,  in  the  first  place, 
that  the  history  of  one  particular  epoch  should 
be  re-written  ;  in  the  second,  that  the  new  version 
of  the  story  should  exhibit  a  certain  moral  har- 
mony with  the  facts  both  of  subsequent  times 
and  of  the  times  preceding.  Until  these  two 
conditions  have  been  fulfilled,  no  attempt  to  set 
aside  traditional  views  of  history  can  ever  be 
called  successful. 

The  old  traditional  view  of  Richard  III.  has 
certainly  not  yet  been  set  aside  in  a  manner  to 
satisfy  the  world.  Yet  there  has  been  no  lack  of 
ingenuity  in  pleading  his  cause,  or  of  research 
in  the  pursuit  of  evidence.  Original  authorities 
have  been  carefully  scrutinized ;  words  have 
been  exactly  weighed ;  and  ])lausible  arguments 
have  been  used  to  show  that  for  all  that  is  said 
of  him  by  contemporary  writers  he  jnight  have 
been  a  very  different  character  from  what  he  is 
supposed  to  have  been.  Only,  the  malign  tradi- 
tion itself  is  not  well  accounted  for;  and  we  are 
not  clearly  shown  that  the  story  of  Richard's 
life  is  more  intelligible  without  it.  On  the  con- 
trary I  must  record  my  impression  that  a  minute 
study  of  the  facts  of  Richard's  life  has  tended 


JAMES  GAIRDNER.-3 

more  and  more  to  convince  me  of  the  general 
fidelity  of  the  portrait  with  wliich  we  have  been 
made  familiar  by  Shakespeare  and  Sir  Thomas 
More. 

I  feel  quite  ashamed,  at  this  day,  to  think 
how  I  mused  over  this  subject  long  ago,  wasting 
a  great  deal  of  time,  ink,  and  paper  in  fruitless 
efforts  to  satisfy  even  my  own  mind  that  tradi- 
tional black  was  real  historical  white,  or  at  worst 
a  kind  of  gray.  At  last  I  laid  aside  my  incom- 
plete manuscript,  and  applied  myself  to  other 
subjects,  still  of  a  kindred  nature;  and  the  larger 
study  of  history  in  other  periods  convinced  me 
that  my  method  at  starting  had  been  altogether 
wrong.  The  attempt  to  discard  tradition  in  the 
examination  of  original  sources  of  history  is,  in 
fact,  like  the  attempt  to  learn  an  unknown  lan- 
guage without  a  teacher.  We  lose  the  benefit  of 
a  living  interpreter,  who  may,  indeed,  misappre- 
hend to  some  extent  the  author  whom  we  wish 
to  read ;  but  at  least  he  would  save  us  from  in- 
numerable mistakes  if  we  had  followed  his  guid- 
ance in  the  first  instance.  I  have,  therefore,  in 
working  out  this  subject  always  adhered  to  the 
plan  of  placing  my  chief  reliance  on  contempo- 
rary information ;  and,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  I 
have  neglected  nothing  important  that  is  cither 
directly  stated  by  original  authorities  and  con- 
temporary records,  or  that  can  be  reasonably  in- 
ferred from  what  they  say. — History  of  Rich- 
ard III.,  Preface. 

THE    CORONATION    OF    RICHARD    lit. 

By  all  accounts  the  magnificence  of  Richard's 
coronation  was  unsurpassed  by  tliat  of  any  of 
his  {)rcdoccs8ors.  The  ceremony  must  have 
lasted  soMK!  hours.  When  the  King  had  reached 
St.  Edward's  shrine,  and  was  seated  in  his  chair 
of  sUitc,  a  royal  service  was  sung  that  had  been 
prepared  for  the  ocrasion.  Afterwards  the  King 
and  Queen  coining  down  from  their  scats  to  the 
high  altar,  there  were  further  solemn  services, 
during    which    both    King   and    Queen  put  off 

Ml 


JMIES  GAIRDNER.-4 

their  robes,  and,  standing  naked  from  the  iniddk 
upwards,  were  anointed  by  the  bishop.  They 
then  changed  their  robes  for  cloth  of  gold,  and 
Cardinal  Bonrchier  crowned  them  both,  while 
organs  softly  played.  The  bishop  tlien  put  upon 
the  King  St.  Edward's  cope,  and  the  cardinal 
censed  both  King  and  Queen.  The  King  then 
took  the  cross  with  the  ball  in  his  right  hand,  and 
the  sceptre  in  his  left,  and  a  grand  Te  Deum  was 
sung  by  the  priests  and  clergy.  The  cardinal 
next  sang  mass,  and  the  King  and  Queen  re- 
turned to  their  chairs  of  state.  Two  bishops 
now  came  up  to  the  King,  knelt  before  him,  rose 
up  again  and  kissed  him,  one  after  the  other, 
and  t/ien  took  their  stations  beside  him,  one  on 
the  right  hand  and  the  other  on  the  left.  The 
Dukes  of  ]>uckingham  and  Norfolk,  with  the 
other  leading  nobles,  next  took  up  positions 
about  the  King,  the  Earl  of  Surrey  standing  be- 
fore him  with  a  sword  in  his  hand,  which  he 
held  upright  during  the  whole  of  the  mass; 
while,  at  the  same  time,  the  Queen  had  a  bishop 
standing  on  each  side  of  her.  The  Duchess  of 
Norfolk  also  sat  on  the  Queen's  right  hand,  and 
the  Countess  of  Richmond  on  her  left,  the 
Duchess  of  Norfolk  and  other  ladies  kneeling 
behind  her  till  the  mass  was  done.  The  King 
and  Queen  sat  still  till  the  pax  was  given.  After 
kissing  it  they  came  down  and  knelt  at  the  high 
altar,  where  they  received  the  sacrament.  The 
King  then  returned  to  St.  Edward's  shrine  and 
offered  up  St.  Edward's  crown  and  other  relics. 
Then  the  lords  set  his  own  crown  on  his  head, 
and  the  whole  company  began  to  move  out  of 
the  church  in  grand  procession.  The  King 
again  bore  the  cross  and  ball,  in  his  right  hand, 
with  the  sceptre  in  his  left.  The  Duke  of  Nor- 
folk bore  the  cap  of  maintenance  before  him. 
The  Queen  bore  her  sceptre  in  her  right  hand, 
and  the  rod  with  the  dove  in  her  left.  And  so, 
with  great  solemnity,  they  proceeded  to  West- 
minster ILilI,  where  the  banquet  began  at  the 
late  hour  of   four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.     In. 


JAMES  GAIRDNER.-5 

the  middle  of  the  second  course,  Sir  Robert 
Dyinock,  the  King's  Champion,  rode  into  the 
Ilall  upon  a  horse  trapped  with  white  and  crim- 
son silk,  and  challenged  any  man  to  dispute  the 
King's  title.  A  momentary  silence  followed; 
find  theil  the  cry  of  "  King  Richm-d !  King  Rich- 
ard !"  resounded  on  every  side;  Whatever  de- 
ficiency tliere  niight  have  been  in  Richard's  title 
Vfus,  now  remedied.  He  had  become  an  an- 
ointed King.  A  religious  rite  had  invested  his 
person  with  a  sanctity  which  it  had  not  before; 
and. he  had  spared  no  pains  to  make  it  as  splen- 
did and  imposing  as  any  such  rite  should  be.—' 
History  of  Richard  III.,  Chap.  IV. 

mCHARD    ill.    AFTER    THE    MTUDER    OF    HIS 
NEPHEWS. 

Hitherto  Richard's  life,  though  not  unmarked 
bv  violence,  liail  been  free  from  violence  to  his. 
own  tiesh  an<l  blood.  Even  his  most  unjustifia- 
ble measures  were  somewhat  in  the  nature  of 
self-defence;  or  if  in  any  case  he  had  stained 
liis  hands  witli  the  blood  of  persons  absolutely 
innocent,  it  was  not  in  his  own  interest,  but  in 
that  of  his  brother,  Edward  IV.  The  rough 
and  illegal  retribution  which  he  dealt  out  to  Riv- 
ers, Vaughan,  Hawte,  Lord  Richard  Grey,  and 
Lord  Hastings,  was  not  more  severe  than  per- 
liaps  law  itself  might  iiave  authorized.  The  dis- 
orders of  civil  war  had  accustomed  the  nation  to 
see  justice  sometimes  executed  without  the  due 
formalities  ;  and  his  neglect  of  those  formalities 
had  not  iiitherto  ma<b!  Iiim  unpopular.  But  the 
license  of  iinidieckcd  power  is  dangerous,  no  less 
to  tliose  wlio  wield  than  to  those;  who  suffer 
from  it ;  and  it  was  particularly  so  to  one  of 
Richard's  violent  anrl  impatient  tiMUper.  He 
had  lieen  alloweil  so  far  to  act  upon  iiis  own  ar- 
bitrarv  judi^ment  or  will,  that  expeiliencv  was  fast 
l»(;c<iuiing  his  oiilv  motive,  ami  extitigiiishing 
within  liirn  b(»tii  humanity  an<l  natural  affection. 

Ni'verthelcHs  lie  was  not    vet  sunk  so  low  as  to 
regard  his  own   unnatural  eondu(;t  with   indiffcr- 
ut 


JAMES  GAIRDNER.-e 

ence.  Deep  and  bitter  remorse  deprived  him  of 
all  that  tnuiquilUty  in  the  possession  of  power, 
for  the  attainment  of  which  had  iiubnied  his 
Lands  in  blood.  "  I  have  heard  by  credible  re- 
port," says  Sir  Thomas  More,  "of  snch  as  were 
secret  with  his  chamberers,  that  after  this  abomi- 
nable deed  done  lie  never  had  quiet  in  his  mind, 
he  never  thought  himself  sure.  Where  he  went 
abroad,  his  eyes  whirled  about,  his  body  privily 
fenced,  his  hand  ever  on  his  dagger,  his  counte- 
nance and  manner  like  one  always  ready  to  strike 
again,  lie  took  ill  rest  at  nights,  lay  long  wak- 
ing and  musing;  sore  wearied  with  care  and 
watch,  he  rather  slumbered  than  slept.  Trou- 
bled with  fearful  dreams,  suddenly  sometimes  he 
started  up ;  leapt  out  of  his  bed  and  ran  about 
the  chamber.  So  was  his  restless  heart  continu- 
ally tossed  and  tumbled  with  the  tedious  impres- 
sion and  stormy  remembrance  of  his  most  abomi- 
nable deed."  Such  was  the  awful  retribution 
that  overtook  this  inhuman  king  during  the  two 
short  years  that  he  survived  his  greatest  crime, 
till  the  battle  of  Bosworth  completed  the  meas- 
ure of  his  punishment. — History  of  Richard  III.., 
Chap.  IV. 

PERSONAL  APPEARANCE  OF  RICHARD  III. 

His  bodily  deformity,  though  perceptible,  was 
probably  not  conspicuous.  It  is  not  alluded  to 
by  any  strictly  contemporary  writer  except  one. 
Only  Rous,  the  Warwickshire  hermit,  tells  us 
that  his  shoulders  were  uneven ;  while  the  in- 
defatigable Stowe,  who  was  born  forty  years 
after  Richard's  death,  declared  that  he  could 
find  no  evidence  of  the  deformity  commonly  im- 
puted to  him,  and  that  he  had  talked  with  old 
men  who  had  seen  and  known  King  Richard, 
wlio  said  that  "  he  was  of  bodily  shape  comely 
enough,  only  of  low  stature." 

The  number  of  portraits  of  Richard  which 
seem  to  be  contemporary  is  greater  than  might 
have  been  expected  considering  the  remoteness 
of  the  times  in  which  he  lived,  and  the  early 


JAMES  GAIRDNER.— 7 

stage  at  wbicli  he  died The  face  in  all  the 

portraits  is  a  remarkable  one — full  of  energy 
and  decision,  yet  gentle  and  sad-looking;  sug- 
gesting the  idea  not  so  much  of  a  tyrant  as  a 
man  accustomed  to  unpleasant  thoughts.  No- 
where do  we  find  depicted  the  warlike,  hard- 
favored  visage  attributed  to  him  by  Sir  Thomas 
More ;  vet  there  is  a  look  of  reserve  and  anxiety 
which,  taken  in  connection  with  the  seeming 
gentleness,  enables  us  somewhat  to  realize  the 
criticism  of  Polydore  Vergil  and  Ilall,  that  his 
aspect  carried  an  unpleasant  impression  of  malice 
and  deceit.  The  face  is  long  and  thin,  the  lips 
thin  also;  the  eyes  are  gray,  the  features  smooth. 
It  cannot  certainly  be  called  quite  a  pleasing 
countenance,  but  as  little  should  we  suspect  in  it 
the  man  he  actually  was.  The  features  doubt- 
less were  susceptible  of  great  variety  of  expres- 
sion ;  but  we  require  the  aid  of  language  to 
understand  wliat  liis  enemies  read  in  that  sinister 
and  over-thoughtful  countenance.  "  A  man  at 
the  first  aspect,"  says  Hall,  "  would  judge  it  to 
savor  of  malice,  fraud,  and  deceit.  When  he 
stood  musing  he  would  bite  and  chew  busily  his 
nether  lip,  as  who  said  that  his  fierce  nature  in 
his  cruel  body  always  cliafed,  stirred,  and  was 
ever  unquiet.  Beside  tliat  the  dagger  that  he 
ware  lie  would,  when  he  studied,  with  his  hand 
pluck  up  and  down  in  the  sheath  to  the  midst, 
never  drawing  it  fully  out.  His  wit  was  preg- 
nant, quick,  and  ready,  wily  to  feign  and  apt  to 
dissemble;  he  had  a  proud  and  arrogant  stom- 
ach, the  which  accompanied  him  to  his  death, 
which  he,  rather  desiring  to  suffer  by  sword 
than,  being  forsaken  and  destitute  of  his  untrue 
companions,  would  by  coward  fliglit  preserve 
his  unrcrtain  life. — History  of  Richard  III,, 
Chap.  VI. 

Ml 


laClIAKD   GALL.— 1 

GALL,  EicHARD,  a  Scottish  printer  and 
poet,  born  in  1776 ;  died  in  1800.  He 
wrote  several  poems  in  the  Scottish  dialect, 
which  would  have  done  no  discredit  to 
Burns.  The  following  verses  have  been 
printed  as  the  composition  of  Burns,  a  copy 
of  them  in  his  handwriting  having  been 
found  among  his  papers : 

FAREWELL    TO    BONNV    DOON. 

Scenes  of  woe  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 

Scenes  that  former  thoughts  renew ; 
Scenes  of  woe  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 

Now  a  sad  and  last  adieu  ! 
Bonny  Doon,  sae  sweet  at  gloaming, 

Farc-thce-weel  before  I  gang — 
Bonny  Doon,  where,  early  roaming. 

First  I  weaved  the  rustic  sang ! 

Bowers,  adieu  !  where  love  decoying. 

First  enthralled  this  heart  o'  mine  ; 
There  the  saftcst  sweets  enjoying, 

Sweets  that  memory  ne'er  shall  tine ! 
Friends  so  dear  my  bosom  ever, 

Ye  hae  rendered  moments  dear; 
But,  alas  !  when  forced  to  sever, 

Then  the  stroke,  oh,  how  severe  ! 

Friends,  that  parting  tear  reserve  it. 

Though  'tis  doubly  dear  to  me ; 
Could  I  think  I  did  deserve  it, 

How  much  happier  would  I  be  ! 
Scenes  of  woe  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 

Scenes  that  former  thoughts  renew  ; 
Scenes  of  woe  and  scenes  of  pleasure; 

Now  a  sad  and  last  adieu  ! 


WILLIAM  D.  GALLAGHER.— 1 

GALLAGHER,  William  D.,  an  Ameii- 
can  journalist  and  poet,  born  at  Philadelphia 
in  1808.  He  learned  the  trade  of  a  printer, 
went  to  the  West,  and  became  connected, 
as  editor  or  contributor,  with  several  jour- 
nals. He  also  held,  at  one  time  or  another, 
honorable  othcial  positions.  Most  of  his 
works  are  scattered  through  the  pages  of 
periodical  literature,  although  in  1835  he 
put  forth,  under  the  title  of  Erato  a  small 
volume  of  his  early  poems,  and  in  1846  a 
volume  of  later  poems. 

TWO    YEARS. 

When  last  the  maple  bud  was  swelling 

When  last  the  crocus  bloomed  below, 
Thy  heart  to  mine  its  love  was  telling ; 

Thy  soul  with  mine  kept  ebb  and  flow. 
Again  the  maple  bud  was  swelling, 

Again  the  crocus  blooms  below: — 
In  heaven  thy  lieait  its  love  is  telling, 

But  still  our  souls  keep  ebb  and  flow. 
Wiien  last  the  April  bloom  was  flinging 

Sweet  odors  on  the  air  of  Spring, 
In  forest  aisles  thy  voice  was  ringing, 

Where  thou  didst  with  the  red-bird  sing. 
Again  the  April  bloom  is  flinging 

Sweet  odors  on  tiic  air  of  Spring, 
But  now  in  heaven  thy  voice  is  ringing 

Where  thou  dost  with  the  angels  sing. 

IMMORTAL    VOUTH. 

Beautiful,  beautiful  youth !  that  in  the  soul 

Livctb  for  ever,  where  sin  livcth  not — 
How  fresh  Creation's  chart  doth  still  unroll 

Before  our  eyes,  althouj^h  the  little  spot 
That  knows  us  now  shall  know  us  soon  no  more 
Forever  !     We  look  backward  and  before, 

And  inward,  and  we  feel  there  is  a  life 
Impelling  us,  that  need  not  with  this  frame 
Or  flesh  f,'row  feeble ;  but  for  aye  the  same 

May  live  on,  e'en  amid  this  worldly  strife, 
Clothed  with  the  beauty  and  the  freshness  still 


WILLIAM  D.  GALLAGHER.— 3 

It  brought  with  it  at  first ;  and  that  it  will 
Glide  ahnost  imperceptibly  away, 
Taking  no  tint  of  tliis  dissolving  clay; 

And  joining  with  the  incorruptible 
And  sj)iritual  body  tiiat  awaits 
Its  coming  at  the  starred  and  golden  gates 

Of  Ueaven,  move  on  with  the  celestial  train 
Whose  shining  vestments,  as  along  tliey  stray 
Flash  with  the  splendors  of  eternal  day ; 

And  mingle  with  its  primal  Source  again, 

Where   Faith,  Hope,  Charity,  and  Love,  and 

Truth, 
Swell  with  the  Godhead  in  immortal  youth. 

EARLY    AUTUMN    IN    THE    WEST. 

The  Autumn  time  is  with  us !     Its  approach 
Was  heralded,  not  many  days  ago, 
By  hazy  skies  that  veiled  the  brazen  sun. 
And  sea-like  murmurs  from  the  rustling  corn. 
And  low-voiced  brooks  that  wandered  drowsily 
By  purpling  clusters  of  the  juicy  grape, 
Swinging  upon  the  vine. 

And  now  'tis  here! 
And  what  a  change  has  passed  upon  the  face 
Of  Nature ;  where  the  waving  forest  spreads. 
Then  robed  in  deepest  green !      All  through  the 

night 
The  subtle  Frost  hath  pl'ed  its  mystic  art ; 
And  in  the  day  tlie  golden  sun  liath  wrought 
True  wonders ;  and  the  winds  of  morn  and  even 
Have  touched  with  magic  breath  the  changing 

leaves. 
And  now,  as  wanders  the  dilating  eye 
Atliwart  the  varied  landscape,  circling  far — 
What  gorgeousness,  wliat  blazonry,  what  pomp 
Of  colors  bursts  upon  the  ravished  sight! 
Here,  where  the  Maple  rears  its  yellow  crest, 
A  golden  glory ;  yonder  where  the  Oak 
Stands  monarch  of  the  forest,  and  the  Ash 
Is  girt  with  flaine-likc  parasite ;  and  broad 
The  Dog-wood  spreads  beneath  a  rolhng  field 
Of  deepest  crimson  ;  and  afar,  where  looms 
The  gnarled  Gum,  a  cloud  of  bloodiest  red ! 

'8M 


^VILLIAM   D.  GALLAGHER— 3 

Out  in  the  woods  of  Autmnii  I — I  have  cast 
Aside  the  shackles  of  the  town,  that  vex 
Tiie  fetterless  soul,  and  come  to  hide  myself. 
Miami !  in  thy  venerable  shades 
Low  on  thy  bank,  where  spreads  the  velvet  moss, 
My  limbs  recline.     Beneath  me,  silver-bright. 
Glide  the  clear  waters  with  a  plaintive  moan 
For  Summer's  parting  glories.     High  o'erhead, 
Seeking  tlie  sedgy  lakes  of  the  warm  South, 
Sails  tireless  the  unerring  "VVa4er-fowl 
Screaming   among   the    cloud-racks.     Oft   from 

where 
Erect  on  mossy  trunk,  the  Partridge  stands. 
Bursts  suddenly  the  whistle  clear  and  loud. 
Far-echoing   through    the    dim    wood's    fretted 

aisles. 
Deep   murmurs   from   the  trees,   bending  with 

brown 
And  ripened  mast,  are  interrupted  now 
By  sounds  of  dropping  nuts ;  and  warily 
The  Turkey  from  the  thicket  comes,  and  swift 
As  flies  an  arrow,  darts  the  Pheasant  down. 
To  batten  on  the  Autumn;  and  the  air. 
At  times,  is  darkened  by  a  sudden  rush 
Of  myriad  wings  as  the  Wild  Pigeon  leads 
Uis  squadrons  to  the  banquet. 


John  galt.-i 

GALT,  John,  a  Scottish  author,  born  in 
1779  ;  died  in  1839.  He  was  the  son  of 
the  captain  of  a  merchant- vessel  engaged  iti 
the  West  India  trade.  He  eaHy  shbt^'ed  ii 
foridness  for  literature,  and  at  the  'ig<e  bf 
Wentj-five  went  to  London  in  order  to  push 
his  fortune  there.  lie  entered  into  some 
unsuccessful  mercantile  enterprises,  after 
which  he  began  reading  for  the  bar.  His 
health  failing,  he  set  out  in  1809  upon  a 
toilr  in  the  Levant.  This  lasted  three  years, 
and  upon  his  return  to  England  he  pub- 
lished Letters  from  the  Levant,  and  Voyages 
and  Travels.  He  married  a  daughter  of 
the  proprietor  of  the  Star  newspaper,  and 
was  for  a  time  employed  upon  that  journal. 
For  some  years  he  tried  his  hand  at  almost 
every  species  of  literary  composition.  His 
first  successful  work  was  a  novel,  The  Ayr- 
shire Legatees,  which  appeared  in  lUach- 
wood''s  Magazine  in  1820-21.  This  was 
followed  during  the  next  three  years  by 
several  other  tales,  among  which  are  the 
Annals  of  the  Parish,  and  The  Prevost, 
which  are  considered  the  best  of  his  works. 
In  1826  he  w^ent  to  Canada  as  agent  of  a 
Land  C<^mpany  ;  but  a  dispute  arising  be- 
tween him  and  the  company,  he  returned 
to  England  in  1829,  and  resumed  his  lite- 
rary life.  He  wrote  ^  LJfe  of  Pyron,^\\ 
Atitohiograjjhy,  a  collection  of  Miscella- 
nies, and  several  novels,  the  best  of  which 
is  Laiorie  Todd  (1830),  which  is  partly 
founded  upon  the  experiences  of  Grant 
Thorburn,  an  eccentric  Scotsman  who,  orig- 
inally a  nail-maker,  became  a  flourishing 
seedsman  iu  New  York.  Several  years 
before  his  death  Gait  was  seized  with  a  spi- 
nal disease  which  resulted  in  repeated  par- 
alytic attacks,  which  in  time  deprived  him 


JOHN  GALt.-S 

\vholly  of  the  use  of  his  Hmbs,  so  that  his 
later  works  were  dictated  to  an  amanuensis. 
SiK  Alexaxdee  Galt,  a  son  of  John 
Gah,  born  in  1816,  has  risen  to  high  honor 
in  Canada.  At  sixteen  he  entered  the  em- 
ployment of  the  Land  Company,  and  from 
1844  to  1850  was  the  acting  Manager  of 
its  affairs.  After  the  establishment  of  the 
confederation  known  as  the  "  Dominion  of 
Canada,"  he  became  Minister  of  FinancCj 
and  after  resigning  that  position  in  1867, 
he  occupied  several  other  responsible  sta- 
tions in  the  Canadian  administration. 

INSTALLATION    OF    THE  REV.   MICAII    BALWHIDDER. 

It  was  a  great  affair ;  for  I  was  put  in  by  the 
patron,  and  tlie  people  knew  notliinif  whatsoever 
of  me,  aTid  their  he;irts  were  stirred  into  strife 
on  the  occasion,  and  they  did  all  that  lay  within 
the  compass  of  their  power  to  keep  me  out,  in- 
somuch that  there  was  obliged  to  be  a  guard  of 
soldiers  to  protect  the  presbytery ;  and  it  was  a 
thing  that  made  my  heart  grieve  when  I  heard 
the  drum  beating  and  tlic  fife  playing  as  we 
were  going  to  the  kirk.  The  people  were  really 
mad  and  vicious,  and  flung  dirt  upon  us  as  we 
passed,  and  reviled  us  all,  and  held  out  the  fin- 
ger of  scorn  at  me  ;  but  I  endured  it  with  a  re- 
signed spirit,  comi)assi()nating  their  wilfulness 
and  blindness.  I'oor  old  Mr.  Kilfaddy  of  the 
Braohill  got  sucli  a  clash  of  glaur  [mire]  on  tho 
side  of  his  face,  that  his  eye  was  almost  cxtin- 
guislie(b 

When  wo  got  to  the  kirk  door,  it  was  found 
to  be  nailed  up,  so  as  by  no  possihility  to  be 
opened.  The  sergeant  <jf  the  soldiers  wanted 
to  break  it,  but  1  was  afraid  that  the  heritors 
wouM  gnuige  and  complain  <if  the  expense 
of  a  new  rloor,  and  I  supplicated  him  to  let  it 
be  as  it  was;  we  were  therefore  ohligated  to  go 
in  by  a  window,  aii<l  the  crowd  followed  tis  in 
the  most  unrcverent  manner,  making  the  Lord's 

Ml 


JOHN  GALT.— 3 

house  like  an  inn  on  a  fair-day  with  their  griev- 
ous yelly-hooing.  Daring  the  time  of  the  psahn 
and  the  sermon  they  bciiaved  themselves  bet- 
ter, but  when  the  indnction  came  on,  their 
clamor  was  dreadful  ;  and  Thomas  Thorl,  the 
weaver,  a  pious  zealot  in  that  time,  got  up  and 
protested,  and  said :  "Verily,  verily,  I  say  unto 
you,  he  tliat  entereth  not  by  the  door  into  the 
sheepfold,  but  cliinbeth  up  some  other  way,  the 
same  is  a  thief  and  a  robber."  And  I  thought 
I  would  have  a  liard  and  sore  time  of  it  with 
such  an  outstrapolous  people.  Mr.  Given,  that 
was  then  the  minister  of  Lugton,  was  a  jocose 
man,  and  would  liave  his  joke  even  at  a  solem- 
nity. When  the  laying  of  the  hands  upon  mo 
was  adoing,  he  could  not  get  near  enough  to  put 
on  his,  but  he  stretched  out  his  stafE  and  touched 
my  head,  and  said,  to  the  great  diversion  of  the 
rest:  "This  will  do  well  enough — timber  to  tim- 
ber ;"  but  it  was  an  unfriendly  saying  of  Mr. 
Given,  considering  the  time  and  the  place,  and 
the  temper  of  my  people. 

After  the  ceremony  we  then  got  out  at  the 
window,  and  it  was  a  heavy  day  to  nie ;  but  we 
went  to  the  manse,  and  there  we  had  an  excel- 
lent dinner,  which  Mrs.  Watts  of  the  new  inn  of 
Irville  prepared  at  my  request,  and  sent  Iter 
chaise-driver  to  serve,  for  he  was  likewise  her 
waiter,  she  having  then  but.  one  chaise,  and  that 
not  often  called  for. 

But  although  my  people  received  me  in  this 
unruly  manner,  I  was  resolved  to  cultivate  civil- 
ity among  them ;  and  therefore  the  very  next 
morning  I  began  a  round  of  visitations  ;  but  oh  ! 
it  was  a  steep  brae  that  I  had  to  climb,  and  it 
needed  a  stout  heart,  for  I  found  the  doors  in 
some  places  barred  against  me ;  in  others,  the 
bairns,  when  they  saw  me  coming,  ran  crying  to 
their  mothers :  "  Here's  the  feckless  Mess-John  ;" 
and  tlien,  when  I  went  in  into  the  houses,  their  pa- 
rents would  not  ask  me  to  sit  down,  but  with  a 
scornful  way  said  :  "  Honest  man,  what's  your 
pleasure  here  ?  "     Nevertheless,  I  walked  about 


JOHN  GALT.— 4 

from  door  to  door,  like  a  dejected  beggar,  till  I 
got  the  almous  deed  of  a  civil  reception,  and — 
who  would  have  thought  it? — from  no  less  a  per- 
son than  the  same  Thomas  Thorl,  that  was  so  bit- 
ter against  me  in  the'Jkirk  on  the  foregoing  day. 

Thomas  was    standing    at    the   door  with  his 
green  dutfle  apron  and  his  red  Kilmarnock  night- 
cap— I  mind  him  as  well  as  if  it  were  but  yes- 
tcrdav — and  he  had  seen  me  going  from   house 
to  house,  and  in  what  manner  1  was  rejected,  and 
his  bowels  were  moved,  and  he  said  to  me  in  a 
kind  manner:  "Come  in,  sir,  and  ease  yoursel' ; 
this  will  never  do;  the  clergy  are  God's  corbies, 
and  for  their  Master's  sake  it  behooves  us  to  re- 
spect them.    There  was  no  ane  in  the  whole  par- 
ish mair  against  you  than  mysel',  but  this  early 
visitation  is  a  symptom  of  grace  that  I  couldna 
have  cxpectit  frum  a  bird  out  of  the  nest  of  pat- 
ronage."    I  thanked  Thomas,  and  went  in  with 
liim,"and  we  had  some  solid  conversation  togeth- 
er, and  I  told  him  that  it  was  not  so  much  the 
pastor's  duty  to  feed  the  flock,  as  to  herd  them 
well ;  and  that,  although  there  might  be  some 
abler  with  tlie  head  than   me,  there  wasna  a  he 
within  the  bounds  of  Scotland  more  willing  to 
watch  the  fold  by  night  and  by  day.  And  Thom- 
as said   he    had  not  heard  a  mair  sound  observe 
for  some  time,  and  that  if  I  held  to  that  doctrine 
in  the  poopit,  it  wouMiia   be   lang  till   I  wonld 
work    a    change.       "I    was    mindit,"   quoth   he, 
"never  to  set  my  foot  within  the  kirk  door  wliile 
vou  were  there  ;  but   to  testify,  and   no  to  con- 
demn without  a  trial,  I'll  be  there  next  Lord's 
day,  and  egg  my  neighbours  to  be  likewise,  so 
vc'll   no  have   to  preach  just   to   the   bare  walls 
and    the    laird's    family."  —  The    Annals    of   t/tc 
Pnrinh. 

LAWRIE  TODd's    SECOND    MAIlRIACiE. 

Mv  young  wife  was  dead,  leaving  me  an  infant 
son.  If  a  man  marry  once  for  love,  he  is  a  fool 
to  expect  he  may  do  so  twice  ;  it  cannot  be. 
Therefore,  I  say,  in  the  choice  of  a  second  wife 


JOHN  GALT.-5 

one  scruple  of  prudence  is  wortli  a  pound  of  pas- 
sion. I  do  not  assert  that  he  should  have  an  eye 
to  a  dowry ;  for  unless  it  is  a  great  sum,  such  as 
will  keep  all  the  family  in  gentility,  I  think  a 
small  fortune  one  of  the  greatest  faults  a  woman 
can  have ;  not  that  I  object  to  money  on  its  own 
account,  but  only  to  its  effect  in  the  airs  and 
vanities  it  begets  in  the  silly  maiden — especially 
if  her  husband  profits  by  it. 

For  this  reason,  I  did  not  choose  my  second 
wife  from  the  instincts  of  fondness,  nor  for  her 
parentage,  nor  for  her  fortune ;  neither  was  I 
deluded  by  fair  looks.  I  had,  as  I  have  said, 
my  first-born  needing  tendance  ;  and  my  means 
were  small,  while  my  cares  were  great.  I  ac- 
cordingly looked  about  for  a  sagacious  woman 
— one  that  not  only  knew  the  use  of  needles  and 
sliears,  but  that  the  skirt  of  an  old  green  coat 
might,  for  lack  of  other  stuff,  be  a  clout  to  the 
knees  of  blue  trowsers.  And  such  a  one  I  found 
in  the  niece  of  my  friend  and  neighbor,  Mr.  Ze- 
robabel  L.  Hoskins,  a  most  respectable  farmer 
from  Vermont,  who  had  come  to  New  York 
about  a  cod-fish  adventure  that  he  had  sent  to 
the  Mediterranean,  and  was  waiting  with  his 
wife  and  niece  the  returns  from  Sicily. 

This  old  Mr.  Hoskins  was,  in  his  way,  some- 
thing of  a  Yankee  oddity.  He  was  tall,  thin, 
and  of  an  anatomical  figure,  with  a  long  chin, 
ears  like  trenchers,  lengthy  jaws,  and  a  nose  like 
a  schooner's  cut-water.  His  hair  was  lank  and 
oily  ;  the  tie  of  his  cravat  was  always  dislocated  ; 
and  he  wore  an  old  white  beaver  hat  turned  up 
behind.  His  long  bottle-green  surtout,  among 
other  defects,  lacked  a  button  on  the  left  promon- 
tory of  his  hinder  parts,  and  in  the  house  he 
always  tramped  in  slippers. 

Having  from  my  youth  upward  been  much 
addicted  to  the  society  of  remarkable  persons, 
soon  after  the  translation  of  my  Rebecca,  I  hap- 
pened to  fall  in  with  this  gentleman,  and,  with- 
out thinking  of  any  serious  purpose,  I  sometimes 
of  a  Sabbath-evening,  called  at  the  house  where 

400 


JOHN  GALT.— 6 

he  boarded  with  his  family  ;  and  there  I  discov- 
ered in  the  household  talents  of  Miss  Judith,  his 
niece,  just  the  sort  of  woman  that  was  wanted  to 
heed  to  the  bringing  up  of  my  little  boy.  This 
discovery,  however,  to  tell  the  truth  quietly,  was 
first  made  by  her  uncle. 

"  I  guess,  "Squire  Lawrie,"  said  he  one  evening, 
"  the  Squire  has  considerable  muddy  time  on't 
since  his  old  woman  went  to  pot." 

Ah,  Rebecca  I  she  was  but  twenty-one. 

«'  Now,  Squire,  you  see,"  continued  Mr.  Zero- 
babel  L.  Hoskins,'  "  that  ere  being  the  cVrcura- 
stance,  you  should  be  a-making  your  calcula- 
tions for  another  spec ;"  and  he  took  his  cigar 
out  of  liis  mouth,  and  trimming  it  on  the  edge 
of  the  snuffer-tray,  added,  "  Weil,  if  it  so  be  as 
you're  agoing  to  do  so,  don't  you  go  to  stand 
like  a  pump,  with  your  arm  up,  as  if  you  would 
give  the  sun  a  black  eye  ;  but  do  it  right  away." 

I  told  him  it  was  a  thing  1  could  not  yet  think 
of ;  that  my  wound  was  too  fresh,  my  loss  too 
recent. 

"  If  thatbain't  particular,"  replied  he,  "Squire 
Lawrie,  I'm  a  pumpkin,  and  the  pigs  may  do 
their  damncdst  with  me.  But  I  ain't  a  pumpkin  ; 
the  Squire  he  knows  that." 

I  assured  hiin,  without  very  deeply  dunkling 
the  truth,  that  I  had  met  with  few  men  in  Amer- 
ica who  better  knew  how  many  blue  beans  it 
takes  to  tnakc  five. 

"  I  reckon  Squire  Lawrie,"  siiid  he,  "  is  a-par- 
Icyvoo;  but  I  sells  no  wooden  nutmegs.  Now 
look  yc  here,  Scjuire.  There  be  you  spinning 
your  tiiumhs  with  a  small  child  that  ha'n't  got 
no  mother;  so  I  calculate,  if  you  make  Jerusa- 
lem fine  nails,  I  guess  you  can't  a-hippen  such  a 
small  child  fnr  no  man's  money  ;  wjiich  is  tar- 
nation had." 

I  could  not  but  acknowledge  the  good  sense 
of  his  remark.  lit;  drew  his  chair  close  in  front 
of  me  ;  and  taking  the  cigar  out  of  his  mouth, 
and  beating  off  tlio  aslies  on  his  left  thumb 
nail,  re[)laced  it.      Having  tlien  given  a  puff,  he 


JOtiN   GALT.— 7 

faiscd  his  riglit  hand  aloft,  and  laying  it  emphat- 
ically down  on  his  knee,  said  in  his  wonted  slow 
and  phlegmatic  tone — 

"Well,  I  guess  that  'ere  young  woman,  my 
niece,  she  baint  five-and-twenty — she'll  make  a 
heavenly  splice  ! — I  have  known  that  'ere  young 
woman  'live  the  milk  of  our  thirteen  cows  afore 
eight  a-morning,  and  then  fetch  Crumple  and 
her  calf  from  the  bush — dang  that 'ere  Crumple  ! 
we  never  had  no  such  heifer  afore  ;  she  and  her 
calf  cleared  out  every  night,  and  wouldn't  come 
on  no  account,  no  never,  till  Judy  fetched  her 
right  away,  when  done  milking  t'other  thirteen." 

*'  No  doubt,  Mr.  Hoskins,"  said  I,  "  Miss  Ju- 
dith will  make  a  capital  farmer's  wife  in  the 
country  ;  but  I  have  no  cows  to  milk ;  all  my 
live-stock  is  a  sucking  bairn." 

"  By  the  gods  of  Jacob's  father-in-law  !  she's 
just  the  cut  for  that.  But  the  Squire  knows 
I  aint  a-going  to  trade  her.  If  she  suits  Squire 
Lawrie — good,  says  I — I  shan't  ask  no  nothing 
for  her ;  but  I  can  tell  the  Squire  as  how  Benja- 
min S.  Thuds — what  is  blacksmith  in  our  village 
— offered  me  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars — gos- 
pel by  the  living  jingo ! — in  my  hand  right 
away.  But  you  see  as  how  he  was  an  almighty 
boozer,  though  for  blacksmithing  a  {)rime  ham- 
mer. I  said.  No,  no ;  and  there  she  is  still  to  be 
had  ;  and  I  reckon  Squire  Lawrie  may  go  the 
whole  hog  with  her,  and  make  a  good  opera- 
tion." 

Discovering  by  this  plain  speaking  how  the 
cat  jumped — to  use  one  of  his  own  terms — we 
entered  more  into  the  marrow  of  the  business, 
till  it  came  to  pass  that  I  made  a  proposal  for 
Miss  Judith  ;  and  soon  after  a  paction  was  set- 
tled between  me  and  her,  that  when  the  Fair 
Aincricdn  arrived  from  Palermo,  we  should  be 
married ;  for  she  had  a  share  in  that  codfish  ven- 
ture by  that  bark,  and  we  counted  that  the  profit 
might  prove  a  nest-egg;  and  it  did  so  to  tlie 
blitliesome  tune  of  four  hundred  and  thirty-three 
dollars,  which  the  old  gentleman  counted  out  to 
me  in  the  hard-on  wedding-day. — Lawrie  Todd, 


FRA.NCIS  GALTON.— 1 

G  ALT  OX,  Francis,  an  English  author, 
born  near  Birmingham,  in  1822.  He  stud- 
ied medicine  in  the  Birmingham  Hospital, 
and  in  King's  College,  London,  and  gradu- 
ated from  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  in 
1844.  He  then  made  two  journeys  of  ex- 
ploration, one  in  North  Africa,  and  one  in 
South  Africa.  In  1853  he  published  an  ac- 
count of  the  latter  journey  in  a  Narrative 
of  an  Explorer  in  Tropical  South  Africa. 
Among  his  other  works  are:  The  Art  of 
Travel,  or  S/iift«  and  Contrivances  in  Wild 
Countnes  (1855),  Hereditary  Genius,  its 
Laws  and  Consequences  (1869),  English 
Men  of  Science:  their  Nature  and  Nur- 
ture (1874),  and  Inquiries  into  Human 
Faculty  and  its  Development  (1883.) 

RECKONING    AMONG    THE    DAMARAS. 

They  have  no  comparative  in  their  langnag^e, 
so  that  you  cannot  say  to  them,  "  Which  is  the 
longer  of  tlie  two,  the  next  stage,  or  the  last 
one  ?"  but  you  uuist  say,  "  The  last  stage  is  little  ; 
the  next,  is  it  great?"  The  reply  is  not,  "It  is 
a  little  longer,"  "  nuicli  longer,"  or  "very  uuich 
longer;"  but  simply,  "  It  is  so,"  or"  It  is  not  so." 
Thcv  have  a  very  poor  notion  of  time.  If  you 
sav,"  Suppose  we  start  at  sunrise,  where  will  the 
sun  be  when  we  arrive?"  they  make  the  wildest 
points  in  the  sky,  though  they  are  something  of 
astronomers,  and  give  names  to  several  stars. 
Thoy  have  no  way  of  distinguishing  days,  but 
reckon  by  the  rainy  seitson,  the  dry  season,  or 
the  pig-nut  season.  When  iiKjuiries  are  nwidc 
about  liow  many  days'  journey  oil  a  place  may 
be,  th«'ir  ignorance  of  all  numerical  ideas  is  very 
annoying.  In  practice,  whatever  tlicy  may  possess 
in  their  language,  they  certainly  use  no  numeral 
greater  than  three.  When  they  wish  to  express 
four,  they  take  to  their  fingers,  which  are  to 
them  as  formidable  instrumcntH  of  calculation 
as  a  Blidiag-rulc   is   to   an    English   school-boy 

4t< 


FRANCIS  GALT0N.-3 

They  puzzle  very  much  after  five,  because  no 
spare  hand  remains  to  grasp  and  secure  the  fin- 
gers that  are  required  for  "  units." 

When  bartering  is  going  on,  each  sheep  must 
be  paid  for  separately.  Thus,  suppose  two  sticks 
of  tobacco  to  be  the  rate  of  exchange  for  one 
sheep,  it  would  sorely  puzzle  a  Damara  to  take 
two  sheep  and  give  him  four  sticks.  I  have 
done  so,  and  seen  a  man  first  put  two  of  the 
sticks  apart  and  take  a  sight  over  them  at  one  of 
the  sheep  he  was  about  to  sell.  Having  satis- 
fied himself  that  that  one  was  honestly  paid  for, 
and  finding  to  his  surprise  that  exactly  two 
sticks  remained  in  hand  to  settle  the  account  for 
the  other  sheep,  he  would  be  afflicted  with 
doubts;  the  transaction  seemed  to  come  out  too 
"  pat"  to  be  correct,  and  he  would  refer  back  to 
the  first  couple  of  sticks,  and  then  his  mind  got 
hazy  and  confused,  and  wandered  from  one 
sheep  to  the  other,  and  he  broke  off  the  trans- 
action until  two  sticks  were  put  into  his  hand 
and  one  sheep  driven  away,  and  then  the  other 
two  sticks  given  him,  and  the  other  sheep 
driven  away.  When  a  Damara's  mind  is 
bent  upon  number,  it  is  too  much  occupied 
to  dwell  upon  quantity :  thus,  a  heifer  is 
bought  from  a  man  for  ten  sticks  of  tobacco ; 
his  large  hands  being  both  spread  out  upon  the 
ground,  and  a  stick  placed  on  each  finger,  he 
gathers  up  the  tobacco ;  the  size  of  the  mass 
pleases  him,  and  the  bargain  is  struck.  You 
then  want  to  buy  a  second  heifer :  the  same  pro- 
cess is  gone  through,  but  half  sticks  instead  of 
whole  ones  arc  put  upon  his  fingers ;  the  man  is 
equally  satisfied  at  the  time,  but  occasionally 
finds  it  out,  and  complains  the  next  d&y,-^Tropi- 
cal  South  Africa. 


JOHN  GAMBOLD.— 1 

GAMBOLD,  JoHif,  a  bishop  of  the  Mo- 
ravian Brethren  ;  died  in  1771.  He  was 
born  in  Wales,  was  educated  at  Christ 
Church,  Oxford,  and  was  for  some  time  a 
clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England.  He 
was  one  of  the  principal  translators,  from 
the  "  High  Dutch,"  of  Crantz's  Ilistonj  of 
Greenland  (1767),  and  wrote  a  tragedy,  and 
many  discourses,  hymns,  and  poems.  ^An 
edition  of  his  works  was  published  in  1789  ; 
new  edition,  at  Glasgow,  in  1822. 

THE    MYSTERY    OF    LIFE. 

So  many  years  I've  seen  the  sun, 

And  called  these  eyes  and  hands  my  own, 

A  thousand  little  acts  I've  done, 

And  childhood  have  and  manhood  known : 

Ob,  what  is  Life  ?— and  this  dull  round 

To  tread,  why  was  ray  spirit  bound  ? 

So  many  airy  draughts  and  lines, 
And  warm  excursions  of  the  mind, 

Have  filled  my  soul  with  great  designs, 
Wliile  practice  groveled  far  behind  : 

Oh,  what  is  Thought? — and  where  withdraw 

The  glories  which  my  fancy  saw  ? 

So  many  wondrous  gleams  of  light. 

And  gentle  ardors  from  above. 
Have  made  me  sit,  like  seraph  bright. 

Some  moments  on  a  throne  of  love: 
Oh,  what  is  Virtue? — why  had  I, 
Who  am  so  low,  a  tJiste  so  high  ? 

H)rc  long,  when  Sovereign  Wisdom  wills, 
My  soul  an  unknown  path  shall  tread, 

And  strangely  leave — who  strangely  fills 
TIiIk  frame — and  waft  me  to  the  dead  I 

Oh,  what  is  Death  ? — 'tis  Life's  last  shore, 

Where  V'anitifs  are  vain  no  more; 

Where  nil  y)ursuits  their  goal  obtain, 

And  Life  is  all  retouched  again; 

Wherein  their  bright  result  shall  rise 

fhoughts,  Virtues,  Friendships,  Griefs,  and  Joysl 


WILLIAM  CHANNING  GANNETT.— 1 

GANNETT,  William  Channing,  an 
American  clergyman  and  poet,  born  at  Bos- 
ton in  1840.  He  graduated  at  Harvard  in 
1860  ;  was  a  teacher  at  Newport,  R.I.;  then 
studied  theology,  and  became  pastor  of  a 
church  at  Milwaukee.  He  has  written  many 
hymns  and  other  poems  which  have  ap- 
peared in  periodicals. 

LISTENING    FOR    GOD. 

I  hear  it  often  in  the  dark,  I  hear  it  in  the  Hght : — 

Where  is  tlie  voice  that  calls  to  mc  with  such  a 
quiet  might  ? 

It  seems  but  echo  to  my  thought,  and  yet  be- 
yond the  stars ; 

It  seems  a  heart-beat  in  a  hush ;  and  yet  the 
planet  jars. 

Oh,  may  it  be  that  far  within  my  inmost  soul 
there  lies 

A  spirit-sky  that  opens  with  those  voices  of  sur- 
prise ? 

And  can  it  be,  by  night  and  day,  that  firmament 
serene 

Is  just  the  heaven  where  God  himself,  the 
Father,  dwells  unseen  ? 

O  God  within,  so  close  to  me  that  every  thought 

is  plain. 
Be  Judge,  be  Friend,  be  Father  still,  and  in  thy 

heaven  reign  ! 
Thy  heaven  is  mine — my  very  soul !     Thy  words 

are  sweet  and  strong; 
They  fill    my  inward  silences  with  music   and 

with  song. 

They  send  me  challenges  to  right,  and  loud  re- 
buke my  ill ; 

They  ring  my  bells  of  victory ;  they  breathe  my 
"  Peace,  be  still ! " 

They  even  seem  to  say,  **  My  child,  why  seek  me 
so  all  day  ? 

Now  journey  inward  to  thyself,  and  listen  by 
the  way." 


PEDRO  ANTONIO  GAt^CAO.— 1 

GAECAO,  Pedro  Antonio,  a  Portu- 
guese poet,  born  in  1724;  died  in  1772. 
Having  given  offence  to  the  government, 
he  was  thrown  into  prison,  where  he  died. 
He  formed  his  style  upon  the  classic  models, 
and  has  been  called  "  the  Second  Portu- 
guese Horace."  Portuguese  critics,  some- 
what extravagantly,  style  his  Cantata  de 
Dido  "one  ot  the  most  sublime  conceptions 
of  human  genius." 

DIDO  :    A    CANTATA. 

Already  in  the  ruddy  east  shine  white 

The  pregnant  sails  that  speed  the  Trojan  fleet; 

Now  wafted  on  tlie  pinions  of  the  wind, 

They  vanish  'midst  the  o-olden  sea's  blue  waves. 

The  miserable  Dido 
Wanders  loud  slirieking  through  her  regal  halls, 
With  dim  and  turbid  eyes  seeking  in  vain 

The  fugitive  yEneas. 
Only  deserted  streets  and  lonely  squares 
Her  new-built  Carthage  offers  to  her  gaze ; 
And  frightfully  along  the  naked  shore 
The  solitary  billows  roar  i'  th'  night, 

And  'midst  the  gilded  vanes 

Crowning  the  splendid  domes 
Nocturnal  birds  hoot  their  ill  auguries. 

Deliriously  she  raves ; 

Pale  is  her  beauteous  face, 
Her  silken  tresses  all  disheveled  stream 
And  with  uncertain  foot,  scarce  conscious,  she 

That  liaj)py  chamber  seeks, 

Wiierc  she  with  melting  heart 

llcr  faithless  lover  heard 
Whisper  imp!i.ssioncd  sighs  and  soft  complaints. 
There  the  inhuman  Fates  before  lier  sight. 
Hung  o'er  the  gilded  nuptial  couch  displayed 
TlieTeucrian  mantles,  whose  loose  folds  disclosed 
The  histriouH  shield  and  the  Dardanian  sword. 
She  startecl ;   suddenlv,  with  hand  eonvulseib 
From  out  the  sheath  the    glittering  blade    she 
snatched, 

«n 


^EDRO  ANTONIO  QARCAO.— 9 

And  on  the  tempered,  penetrating  steel 

Her  delicate,  transparent  bosom  cast ; 

And  murnuiring,  gushing,    foaming,  the  warm 

blood 
Bursts  in  a  fearful  torrent  from  the  wound; 
And,  from  the  cncrimsoned  rushes,  spotted  red, 
Tremble  the  Doric  columns  of  the  hall. 

Thrice  she  essayed  to  rise; 
Thrice  fainting  on  the  bed  she  prostrate  fell, 
And,  writhing  as  she  la}^  to  heaven  upraised 

Her  quenched  and  failing  eyes 
Then  earnestly  upon  the  lustrous  sail 

Of  Ilium's  fugitive 
Fixing  her  look,  she  uttered  these  last -words; 
And  hovering  'midst  the  golden  vaulted  roofs, 
The  tones,  lugubrious  and  pitiful. 
In  after  days  were  often  heard  to  moan ! — 

"  Ye  precious  memorials 
Dear  sources  of  delight, 
Enrapturing  my  sight, 
"Whilst  relentless  Fate, 
Whilst  the  gods  above, 
Seemed  to  bless  my  love, 
Of  the  wretched  Dido 
The  spirit  receive ! 
From  sorrows  whose  burden 
Her  strength  overpowers 
The  lost  one  relieve  ! 
The  hapless  Dido 
Not  timclessly  dies; 
The  walls  of  her  Carthage, 
Loved  child  of  her  care, 
High  towering  rise. 
Now,  a  spirit  bare, 
She  flies  the  sun's  beam; 
And  Phlegethon's  dark 
And  horrible  stream, 
In  Charon's  foul  bark. 
She  lonesomely  ploughs." 
Transl.  in  Foreign  Quarterly  .Review , 


Samuel  rawson  gardiner.— i 

GAKDIXER,  Samuel  Rawson,  an  Eng- 
lish historian,  born  in  1829.  He  was  edu- 
cated at  Winchester  and  at  Christ-church 
College,  Oxford,  and  became  Professor  of 
Modern  History  at  Kintr's  College,  London. 
In  1882  a  Civil  List  pension  was  conferred 
upon  him  "in  recognition  of  his  valuable 
contributions  to  the  History  of  England." 
His  principal  historical  works  are :  JIhtory 
of  KiKjland  from  the  Accef>sio?i  of  'James  I. 
to  the  Disgrace  of  Chief  Justice  Coke 
(1863),  Prince  Charles  and  the  Spanish 
Marriage  (1869),'  England  under  the 
DuJc£  of  Buckingham  and  Charles  I. 
(1875),  TJie  Personal  Government  of 
CharUs  I.  (1877),  The  Fcdl  of  the  Mon- 
archy of  Charles  L  (1881),  The  History  of 
tfie  Great  Civil  War  (1886.) 

THE  PROJECTED  ANGLO-SPANISH  ALLIANCE. 

The  wooing  of  princes  is  not  in  itself  more 
worthy  of  a  place  in  history  tlian  the  wooing  of 
ordinary  men  ;  and  there  is  certainly  nothing  in 
Charles's  own  character  which  would  lead  us  to 
make  any  exception  in  his  favor.  But  the 
Spanish  alliance,  of  which  the  hand  of  the  In- 
fanta was  to  have  been  the  symbol  and  the 
plftlge,  was  a  great  event  in  our  history,  though 
chiefly  on  acci>unt  of  the  conse(juences  which 
resulted  from  it  indirectly.  When  the  marriage 
was  first  agitated,  the  leading  minds  of  the  age 
were  tending  in  a  direction  adverse  to  Puritan- 
ism, and  were  casting  about  in  search  of  some 
Bystcm  of  belief  which  should  soften  down  the 
asperities  which  were  the  sad  legacy  of  the  last 
generation.  When  it  was  finally  broken  off,  the 
leading  minds  of  the  age  were  tending  in  j)re- 
cisely  the  op{)08ite  direction  ;  and  that  period  of 
our  history  commenced  which  lc(l  up  to  the  anti- 
cj>iscopalian  fervor  of  the  Long  I'arliament,  to  the 
I'uritan  monarchy  of  Cromwell,  atnl  in  general  to 
the  rc-invigoration   of  that  which   Mr.  Matthew 


SAMUEL  HAWSON  GARDINER. -a 

Arnold  lias  called  the  Hebrew  element  in  our 
civilization.  If,  therefore,  the  causes  of  moral 
chanojes  form  the  most  interesting  subject  of 
liistorical  investigation,  the  events  of  these  seven 
years  can  yield  in  interest  to  but  few  periods  of 
our  history.  In  the  miserable  catalogue  of 
errors  and  crimes,  it  is  easy  to  detect  the  origin 
of  that  repulsion  which  moulded  the  intellectual 
conceptions,  as  well  as  the  political  action,  of  tlio 
rising  generation.  Few  blunders  have  been 
greater  than  that  which  has  made  the  popular 
knowledge  of  the  Stuart  reign  commence  with 
the  accession  of  Charles  I.,  and  which  would  lay 
down  the  law  upon  the  actions  of  the  King 
whilst  knowing  nothing  of  the  Prince. — Prince 
Charles  and  the  Spanish  Marriage,  Preface. 

JAMES  I.   AND  THE   SPANISH   AMBASSADOR. 

A  few  days  after  the  dissolution  of  Parlia- 
ment, in  June,  1514,  James  sent  for  Sarmiento, 
and  poured  into  his  willing  car  his  complaints  of 
the  insulting  behavior  of  the  Commons.  "  I 
hope,"  said  he,  when  he  had  finished  his  storj', 
"  that  you  will  send  the  news  to  your  master  as 
you  hear  it  from  me,  and  not  as  it  is  told  by  the 
gossips  in  the  streets."  As  soon  as  the  ambas- 
sador had  assured  him  that  he  would  comply 
with  his  wishes,  James  went  on  with  his  cata- 
logue of  grievances.  "  The  King  of  Spain,"  he 
said,  "  has  more  kingdoms  and  subjects  than  I 
liave,  but  there  is  one  tiling  in  which  I  surpass 
liim.  He  has  not  so  large  a  Parliament.  The 
Cortes  of  Castile  are  composed  of  little  more 
than  thirty  persons.  In  my  Parliament  are 
nearly  five  hundred.  The  House  of  Commons 
is  a  body  without  a  head.  The  members  give 
their  opinions  in  a  disorderly  manner.  At  their 
meetings  nothing  is  heard  but  cries,  shouts,  and 
confusion.  I  am  surprised  that  my  ancestors 
should  ever  have  permitted  such  an  institution  to 
come  into  existence.  I  am  a  stranger,  and  I 
found  it  here  when  I  came,  so  that  I  am  obliged 
to  put  up  with  what  I  cannot  get  rid  of." 

410 


SAMUEL  RAWSON  GARDINER.— 3 

Here  James  colored,  and  stopped  short.  He 
had  been  betrayed  into  an  admission  that  there 
was  sotnething  in  his  dominions  which  he  could 
not  get  rid  of  if  he  pleased.  Sarmiento,  witli 
ready  tact,  came  to  his  assistance,  and  reminded 
him  that  he  was  able  to  summon  and  dismiss  this 
formidable  body  at  his  pleasure.  "  That  is  true," 
replied  James,  delighted  at  the  turn  which  the 
conversation  had  taken ;  "  and  what  is  more, 
without  my  assent  the  words  and  acts  of  Parlia- 
ment are  altogether  worthless."  Having  thus 
maintained  his  dignity,  James  proceeded  to 
assure  Sarmiento  that  he  would  gladly  break  off 
the  negotiations  with  France,  if  only  lie  could  be 
sure  that  the  hand  of  the  Infanta  would  not  be 
accompanied  by  conditions  which  it  would  be 
impossible  for  him  to  grant.  The  Spaniard  gave 
him  every  encouragement  in  his  power,  and 
promised  to  write  to  Madrid  for  further  instruc- 
tions.— Prince  Charles  and  the  Sjmnish  Mar- 
riarje,  Vol.  I.,  Chap.  I. 

KEGOTIATIONS   FOR  THE   MARRIAGE. 

The  cessation  of  the  war  with  Spain  had  led 
to  a  reaction  atrainst  extreme  Puritanism,  now  no 
longer  strengthened  by  the  patriotic  feeling  that 
whatever  was  most  opposed  to  the  Church  of 
Rome  was  most  opposed  to  the  enemies  of  Eng- 
land. And  as  the  mass  of  the  people  was  set- 
tling down  into  content  with  the  rites  and  with 
the  teachings  of  the  Ktiglish  Church,  there  were 
some  who  floated  still  fiiitlier  with  tlie  returning 
tide,  and  who  were  beginning  to  cast  longing  looks 
towards  Pwome.  From  time  to  time  the  priests 
brought  word  to  the  Spanish  ambassador  that 
the  number  of  their  converts  was  on  the  increase; 
and  they  were  occasionally  able  to  rej)ort  that 
some  great  lord,  or  some  member  of  tlie  Privy 
Council,  was  added  to  the  list.  Already,  he  be- 
lieved, a  <|iiarter  of  the  population  were  Catho- 
lics at  heart,  and  anf>tli«T  (piarter — being  without 
any  relii,'ion   at  all — would   be  readv   to  rally  to 

their  side  if  they  proved  to  bo  tlic  strOngest 

4i| 


SAMUEL  RAWSON  GARDINER— 4 

Sarmiento  knew  tliat  he  would  have  consider- 
able difficulty  in  gaining  his  scheme  of  marrying 
Prince  Charles  to  the  Infanta  ;  and  especially  in 
persuading  his  master  to  withdraw  his  demand 
for  the  immediate  conversion  of  the  Prince. 
He,  therefore,  began  by  assuring  him  tliat  it 
would  be  altogether  useless  to  persist  in  asking 
for  a  concession  which  James  was  unable  to 
make  without  endangering  both  his  own  life 
and  that  of  his  son.  Even  to  grant  liberty  of 
conscience,  by  repealing  the  laws  against  the 
Catholics,  was  beyond  the  power  of  the  King  of 
England,  unless  he  could  gain  the  consent  of  his 
Parliament.  All  that  he  could  do  would  be  to 
connive  at  the  breach  of  the  penal  laws  by 
releasing  the  priests  from  prison,  and  by  refusing 
to  receive  the  fines  of  the  laity.  James  was 
willing  to  do  this  ;  and  if  this  offer  was  accept- 
ed, everything  else  would  follow  in  course  of 
time 

Philip — or  the  great  men  who  acted  in  his 
name — determined  upon  consulting  with  the 
Pope.  The  reply  of  Paul  V.  was  anything  but 
favorable.  The  proposed  union,  he  said,  would 
not  only  imperil  the  faith  of  the  Infanta,  and  the 
faith  of  tlie  children  she  might  have,  but  would 
also  bring  about  increased  facilities  of  communi- 
cation between  the  two  countries,  which  could 
not  but  be  detrimental  to  the  purity  of  religion 
in  Spain.  Besides  this,  it  was  well  known  that 
it  was  a  maxim  in  England  that  a  King  was 
justified  in  divorcing  a  childless  wife.  On  these 
grounds  he  was  unable  to  give  his  approbation 
to  the  marriage. 

In  the  eyes  of  tlie  Pope  marriage  was  not  to 
be  trifled  with,  even  when  the  political  advan- 
tages to  be  gained  by  it  assumed  the  form  of  the 
propagation  of  religion.  In  his  inmost  heart, 
most  probably,  Philip  tliouglit  the  same.  But 
Philip  was  seldom  accustomed  to  take  the 
initiative  in  matters  of  importance  ;  and,  upon 
the  advice  of  the  Council  of  State,  he  laid  the 
V'hole  Question  before  a  junta  of  theologians.  It 


SA3IUEL  RAW  SON  GARDINER.— 5 

was  arranged  that  the  theologians  should  be  kept 
in  ignorance  of  the  Pcfpe's  reply,  in  order  that 
they  might  not  be  biased  by  it  in  giving  their 
opinion.  The  hopes  of  the  conversion  of  Eng- 
land, which  formed  so  brilliant  a  picture  in  Sar- 
miento's  despatches,  overcame  any  scruples  which 
they  may  have  felt,  and  they  voted  in  favor  of 
the  marriage  on  condition  that  the  Pope's  con- 
sent could  be  obtained.  The  Council  adopted 
their  advice,  and  ordered  that  the  articles  should 
be  prepared.  On  one  point  only  was  there  much 
discussion.  Statesmen  and  theologians  were 
agreed  that  it  was  unwise  to  ask  for  the  conver- 
sion of  the  Prince.  But  they  were  uncertain 
whether  it  would  be  safe  to  content  themselves 
with  the  remission  of  tiie  lines  by  the  mere  con- 
nivance of  the  King.  At  last  one  argument 
turned  the  scale :  A  change  in  the  law  which 
would  grant  complete  veligious  liberty  would 
probably  include  the  Puritans  and  the  other 
Protestant  sects ;  the  remission  of  penalties  by 
the  royal  authority  would  l)enetit  the  Catholics 
alone. — Prince  Chirles  and  the  Spanish  Mar- 
riaf/e,  Vol.  I.,  chap.  I. 

CHARACTER  OF  PKIN'CE  CHARLES  OF  EN'GLAND, 

Charles  had  now  [102:^]  nearly  completed  his 
twenty-second  year.  To  a  superficial  observer 
he  was  everything  that  a  young  prince  should 
be.  Ills  bearing — unlike  that  of  his  father — 
was  graceful  and  dignified.  His  only  blemish 
was  the  size  of  his  tongue,  which  was  too 
large  for  his  mouth,  and  which,  especially 
when  he  was  excited,  gave  him  a  difficulty  of 
ex[»rcs.sion  almost  ajiiounting  to  a  stammer.  In 
all  bodily  exercises  his  supremacy  was  undoubted. 
He  could  ri<le  better  than  any  other  man  in 
England.  Ifis  fondness  for  hunting  was  such 
that  James  was  heard  \<)  exclaim  that  by  this  he 
recognized  him  as  his  true  and  worthy  son.  In 
the  tennis-court  and  m  the  tiltiiig-yar<l  he  snr- 
[)a.ssed  all  competitors.  No  one  lia<l  so  exipiisitc 
an  uar  for  mubic,  could  look  at  u  line  picture  with 

41» 


SAMUEL  RAWSON  GARDINER.— 6 

greater  appreciation  of  its  merits,  or  could  keep 
time  more  exactly  when  called  to  take  part  in  a 
dance.  Yet  these,  and  such  as  these,  were  the 
smallest  of  his  merits.  Regular  in  his  habits, 
his  household  was  a  model  of  economy.  His 
own  attire  was  such  as  in  that  age  was  regarded 
as  a  protest  against  the  prevailing  extravagance. 
His  moral  character  was  irreproachable  ;  and  it 
was  observed  that  he  blushed  like  a  girl  when- 
ever an  immodest  word  was  uttered  in  his  pres- 
ence. Designing  women,  of  the  class  which  had 
preyed  upon  his  brother  Henry,  found  it  ex- 
pedient to  pass  liim  by,  and  laid  their  nets  for 
more  susceptible  hearts  than  his. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  all  these  excellences,  keen- 
sighted  observers  who  were  by  no  means  blind 
to  his  merits,  were  not  disposed  to  prophesy 
good  of  his  future  reign.  In  truth,  his  very 
virtues  were  a  sign  of  weakness.  He  was  born 
to  be  the  idol  of  schoolmasters  and  the  stum- 
bling-block of  statesmen.  His  modesty  and 
decorum  were  the  result  of  sluggishness  rather 
than  of  self-restraint.  Uncertain  in  judgment, 
and  hesitating  in  action,  he  clung  fondly  to  the 
small  proprieties  of  life,  and  to  the  narrow  range 
of  ideas  which  he  had  learned  to  hold  with  a 
tenacious  grasp ;  whilst  he  was  ever  prone,  like 
his  unhappy  brother-in-law,  the  Elector-Palatme, 
to  seek  refuge  from  the  uncertainties  of  the 
present  by  a  sudden  plunge  into  rash  and  ill- 
considered  action. 

With  such  a  character,  the  education  which 
he  had  received  liad  been  the  worst  possible. 
From  his  father  he  had  never  had  a  chance  of 
acquiring  a  single  lesson  in  tlie  first  virtue  of  a 
ruler — that  love  of  truth  which  would  keep  his 
ear  open  to  all  assertions  and  to  all  complaints, 
in  the  liope  of  detecting  something  which  it 
might  be  well  for  him  to  know.  Nor  was  the 
injury  which  his  mind  thus  received  merely 
negative;  for  James,  vague  as  his  political  theories 
were,  was  intolerant  of  contradiction,  and  Iiis  im- 
patient dogmatism  had  early  taught  his  soil  to 
414 


SAJItJEL  RAWSOX  GARDINER.— 7 

conceal  his  thoughts  in  sheer  diffidence  of  his 
own  powers.  To  hold  his  tongue  as  long  as 
possible,  and  then  to  say  not  what  he  believed 
to  be  true,  but  what  was  likely  to  be  pleasing, 
became  his  daily  task  till  he  ceased  to  be  capable 
of  looking  ditticulties  fully  in  the  face.  The 
next  step  in  the  downward  path  was  but  too  in- 
vitin"-.  As  each  question  rose  before  him  for 
solution,  his  tirst  thouglit  was  how  it  might  best 
be  evaded  ;  and  he  usually  took  refuge  either  in  a 
studied  silence,  or  in  some  of  those  varied  forms 
of  equivocation  which  are  usually  supposed  by 
weak  minds  not  to  be  equivalent  to  falsehood. 

Over  such  a  character  Buckingham  had  found 
no  difficulty  in  obtaining  a  thorough  mastery. 
On  the  one  condition  of  making  a  show  of  re- 
garding his  wishes  as  all-important,  he  was  able 
to  mould  those  wishes  almost  as  he  pleased.  To 
the  reticent,  hesitating  youth  it  was  a  relief  to 
find  some  one  who  would  take  the  lead  in  amuse- 
ment and  in  action ;  who  could  make  up  his 
mind  for  liim  in  a  moment  when  he  was  him- 
self plunged  in  hopeless  uncertainty,  and  who 
possessed  a  fund  of  gaiety  and  liglit-licartedncss 
which  was  never  at  fault.-— Pr/nre  Charles  and 
the  Spanish  Marriar/e,  Vol.  II.,  Chap.  X, 

THE    INFANTA    MARIA    OF    SPAIN, 

The  Infanta  Maria  had  now  entered  upon  her 
seventeenth  year.  Her  features  were  not  beau- 
tiful, but  the  sweetness  of  lier  disposition  found 
expression  in  lier  face,  and  lier  fair  complexion 
and  lu.-r  delicate  white  hands  drew  forth  raptur- 
ous admiration  from  the  contrast  which  they 
preseiitc'fl  to  the  olive  tints  of  the  ladies  by  whom 
»lic  was  surrounded.  The  mingled  dignity  and 
gentleness  of  her  bearing  made  her  an  especial 
favorite  with  her  brother  the  King.  Her  life 
was  moulded  after  the  best  type  of  the  devotional 
piety  of  her  (!hureh.  Two  hours  of  every  day 
she  spent  in  praver.  Twice  evcrv  week  she  con- 
fessed, and  p.'irtook  of  the  Holy  Communion. 
llcr  chief  delight  was  in   meditating    upon   tbo 

41* 


Samuel  tiAwsoN  gaudiner.— 8 

Imniaculate  Conception  of  the  Virgin,  and  pre- 
paring lint  for  tlie  use  of  the  hospitals.  The 
money  which  her  hrother  allowed  her  to  be  spent 
at  play,  she  carefully  set  aside  for  the  use  of  the 
poor. 

Her  character  was  as  remarkable  for  its  self- 
possession  as  for  its  gentleness.  Except  wlien 
she  was  in  private  amongst  her  ladies,  her  words 
■were  but  few  ;  and  though  those  who  knew  her 
well  were  aware  that  she  felt  unkindness  deeply, 
she  never  betrayed  her  emotions  by  speaking 
harshly  of  those  by  whom  she  had  been  wronged. 
When  she  had  once  made  up  her  mind  where 
the  path  of  duty  lay,  no  temptation  could  induce 
her  to  swerve  from  it  by  a  liair's  breadth.  Nor 
was  her  physical  courage  less  conspicuous  than 
her  moral  tirniness.  At  a  Court  entertainment 
given  at  Aranjuez  a  fire  broke  out  amongst  the 
scaffolding  which  supported  the  benches  upon 
which  the  spectators  were  seated.  In  an  instant 
the  whole  place  was  in  confusion.  Amongst  the 
screaming  throng  the  Infanta  alone  retained  her 
presence  of  mind.  Calling  Olivares  to  her  help, 
that  he  might  keep  off  the  pressure  of  the  crowd, 
she  made  her  escape  without  quickening  her 
usual  pace. 

There  were  many  positions  in  which  such 
a  woman  could  hardly  have  failed  to  pass  a  happy 
and  a  useful  life.  But  it  is  certain  that  no  one 
could  be  less  fitted  to  become  the  wife  of  a 
Protestant  king,  and  the  Queen  of  a  Protestant 
nation.  On  the  throne  of  P]ngland  her  life 
would  be  one  of  continual  martyrdom.  Ilcr 
own  dislike  of  the  marriage  was  undisguised,  and 
her  instinctive  aversion  was  confirmed  by  the  re- 
iterated warnings  of  her  confessor.  A  lieretic, 
he  told  her,  was  worse  than  a  devil.  "  What  a 
comfortable  bed-fellow  you  will  liave,"  he  said. 
"  He  who  lies  bv  your  side,  and  who  will  be  the 
father  of  your  children,  is  certain  to  go  to  hell." 

It  was  only  lately,  however,  that  she  had 
taken  any  open  step  in  the  matter.  Till  recently, 
indeed,  the  marriage  bad  hardly  been  regarded 


SA3IUEL  RAWSON  GARDINER.— 9 

at  Court  in  a  serious  liglit.  Kut  the  case  was 
now  altered.  A  Junta  had  been  appointed  to 
settle  the  articles  of  marriage  with  the  English 
Ambassador,  and  although  the  Pope's  adverse 
opinion  had  been  given,  it  seemed  likely  that 
the  Junta,  under  Gondoinar's  influence,  would 
urge  him  to  reconsider  his  determination.  Under 
these  circumstances  the  Infanta  proceeded  to 
plead  her  own  cause  with  her  brother. 

The  tears  of  the  sister  whom  he  was  loth  to 
sacrifice  were  of  great  weight  with  I'hilip  IV. ; 
but  she  had  powerful  influences  to  contend  with. 
Olivares,  upon  whose  sanguine  mind  the  hope  of 
converting  England  was  at  this  time  exercising 
all  its  glamour,  protested  against  the  proposed 
change — to  marry  the  Infanta  to  the  p]mperor's 
son,  the  Archduke  Ferdinand,  and  to  satisfy  the 
Prince  of  Wales  with  the  hand  of  an  archduchess; 
and  Phili[),  under  the  eye  of  his  favorite,  made 
every  effort  to  shake  his  sister's  resolution.  The 
confessor  was  threatened  with  removal  from  his 
post  if  he  did  not  change  his  language;  and 
divines  of  less  unbending  severity  were  sum- 
moned to  reason  with  the  Infanta,  and  were  in- 
stigated to  paint  in  glowing  colors  the  glorious 
and  holy  work  of  bringing  back  an  apostate 
nation  to  the  faith. 

For  a  moment  the  unhappy  girl  gave  wav 
before  the  array  of  her  counsellors,  and  she  told 
her  brother  that,  in  order  to  serve  God  and  obey 
the  King,  she  was  ready  to  submit  to  anything. 
In  a  few  days,  however,  this  momentary  phase  of 
feeling  had  passed  away.  Her  woman's  instinct 
told  her  that  she  lia<l  been  in  the  right;  and 
that,  with  all  tlieir  learning,  the  statesmen  and 
divines  had  been  in  the  wrong.  She  sent  to 
Olivarez  to  tell  iiiin  that  if  Ik;  did  not  fiml  some 
way  to  save  her  from  the  hittcrness  In-fore  her, 
Kho  would  cut  the  knot  herself  by  taking  refuge 
in  a  nunnery  ;  and  when  i'hilip  returned  from 
his  liunting  in  November,  he  foutnl  himself  he- 
Bioged  by  all  the  weaj)oiis  <»f  a  woiiian's  despair. 

Philip  was  not  proof  against  his  sister's  misery. 


411 


SAMUEL   RAWSON  GARDINER.— 10 

Upon  the  politicul  clioct  of  tlio  decision  wliich 
he  now  took,  he  scarcely  bestowed  a  thought.  It 
was  his  business  to  hunt  boars  or  stags,  or  to  dis- 
phiy  liis  ability  in  the  tilt-yard ;  it  was  the  busi- 
ness of  Olivares  and  the  Council  of  State  to  look 
after  politics.  The  letter  in  which  he  announced 
his  intention  to  Olivares  was  very  brief :  "  My 
father,"  he  wrote,  "  decUxred  his  mind  at  liis  death- 
bed concerning  the  niatcli  with  England,  which 
was  never  to  make  it;  and  your  uncle's  intention, 
according  to  that,  was  ever  to  delay  it ;  and  you 
know  likewise  how  averse  my  sister  is  to  it.  I 
think  it  now  time  that  I  should  find  some  way 
out  of  it;  wherefore  I  require  you  to  find  some 
other  way  to  content  the  King  of  England,  to 
wlioin  I  think  myself  much  bound  for  his  many 
expressions  of  friendship." — Prince  Charles  and 
the  Spanish  Marriar/e,  Vol.  II.,  Chap.  X. 

PRINCE    CHARLES    TRIES    TO    WOO    THE    INFANTA. 

As  yet  [April,  1G23]  Charles  had  never  been 
allowed  to  see  the  Infanta  except  in  public,  and 
bad  never  had  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her 
at  all.  Every  excuse  which  Spanish  customs 
could  suggest  had  been  made  without  giving  the 
slightest  satisfaction.  The  knotty  point  was 
seriously  debated  in  the  Council  of  State,  and  it 
was  at  last  decided  that  on  Easter  Day,  April  7, 
the  long  desired  visit  should  take  place.  Ac- 
cordingly the  King,  accompanied  by  a  long  train 
of  grandees,  came  to  fetch  him,  and  led  him  to 
the  Queen's  apartment,  where  they  found  licr 
Majesty  seated  with  the  Infanta  at  her  side. 
After  paying  his  respects  to  the  Queen,  Charles 
turned  to  address  his  mistress.  It  had  been  in- 
tended that  he  should  confine  himself  to  the  few 
words  of  ceremony  which  had  been  set  down 
beforehand ;  but  in  the  presence  in  wliich  he 
was,  he  forgot  the  rules  of  ceremony,  and  was 
beginning  to  declare  his  affection  in  words  of 
his  own  choice.  He  had  not  got  far  before  it 
was  evident  that  tliere  was  something  wrong. 
The  bystanders  began  to  whisper  to  one  another. 

418 


I&AMUEL  RAWSON  GARDINER.— 11 

The  Queen  cast  glances  of  displeasure  at  the 
daring  youth.  Charles  hesitated  and  stopped 
short.  The  Infanta  herself  looked  seriously  an- 
noyed ;  and  when  it  came  to  her  turn  to  reply, 
some  of  those  who  were  watching  her  expected 
her  to  show  some  signs  of  displeasure.  It  was 
not  so  long  ago  that  she  had  been  heard  to  de- 
clare that  her  only  consolation  was  that  she 
should  die  a  martyr.  But  she  had  an  unusual 
fund  of  self-control,  and  she  disliked  Charles  too 
much  to  feel  in  the  slightest  degree  excited  by 
his  speeches.  She  uttered  the  few  commonplace 
words  that  had  been  drawn  up  beforehand,  and 
the  interview  was  at  an  end. — Prince  Charles 
and  the  Spanish  Marriage,  Vol.  II.,  Chap.  XL 

41t 


WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON.— 1 

GARRISON,WiLLiAM  Lloyd,  an  Ameri- 
can philanthropist  and  journalist,  born  at 
Newburyport,  Mass.,  in  1804;  died  at  New- 
York  in  1879.  On  the  death  of  his  father  in 
straitened  circumstances,  he  was  appren- 
ticed to  a  shoemaker  in  Lynn,  but  after- 
wards returned  to  Newburjport,  and  went 
to  school,  partly  supporting  himself  by 
sawing  wood.  In  1818  he  was  apprenticed 
to  a  printer,  the  publisher  of  the  Newhury- 
jport  Herald^  to  which,  when  seventeen  or 
eighteen  years  of  age,  he  began  to  contrib- 
ute articles  on  political  and  other  subjects. 
He  wrote  for  other  papers,  and  in  1826  be- 
came editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Neivhury- 
port  Free  Press,  which  was  unsuccessful. 
The  next  year  he  edited  the  National 
PhilantJirojnst,  a  paper  advocating  total 
abstinence,  and  in  1828  was  connected  with 
the  Journal  of  the  Times^  published  at 
Bennington,  Vermont,  in  the  interests  of 
peace,  temperance,  and  anti-slavery.  In 
1829  he  joined  Benjamin  Lundy  in  pub- 
lishing The  Genius  of  Universal  Emanci- 
' pation  at  Baltimoi'e.  He  advocated  the  im- 
mediate abolition  of  slavery,  and  condenmed 
the  colonization  of  the  negroes  in  Africa, 
while  Lundy  favored  gradual  emancipation. 
In  1830  Garrison's  denunciation  of  the  tak- 
ing of  a  cargo  of  slaves  from  Baltimore  to 
New  Orleans,  as  "  domestic  piracy,"  led  to 
his  indictment  for  libel.  He  was  tried,  con- 
vncted,  and  fined  ;  and  being  unable  to  dis- 
charge his  fine,  was  imprisoned,  until  the 
generous  act  of  a  New  York  merchant  re- 
leased him.  He  now  began  a  course  of 
anti-slavery  lectures  in  Boston,  New  York, 
and  other  cities,  hoping  to  obtain  the  means 
of  establishing  a  journal  in  support  of  his 
convictions. 


Willi A3I  lloyd  garrison. -2 

On  the  first  of  January,  1831,  in  con- 
junction with  Isaac  Knapp,  he  issued  the 
first  number  of  The  Liberator^  in  which  he 
spared  neither  man  nor  system  that  advocat- 
ed, protected,  or  excused  slavery.  Imme- 
diate einancipation  M'ithout  regard  to  conse^ 
quences,  or  provision  for  the  future,  wa^ 
his  demand;  The  greatest  excitement  en- 
sued; AboHtionists  were  denounced  as 
enemies  of  the  Union,  their  meetings  were 
broken  up,  tliey  were  hunted  like  criminals, 
and  those  who  attempted  to  educate  the 
negroes  were  prosecuted.  In  1832  Garri- 
son went  to  England,  hoping  to  enlist  sym- 
Eathy  for  American  emancipation,  and  on 
is  return  assisted  \w  organizing  the  Ameri- 
can Anti-Slavery  Society  in  Pliihidelphia, 
and  prepared  their  Declaration  of  Senti- 
ments.  In  1838  he  was  one  of  the  organ- 
izers of  the  !New  England  Non-Resistance 
Society.  In  1840  he  was  one  of  the  dele- 
gates to  the  World's  Anti  Slavei'y  Conven- 
tion in  England,  and  refused  to  take  his 
seat  because  tlie  femnle  delegates  were 
excluded.  In  1843  he  became  President  of 
the  Anti-Slavery  Society,  and  held  office 
until  1805.  He  issued  the  last  number  of 
The  Liberator  in  the  same  year.  Mr. 
Garrison  was  the  author  of  immerous 
poems,  a  volume  of  which,  entitled  Soiinfds 
and  other  Poeinn,  was  ])nblished  in  1843. 
In  1852  a  volume  of  Selections  from  his 
writings  appeared.  He  had  previously 
publinned  Thoughts  on  African  Coloniza- 
tion (1832.) 

THE    I.ESSO.Vfl    OK     INDEPENDENCK    DAV. 

I  [)rcsorit  inyHtilf  as  the  a<lv()oatc  of  iiiv  on- 
slaved  coiintrymon,  at  a  time  when  their  claiins 
cannot  be  HJnitlled  out  of  siglit,  and  on  an  occa- 
sion which  entitles  nic  to  a  respectful   hearing  in 

411 


WiLtiAM  LLOYD  GARRISOi^.-S 

their  bclialf.  If  I  am  asked  to  prove  tlieir  title 
to  liberty,  my  answer  ia,  that  tlie  Fourth  of  July 
is  not  a  day  to  be  wasted  in  establisliing  "self' 
evident  truths."  In  the  name  of  God  who  has 
made  us  of  one  blood,  and  in  wliose  image  we 
arc  created ;  in  the  name  of  the  Messiali,  who 
came  to  bind  up  the  broken-hearted,  to  proclaim 
liberty  to  tlie  captives,  and  tlie  opening  of  the 
prison  to  tliem  that  are  bound ;  1  demand  the 
immediate  emancipation  of  those  who  are  pining 
in  slavery  on  the  American  soil,  whether  they 
arc  fattening  for  the  shambles  in  Maryland  and 
Virginia,  or  are  wasting,  as  with  a  pestilent  dis- 
ease, on  the  cotton  and  sugar  plantations  of 
Alabama  and  Louisiana ;  whether  they  are  male 
or  female,  young  or  old,  vigorous  or  infirm.  I 
make  this  demand,  not  for  the  children  merely, 
but  the  parents  also;  not  for  one,  but  for  all; 
not  with  restrictions  and  limitations,  but  uncon- 
ditionally. I  assert  their  perfect  equality  with 
ourselves,  as  a  part  of  the  human  race,  and  their 
inalienable  right  to  liberty,  and  'the  pursuit  of 
liappiness. 

That  this  demand  is  founded  in  justice,  and  is 
therefore  irresistible,  the  whole  nation  is  this 
day  acknowledging,  as  upon  oath  at  the  bar  of 
the  world.  And  not  until,  by  a  formal  vote,  the 
people  repudiate  the  Declaration  of  Independence 
as  a  false  and  dangerous  instrument,  and  cease  to 
keep  this  festival  in  honor  of  liberty,  as  unworthy 
of  note  and  remembrance  ;  not  until  they  spike 
every  cannon,  and  muffle  every  bell,  and  disband 
every  procession,  and  quench  every  bonfire,  and 
gag  every  orator  ;  not  until  they  brand  Washing- 
ton and  Adams,  and  Jefferson  and  Hancock,  as 
fanatics  and  madmen  ;  not  until  they  place  them- 
selves again  in  the  condition  of  colonial  subser- 
viency to  Great  Britain,  or  transform  this  repub- 
lic into  an  imperial  government ;  not  until  they 
cease  pointing  exultingly  to  Bunker  Hill,  and 
the  plains  of  Concord  and  Lexington  ;  not,  in 
fine,  until  they  deny  the  authority  of  God,  and 
proclaim  themselves  to  be  destitute  of  principle 

4S3 


WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON.— 4 

and  humanity,  will  I  argue  the  question,  as  one  of 
doubtful  disputation,  on  an  occasion  like  this, 
whether  our  slaves  are  entitled  to  the  rights  and 
privileges  of  freemen.  That  question  is  settled 
irrevocably. 

There  is  no  man  to  be  found,  unless  he  has  a 
brow  of  brass  and  a  heart  of  stone,  who  will  dare 
to  contest  it  on  a  day  like  this.  A  state  of  vas- 
salage is  declared  by  universal  acclamation  to  be 
such  as  no  man,  or  body  of  men,  ought  to  sub- 
mit to  for  one  moment.  I  therefore  tell  the 
American  slaves,  that  the  time  for  their  emanci- 
pation is  come  ;  that — their  own  taskmasters 
being  witnesses — they  are  created  equal  to  the 
rest  of  mankind ;  and  possess  an  inalienable 
right  to  liberty  ;  and  that  no  man  has  a  right  to 
hold  them  in  bondage.  I  counsel  them  not  to 
fight  for  their  freedom,  both  on  account  of  the 
hopelessness  of  the  effort,  and  because  it  is  ren- 
dering evil  for  evil ;  but  I  tell  them,  not  less 
emphatically,  it  is  not  wrong  for  them  to  refuse 
to  wear  the  yoke  of  slavery  any  longer.  Let 
them  shed  no  blood — enter  into  no  conspiracies 
— raise. no  murderous  revolts;  but,  whenever 
and  wlicrcver  they  can  break  their  fetters,  God 
give  tliem  courage  to  do  so  !  And  should  they 
attempt  to  elope  from  tlicir  house  of  bondage, 
and  come  to  the  North,  may  each  of  them  find 
a  covert  from  the  search  of  tlio  spoiler,  and  an 
invincible  public  sentiment  to  shield  them  from 
the  grasp  of  the  kidnapper !  Success  attend 
them  in  their  flight  to  Canada,  to  touch  whose 
monarchical  soil  insures  freedom  to  every  repub- 
lican slave  ! 

The  object  of  the  Anti-Slavery  Association  is 
not  to  destroy  men's  lives — despots  tlioiigli  they 
Ijc — but  to  prevent  the  spilling  of  human  blood. 
It  is  to  enlighten  the  understanding,  arouse  tho 
conscience,  affect  the  heart.  ^Ve  rely  upon 
moral  power  alone  for  surcess.  The  ground 
upon  whicli  we  stand  lielongs  to  no  sect  or 
party — it  is  lioly  ground.  Wliatcvcr  else  may 
divide  us  in   opinion,  in   this  one  thing  wc  arc 

41} 


WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARKISON.— 5 

agreed — that  plavcholding  is  a  crime  under  all 
circumstances,  and  ouglit  to  be  immediately  and 
unconditionally  abandoned.  Wc  enforce  upon 
no  man  cither  a  political  or  a  religious  test  as  a 
condition  of  membership  ;  but  at  the  same  time 
we  expect  every  abolitionist  to  carry  out  his 
principles  consistently,  impartially,  faithfully,  in 
whatever  station    he    may   be   called   to  act,   or 

wherever  conscience  may  lead  him  to  go 

Genuine  abolitionism  is  not  a  liobby,  got  up 
for  personal  or  associated  aggrandizement ;  it  is 
not  a  political  ruse  ;  it  is  not  a  spasm  of  sympa- 
thy, which  lasts  but  for  a  moment,  leaving  the 
system  weak  and  worn  ;  it  is  not  a  fever  of  en- 
thusiasm ;  it  is  not  the  fruit  of  fanaticism  ;  it  is 
not  a  spirit  of  faction.  It  is  of  heaven,  not  of 
men.  It  lives  in  the  heart  as  a  vital  principle. 
It  is  an  essential  part  of  Christianity,  and  aside 
from  it  there  can  be  no  humanity.  Its  scope  is 
not  confined  to  tlie  slave  population  of  the 
United  States,  but  embraces  mankind.  Opposi- 
tion cannot  weary  it,  force  cannot  put  it  down, 
fire  cannot  consume  it.  It  is  the  spirit  of  Jesus, 
who  was  sent  "  to  bii.d  up  the  broken-hearted, 
to  proclaim  liberty  to  the  captives,  and  the  open- 
ing of  the  prison  to  them  that  are  bound  ;  to 
proclaim  the  acceptable  year  of  the  Lord,  and 
the  day  of  vengeance  of  our  God."  Its  princi- 
ples are  self-evident,  its  measures  rational,  its 
purposes  merciful  and  just.  It  cannot  be  di- 
verted from  the  path  of  duty,  though  all  earth 
and  hell  oppose;  for  it  is  lifted  far  above  all 
earth-born  fear.  When  it  fairly  takes  possession 
of  the  soul,  you  may  trust  the  soul-carrier  any- 
where, that  he  will  not  be  recreant  to  humanity. 
In  short,  it  is  a  life,  not  an  impulse — a  quench- 
less flame  of  philanthropy,  not  a  transient  spark 
of  sentimentalism. — Address,  July  4,  1842, 

FREEDOM  OF  THE  MIND, 

High  walls  and  huge  the  body  may  confine, 
And  iron  gates  obstruct  the  prisoner's  gaze, 

And  massive  bolts  may  baffle  his  design 
And  vigilant  keepers  watch  his  devious  ways ; 


WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON.— 6 

Yet  scorns  the  immortal  mind  this  base  control : 

No  chains  can  bind  it,  and  no  cell  eficlose ; 
Swifter  than  liirht  it  flies  from  pole  to  pole, 

And  in  a  flash  from  earth  to  heaven  it  goes. 
It  leaps  from  mount  to  mount ;  from  vale  to  vale 

It    wanders,    plucking    honeyed    fruits    and 
flowers ; 
It  visits  home,  to  hear  the  household  tale, 

Or  in  sweet  converse  pass  the  joyous  hours  ; 
'Tis  up  before  the  sun,  roaming  afar, 
And  in  its  watches  wearies  every  star. 

THE   GUILTLESS   PRISONER. 

Prisoner !  within  these  gloomy  walls  close  pent, 

Guiltless  of  horrid  crime  or  venal  wrong — 
Bear  nobly  up  against  thy  punishment. 

And  in  thy  innocence  be  great  and  strong! 
Perchance  thy  fault  was  love  to  all  mankind ; 

Thou  didst  oppose  some  vile  oppressive  law, 
Or  strive  all  human  fetters  to  unbind ; 
Or  would  not  bear  the  implements  of  war. 

What  then  ?  Dost  thou  so  soon  repent  the 
A  martyr's  crown  is  richer  than  a  king's  !  [deed  ? 
Think  it  an  honor  with  thy  Lord  to  bleed. 

And  glory  'mid  intensest  sufferings! 
Though  beat,  imprisoned,  put  to  open  shame, 
Time  shall  embalm  and  magnify  thy  name. 

TO    BENJAMIN    LUNDY. 

Self-taught,  tinaidcd,  poor,  reviled,  contemned, 

Beset  with  enemies,  by  friends  betrayed  ; 
As  madman  and  fanatic  oft  condemned. 

Yet  in  thy  noble  cause  still  undismayed  ; 
Lconidiis  could  not  thy  courage  boast ; 

Less  numerous  were   his  foes,  his  band  more 
strong  ; 
Alone  unto  a  more  than  Persian  liost. 

Thou  hast  undauntedly  given  battle  long. 
Xor  shalt  thou  singly  wage  the  unequal  strife; 

Unto  thy  aid,  with  spear  and  shield,  I  rush, 
And  freely  do  I  offer  iij)  my  life. 

And  bid  my  lieart's  blood  find  a  wound  to 
New  volunteers  arc  trooping  to  the  field  ;  [gush  1 
To  die  wc  arc  prepared,  but  not  an  inch  to  yield. 


SAMUEL  GARTH. -1 

GAEXH,  Samuel,  an  English  physician 
and  poet;  born  about  1670  ;  died  in  1719. 
He  studied  medicine  at  Cambridge,  settled 
in  London  in  1093,  and  rose  rapidly  to  pro- 
fessional and  social  distinction.  lie  edited 
a  translation  of  the  Metamorphoses  of  Ovid, 
some  of  the  versions  being  by  himself, 
others  by  Dryden,  Addison,  and  Gay.  In 
1714  he  was  knighted  by  George  I.  Be- 
sides several  short  ])ieces  he  wrote  The 
Dispensary^  a  mock-heroic  poem  in  support 
of  the  physicians  who  were  engaged  in  a 
quarrel  with  the  apothecaries  upon  the 
question  of  establishing  a  free  dispensary 
for  the  poor. 

THE    COLLEGE    OF    PHYSICIANS. 

Not  far  from  that  most  celebrated  place 
^Vliere  angry  Justice  shews  her  awful  face; 
Where  little  villains  must  submit  to  fate, 
That  great  ones  may  enjcy  the  world  in  state; 
There  stands  a  dome,  majestic  to  the  sight, 
And  sumptuous  arches  bear  its  oval  height ; 
A  golden  globe,  placed  high  with  artful  skill, 
Seems,  to  the  distant  sight,  a  gilded  pill ; 
This  pile  was,  by  tlie  pious  patron's  aim, 
Eaised  for  a  use  as  noble  as  its  frame ; 
Nor  did  the  learned  Society  decline 
The  propagation  of  that  great  design  ; 
In  all  her  mazes,  Nature's  face  they  viewed, 
And,  as  she  disappeared,  their  search  pursued. 
"Wrapt  in  the  shade  of  night  the  goddess  lies. 
Yet  to  the  learned  unveils  her  dark  disguise, 
But  shuns  the  gross  access  of  vulgar  eyes. 

Now  she  unfolds  the  faint  and  dawning  strife 
Of  infant  atoms  kindling  into  life; 
How  ductile  matter  new  meanders  takes, 
And  slender  trains  of  twisting  fibres  makes; 
And  how  the  viscous  seeks  a  closer  tone, 
By  just  degrees  to  liarden  into  hone; 
While  tlie  more  loose  flow  from  the  vital  urn. 
And  in  full  tides  of  purple  streams  return  ; 


SAMUEL  GARTH.— 3 

How  lambent  flames  from  life's  bright  lamps  arise, 
And  dart  in  emanations  through  the  eyes ; 
llow  from  each  sluice  a  gentle  torrent  pours, 
To  slake  a  feverish  heat  with  ambient  showers ; 
Whence  their  mechanic  powers  the  spirits  claim  ; 
How  great  their  force,  how  delicate  their  frame; 
How  the  same  nerves  are  fashioned  to  sustain 
The  greatest  pleasure  and  the  greatest  pain ; 
Wliv  bilious  juice  a  golden  light  puts  on, 
And'  floods  of  chyle  in  silver  currents  run ; 
How  the  dim  speck  of  entity  began 
To  extend  its  recent  form,  and  stretch  to  man  | 
Why  Envy  oft  transforms  with  wan  disguise, 
And  why  gay  Mirth  sits  smiling  in  the  eyes; 
AVhence  Milo's  vigour  at  the  Olympic  's  shewn, 
Whence  tropes  to  Finch,  or  impudence  to  Sloane  ; 
How  matter,  by  the  varied  shape  of  pores 
Or  idiots  frames,  or  solemn  Senators. 

Hence  'tis  we  wait  the  wondrous  cause  to  find. 
How  body  acts  upon  impassive  mind  ; 
How  fumes  of  wine  the  tliinking  part  can  fire. 
Past  hopes  revive,  and  present  joys  inspire  ; 
Why  our  complexions  oft  our  soul  declare. 
And  how  the  passions  in  the  features  are; 
How  touch  and  harmony  arise  between 
Corporeal  figure  and  a  form  unseen  ; 
How  (piick  their  faculties  the  limbs  fulfil, 
And  act  at  every  summons  of  the  will : 
With  mighty  truths,  mysterious  to  descry. 
Which  in  the  womb  of  distant  causes  lie. 

But  now  no  grand  inquiries  are  descried ; 
Mean    faction    reigns  where    knowledge    should 

preside  ; 
Feuds  arc  increased,  and  learning  laid  aside; 
Thus  Synods  oft  concern  for  Faith  conceal. 
And  for  important  nothings  shew  a  zeal  : 
The;  drooping  Sf.ienci^s  noglocted  pine, 
And  I'ji-an's  hcarns  with  failing  lustre  shine. 
No  readers  hero  with  hectif  looks  are  found, 
Nor  ovcft  in   rlifiin),  thrfnigh   midnight  watching 
The  lonelv  odifico  in  sweats  complains  [drowned  ; 
That  nothing  there  but  sullen  silcnro  reigns. 

71ic  Uispcnsanj. 


GEORGE  GASCOlGNfi.— 1 

GASCOIGNE,  G  EORGE,  an  English  dram- 
atist and  poet,  born  about  1535  ;  died  about 
1577.  He  studied  law  at  one  of.  the  Inns, 
but  being  disinherited  by  his  father  he  en- 
listed in  the  Dutch  service,  and  served 
against  the  Spaniards,  but  was  taken  ])ris- 
oner  and  detained  for  four  months.  Getting 
back  to  England  he  collected  his  poems,  and 
rose  into  favor  with  Queen  Elizabeth  and 
her  favorite  liobert  Dudley,  Earl  of  Leices- 
ter, Besides  producing  dramatic  entertain- 
ments he  wrote  The  Steele  Glass,  a  satire  in 
blank  vei'se,  Certayne  Notes  of  Instruction 
in  English  Verse,  and  a  number  of  minor 
poems. 

LADIES    OF   THE    COURT. 

Behold,  my  Lord,  what  monsters  muster  here 
With  angels'  face  and  harmful  hellish  hearts, 
"With  smiling  looks,  and  deep  deceitful  thoughts, 
With  tender  skins  and  stony  cruel  minds, 
With  stealing  steps,  yet  forward  feet  to  fraud. 
The  younger  sort  come  piping  on  apace, 
In  wliistlcs  made  of  fine  enticing  wood. 
Till  they  have  caught  the  birds  for  whom  they 

birded. 
The  elder  sort  go  stately  stalking  on, 
And  on  their  backs  they  bear  both  land  and  fee, 
Castles  and  towers,  revenues  and  receipts, 
Lordships   and   manors,    fines ;    yea   farms   and 

all!— 
What  should   these   be  ?    Speak  you  my  lovely 

Lord. 
They  be  not  men,  for  why,  they  have  no  beards ; 
They  be  no   boys,    wliich    wear   such   sidelong 

gowns ; 
They  be  no  gods,  for  all  their  gallant  gloss ; 
They  be  no  devils,  I  trow,  that  seems  so  saintish 
What  be  they  ?  Women  masking  in  men's  weeds, 
With  Dutchkin  doublets,  and  with  gerkins  jagged, 
Witli   Spanish'  spangs,    and   rufiles   fet  out   of 

France, 

428 


GEORGE  GASCOIGNE.— 2 

"Witli  hijjh-copt  hats,  and  feathers  flaunt-a-flaunt : 
They,  to'be  sure,  seem  even  Wo  to  Men  indeed ! 
^  The  Steele  Glass. 

THE    LULLABIES. 

First,  lullaby  my  Youthful  Years : 

It  is  now  time  to  go  to  bed ; 
For  crooked  age  and  hoary  hairs 

Have  wore  the  haven  within  mine  head. 
With  lullaby,  then,  Youth,  be  still. 
With  lullaby  content  thy  will  ; 
Since  Courage  quails  and  coincs  behind, 
Go  sleep,  and  so  beguile  thy  mind. 

Next,  lullaby  my  gazing  Eyes, 

Which  wonted  wore  to  glance  apace ; 

For  every  glass  may  now  suffice 
To  show  the  furrows  in  my  face. 

With  lullaby,  then,  wink  awhile; 

With  lullaby  your  looks  beguile  ; 

Let  no  fair  "face  or  beauty  bright 

Entice  you  eft  with  vain  delight. 

And  lullaby  my  wanton  Will : 

Let  Reason's  rule  now  rein  my  thought, 
Since,  all  too  late,  I  find  by  skill 

IIow  dear  1  have  thy  fancies  bought. 
With  lullaby  now  take  thine  ease, 
WitJ^  lullaby  thy  doubt  appease; 
For  trust  in" this — if  tliou  be  still, 
My  body  shall  obey  thy  will. 

Tims  lullaby,  mv  Youth,  mine  Eyes, 
My  Will,  my 'Ware,  and  all  that  was: 

I  can  no  more  delays  devise, 

I'.iit  wokoiiic  I'ai'n,  let  IMcasure  pass. 

With  lullaby  now  take  your  leave; 

With  lullaby  your  dreams  d<cive; 

And  whi-n  you  rise  with  waking  eye, 

licmcrabcr  then  this  lullaby. 


ELIZABETH  C.   GASKELL.— 1 

GASKELL,  Elizabeth  Cleohoen  (Ste- 
venson), an  English  novelist,  horn  in  1810; 
died  in  1865.  Her  futlier,  WilHam  Steven- 
son, a  tutor  and  pi'cacher,  relinquished 
preaching  for  farmin^^  because  he  thought 
it  Wrong  to  be  a  "hired  teacher  of  re- 
ligion." He  was  for  a  time  editor  of  the 
Scots  Magazine.  He  contributed  to  the 
Kdwhuryh  Bevieii\  and  became  Keeper  of 
the  Records  to  the  Treasury.  Her  mother 
died  in  giving  her  birth,  and  she  was 
adopted  by  an  aunt.  She  was  partly  edu- 
cated in  a  school  at  Stratford-upon-Avon, 
and  then  returned  to  her  father,  who  super- 
intended her  studies.  She  married  William 
Gaskell,  a  clergyman  of  Manchester,  and 
gave  all  her  leisure  to  ministry  among  the 
poor  of  that  city,  and  thus  became  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  the  lives  of  opera- 
tives in  the  factories.  Her  first  literary 
work  was  a  paper  entitled  An  Accowit  of 
Clopton  Ilall^  written  for  William  How- 
itt's  Visits  to  Remarkaljle  Places.  This 
was  followed  by  short  tales  contributed  to 
the  PeopWa  Journal.  Mary  Barton,  her 
first  novel,  a  story  of  manufacturing  life, 
was  published  in  ISIS.  Her  next  publica- 
tion was  The  Moorland  Cottage  (1850.) 
liuth,  a  novel,  and  Cr  an  ford.,  a  series  oi 
sketches  of  life  in  a  rural  town,  appeared 
in  1853.  Mrs.  Gaskell's  other  works  are 
North  and  So^Uh  (1855),  a  Life  of  Charlotte 
Bronte  (1857),  Round  the  Sofa  (1859), 
Right  at  Last  (1860),  Sylvia^s  L.overs 
(1863),  Cousin  Rhillis,  and  Wives  and 
Daughters,  the  last  of  which  was  not  quite 
completed,  at  the  time  of  her  sudden  death 
from  lieart-disease. 

GREEN    HEYS    FIELDS,    MANCHESTER. 

There  are  some  fields  near  Manchester,  well 

43Q 


ELIZABETH   C.    GASKELL.— 2 

known  to  the  inhabitants  as  Green  Heys  Fields, 
through  which  runs  a  public  footpath  to  a  little 
village  about  two  miles  distant.  In  spite  of 
these  fields  being  flat  and  low — nay,  in  spite  of 
the  want  of  wood  (the  great  and  usual  recom- 
mendation of  level  tracts  of  land),  there  is  a 
charm  about  them  which  strikes  even  the  inhab- 
itant of  a  mountainous  district,  who  sees  and  feels 
the  effect  of  contrast  in  these  commonplace  but 
thoroughly  rural  fields,  with  the  busy  bustling 
manufacturing  town  he  left  but  half  an  hour  ago. 
Hire  and  there  an  old  black  and  white  farm- 
house, with  its  rambling  outbuildings,  speaks  of 
other  times  and  other  occupations  than  those 
which  now  absorb  the  population  of  the  neigh- 
borhood. Here  in  their  seasons  may  be  seen 
the  country  business  of  hay-making,  ploughing, 
etc.,  which  are  such  pleasant  mysteries  for  towns- 
people to  watch  :  and  here  the  artisan,  deafened 
with  noise  of  tongues  and  engines,  may  come  to 
listen  awhile  to  the  delicious  sounds  of  rural  life 
— the  lowing  of  cattle,  the  milkmaid's  call,  the 
clatter  and  cackle  of  poultry  in  the  old  farm- 
yards. You  cannot  wonder,  then,  that  these 
fields  are  popular  places  of  resort  at  every  holi- 
day-time; and  you  would  not  wonder,  if  you 
could  see,  or  I  properly  describe,  the  charm  of 
one  particular  stile,  that  it  should  be,  on  such  oc- 
casions, a  crowded  halting-place.  Close  by  it  is 
a  deep,  clear  pond,  reflecting  in  its  dark-green 
depths  the  shadowy  trees  that  bend  over  it  to 
exclude  tiic  sun.  The  only  place  wlierc  its 
banks  are  shelving  is  on  the  side  next  to  a  ram- 
bling farm-yard,  belonging  to  one  of  those  old- 
world,  gabled,  black  and  white  houses  I  named 
above,  overlooking  the  field  through  which   the 

f)nblic  footpath  leads.  The  porch  of  this  farni- 
lousc  is  covered  by  a  rose-tree;  and  the  little 
garden  surrounding  it  is  crowded  with  a  medley 
of  old-fashioned  herbs  and  flowers,  ijilanted  long 
ago  when  the  garden  was  the  only  druggist's 
shop  within  rearli,  and  allowed  to  grow  in  scram- 
bling and  wild  luxuriance  —  roses,  lavender,  sage, 

4U 


ELIZABETH   C.    GASKELL.— 3 

balm  (for  tea),  rosemary,  pinks  and  wallflowers, 
onions  and  jessamine,  in  most  republican  and  in- 
discriminate order.  This  farm-house  and  garden 
are  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  stile  of  which 
I  spoke,  leading  from  the  large  pasture-field  into 
a  smaller  one,  divided  by  a  hedge  of  hawthorn 
and  blackthorn;  and  near  this  stile,  on  the  fur- 
ther side,  there  runs  a  tale  that  primroses  may 
often  be  found,  and  occasionally  the  blue  sweet 
violet  on  the  grassy  hedge-bank. 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  on  a  holiday 
granted  by  the  masters,  or  a  holiday  seized  in 
right  of  nature  and  her  beautiful  spring-time  by 
the  workmen ;  but  one  afternoon — now  ten  or 
a  dozen  years  ago — these  fields  were  much 
thronged.  It  was  an  early  May  evening — the 
April  of  the  poets;  for  heavy  showers  had  fallen 
all  the  morning,  and  the  round,  soft  white  clouds 
which  were  blown  by  a  west  wind  over  the  dark- 
blue  sky,  were  sometimes  varied  by  one  blacker 
and  more  threatening.  The  softness  of  the  day 
tempted  forth  the  young  green  leaves,  which 
almost  visibly  fluttered  into  life  ;  and  the  willows, 
which  that  morning  had  had  only  a  brown  re- 
flection in  the  water  below,  were  now  of  that 
tender  gray-green  which  blends  so  delicately 
with  the  spring  harmony  of  colors. 

Groups  of  merry,  and  somewhat  loud-talking 
girls,  whose  ages  might  range  from  twelve  to 
twenty,  came  by  with  a  buoyant  step.  They 
were  most  of  them  factory-girls,  and  wore  the 
usual  out-of-doors  dress  of  that  particular  class 
of  maidens — namely,  a  shawl,  which  at  mid-day, 
or  in  fine  weather,  was  allowed  to  be  merely  a 
shawl,  but  towards  evening,  or  if  the  day  were 
chilly,  became  a  sort  of  Spanish  mantilla  or 
Scotch  plaid,  and  was  brought  over  the  head  and 
hung  loosely  down,  or  was  pinned  under  the 
chin  in  no  unpicturcsque  fashion.  Their  faces 
were  not  remarkable  for  beauty ;  indeed,  they 
were  below  the  average,  with  one  or  two  excep- 
tions ;  they  had  dark  hair,  neatly  and  classically 
arranged,  dark  eyes,  but  sallow  complexions  and 

433 


ELIZABETH  C.   GASKELL.— 4 

irregular  features.  The  o;ily  thing  to  strike  a 
passer-by  was  an  acntcness  and  intelligence  of 
countenance  which  has  often  been  noticed  in  a 
manufacturing  population. 

There  were  also  numbers  of  boys,  or  rather 
young  men,  rambling  among  these  fields,  ready 
to  bandy  jokes  with  any  one,  and  particularly 
ready  to  enter  into  conversation  with  the  girls, 
who,  however,  held  themselves  aloof,  not  in  a 
shy,  but  rather  in  an  independent  way,  assuming 
an  indifferent  manner  to  the  noisy  wit  or  ob- 
streperous compliments  of  the  lad.s.  Here  and 
there  came  a  sober,  quiet  couple,  either  whisper- 
ing lovers,  or  husband  and  wife,  as  the  case 
might  be;  and  if  the  latter,  they  were  seldom 
unencumbered  by  an  infant,  carried  for  the  most 
part  by  the  father,  while  occasionally  even  three 
or  four  little  toddlers  have  been  carried  or 
dragged  thus  far,  in  order  that  the  whole  family 
might  enjoy  the  delicious  May  afternoon  to- 
gether.— Mary  Barton. 

A    DIFFERENCE    OF    OPINION. 

When  the  trays  reappeared  with  biscuits  and 
wine,  punctually  at  a  quarter  to  nine,  there  was 
conversation,  comparing  of  cards,  and  talking 
over  tricks;  but  by-and-by  Captain  Brown 
sported  a  bit  of  literature.  "  Have  you  seen 
any  numbers  of  the  Pickwick  Papers  T^  said  he. 
(Thev  were  then  publisliin<4  in  parts.)  "  Capital 
thing!" 

Now  Miss  Jenkyns  was  daughter  of  a  deceased 
pastor  of  Cranford  ;  and  on  the  strength  of  a 
number  of  manuscript^  sermons,  and  a  pretty 
gooil  library  of  divinity,  considered  herself  lite- 
rary, and  looked  upon  any  con\ersation  about 
books  as  a  challenge  to  her.  So  she  answered 
and  said,  "Yes,  she  h;id  seen  them  ;  indeed,  she 
might  sav  she  had  read  them." 

*'  .\nd  what<lo  you  think  of  thom  ?"  exclaimed 
Captain  Brown.     "  .Aren't  they  famously  good  ?" 

So  urged,  Miss  Jenkyns  conhl  not  but  sj)eak. 
"  I  must  say,  I  don't  think  they  are  by  any  means 


Ui 


ELIZABETH  C.   GASKELL.— 5 

equal  to  Dr.  Jolinson.  Still,  pcrliaps,  the  author 
is  young.  Let  him  persevere,  and  who  knows 
what  he  may  become  if  he  will  take  the  great 
Doctor  for  his  model." 

This  was  evidently  too  much  for  Captain 
Brown  to  take  placidly ;  and  I  saw  the  words 
on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  before  Miss  Jenkyns 
had  finished  lier  sentence. 

"  It  is  quite  a  different  sort  of  thing,  my  dear 
madam,"  he  began. 

"  I  am  quite  aware  of  that,"  returned  she, 
"  and  I  make  allowances,  Captain  Brown." 

"  Just  allow  me  to  read  yuu  a  scene  out  of  this 
month's  number,"  pleaded  lie.  "  I  had  it  only 
this  morning,  and  I  don't  think  tlie  company  can 
have  read  it  yet." 

"  As  you  please,"  said  she,  settling  herself  with 
an  air  of  resignation.  He  read  the  account  of 
the  "  swarry"  which  Sam  Weller  gave  at  Bath. 
Some  of  us  laughed  heartily.  /  did  not  dare, 
because  I  was  staying  in  the  house.  Miss  Jen- 
kyns sat  in  patient  gravity.  When  it  was  ended, 
slie  turned  to  me  and  said,  with  mild  dignity, 
"  Fetch  me  Hasselas,  my  dear,  out  of  the  book- 
room." 

When  I  brought  it  to  her,  she  turned  to  Cap- 
tain Brown.  "  Now  allow  me  to  read  you  a 
scene,  and  then  the  present  company  can  judge 
between  your  favorite,  Mr.  Boz,  and  Dr.  John- 
son." 

She  read  one  of  the  conversations  between 
Rasselas  and  Imlac,  in  a  high-pitched,  majestic 
voice  ;  and  when  she  had  ended,  she  said,  "  I 
imagine  1  am  now  justified  in  my  preference  of 
Dr.  Johnson  as  a  writer  of  fiction."  The  captain 
screwed  his  lips  up,  and  drummed  on  the  table, 
but  he  did  not  speak.  She  thought  she  would 
give  a  finishing  blow  or  two. 

"  I  consider  it  vulgar,  and  below  the  dignity  of 
literature,  to  publish  in  numbers." 

"How  was  the  Rambler  published,  ma'am?" 
asked  Captain  Brown,  in  a  low  voice,  which  I 
think  Miss  Jenkyns  could  not  have  heard. 


ELIZABETH  C.   GASKELL.— 6 

"  Dr.  Johnson's  style  is  a  model  for  young  be- 
ginners. My  father  recomuaended  it  to  me  when 
I  began  to  write  letters.  I  have  formed  my 
own  style  upon  it ;  I  recommend  it  to  your 
favorite." 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  for  him  to  exchange 
his  style  for  any  such  pompous  writing,"  said 
Captain  Brown. 

Miss  Jenkyns  felt  this  as  a  personal  affront,  in  a 
way  of  which  the  captain  had  nut  dreamed.  Epis- 
tolary writing  she  and  her  friends  considered  as 
her  forte.  Many  a  copy  of  many  a  letter  have 
I  seen  written  and  corrected  on  the  slate  before 
she  "  seized  the  half-hour  just  previous  to  post- 
time  to  assure"  her  friends  of  this  or  of  that ;  and 
Dr.  Johnson  was,  as  she  said,  her  model  in  these 
compositions.  She  drew  herself  up  with  dignity, 
and  only  replied  to  Captain  Brown's  last  remark 
by  saying  with  marked  emphasis  on  every  syl- 
lable, "  1  prefer  Dr.  Johnson  to  Mr.  Boz." — Cran- 
ford. 

MISS    MATTV'S    CONFIDENCES. 

We  were  thankful,  as  Miss  Pole  desired  us  to 
be,  that  we  had  never  been  nuirried,  but  I  think 
of  the  two  we  were  even  more  thankful  that 
the  robbers  liad  left  Cranford  ;  at  least  I  judge 
so  from  a  speech  of  Miss  Matty's  that  evening  as 
we  sat  over  the  fire,  in  which  she  evidently 
looked  upon  a  husband  as  a  great  protection 
against  thieves,  l>urglars,  and  glnjsts  ;  and  said 
that  she  did  nut  think  that  she  should  dare  to  be 
alwavs  warning  voung  people  against  matrimony 
as  Miss  Tuie  did  continually  ;  to  be  sure,  mar- 
riage wjis  a  risk,  as  she  saw,  now  that  she 
had  some  experience ;  but  she  remembered  the 
time  wlien  she  had  looked  forward  to  being  mar- 
ried as  much  as  any  one.  "  Not  to  any  particu- 
lar person,  my  dears,"  said  she,  hastily  checking 
herself  uji  as  if  she  were  afraid  of  having  ad- 
mitted too  much:  "only  the  old  story,  you 
know,  of  ladies  always  saying  '  H7(((7i  I  marry,' 
and   gcntkuKn,  *//'  I    marry.'  "     It  was  a  joK<j 


ELIZABETH  C.   GASKELL.— 7 

spoken  in  rather  a  sad  tone,  and  I  doubt  if  either 
of  us  smiled ;  but  1  could  not  see  Miss  Matty's 
face  by  the  flickering  firelight.  In  a  little  while 
she  continued : 

"  But,  after  all,  I  have  not  told  you  the  truth. 
It  is  so  long  ago,  and  no  one  ever  knew  how 
much  I  thought  of  it  at  the  time,  unless,  indeed, 
my  dear  mother  guessed  ;  but  I  may  say  that 
there  was  a  time  when  I  did  not  think  I  should 
have  been  only  Miss  Matty  Jenkyns  all  my  life  ; 
for  even  if  I  did  meet  with  any  one  who  wished 
to  marry  me  now  (atid,  as  Miss  Pole  says,  one  is 
never  too  safe),  I  could  not  take  him,  I  hope 
he  would  not  take  it  too  much  to  heart,  but  I 
could  not  take  him — or  any  one  but  the  person  I 
once  thought  I  should  be  married  to ;  and  he  is 
dead  and  gone,  and  he  never  knew  how  it  all 
came  about  that  I  said  '  No,'  when  I  had  thought 
many  and  many  a  time —  Well,  it's  no  matter 
what  I  thought.  God  ordains  it  all,  and  I  am 
very  happy,  my  dear.  No  one"  has  such  kind 
friends  as  I,"  continued  she,  taking  my  hand  and 
holding  it  in  hers. 

If  I  had  not  known  of  Mr.  Holbrook,  I  could 
have  said  something  in  his  praise,  but  as  I  liad, 
I  could  not  think  of  anything  that  would  come 
in  naturally,  and  so  we  both  kept  silence  for  a 
little  time. 

"  My  father  once  made  us,"  she  began,  "  keep 
a  diary  in  two  columns;  on  one  side  we  were  to 
put  down  in  the  morning  what  we  thought 
would  be  the  course  and  events  of  the  coming  day, 
and  at  night  we  were  to  put  on  the  other  side 
what  really  had  happened.  It  would  be  to  some 
people  rather  a  sad  way  of  telling  tlieir  lives"  (a 
tear  dropped  upon  my  hand  at  these  words) — "  I 
don't  mean  that  mine  has  been  sad — only  so 
very  different  to  what  I  expected.  I  remember, 
one  winter's  evening,  sitting  over  our  bed-room 
fire  with  Deborah — I  remember  it  as  if  it  were 
yesterday — and  wc  were  planning  our  future 
lives;  both  of  us  were  planning,  thongli  only  she 
talked,  about  it.     She  said  she  should  like   to 

m 


ELIZABETH  C.   GASKELL.— 8 

marry  an  Archdeacon,  and  write  his  charges; 
and  you  know,  my  dear,  she  never  was  married, 
and,  for  aught  I  know,  she  never  spoke  to  an  un- 
married Archdeacon  in  her  life.  I  never  was 
ambitious,  nor  could  I  have  written  charges,  but 
1  thought  I  could  manage  a  house  (my  mother 
used  to  call  me  her  right  hand),  and  I  was  always 
so  fond  of  little  children — the  shyest  babies 
would  stretch  out  their  little  arms  to  come  to 
me;  when  I  was  a  girl,  I  was  half  my  leisure 
time  nursing  in  the  neighboring  cottages ;  but  I 
don't  know  how  it  was,  when  I  grew  sad  and 
grave — which  I  did  a  year  or  two  after  this  time 
— the  little  things  drew  back  from  me,  and  I  am 
afraid  I  lost  the  knack,  though  lam  just  as  fond 
of  children  as  ever,  and  have  a  strange  yearning 
at  nly  heart  whenever  I  see  a  mother  with  her 
babv  in  her  arms.  Nay,  my  dear"  (and  by  a 
sudden  blaze  which  sprang  up  from  a  fall  of  the 
unstirred  coals,  I  saw  that  her  eyes  were  full  of 
tears — gazing  intently  on  some  vision  of  what 
miglit  have  been),  "  do  you  know,  I  dream  some- 
times that  I  have  a  little  child — always  the 
same — a  little  girl  of  about  two  years  old ;  she 
never  grows  older,  though  I  have  dreamt  about 
her  for  many  years.  I  don't  think  I  ever  dream 
of  any  words  or  sound  she  makes ;  she  is  very 
noiseless  and  still,  but  she  comes  to  me  when  she 
is  vorv  sorrv  or  verv  glad,  and  1  have  wakened 
with  the  clas|)  of  licr  dear  little  arms,  round  my 
neck.  Only  last  night — perhaps  because  1  had 
gone  to  sleep  thinking  of  this  ball  for  I'hcebe — 
my  little  darling  came  in  my  dream,  and  put  up 
licr  mouth  to  be  kissed,  fust  as  I  have  seen  real 
babies  do  to  real  mothers  before  going  to  bed. 
But  all  this  is  nonsense,  dear!  only  don't  be 
frightened  by  Miss  Pole  from  being  married.  I 
can  fancy  it  may  be  a  very  happy  state,  and  a 
little  credulity  helps  one  on  through  life  very 
smoothly— better  than  always  doubting  and 
doubting  and  seeing  dillicultics  and  disagreeables 
m  every  thing. —  Cranford. 


ELIZABETH  C.   GASKELL.-9 

THE    MINISTER. 

"  There  is  Father  !"  she  exclaimed,  pointing 
out  to  me  a  man  in  liis  shirt-sleeves,  taller  by  the 
head  than  the  other  two  with  wlioin  he  was 
working.  We  only  saw  him  through  the  leaves 
of  the  ash-trees  growing  in  the  hedge,  and  I 
thought  I  must  be  confusing  the  figures,  or  mis- 
taken :  that  man  still  looked  like  a  very  power- 
ful laborer,  and  had  none  of  the  precise  demure- 
ness  of  appearance  which  I  had  always  imagined 
was  the  characteristic  of  a  minister.  It  was  the 
Reverend  Ebenezer  llolman,  however.  He  gave 
us  a  nod  as  we  entered  the  stubble-field,  and  I 
think  he  would  have  come  to  meet  us  but  that  he 
was  in  the  middle  of  giving  directions  to  his 
men.  I  could  see  that  Phillis  was  built  more 
after  his  type  than  her  mother's.  He,  like  his 
daughter,  Avas  largely  made,  and  of  a  fair,  ruddy 
complexion,  whereas  hers  was  brilliant  and  deli- 
cate. His  hair  had  been  yellow  or  sandy,  but 
DOW  was  grizzled.  Yet  his  gray  hairs  beto- 
kened no  faikire  in  strength.  I  never  saw  a 
more  powerful  man — deep  chest,  lean  flanks, 
well-planted  head.  By  this  time  we  were  nearly 
up  to  him,  and  he  interrupted  himself  and 
stepped  forwards,  holding  out  his  hand  to  me, 
but  addressing  Phillis. 

"  Well,  my  lass,  this  is  Cousin  Manning,  I  sup- 
pose. Wait  a  minute,  young  man,  and  I'll  put 
on  my  coat,  and  give  you  a  decorous  and  formal 
welcome.  But,  Ned  Hall,  there  ought  to  be  a 
water-furrow  across  this  land  :  it's  a  nasty,  stiff, 
clayey,  dauby  bit  of  ground,  and  thou  and  I 
must  fall  to,  come  next  Monday — I  beg  your 
pardon.  Cousin  Manning — and  there's  old  Jem's 
cottage  wants  a  bit  of  thatch  ;  you  can  do  that 
job  to-morrow  while  I  am  busy."  Then,  sud- 
denly changing  the  tone  of  his  deep  bass  voice  to 
an  odd  suggestion  of  chapels  and  preachers,  he 
added,  "  Now,  I  will  give  out  the  psalm,  '  Come 
all  harmonious  tongues,'  to  be  sung  to  '  Moum 
Ephraim'  tune." 

438 


ELl2At3ETH   C.    GASK£Lt.-lO 

He  lifted  his  spade  in  liis  Land,  and  bcgrn  to 
beat  time  with  it ;  the  two  laborers  seemed  to 
know  both  words  and  music,  though  I  did  not ; 
and  so  did  Philiis  :  her  rich  voice  followed 
her  father's  as  he  set  the  tune,  and  the  men 
came  in  with  more  uncertainty,  but  harmoni- 
ously. Philiis  looked  at  me  once  or  twice  with 
a  little  surprise  at  my  silence ;  but  I  did  not 
know  the  words.  There  we  five  stood,  bare- 
headed, excepting  Philiis,  in  the  tawny  stubble- 
field,  from  which  all  the  shocks  of  corn  had  not 
vet  been  carried — a  dark  wood  on  one  side, 
where  the  wood-pigeons  were  cooing ;  blue  dis- 
tance seen  through  the  ash-trees  on  the  other. 
Somehow,  I  think  that  if  I  had  known  the  words, 
and  could  have  sung,  my  throat  would  have 
been  choked  up  by  the  feeling  of  the  unaccus- 
tomed scene. 

The  hvmn  was  ended,  and  the  men  had  drawn 
off  before  I  could  stir.  I  saw  the  minister  begin- 
ning to  put  on  his  coat,  and  looking  at  me  with 
friendly  inspection  in  his  gaze  before  I  could 
rouse  myself. 

"  I  dare  say  you  railway  gentlemen  don't  wind 
up  the  day  with  singing  a  psahu  together,"  said 
he,  "but  it  is  not  a  bad  practice — not  a  bad  prac- 
tice. We  have  had  it  a  bit  earlier  to-day  for 
hospitality's  sake — that's  all." 

I  liad' nothing  to  say  to  this,  though  I  was 
tliinking  a  great  deal.  From  time  to  time  I  stole 
a  look  at  mv  companion.  His  coat  was  black, 
and  so  was  his  waistcoat;  neckcloth  he  had  none, 
his  strong,  full  throat  being  bare  above  the  snow- 
white  shirt.  lie  wore  drab-colored  knee-breeches, 
gray  worstc(l  stockings  (I  thought  I  knew  the 
maker),  and  strong-nailed  shoes.  He  carried  his 
hat  in  hi-*  hand  as  if  he  liked  to  feel  the  coming 
l.n-c/.i'  !iftin'_'  his  hair.  After  a  while,  I  saw  that 
the  father  took  hold  of  the  daughter's  hand,  and 
.'io  tliov,  holding  each  other,  went  along  towards 
bomc. —  Cousin  Philiis. 

4» 


AGi?:N01l  triENNE  GASPARIN.— 1 

GASPARIN,  Agknor  I^tienne,  Comte 
DE,  a  French  publicist  and  author,  born  in 
1810;  died  in  1871.  He  was  the  eldest 
son  of  Count  Adrien  Pierre  de  Gasparin. 
He  was  employed  by  Guizot  as  his  secretary 
in  the  Department  of  Public  Instruction, 
and  when  his  father  became  Minister  of 
the  Interior  in  183(),  served  also  as  secre- 
tary in  that  department.  In  1842  he  was 
elected  deputy  for  tlie  arrondissement  of 
Bastia,  in  Corsica.  A  zealous  Protestant, 
he  advocated  religious  liberty,  prison  re- 
form, emancipation  of  slaves,  and  social 
purity.  He  was  not  re-elected  in  184G. 
Disapproving  the  course  of  Louis  Napoleon, 
he  left  France,  and  took  up  his  residence 
near  Geneva,  where  he  lectured  upon  econ- 
omy, history,  and  religion.  He  wrote  nu- 
merous pamphlets  on  slavery  and  other 
abuses,  and  contributed  articles  to  the 
Journal  des  Dehats^  and  the  Revue  des 
deux  Mondes.  Two  remarkable  works  ad- 
vocating the  Union  cause  were  written  by 
him  during  the  rebellion,  and  were  trans- 
lated under  the  titles  of  Tfie  Uprising  of  a 
Gi'eat  People :  the  United  States  in  1861, 
and  America  he/ore  Europe  (1862.) 
Among  his  other  works  are  Slavery  and 
the  Slave  Tixide  (1838),  Christianity  and 
Paganism  (1850),  The  Schools  of  Douht 
and  the  School  of  Faith  (1853),  Turning 
Tahles,  the  Sup)ernatural  in  General  and 
Spirits  (1854),  The  Question  of  Neufchdtel 
(1857),  The  Family :  its  Duties,  Joys,  and 
Sorrows,  and  Moral  Liberty  (1868),"  a  Life 
of  Innocent  LIL,  and  The  Good  Old  Times, 
the  last  two  works  being  published  after 
his  death,  which  was  hastened  by  his  cares 
for  fugitive  and  wounded  soldiers  in  1871. 

TRIED    AND    FIRM. 

It  might  have  been  said  formerly  that   the 


Ag£nor  £tienne  gasparin.— ^ 

United  States  subsisted  only  through  their  privi- 
leged position — witliout  neighbors,  consequently 
without  enemies.    Exempt  from    the  efforts  ex- 
acted by  war,  life  had  been  easy  to  them ;  their 
vast  political  edifice  had  not  been  tried,  for  it 
had  struggled  against  no  tempest,  and  there  was  a 
right  to  suppose  that  the  first  torrent  which  beat 
against  the  wail  would  overthrow  or  shake  the 
foundations.     To-day  the  torrent  has  come,  and 
the  foundation  remains.     The  impotent  nation- 
ality which   has  been  shown  us  submerged   be- 
neath the  waves  of  immigration,  has  been  found 
an  energetic  and  long-lived  nationality.     In  the 
face  of  the  rebellious  South,  as  in  tlie'faceof  the 
menacing  South,  there  is  found  an  American  na- 
tion.    It  has  broken  forever — yes,  broken,  even 
in  the  event  of  the  effective  separation  of  a  por- 
tion of  the  South — the  perfidious  weapon  of  sepa- 
ration.    It  has  p;issed  through  the  triple  ordeal 
which  all  governiiieiits  must  endure — the  ordeal 
of   foundation,   of  independence,  of  revolution. 
It   has  affranchised   with  one   blow,  its  present 
and  its  future.     At  tlie  hour  of  disasters,  it  has 
displayed  the  rarest  quality  of  all — patience  to 
repair  the  evil.  .  .  .1  sliall  not  waste  my  time   in 
demonstrating  that,  if  the  Union  come  out  of  the 
crisis  victorious,   it   will  come  out  aggrandized. 
The  upriKiiui  of  a  (jreat  ]ieople  will  then  have  nu- 
merous partisans,  and  my  paradox  will  become  a 
commonplace.     I  have  been  anxious  to  establish 
another  theory,  no  less   true,  but   less  p(jpiilar — 
to-day,  during  tlie  crisis,  in  the  midst  of  diflicul- 
ties  and  perils,  whatever  may  be  the  issue  of  the 
struggle,   the  uprising   is  already   accomplished. 
Already   it  has  accepted    heavy    charges    which 
will  leave  their   traces  on    the   American  budget, 
like  tlie  noMe  Hcars  wlii(;h  remain  stampid  on 
the  countenance  of  c(»n()uerors.     Tlie  uprisintf  is 
therefore  already  accomplished.      It  mav  Ix;  lliat 
the    I  United   Slat<'s  will  .still    combat  and   suffer, 
but  their  cause  will   not   perish,  and  their  cau-sc 
is  their  jp-eatnc88. — America  before  Europe, 

Ml 


VALERIE  DE  GASPARIK.— 1 

GASPARIN,  Valerie  (Boissier)  de, 
a  French  author,  wife  of  the  preceding, 
born  in  Geneva  in  1815.  She  was  the 
author  of  several  works,  one  of  which, 
Marriage  from  the  Christian  Point  of 
View  (1842),  obtained  a  prize  at  the  French 
Academy.  Among  her  otiier  works  are. 
There  are  Poor  in  Paris  and  Elsewhere 
(18-16),  Monastic  Corporations  in  the  Heart 
of  Protestantism  (1855),  Near  Horizons, 
ileavenly  Horizons,  Vespers,  and  Hu7nan 
Sadness. 

BEHIND    A    VEIL. 

Here  again  comes  tlia  stiffness  of  convention- 
ality to  paralyze  a  character  all  made  up  of  light 
and  motion.  Spontaneous,  unpremeditated,  it 
has  the  gaiety  of  a  child  ;  it  has  sadness  as  well, 
sudden  bursts,  impulses,  enthusiasms,  all  of  which 
I  grant  you  are  not  in  very  perfect  proportion  ; 
— the  laughter  is  sometimes  a  little  loud ;  tears 
come  like  those  thunder-showers  that  all  at  once 
drown  the  sun  out  of  sight;  hut  such  as  it  is,  it 
is  natural  and  it  is  charming.  I  add  that  when 
tempered  it  is  excellent,  because  it  is  true.  Now 
then  let  come  traditions,  let  come  the  world  with 
its  good  society  amazement,  and  this  poor  soul 
is  afraid  of  being  itself.  Ere  long  it  grows 
ashamed  of  it;  it  dares  no  longer  laugh  or  weep; 
it  takes  refuge  in  an  artificial  coldness.  Here 
and  there  some  eccentricity — one  of  those  shoots 
of  impetuous  vegetation  which  pierce  through 
old  walls  to  open  out  to  the  light — escapes  in  look 
or  tone  ;  instantly  there  is  a  hue  and  cry.  Quick, 
down  with  the  portcullis,  up  with  the  drawbridge ! 
There  where  a  coppice  full  of  songs  grew  green, 
a  gray  fortress  is  rising  now  ;  passers-by  measure 
its  height ;  they  feel  an  icy  shadow  fall  athwart 
them ;  they  quicken  their  steps  towards  the 
flowery  field  beyond.  And  yet  a  heart  was 
beating  there ;  a  getiial  spirit  gave  out  fitful 
rays;  there  was  life  still,  there  might  have  been 
happiness. 


VALERIE  DE  GASPARIN.— 2 

If,  at  the  least,  the  mistake  once  committed 
might  become  at  length  a  kind  of  reality  ;  if  one 
but  moved  freely  beneath  the  borrowed  garment ! 
But  no !  it  was  made  to  fit  some  one  else  ;  we  are 
not  only  uncomfortable  in  it,  but  we  are  awk- 
ward as  well.  These  disguises  only  half  deceive  ; 
they  suflBce  to  embarrass  ;  not  to  give  one  a  home- 
feeling  of  ease 

Alas!  and  one  may  go  on  thus  to  the  very  end! 
When  the  end  is  come,  the  indifferent  crowd 
permits  you  to  be  buried  without  your  disguise. 
Sometimes  it  happens  that  a  curious  on-looker 
stops  and  contemplates  you  ;  sometimes  at  the 
supreme  parting  hour  a  fold  of  the  veil  gets 
disarranged,  and  then  your  true  visage  appears. 
There  it  is  all  radiant,  or  all  pale.  There  is  the 
sweet  smile;  when  just  about  to  be  for  ever 
extinguished,  it  at  length  ventures  forth  upon 
the  dying  lips;  the  glance  is  fraught  with  emo- 
tion, tears  warm  the  marble  face !  That  then 
was  the  real  man,  the  real  woman  !  Wh.'it !  so 
beautiful,  so  touching,  and  I  had  never  found  it 
out ! — Human  Sadness. 

OCTOBER. 

On  one  of  those  October  days  which  rise  all 
radiant  after  they  have  once  shaken  off  their 
mantle  of  mist,  let  us  take  our  way  into  lonely 
places.  The  brambles  are  reddening  on  the 
mountains;  we  hear  the  lowing  of  the  herds 
shaking  their  bells  in  the  pastures,  ilcrc  and 
there  some  fire  rolls  out  its  smoke  ;  insects  rise 
slowly  with  their  little  balloons  (.f  white  silk  ; 
the  bushes,  deceived  by  the  mildness  of  tho 
nights,  put  forth  fresh  shoots;  tin-  great  daisies, 
the  scarlet  pinks,  the  sage-plants  that  had  flowcn-d 
in  June,  open  out  a  few  bright  petals  here  and 
there.  This  will  not  l.-iMt ;  winter  is  coming  on. 
What  of  that?     This  last  smile   tells    me    that 

(iod    loves  and  means  to  console  me Human 

Sadness. 


JOHN  GAUDEN.— 1 

GAUDEN,  John,  an  English  clergyman, 
born  in  1605;  died  in  1662.  Having 
preached  a  successful  sermon  before  Parlia- 
ment, he  was  in  1640  rewarded  by  the  rich 
deanery  of  Booking,  and  other  preferments. 
After  the  breaking  out  of  the  civil  war,  he 
submitted  to  the  Presbyterian  order  of 
Church  Government,  and  thus  retained  his 
preferments.  In  1648,  after  the  execution 
of  Charles  I.,  be  wrote  A  Just  Invective 
against  those  of  the  Ai'iny  and  their  Abet- 
tors who  nmrthered  King  Charles  I.  This, 
however,  was  not  printed  until  after  the 
Kestoration  of  Charles  II.  Immediately 
after  the  Restoration  Gauden  was  made 
chaplain  to  the  King,  then  Bishop  of  Exe- 
ter, and  in  1662  Bisliop  of  Worcester.  Be- 
tween 1653  and  1660  he  wrote  a  number  of 
treatises  in  vindication  of  the  Church  of 
England  and  its  clergy,  among  which  are 
A  Petitionary  Remonstrance  to  Oliver 
Cromwell  in  hehctJf  of  the  Clergy  of  Eng- 
land, and  The  Tear^,  Sighs,  and  Com- 
jplaints  of  the  Church  of  England  (1659), 
Antisacrilegus  (1660),  besides  several  pub- 
lished Sermons. 

Gauden's  chief  claim  to  a  place  in  the 
history  of  literature  rests  upon  his  connec- 
tion with  the  EikOn  Basilike,  or  the  Pour- 
traicture  of  his  sacred  Majestic  in  his  Soli- 
tudes and  Svfferings.  This  work,  l)earing 
date  of  1648,  was  published  soon  after  the 
execution  of  the  King,  by  whom  on  its  face 
it  purports  to  have  been  written.  The 
work  was  received  by  the  Royalists  as  the 
composition  of  "the  Royal  Martyr;"  but 
by  others  the  authorship  was  attributed  to 
Gauden.  Volume  upon  volume  has  been 
written  upon  both  sides  of  this  controversy, 
which,  perhaps,  can  hardly  be  even  now 


JOHN  GAUDEN.— 2 

definitely  settled,  since  as  late  as  1829  the 
Rev.  Dr.  "Wordsworth  put  forth  an  elabor- 
ate argument  to  show  that  King  Charles 
was  actually  the  author.  But  Mackintosh, 
Todd,  and  Macaiilay  hold  that  the  work 
belongs  to  Gauden. 

FROM    TUE    "EIKON    BASILIk£" 

The  various  successes  of  this  unhappy  war 
have  at  least  afforded  me  variety  of  good  medi- 
tations. Sometimes  God  was  pleased  to  try  me 
with  victory,  by  worsting  my  enemies,  that  1 
might  know  how  witli  moderation  and  tlianks  to 
own  and  use  His  power,  who  is  only  the  true 
Lord  of  Hosts,  able,  when  he  pleases,  to  repress 
the  confidence  of  those  that  fought  against  me 
with  so  great  advantages  for  power  and  number. 
From  small  beginnings  on  my  part,  lie  let  me 
see  that  I  was  not  wholly  forsaken  by  iiiy  peo- 
ple's love  or  His  protection.  Other  times  God 
was  pleased  to  exercise  my  patience,  and  teach 
me  not  to  trust  in  the  arm  of  flesh,  but  in  the 
living  God.  My  sins  sometimes  prevailed  against 
the  justice  of  my  cause ;  and  those  that  were 
with  me  wanted  not  matter  and  occasion  for  his 
just  chastisement  both  of  them  and  me.  Nor 
were  my  enemies  loss  punished  hy  that  pros- 
perity, which  hardened  them  to  continue  that 
injustice  by  open  hostilitv,  which  was  begun  by 
most  riotous  and  unparliamentary  tumults. 

There  is  no  doubt  but  personal  and  private 
sins  may  ofttinies  overbalance  the  justice  of  pub- 
lic engagements;  nor  doth  God  account  every 
gallant  man,  in  the  world's  esteem,  a  fit  instru- 
ment to  assert  in  the  way  of  war  a  righteous 
cause.  The  more  men  arc  prone  to  arrogate  to 
their  own  skill,  valor  and  strength,  the  less  doth 
God  ordinarily  work  by  them  for  his  own  glory. 
I  am  sure  the  event  of  success  can  never  state  the 
justice  of  any  cause,  nor  the  peace  of  men's  con- 
Bcicnccs,  nor  the  eternal  fate  of  their  souls. 

Those  with  uue  had,  I  think,  clearly  and  uu- 
m 


JOHN  GAUDEN.— 3 

doubtedly  for  tbcir  justification  the  Word,  of 
God  and  the  laws  of  the  land,  together  with 
their  own  oaths ;  all  requiring  obedience  to  my 
just  commands ;  but  to  none  other  under  heaven 
without  mc,  or  against  me,  in  the  point  of  rais- 
ing arms.  Those  on  the  other  side  are  forced  to 
fly  to  the  shifts  of  some  pretended  fears,  and 
wild  fundamentals  of  state,  as  they  call  them, 
which  actually  overthrow  the  present  fabric  both 
of  Church  and  State ;  being  such  imaginary  rea- 
sons for  self-defense  as  are  most  impertinent  for 
those  men  to  allege,  who,  being  my  subjects, 
were  manifestly  the  first  assaulters  of  me  and 
the  laws,  first  by  unsuppressed  tumults,  after  by 
listed  forces.  The  same  allegations  they  use,  will 
fit  any  faction  that  hath  but  power  and  confi- 
dence enough  to  second  with  the  sword  all  their 
demands  against  the  present  laws  and  governors, 
which  can  never  be  such  as  some  side  or  other 
will  not  find  fault  with,  so  as  to  urge  what  they 
call  a  feformation  of  them  to  a  rebellion  against 
them. 

The  eminent  Dr.  South  seems  to  have 
had  no  doubt  tliat  Charles  I.  was  really  the 
author  of  the  EikOn  Basllihe.  He  says : 
"  To  go  no  further  for  a  tes  imony,  let  his 
own  writings  witness,  which  speak  him  no 
less  an  author  than  a  monarch,  composed 
with  such  a  commanding  majestic  pathos  as 
if  they  had  been  writ  not  with  a  pen  but  a 
sceptre;  and  for  those  whose  virulent  and 
ridiculous  calumnies  ascribe  that  incompar- 
able piece  to  others,  I  say  it  is  a  sufficient 
argument  that  those  did  not  write  it,  because 
they  could  not." 


THEOPIIILE  GAUTlElt.— 1 

GAUTIER,  Theophile,  a  French  poet, 
novelist,  and  critic,  born  in  1811  ;  died  in 
1872.  He  was  a  native  of  Tarbes,  Gas- 
conj,  was  educated  at  the  Ljcee  Charle- 
magne, Paris,  and  on  completing  his  college 
course,  entered  the  studio  of  Rioult,  intend- 
ing to  become  a  painter.  After  two  years' 
study,  he  turned  from  art  to  literature,  and 
joined  in  the  revolt  against  the  formalism 
of  the  French  classic  school.  His  first  vol- 
ume of  Poesies  (1830)  was  followed,  in 
1832,  by  Alberfus,  a  "theological  legend." 
In  1833,  he  published  a  volume  of  tales, 
Les  Jeunes-Frcuice^  and  in  1835  Mademoi- 
selle de  Mcnijjln,  a  novel  wliicli  was  pro- 
nounced, even  in  France,  immoral.  To  this 
time  belongs  a  scries  of  critical  pnpcrs  on 
the  poets  of  the  time  of  Louis  XIIL,  which 
were  afterwards  published  in  1843,%under 
the  title  of  Les  Grotesques.  These  were 
written  for  La  France  Litteraire,  of  which 
Gautier  was  editor.  He  also  contributed  to 
the  Revue  dc  Paris^  L''Arflf<t>\  and  other 
papers.  In  1S3G  he  became  literary  and 
dramatic  editor  of  La  Presse^  in  1854:  of 
Lie  MoniUxLr  flniversel^  and  in  1809  of 
L^e  Journal  (^fffifiel.  His  journalistic  labors 
alone  were  enormous.  It  is  said  that  a 
complete  collcftion  of  his  articles  would  fill 
300  volumes.  He  continued  to  write  novels 
and  poems.  La  ( 'omrdir  de  la  Morte  (1838), 
Poesii'S  (1840),  and  fuiianx  et  Cainees 
(1852),  all. display  tnic  ])oetic  feeling  and  a 
marvelous  command  of  ])oetic  form.  Gau- 
tier traveled  in  most  of  the  countries  of 
Europ(!,  and  wrote  several  books  embody- 
ing his  ffbfiervatioriH ;  among  them  Italia 
(1853k  and  (Jimstantinnjih'  ( 1 S54.)  I  le  wrote 
also  tor  the  stager,  Lji  Tricoriu'  Knehantc 
(1845),   being  perha[)8  his  best  play.     Ilia 


Tn^OPHILE  GAUTIER.-3 

sliort  stones  stand  in  the  first  rank  of  this 
class  of  fiction.  The  best  of  his  novels  are 
Militona  (1S47),  Le  Roman  tie  la  Momie 
(1856),  Le  Capitalne  Fracasse  (18G3),  and 
Spirlte  (18GG.)  Besides  the  works  of  travel 
already  mentioned  are,  (Japrices  et  Zigzags, 
Voyage  en  /lassie,  and  Voyage  en  Espagne. 
L'llistoire  de  VArt  JJrqmatiqueen  Jf ranee 
depuis  vingtcinq  Ans,  contains  some  of  his 
best  critical  papers.  His  last  work,  T(djleaiix 
du  Siege,  gives  a  vivid  picture  of  Paris  at 
the  time  of  its  investment  by  the  German 
troops. 

THE  ROYAL  SEPULCHRES  OF  THEBES. 

Tlie  director  of  excavations  went  on  a  little  in 
advance  of  tlie  nobleman  and  the  savant,  with 
the  air  of  a  well-bred  person  who  knows  the  rules 
of  etiquette,  and  his  step  was  firm  and  brisk,  as 
tliougli  he  were  quite  confident  of  success. 
They  soon  reached  a  narrow  defile  leading  into 
the  valley  of  liiban-cI-Molook.  It  looked  as  if 
it  had  been  cut  by  the  hand  of  man  through  the 
thick  wall  of  the  mountain  instead  of  being  a 
natural  cleft,  as  if  the  spirit  of  solitude  had 
sought  to  render  inaccessible  this  kingdom  of  the 
dead.  On  the  perpendicular  walls  of  the  riven 
rock  the  eye  could  discern  imperfect  remains  of 
sculptures,  injured  by  the  ravages  of  time,  that 
might  have  been  taken  for  inequalities  of  the 
stone,  aping  the  crippled  personages  in  a  half- 
effaced  bas  relief,  lieyond  the  gorge  the  valley 
widened  a  little,  presenting  a  spectacle  of  the 
most  mournful  desolation.  On  eitlier  side  rose 
in  steep  crags  enormous  masses  of  calcareous  rock, 
corrugated,  splintered,  crumbling,  exhausted,  and 
dropping  to  pieces  in  an  advanced  state  of  de- 
composition under  an  implacable  sun.  These 
rocks  resembled  the  bones  of  the  dead,  calcined 
on  a  funeral  pyre,  and  an  eternity  of  weariness 
was  expressed  in  the  yawning  mouths,  imploring 
the  refreshing  drop  that  never  fell.     Their  walls 


THfiOPHlLE  GAUTIER.— 3 

rose  almost  in  a  vertical  line  to  a  great  height, 
marking  out  their  indented  tops  of  a  grayish 
white  against  a  sky  of  deepest  indigo,  like 
the  turrets  of  some  gigantic  ruined  fortress.  A 
part  of  the  funeral  valley  lay  at  a  white  heat 
under  the  rays  of  the  sun ;  the  rest  was  bathed 
in  that  crude  bluish  tint  of  torrid  lauds,  which 
seems  unreal  at  the  North  when  artists  reproduce 
it,  and  which  is  as  clearly  defined  as  the  shadows 
on  an  architectural  plan. 

The  valley  lengthened  out,  now  making  an 
angle  in  one  direction,  now  entangling  itself  in  a 
gorge  in  another,  as  the  spurs  and  projections 
of  the  bifurcated  chain  advanced  or  receded. 
According  to  a  peculiarity  of  climates  when  the 
atmosphere,  entirely  free  from  moisture,  pos- 
sessed a  perfect  transparence,  aerial  perspective 
did  not  exist  in  this  theatre  of  desolation ;  every 
little  detail  was  sketched  in,  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach,  with  a  painful  accuracy,  and  their 
distance  made  evident  only  by  a  decrease  in 
size,  as  if  a  cruel  Xatu'e  did  not  care  to  hide 
any  of  the  poverty  or  misery  of  this  barren  spot, 
more  dead  itself  than  those  whom  it  covered. 

Over  the  wall,  on  the  sunny  side,  fell  a  fiery 
stream  of  blinding  light  such  as  emanates  from 
metals  in  a  state  <jf  fusion.  Every  rocky  surface, 
transformed  into  a  liuniirig  mirror,  sent  it  glanc- 
ing back  with  even  greater  intensity.  These  re- 
acting rays,  joined  to  the  scorching  beams  that 
fell  from  the  heavens,  and  were  reflected  again 
from  the  earth,  produced  a  heat  equal  to  that  of 
a  furnace,  and  the  poor  German  doctor  constantly 
sponged  his  fa<;c  with  his  blue-checked  handker- 
chief, that  lookeil  as  if  it  had  been  di[)ped  in 
water.  You  could  not  have  found  a  handful  i){ 
soil  in  the  whole  valley,  so  there  was  no  blade  of 
gra.s»,  no  bramble,  no  creeping  vine  of  any  kind, 
nor  growth  of  lichon,  to  Im-ak  the  uniform 
whiteness  of  the  torrified  ground.  The  crevicci 
and  dents  in  the  rocks  did  not  contain  enough 
moisture  to  feed  even  the  slender  tiiread-liko 
roots  of  the  poorest  wall  plant.     It  wus  like  a  vast 


TIlfiOPlIILE  GAUTIER.— 4 

bed  of  cinders  left  from  a  chain  of  mountains 
burnt  out  in  some  ijrcat  planetary  fire  in  the  day 
of  cosmic  catastro{)lics :  to  make  the  compari- 
son more  complete,  luiii;;  black  streaks,  like  scars 
left  by  cauterizing-,  ran  clown  the  chalky  sides  of 
the  peaks.  A'^'^^olute  silence  reigned  over  this 
scene  of  devastation  ;  not  a  breath  of  life  dis- 
turbed it;  there  was  no  flutter  of  wings,  no  hum 
of  insects,  no  rustling  of  lizards  and  other  i"ep- 
tiles ;  even  the  tiny  cymbal  of  the  grasshopper, 
that  friend  of  arid  wastes,  could  not  be  heard. 
A  sparkling,  micaceous  dust,  like  powdered  sand- 
stone, covered  the  ground,  and  here  and  there 
formed  mounds  over  the  stones  dug  from  the 
depths  of  the  chain  with  the  relentless  pickaxes 
of  past  generations  and  the  tools  of  troglodyte 
workmen  preparing  under  ground  the  eternal 
dwelling-places  of  the  dead.  The  fragments 
torn  from  the  interior  of  the  inountain  had  made 
other  hills  friable  heaps  of  stones,  that  might 
have  been  taken  for  a  natural  ridge.  In  the 
sides  of  the  rock  were  black  holes,  surrounded 
by  scattered  blocks  of  stone — square  openings 
flanked  by  pillars  covered  with  hieroglyphics, 
and  having  on  their  lintels  mysterious  cartouches 
that  contained  the  sacred  scarabajus  in  a  great 
yellow  disk,  the  Sun  as  a  ram's  head,  and  the 
goddesses  Isis  and  Nephthys,  standing  or  kneel- 
ing. These  were  the  royal  sepulchres  of  Thebes. 
— The  Romance  of  a  Mummy.  Transl.  of 
Augusta  McC.  Wright. 

the  close  of  day. 

The  daylight  died  :  a  filmy  cloud 

Left  lazily  the  zenith  height, 
In  the  calm  river  scarcely  stirred, 

To  bathe  its  flowing  garment  white. 

Night  came  :  Night  saddened  but  serene, 
In  mourning  for  her  brother  Day  ; 

And  every  star  before  the  queen 

Bent,  robed  in  gold,  to  own  her  sway. 

4N 


THf:OPHILE  GAUTIER.— 5 

The  turtle-dove's  soft  wail  was  lieard, 
The  children  dreaming  in  their  sleep  ; 

The  air  seemed  filled  with  rustling  wings 
Of  unseen  birds  in  downy  sweep. 

Heaven  spake  to  earth  in  murmurs  low, 
As  when  the  Hebrew  prophets  trod 

Her  hills  of  old ;  one  word  I  know 
Of  that  mysterious  speech  : — 'tis  God. 
Transl.  o/"  Amelia  D.  Alden. 


THE    FIRST    SMILE    OF    SPRING. 

While  to  their  vexatious  toil,  breathless,  men 

are  hairrying, 
March,  who  laughs  despite  of  showers,  secretly 

prepares  the  Spring. 

For  the  Easter  daisies  small,  while  they  sleep, 
the  cunning  fellow 

Paints  anew  their  collarettes,  burnishes  their  but- 
tons yellow ; 

Goes,  the  sly  pcrruquier,  to  the  orchard,  to  the 

vine. 
Powders  white  the  almond-tree  with  a  puff  of 

swan's-down  fine. 

To  tlie  garden  bare  he  flics,  while  dame  Nature 
still  reposes; 

In  their  vests  of  velvet  green,  laces  all  the  bud- 
ding roses ; 

Whistles  In  the  blackbird's  car  new  roulades  for 

him  to  ffjllow  ; 
.Sows  the  snow-drop  far  and  iir:ar,  and   the  violet 

in  the  hollow. 

On  the  margin  of  the  fountain,  where  the  stag 
drinks,  listening, 

From  his  hidden  hand  he  Hcattcrs  silvery  lily- 
buds  for  Spring ; 

Ml 


TH^OPHILE  GAUTIEII.— 6 

Ilides  the  crimson  strawberry  •  in  the  grass,  for 

thee  to  seek ; 
Plaits  a  leafy  hat,  to  shade  from  the  glowing  sun 

thy  cheek. 

Then,  when  all  his  task  is  done,  past  his  reign, 
away  he  hies ; 

Turns  his  head  at  April's  threshold  ; — "  Spring- 
time, you  may  come  !"  he  cries. 

Transl.  q/"  Amelia  D.  Alden. 

DEPARTURE    OF    THE    SWALLOWS. 

The  rain-drops  plash,  and  the  dead  leaves  fall, 

On  spire  and  cornice  and  mould  ; 
The  swallows  gather,  and  twitter  and  call, 
"  We  must  follow  the  Summer,  come  one,  come 
all, 

For  the  Winter  is  now  so  cold." 

Just  listen  awhile  to  the  wordy  war, 

As  to  whither  the  way  shall  tend. 
Says  one,  "  I  know  the  skies  are  fair 
And  myriad  insects  float  in  air 

Where  the  ruins  of  Athens  stand. 

"  And  every  year,  when  the  hrown  leaves  fall, 

In  a  niche  of  the  Parthenon 
I  build  my  nest  on  the  corniced  wall. 
In  the  trough  of  a  devastating  ball 

From  the  Turk's  besieging  gun." 

Says  another,  "  My  cosey  home  I  fit 

On  a  Smyrna  grande  cafe, 
Where  over  the  threshold  Iladjii  sit. 
And  smoke  their  pipes  and  their  coffee  sip, 

Dreaming  the  hours  away." 

Another  says,  "  I  prefer  the  nave 

Of  a  temple  in  Baalbec ; 
There  my  little  ones  lie  when   the   palm-trees 

wave, 
And,  perching  near  on  the  architrave, 

I  fill  each  open  beak." 


THfiOPHILE  GAUTIER.— 7 

^'  Ah  !"  says  the  last,  "  I  build  my  nest 

Far  up  on  the  Xile's  green  shore, 
Where  Memnon  raises  his  stony  crest, 
And  turns  to  the  sun  as  he  leaves  his  restj 

But  greets  him  with  song  no  more. 

"  In  his  ample  neck  is  a  niche  so  widej 

And  withal  so  deep  and  free, 
A  thousand  swallows  their  nests  can  hide, 
And  a  thousand  little  ones  rear  beside — - 

Then  come  to  the  Nile  with  me/' 

They  go,  they  go  to  the  river  and  plain, 

To  ruined  city  and  town, 
They  leave  me  alone  with  the  cold  again, 
Beside  the  tomb  where  my  joys  have  lain, 

"With  hope  like  the  swallows  flown. 

Trunsl.  of  Henri  Van  Laun. 

LOOKING    UPWARD. 

From  Sixtus'  fane  when  Michael  Angelo 

His  work  completed  radiant  and  sublime, 
The  scaffold  left  and  sought  the  streets  below, 

Nor  eyes  nor  arms  would  lower  for  a  time  ; 

Ilis  feet  know  not  to  walk  upon  the  ground, 
Unused  to  earth,  so  long  in  heavenly  clime. 

Upwards    lie   gazed    while    three    long   months 
went  round ; 
So  might  an  angel  look  who  shouM  adore 
The  dread  triangle  mystery  profound. 

My  lirothcr  poets,  while  their  spirits  soar, 

III  the  World's  ways  at  every  moment  trip. 
Walking     in     dreams    while    thry    the    heavens 
cxplure. 

Transl.  of  Hknri  Va.v  Lain. 


JOtiN  CAY.-l 

GAY,  John,  an  Eng1iv<;li  poet,  born  in 
1G88,  died  in  1732.  lie  was  apprenticed  to 
a  silk-mercer  in  London,  bnt  turned  his  at- 
tention to  literary  pursuits.  In  1711  he 
published  Rural  8ports^  a  poem  dedicated 
to  Pope,  which  led  to  a  close  friendship  be- 
tween the  two  poets.  This  was  followed 
by  The  Shepherd's  Week,  a  kind  of  parody 
on  the  Pastorals  of  Ambrose  Philips.  He 
subsequently  wrote  several  comedies ;  and 
in  1727  brought  out  the  Be^jgar's  Opera^ 
which  produced  fame  and  money.  This 
was  followed  by  the  comic  opera  of  Polly, 
the  representation  of  which  was  forbidden 
by  the  Lord  Chamberlain  ;  it  was  printed 
by  subscription,  and  netted  some  £1000  or 
£1200  to  the  author.  Gay  lost  nearly  all 
of  his  considerable  property  in  the  "  South 
Sea  Bubble,"  and  during  the  later  years  of 
his  life  he  was  an  inmate  of  the  house  of 
the  Duke  of  Queen  sherry.  Apart  from  the 
two  comic  operas,  Gay's  best  worts  are : 
THvia,  or  the  Art  of  Wall'hig  the  Streets 
of  London,  and  the  Fables,  of  which  a  very 
good  edition  was  ])ublished  in  1856. 


WALKING    THE    STREETS    OF    LONDON. 

Through   winter   streets    to   steer   your   course 

aright, 
How  to  walk  clean  by  day,  and  safe  by  night ; 
How  jostling  crowds  with  prudence  to  decline, 
When  to  assert  the  wall,  and  when  resign, 
I  sing ;  tliou,  Trivia,  goddess,  aid  my  song, 
Through  spacious  streets  conduct  thy  bard  along: 
By  thee  transported,  I  securely  stray 
AVherc  winding  alleys  lead  the  doubtful  way  ; 
The  silent  court  and  opening  square  explore, 
And  long  perplexing  lanes  untrod  before. 
To  pave  thy  realm,  and  smooth  the  broken  ways, 
EjiHh  from  her  womb  a  flinty  tribute  pays : 

4C4 


JOHN  GAY.— 2 

For  thee  the  sturdy  pavior  thumps  the  ground, 
Whilst  every  stroke  his  laboring  lungs  resound; 
For  thee  the'  scavenger  bids  kennels  glide 
Within  their  bounds,  and  heaps  of  dirt  subside. 
My  youthful  bosom  burus  with  thirst  of  fame, 
From  the  great  theme  to  build  a  glorious  name ; 
To  tread  in  paths  to  ancient  bards  unknown, 
And  bind  my  temples  with  a  civic  crown: 
But  more  my  country's  love  demands  my  lays ; 
My  country's  be  the  profit,  mine  the  praise  ! 

When  tiie  black  youth  at  chosen  stands  rejoice, 
And  "  Clean  your  shoes  1"  resounds  from  every 

voice, 
When  late  their  miry  sides  stage-coaches  show, 
And  their  stiff  horses  through  the  town  move 

slow ; 
When  all  the  Mall  in  leafy  ruin  lies, 
And  damsels  first  renew  tlieir  oyster-cries; 
Then  let  the  prudent  walker  shoes  provide. 
Not  of  the  Spanish  or  Morocco  hide  ; 
The  wooden  hocl  may  raise  the  dancer's  bound, 
And  with  the  scalloped  top  his  step  be  crowned : 
Let  firm,  well-hammered  soles  protect  thy  feet 
Througii  freezing  snows,  and  rains,  and  soaking 

sleet. 
Should  the- big  last  extend  the  shoe  too  wide, 
Each  .stone  will  wrench  the  unwary  ste{)  aside  ; 
The  sudden  turn  may  stretch  the  swelling  vein, 
Thy  cracking  joint  uidiinge,  or  ankle  sprain  ; 
And  when  too  short  the  modish  shoes  arc  worn, 
You'll  judge  the  sea.sons  by  your  shooting  corn. 

Nor  should  it  prove  thy  less  important  care 
To  choose  a  proper  coat  for  winter's  wear. 
Now  in  thy  trunk  thy  D'Oily  habit  fold, 
The  silken  drugget  ill  can  fence  the  cold; 
The  frieze's  spongy  nap  is  soaked  with  rain, 
And  showers  soon  drench  the  cambltt's  cockled 

grain  ; 
True  Witney  broadcloth,  with  its  shag  un.shorn, 
Unpicrced  is  in  the  lasting  tempest  worn  : 
J3c  this   the  horseman's    fence,  for  who  would 

wear 
Amid  the  town  the  spoils  of  Uussia'B  bear? 
m 


JOHN  GAY.— 3 

Within   the   roquelaure's   clasp   thy   hands   are 

pent, 
Hands,  that,    stretched    forth,   invading  harms 

prevent. 
Let  the  looped  bavaroy  the  fop  embrace, 
Or  his  deep  cloak  bespattered  o'er  with  lace. 
That  garment  best  the  winter's  rage  defends, 
Whose  ample  form  without  one  plait  depends; 
By  various  names  in  various  counties  known, 
Yet  held  in  all  the  true  surtout  alone ; 
Be  thine  of  kersey  firm,  though  small  the  cost, 
Then  brave  iinwet  the  rain,  unchilled  the  frost. 
If  thy  strong  cane  support  thy  walking  hand, 
Chairmen  no  longer  shall  the  wall  command  ; 
Even  sturdy  carmen  shall  thy  nod  obey. 
And  rattling  coaches  stop  to  make  thee  way  : 
This  shall  direct  thy  cautious  tread  aright. 
Though  not  one  glaring  lamp  enliven  night. 
Lot  beaux  their  canes,  with  amber  tipt,  produce ; 
Be  theirs  for  empty  show,  but  thine  for  use. 
In  gilded  chariots  while  they  loll  at  ease. 
And  lazily  insure  a  life's  disease ; 
While  softer  chairs  the  tawdry  load  convey 
To  Court,  to  White's,  assemblies,  or  the  play; 
Rosy-complexioned  Plealth  thy  steps  attends, 
And  exercise  thy  lasting  youth  defends. 

Trivia. 

THE    HARE    WITH    MANY    FRIENDS. 

Friendship,  like  love,  is  but  a  name. 
Unless  to  one  you  stint  the  flame. 
The  child  whom  many  fathers  share, 
Hath  seldom  known  a  father's  care. 
'Tis  thus  in  friendship  :  who  depend 
On  many,  rarely  find  a  friend. 

A  Hare,  who,  in  a  civil  way. 
Complied  with  everything,  like  Gay, 
Was  known  by  all  the  bestial  train 
Who  haunt  the  wood  or  graze  the  plain : 
Her  care  was  never  to  offend. 
And  every  creature  was  her  friend. 

As  forth  she  went  at  early  dawn, 
To  taste  the  dew-besprinkled  lawn, 


JOHN  GAY.— 4 

Behind  she  hears  the  hunter's  erics, 
And  from  the  deep-mouthed  tluinder  flics. 
She  starts,  she  stops,  she  pants  for  breath ; 
She  hears  the  near  advance  of  death ; 
She  doubles,  to  mislead  the  hound, 
And  measures  back  her  mazy  round; 
Till,  fainting  in  the  public  way. 
Half-dead  with  fear  she  gasping  lay; 
AVhat  transport  in  her  bosom  grew, 
When  first  the  Horse  appeared  in  view! 
"  Let  me,"  says  she,  "  your  back  ascend, 
And  owe  my  safety  to  a  friend. 
You  know  my  feet  betray  my  flight ; 
To  friendship  every  burden  's  light." 

The  Horse  replied  :  "  I'oor  Honest  Puss, 
It  grieves  my  lieart  to  sec  you  thus ;         * 
Be  comforted ;  relief  is  near. 
For  all  your  friends  are  in  the  rear." 

She  next  the  stately  Bull  implored, 
And  thus  replied  the  mighty  lord : 
"  Since  every  beast  alive  can  tell 
That  I  sincerely  wish  you  well, 
I  may,  without  offence,  pretend 
To  take  the  freedom  of  a  friend. 
Love  calls  me  hence;  a  favorite  cow 
Expects  me  near  yon  barley-mow; 
And  when  a  lady's  in  the  case, 
You  know,  all  other  things  give  place. 
To  leave  you  thus  might  seem  unkind  ; 
But  see,  the  Goat  is  just  behind." 

The  Goat  remarked  licr  pulse  was  high, 
Her  languid  head,  her  heavy  eye ; 
"My  back,"  says  lie,  "  may  do  you  harm  ; 
The  Sheep's  at  hand,  and  wool  is  warm." 

The  Sheep  was  feeble,  and  complained 
His  sides  a  load  of  wool  sustained: 
Said  he  was  slow,  confessed  his  fears. 
For  hounds  cat  sheep  as  well  as  hares. 

She  now  the  trotting  Calf  addressed, 
To  save  from  death  a  friend  distressed. 
"Shall  I,"  says  he,  "  of  tondcr  ago, 
In  this  impoitant  care  engage  ? 


JOHN  GAY.— 5 

Older  and  abler  passed  you  by  ; 
How  strong  are  those,  hov   weak  am  I! 
Should  I  presume  to  bear  you  hence, 
Those  friends  of  mine  may  take  offence. 
Excuse  me,  then.     You  know  my  heart; 
But  dearest  friends,  alas  !  must  part. 
How  shall  we  all  lament!     z\dieu ! 
For,  see,  the  hounds  are  just  in  view  !" 

BLACK-EYED     SUSAN. 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moored, 
The  streamers  waving  in  the  wind, 

When  black-eyed  Susan  came  aboard: 
"Oh !  where  shall  I  my  true  love  find? 

Tel^me,  ye  jovial  sailors,  tell  me  true, 

If  my  sweet  William  sails  among  the  crew !" 

William,  who  high  upon  the  yard 
Rocked  with  the  billow  to  and  fro, 

Soon  as  her  well-known  voice  he  heard. 
He  sighed,  and  cast  his  eyes  below  : 

The    cord   slides    swiftly    through    his   glowing 
hands. 

And,  quick  as  lightning  on  the  deck  he  stands. 

So  the  sweet  lark,  high  poised  in  air, 
Shuts  close  his  pinions  to  his  breast, 

If  chance  his  mate's  shrill  call  he  hear, 
And  drops  at  once  into  her  nest. 

The  noblest  captain  in  the  British  fleet 

Might  envy  William's  lips  those  kisses  sweet. 

"  0  Susan,  Susan,  lovely  dear. 

My  vows  shall  ever  true  remain ; 
Let  me  kiss  off  that  falling  tear ; 

We  only  part  to  meet  again. 
Change  as  ye  list,  ye  winds !  my  heart  shall  be 
The  faithful  compass  that  still  points  to  thee. 

*'  Believe  not  what  the  landsmen  say, 

Who  tempt  with  doubts  thy  constant  mind ; 

They'll  tell  thee,  sailors  when  away, 
In  every  port  ^  mistress  find. 

4S8 


JOHN  GAY.— 6 

Yes,  yes,  believe  tbem  when  tbey  tell  thee  so, 
For  thou  art  present  v\'beresoe'cr  I  go, 

"  If  to  fair  India's  coast  we  sail, 

Tby  eyes  arc  seen  in  diamonds  brigbt, 

Thy  breath  is  Afric's  spicy  gale, 
Thy  skin  is  iv'ory  so  white. 

Thus  every  beauteous  object  that  I  view 

Wakes  in  my  soul  some  charm  of  lovely  Sue. 

"  Though  battle  call  me  from  thy  arms. 

Let  not  my  pretty  Susan  mourn  ; 
Though  cannons  roar,  yet,  safe  from  harms, 

William  shall  to  his  dear  return. 
Love  turns  aside  the  balls  that  round  me  fly. 
Lest  precious  tears  should  drop   from  Susan's 
eye." 

The  boatswain  gave  the  dreadful  word ; 

The  sails  their  swelling  bosoms  spread; 
No  longer  must  she  stay  aboard  ; 

They  kissed — she  sighed — he  hung  his  head. 
Iler  lessening  boat  unwilling  rows  to  land, 
"  Adieu  !"  she  cries,  and  waved  her  lily  hand. 

4i» 


MARIE  FRAN(;0I^E  SOPHIE  GAY.— 1 

GAY,  Marie  Fkan^oise  Sophie  (de  la 
Valette),  a  French  novelist,  born  in  1776 ; 
died  in  1852.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a 
financier  to  "  Moiisieur,"  afterwards  Louis 
XVIII.,  and  was  carefully  isducated  by  her 
father.  When  seventeen  years  of  age  she 
entered  upon  an  unhappy  marriage,  but  ob- 
tained a  divorce  in  179^.  She  afterwards 
married  M.  Gay,  Receiver-General  in  the 
department  of  Roer,  and  went  to  reside  at 
Aix-la-Chapelle.  Her  beaiity,  wit,  and  amia- 
bility attracted  all  who  knew  her,  and  her 
husband's  position  widened  her  circle  of 
acquaintances,  until  it  included  the  most 
distinguished  actors,  musicians,  and  men  of 
letters.  She  was  a  fine  musician,  a  per- 
former on  the  piano  and  harp,  and  com- 
posed both  M'ords  and  music  of  several 
romances.  Her  first  literary  work,  a  de- 
fense of  Mme.  de  i^tni'VsDelphme,  was  pub- 
lished in  1802  in  the  Journal  de  Paris. 
In  the  same  year  she  published  anonymous- 
ly a  romance,  Lanre  (VEstell.  Leonie  de 
Monthrcuse  (1813)  was  her  next  novel.  It 
was  followed  in  1815  by  Anatole,  the  most 
popular  of  her  works.  She  contributed  to 
Z«  Presse  and  other  papers,  and  wrote 
several  successful  dramas.  Among  her  other 
works  are  Theohald  (1828),  TJn  Mariage 
sous  V Empire  (1832),  Scenes  du  Jeune  Age 
(1823),  /Souvenirs  d\me  Vieille  Fenime 
(1834),  Les  Salons  Celehres  (1837),  Marie- 
Louise  dWrleans  (1842),  Le  Faux  Frere 
and  Le  Cornte  de  Guiclie  (1845.) 

NEW    year's    gifts    IN    FRANCE. 

The  reunions  begin  ;  already  some  persons 
have  appointed  tlieir  reception  evenings,  but  the 
soirees  are  not  complete ;  for  those  husbands 
who  are  great  .proprietors  make  a  pretext  of  their 


iiAElfi  ^RANt;!OlSE  sbPHIE  GATT.— 2 

plantations  and  agricultural  cares,  to  keep  their 
young  wives,  as  long  as  possible,  far  from  the 
pleasures  the  city  offers ;  not  reflecting  that  the 
richest  love  to  pass  over  the  season  for  gifts, 
considering  them  a  species  of  tax  imposed  upon 
the  vanity  of  the  avaricious,  as  well  as  that  of  the 
lavish,  from  which  distance  and  solitude  can 
alone  disfranchise. 

It  is  towards  the  20th  of  December  that  the 
scourge  begins  to  be  felt ;  first,  a  general  agitation 
is  perceived,  arising  from  perplexity  in  the  choice 
of  objects  that  will  gratify  the  recipients  ;  to  this 
succeeds  despair  of  ever  reconciling  the  gift  one 
selects  with  the  price  she  can  or  will  give.  Oh  ! 
the  sleepless  nights  that  follow  days  of  anxious 
thought;  the  fear  lest  the  present  should  be  too 
useful,  and  hurt  the  pride  of  the  friend,  or  too 
fanciful,  and  imply  that  she  is  capricious ;  but  it 
is  less  dangerous  to  consult  her  caprices  than  her 
needs,  and  the  talent  ef  divining  the  one  or  the 
other  is  seldom  attended  with  success. 

Nothing  can  equal  the  tacit  ambition  of  the 
receivers  of  the  New  Year's  gifts.  Already  the 
caresses  of  the  children,  the  assiduity  of  the 
8er\-ants,  is  in  ratio  to  the  gifts  they  hope  to 
receive  from  their  relations  or  masters.  Already 
the  jewelers  polish  their  old  jewels,  that  they 
may  sell  them  as  new  to  strangers  and  pro- 
vincials, wlio  would  be  ill  received  on  their  return 
home,  if  not  tlic  envoys  of  robes,  hats,  and  jewels, 
esteemed  in  tlie  mode.  She  is  the  passport  to  a 
welcome  from  their  families 

If  this  month  has  its  charges,  it  has  also  its 
profits;  the  service  in  every  liousc  is  performed 
with  more  exactness ;  tliere  are  no  letters  lost, 
no  journals  missing,  the  visiting  rards  are  punc- 
tually (IciiTcrcfl  to  those  who  claim  tlTcMi,  the 
lodger  no  longer  knocks  twenty  times  at  tiic 
carriage  entrance  before  the  gate  is  opened,  tlio 
boxkeeper  does  not  keep  you  waiting  in  the  lobby 
of  the  theatre,  tlie  coachman  is  metre  seldoni 
drunk,  the  cook  leaves  in  repose  the  cover  of  the 
basket,  the  chambermaid    grumbles    no    longer, 

Ml 


MARIE  FRANQOISE  SOPHIE  GAY.— S 

the  children  do  not  cry  wlicn  nothing  is  the 
matter,  the  governesses  intermit  their  beatings, 
everything  goes  on  more  easily,  each  one  does 
liis  duty,  every  conrtier  is  at  his  post — for  each 
one  hopes  to  have  liis  name  inscribed  on  the  list 
for  favors;  the  salons  of  the  ministers  are  filled, 
government  meets  with  less  resistance,  princes 
with  fewer  assassins. 

But  how  many  deceptions,  jealousies,  even 
enmities,  date  their  birth  from  this  deceitful 
month !  What  constrained  visages,  what  con- 
tortions and  grimaces  of  gratitude,  without 
counting  the  conjugal  his  !  We  will  favor  our 
friends  with  titles  of  the  different  species  of  New 
Year's  gifts : 

First,  the  duty  gift,  given  and  received  as  the 
payment  of  a  bill  of  exchange;  that  is  to  say, 
grudgingly  on  one  side,  and  with  no  gratitude 
on  the  other. 

Next,  the  impost  duty,  which  it  is  necessary  to 
satisfy ;  under  penalty  of  being  served  the  last, 
or  even  not  all,  when  you  dine  with  your  friends. 

The  chalice  gift,  which  simply  consists  in 
giving  this  year  to  the  new  friends  the  little 
presents  tliat  were  received  the  year  before  from 
the  old  ones.  This  is  the  ass's  bridge  of  the 
vain  economists. 

The  fraudulent  gift,  which  is  particularly 
flattering,  as  it  purports  to  have  been  purchased 
for  the  friend,  or  to  have  been  sent  by  an  old 
aunt,  whose  three  years'  revenue  could  not  pay 
for  this  lying  gift. 

The  loaning  gift.  This  reveals  the  phases 
and  revolutions  foreseen  by  astronomers  of  tlie 
licart,  where  love  passes  to  friendship,  friendship 
to  habit,  habit  to  indifference.  This  species  of 
gift  commences  ordinarily  with  some  rich  talis- 
man, the  luxury  of  which,  above  all,  consists  in 
its  uselessness,  and  ends  with  a  bag  of  con- 
fectionery. 

We  have  also  the  politic  gift,  the  most  in- 
genious of  all,  invented  by  fortune-hunters,  so- 
licitors, and  artful  women. 


MARIE  FRANgOISE   SOPHIE  GAY.— 4 

It  is  only  a  few  clioice  spirits  who  have  the 
finesse  essential  to  success  in  this  last  present. 
They  must  not  only  give  but  little  to  obtain 
much;  but  the  choice  of  the  present,  and  the 
means  of  making  it  available,  require  shrewdness 
and  address.  "SVish  you  some  place  dependent 
upon  a  minister?  Gain  an  introduction  to  his 
wife,  or,  if  faithless  to  her,  to  the  concealed 
object  of  his  passion ;  study  her  caprice  that  he 
has  forgotten  to  satisfy;  send  your  offering 
anonymously  ;  your  meaning  will  be  divined  by 
licr,  and  the  office  you  desire  be  obtained  from 
him.  Does  your  fate  depend  upon  a  brave  ad- 
ministrator whose  wife  is  faithful  ?  Fear  not 
ruining  yourself  in  baubles  for  the  children ; 
your  place  is  more  sure  than  the  revenues  of 
Spain. 

Do  you  wish  to  assure  yourself  of  an  inheri- 
tance from  some  okl  relation  ?  Observe  his 
mania;  endeavor  to  discover  what  is  the  piece  of 
furniture,  tlio  book,  or  the  exquisite  dish  that  his 
avarice  refuses  him ;  give  a  watch  to  his  house- 
keeper's little  son  ;  persuade  her  to  obtain  a 
pension  from  the  old  man  for  the  child,  and 
you  will  not  miss  of  the  inheritance.  This  is 
the  politic  gift  in  all  its  diplomacy.  As  to  the 
calculations  of  the  woman  who  constrains  or 
excites  the  generosity  of  her  friends  by  lier  rich 
offerings,  that  is  to  be  classed  among  vulgar 
speculations. —  Celebrated  Salons.     Transl.  of  i. 

WlLLARU. 

a* 


SYDNEY  HOWARD  GAY.— 1 

GAY,  Sydney  Howard,  an  American 
journalist  and  historian,  born  at  Bingham, 
iMass.,  in  1814.  He  entered  Harvard  College 
at  fifteen,  but  left  without  graduating,  on  ac- 
count of  ill  health.  After  spending  some 
years  in  a  counting-house,  he  began  the 
study  of  law ;  this  he  abandoned  for  the 
reason  that  he  could  not  conscientiously 
take  the  oath  to  maintain  the  Constitution 
of  the  United  States,  which  required  the 
surrender  of  fugitive  slaves.  In  1842  he 
became  an  anti-slavery  lecturer ;  in  1844 
editor  of  the  Anti-Slavery  Standard.,  retain- 
ing that  position  until  1857,  when  he  joined 
the  editorial  staff  of  iheNew  York  Tribune.^ 
of  which  he  was  "  Managing  Editor"  from 
1802  to  1866.  From  1867  to  1871  he  was 
Managing  Editor  of  the  Chicago  Tribune. 
In  1872  he  became  one  of  the  editors  of  the 
New  York  Evenhtg  Post.  Two  years  after- 
wards William  Cullen  Bryant  was  asked  by 
a  publishing  house  to  undertake  the  pre- 
paration of  an  illustrated  History  of  the 
United  States.  He  consented  upon  condi- 
tion that  the  work  should  be  actually  exe- 
cuted by  Mr.  Gay,  his  own  advanced  age 
rendering  it  impossible  that  he  should  un- 
dertake a  labor  of  such  magnitude.  This 
History  of  the  United  States.,  comprising 
four  large  volumes  (1876-1880),  was  really 
written  by  Mr.  Gay,  Avith  the  aid  in  the 
latter  portion  of  several  collaborators,  among 
whom  were  Alfred  H.  Guernsey,  Edward 
Everett  Hale,  Henry  P.  Johnson,  Rossiter 
Johnson,  and  Horace  E.  Scudder.  Mr. 
Gay  has  also  written  a  Life  of  James  Madi- 
son (1884)  and  was  engaged  upon  a  Life  of 
Edmund  Qiiiney^  when  the  work  was  inter- 
rupted by  a  long  and  serious  illness. 


SYDNEY  HOWARD  GaY.-^2 

THE    MOUND-BUILDERS    OF    AMERICA. 

The  dead  and  buried  culture  of  the  ancient 
people  of  North  America,  to  whose  memory 
they  themselves  erected  such  curious  monu- 
ments, is  specially  noteworthy  in  that  it  differs 
from  all  other  extinct  civilizations.  Allied,  on 
the  one  hand,  to  the  rude  conditions  of  the 
Stone  Age,  in  which  the  understanding  of  man 
does  not  aim  at  much  beyond  some  appliance 
that  shall  aid  his  naked  hands  in  procuring  a 
supply  of  daily  food,  it  is  yet  far  in  advance  of 
that  rough  childhood  of  the  race  ;  and  while  it 
touches  the  Age  of  Metal,  it  is  almost  as  far  be- 
hind, and  suggests  the  semi-civilization  of  other 
pre-historic  races  who  left  in  India,  in  Egypt,  and 
the  centre  of  the  Western  Continent,  magnificent 
architectural  ruins  and  relics  of  the  sculptor's 
art,  which,  though  barbaric,  were  nevertheless 
full  of  power  peculiar  to  those  parallel  regions 
of  the  globe. 

It  is  hardly  conceivable  that  those  imposing 
earthworks  were  nieant  for  mere  outdoor  occu- 
pation. A  people  capable  of  erecting  fortifica- 
tions which  could  not  be  much  improved  upon 
by  modern  military  science  as  to  position,  and, 
considering  the  material  used,  the  method  of 
construction  ;  and  who  could  combine  for  reli- 
gious obsorvancos  enclosures  in  groups  of  elabo- 
rate design,  extending  for  more  than  twenty 
miles,  would  probablv  crown  such  works  with 
structures  in  liarmony  with  their  importance  and 
the  skill  and  toil  bestowed  upon  their  erection. 
Such  woollen  edifices — for  wood  they  must  have 
been — would  long  ago  have  crumbled  into  dust; 
but  it  in  not  a  fanciful  suggestion  that  probably 
Bomething  more  imposing  than  a  rude  hut  once 
stood  upon  tumuli  evidently  meant  for  occupa- 
tion, and  sometimes  ap[»ri>;iehing  the  I'yramids 
of  Kgypt  in  si/,*!  ami  grandeur.  These  circum- 
vallatioiiHof  mathematical  figures,  bearitig  to  each 
otlier  certain  well-defined  relations,  an<l  made — 
though   many  miles  apart — in   accordance  with 


SYDNEY  HOWARD  GAY.— 3 

some  exact  law  of  measurement,  no  doii^jt  sur- 
rounded somctliing  better  tlian  an  Indian's  wig- 
wam. That  which  is  left  is  the  assurance  of  that 
which  has  perished ;  it  is  the  scarred  and  broken 
torso  bearing  witness  to  the  perfect  work  of  art 
as  it  came  from  the  hands  of  the  sculptor. 

Nor  is  this  the  only  conclusion  that  is  forced 
upon  us.  These  people  must  have  been  very 
numerous,  as  otherwise  they  could  not  have  done 
Avhat  we  see  they  did.  They  were  an  industrious, 
agricultural  people  ;  not  like  the  sparsely  scattered 
Indians,  nomadic  tribes  of  hunters  ;  for  the  mul- 
titudes employed  upon  the  vast  systems  of  earth- 
works, and  who  were  non-producers,  must  have 
been  supported  by  the  products  of  the  labor  of 
another  multitude  who  tilled  the  soil.  Their 
moral  and  religious  natures  were  so  far  developed 
that  they  devoted  much  tiine  and  thouglit  to  oc- 
cupations and  subjects  which  could  have  nothing 
to  do  with  their  material  welfare  :  a  mental  condi- 
tion far  in  advance  of  the  savage  state.  And  the 
degree  of  civilization  which  they  had  reached — 
trifling  in  some  respects,  in  others  full  of  promise 
— was  peculiarly  their  own,  of  which  no  trace 
can  be  discovered  in  subsequent  times,  unless 
it  be  among  other  and  later  races  south  and 
west  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 

Doing  and  being  so  much,  the  wonder  is  that 
they  should  hot  have  attained  to  still  higher 
things.  But  the  wonder  ceases  if  we  look  for 
the  farther  development  of  their  civilization  in 
Mexico  and  Central  America.  If  they  did  not 
die  out,  destroyed  by  pestilence  or  famine ;  if 
they  were  not  exterminated  by  the  Indians,  but 
were  at  last  driven  away  by  a  savage  foe  against 
whose  furious  onslaughts  they  could  contend  no 
longer,  even  behind  their  earthen  ramparts,  their 
refuge  was  probably,  if  not  necessarily,  farther 
south  or  southwest.  In  New  Mexico  they  may 
have  made  their  last  defense  in  the  massive  stone 
fortresses,  which  the  bitter  experience  of  the  past 
had  taught  them  to  substitute  for  the  earth-works 
they  had  been  compelled  to  abandon.     Thence 


SYDNEY  HOWARD  GAY.— 4 

extending  southward  they  may,  in  successive 
periods,  have  found  leisure,  in  the  perpetual  sum- 
mer of  the  tropics,  where  nature  yielded  a  sub- 
sistence almost  unsolicited  for  the  creation  of 
that  architecture  whose  ruins  are  as  remarkable 
as  those  of  any  of  the  pre-historic  races  of  other 
continents.  The  sculpture  in  the  stone  of  those 
beautiful  temples  may  be  only  the  outgrowth  of 
that  germ  of  art  shown  in  the  carvings  on 
the  pipes  which  the  Mound-Builders  left  on 
their  buried  altars.  In  these  pipes  a  striking 
fidelity  to  nature  is  shown  in  the  delineation  of 
animals.  It  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  they 
were  equally  faithful  in  portraying  their  own 
features  in  their  representations  of  the  human 
head  and  face  ;  and  the  similarity  between  these 
and  the  .sculptures  upon  the  ancient  temples  of 
Central  America  and  Mexico  is  seen  at  a  glance. 
Then  also  it  may  be  that  they  discovered  how 
to  fuse  and  combine  the  metals,  making  a  harder 
and  a  better  bronze  than  the  Europeans  had  ever 
seen ;  to  execute  work  in  gold  and  silver  which 
the  mo.st  skilled  Europeans  did  not  pretend  to 
e.vccl ;  to  manufacture  woven  stuffs  of  fine  tex- 
ture, the  beginnings  whereof  are  found  in  tlie 
fragments  of  coarse  cloth ;  in  objects  of  use  and 
ornament,  wnjught  in  metals,  left  among  the 
otiiej"  relics  in  the  earlier  nurtheni  homes  of  their 
race.  In  the  art  of  the  southern  people  there 
wa«  nothing  imitative;  the  works  of  the  Mound- 
liuildcrs  .stand  as  distinctly  original  and  indepen- 
dent of  any  foreign  influence.  Any  similarity 
in  cither  that  can  be  traced  to  anything  else  is 
in  the  apparent  growth  of  the  first  rude  culture 
of  the  ncjrthern  race  into  the  higher  civilization 
of  that  of  the  Houth.  It  certainly  is  not  a  violent 
supposition  that  the  people  who  (lisap[)eared  at 
one  period  from  one  part  of  the  continent,  leaving 
bcliimi  them  certain  unmistakable  marks  of  pro- 
gress, had  rriappeared  at  another  time  in  another 
place,  where  the  satnc  marks  were  foutid  in  largo 
<Icvelo|>in<iit. —  llislonj  of  the  United  tSlatcSj 
Vol.  1.,  Chap.  IL 

Ml 


CHARLES  ARTHUR  GAYARRfe.— 1 

GAYARRE,     Ciiables     Arthur,    anr 
American  historian,  born  in  Louisiana  in- 
1805.     He  was  educated  at  the  University 
of  New  Orleans,  studied  law  at  Philadel- 
phia, and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1829. ' 
In   1830  he  was  appointed  Deputy  Attor-' 
ney-General  of  Louisiana,  and  in  1833  pre^'^ 
siding  Judge  of  tlie  City  Court  of  ISew 
Orleans.     In   1835   he  was  chosen   to  the 
United  States  Senate,  but  impaired  health 
prevented  him  from  taking   his  seat.     He 
went   to   Europe,  where   he  remained   forv 
about  eight  years.     Eeturning  to  New  Or-,, 
leans  he  was  elected  to  the  Legislature  in- 
181:1:,  and  again  in  1846.    He  was  appointed. 
Secretary  of   State  in  Louisiana,  and  held- 
the  office  for  seven  years,  after  which  he 
retired  from  public  service.     His  writings 
relate  mainly  to  the  history  of 'Louisiana. 
They  are :  Jissai  Historique  sur  la  Louis- 
iane    (1830),    Histoire    de    la    Louisiane 
(1848),   Louisiana^   its    Colonial   History 
and  liomance  (1851),  Lo^iisiana^  its  His- 
tory as  a  French  Colony  (1852),  History 
of  the  SjMnish  Domination  in  Louisiana 
(1854).     He  has  also  written  Philij)  II.  of 
Sjyain,  a  biographical   sketch  (1866),  Fer- 
nando de  Lemos,  a  novel  (1872),  and  a  con- 
tinuation of  it,  Albert  Hubayet  {1882.) 

ORIGIN    OF    THE    HISTORY    OF    LOUISIANA. 

If  every  man's  life  were  closely  analyzed,  acci- 
dent— or  wliat  seems  to  be  so  to  human  appre- 
licnsion,  and  whatever  usually  goes  by  that  name, 
whatever  it  may  really  be — would  be  discovered 
to  act  a  more  conspicuous  part,  and  to  possess  a 
more  controlling  influence  than  preconception, 
and  that  volition  which  proceeds  from  long- 
meditated  design.  My  writing  the  liistory  of 
Louisiana  from  the  expedition  of  De  Soto  in 

4«8 


CHARLES  ARTHUR  GAYARR^— 3 

1539  to  the  final  and  complete  establishment  of 
the  Spanish  oovernment  in  1769,  after  a  spirited 
resistance  from  the  French  colonists,  was  owing 
to  an  accidental  circumstance,  which,  in  the 
shape  of  disease,  drove  me  from  a  seat  I  had 
lately  obtained  in  the  Senate  of  the  United 
States ;  but  which,  to  my  intense  regret,  I  had 
not  the  good  fortune  to  occupy.  Traveling  for 
health,  not  from  free  agency,  but  a  slave  to 
compulsion,  I  dwelt  several  years  in  France.  In 
the  peculiar  state  in  which  my  mind  then  was, 
if  its  attention  had  not  been  forcibly  diverted 
from  what  it  brooded  over,  the  anguish  under 
which  it  sickened,  from  many  causes,  would  soon 
not  have  been  endurable.  1  sought  for  a  reme- 
dy ;  I  looked  into  musty  archives ;  I  gathered 
materials ;  and  subsequently  became  a  historian 
— or  rather  a  mere  pretender  to  that  name.— 
Preface  to  First  Scries  of  Colonial  History  and 
Jiomance. 

PROGRESS    OF    THE    WORK. 

The  success  of  my  Jiomance  of  the  History  of 
Louisiana  from  the  discovery  of  that  country  by 
De  Soto,  to  the  surrender  by  Crozat  of  the  charter 
which  he  had  obtained  from  Louis  XIV.  in  re- 
lation to  that  French  colony,  has  been  such  that 
I  deem  it  my  duty  to  resume  my  pen  and  to 
present  the  following  work  to  the  kind  and 
friondiv  regard  of  my  patrons.  AVhen  I  wrote 
the  j)rcccdeiit  one,  I  said,  in  the  words  of  Spen- 
ser's Faerie  Quccnc,  while  I  mentally  addressed 
the  public  : 

"  Riglit  T  note,  most  mighty  Rouveraino, 
That  all  this  famous  antique  history 
Of  some  tir  abonndanre  of  an  idle  brainc, 
Will  jii'lgd'd  be,  and  painted  forgery, 
Rath'T  than  matter  of  just  memory." 

Nor  was  I  n)iiitak<'n  :  for  I  was  infonnrd  that 
manv  liad  fakf-n  for  tlif?  invontion  of  tlm  brain 
wljut  was  historical  truth  set  in  u  gilded  frame, 


CHARLES  ARTHUR  GAYARR!^.— 3 

■when — to  use  the  expression  of  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds— I  had  taken  but  insignificant  liberties 
with  facts,  to  interest  my  readers,  and  make  my 
narration  more  delightful — in  imitation  of  the 
painter  who,  though  his  work  is  called  history- 
painting,  gives  in  reality  a  poetical  representa- 
tion of  the  facts.  The  reader  will  easily  per- 
ceiv'e  that  in  the  present  production  I  have  been 
more  sparing  of  embellishments,  although  "I 
well  noted,  with  that  worthy  gentleman.  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,"  as  Raleigh  says  in  his  History  of 
the  World,  that  "  historians  do  borrow  of  poets 
not  only  nmch  of  their  ornament,  but  somewhat 
of  their  substance." 

Such  is  not  the  case  on  this  occasion ;  and  I 
can  safely  declare  that  the  substance  of  this  work 
— embracing  the  period  from  I7l7  to  1743, 
when  Bienville,  who  with  Iberville,  had  been 
the  founder  of  the  colony,  left  it  forever — rests 
on  such  foundations  as  would  be  received  in  a 
court  of  justice  ;  and  that  what  I  have  borrowed 
of  the  poet  for  the  benefit  of  the  historian,  is 
hardly  equivalent  to  the  delicately  wrought  dra- 
pery which  even  the  sculptor  would  deem  neces- 
sary as  a  graceful  appendage  to  the  nakedness  of 
the  statue  of  Truth. — Preface  to  Second  Series 
of  Colonial  History  and  Romance. 

CLOSE    OF   THE    HISTORICAL    LECTURES. 

This  is  tlie  third  and  last  series  of  the  Histori- 
cal Lectures  on  Louisiana,  embracing  a  period 
which  extends  from  the  discovery  to  17G9,  when 
it  was  virtually  transferred  by  the  French  to  the 
Spaniards,  in  virtue  of  the  Foiitainebleau  treaty 

signed  in  November,  1762 T  looked  upon 

the  first  four  Lectures  as  nugce  seria,  to  which  I 
attached  no  more  importance  than  a  child  does 
to  the  soap-bubbles  which  he  puffs  through  the 
tube  of  the  tiny  reed,  picked  up  by  him  for  tlie 
amusement  of  the  passing  hour.  But  struck 
with  the  interest  which  I  had  excited,  I  exam- 
ined, with  more  sober  thoughts,  the  flowery  field 
in  which  I  bad  sported,  almost  with  the  buoy- 

470 


CllAULKS  AKTJIUR  GAYARR:^.— 4 

ancv  of  a  schoolboy.  Checking  the  freaks  of 
my'  imagination — that  boon  companion  with 
whom  I  had  been  gamboUng — I  took  to  the 
plough,  broke  the  grouncJ,  and  turned  myself  to 

a  more  serious  and  useful  occupation 

Should  the  continuation  of  life  and  the  enjoy- 
ment of  leisure  permit  me  to  gratify  my  wishes, 
I  purpose  to  write  the  history  of  the  Spanish 
domination  in  Louisiana,  from  1VC9  to  1803, 
when  was  effected  the  almost  simultaneous  ces- 
sion of  that  province,  by  Spain  to  France  and 
by  France  to  the  United  States  of  America, 
Embracing  an  entirely  distinct  period  of  history, 
it  will  be  a  different  work  from  the  preceding, 
as  much,  perhaps,  in  point  of  style,  and  the 
other  elements  of  composition,  as  with  regard  to 
the  characteristic  features  of  the  new  lords  of 
the  land. — Preface  to  Louisiana  us  a  French 
Colony. 

THE    ABORIGINES    OF    LOUISIAKA. 

Three  centuries  have  liardly  elapsed  since  that 
immense  territory  which  extends  from  tlie  Gulf 
of  Mexico  to  the  Lakes  of  Canada,  and  which 
was  subsc<iuently  known  under  the  name  of 
Louisiana,  was  slumbering  in  its  cradle  of  wilder- 
ness, unknown  to  any  of  the  wliite  race  to  which 
wo  belong.  Man  was  there,  however — but  man 
in  his  primitive  slate,  claiming,  as  it  were,  in 
api)earance  at  lea.st,  a  different  origin  from  ours; 
or  bcint;  at  best  a  variety  of  our  species.  There 
was  the  hereditary  domain  of  the  Red  M;in,  liv- 
ing in  scattered  tribes  over  that  magnificent 
counlry.  These  tribes  earned  their  precarious 
subsistence  chiefly  by  jtursuing  the  inhabitants 
of  the  earth  and  ()f  the  water.  They  sheltered 
themselves  in  miserable  hut«,  B[»oke  different 
laiiiruagcs  ;  observed  coi.tradictory  customs  ;  and 
wai^cfl  fierce  war  upon  each  other.  Whence 
they  came,  none  knew  ;  none  knows,  with  abso- 
lute certainty,  to  the  [iresent  day  ;  and  the  faint 
glinimcritigH  of  vague  tradition  have  affnrdcd 
little  or  no  light  to  penetrate   into  the  darkness 


CHARLES  ARTHUR  QAYARRlfc.— 5 

of   tlicir   mysterious    origin. —  Colonial  History 
and  Romance. 

DEATH  OF    DE  SOTO. 

It  would  be  too  Ioiil;:  to  follow  Do  Soto  in  his 
peregrinations  during  two  years,  through  part  of 
Alabama,  Mississippi,  and  Tennessee.  At  last  he 
stands  on  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi,  near  the 
spot  where  now  flourishes  the  Egyptian-named 
city  of  Memphis,  lie  crosses  the  mighty  river, 
and  onward  he  goes,  up  to  the  White  River, 
while  roaming  over  the  territory  of  the  Arkansas. 
Meeting  with  alternate  hospitality  and  hostility 
on  the  part  of  the  Indians,  he  arrives  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Red  River,  within  the  present 
limits  of  the  State  of  Louisiana.  There  he  was 
fated  to  close  his  adventurous  career. 

Three  years  of  intense  bodily  fatigue  and  men- 
tal excitement  had  undermined  the  hero's  consti- 
tution. Alas!  well  might  the  spirit  droop  within 
him  !  lie  had  landed  on  the  shore  of  the  North 
American  continent  with  high  hopes,  dreaming 
of  conquest  over  wealthy  nations  and  magnificent 
cities.  What  had  he  met  ?  Interminable  forests, 
endless  lagoons,  inextricable  marshes,  sharp  and 
continuous  conflicts  with  men  little  superior,  in 
his  estimation,  to  the  brutish  creation,  lie  who 
in  Spain  was  cheered  by  beauty's  glance,  by  the 
songs  of  the  minstrel,  when  he  sped  to  the  con- 
test with  adversaries  worthy  of  his  prowess — 
with  the  noble  and  chivalric  Moors  ;  he  who  had 
revelled  in  the  halls  of  the  imperial  Incas  of 
Peru,  and  who  had  there  amassed  princely 
wealth ;  he  the  flower  of  knightly  courts,  had 
been  roaming  like  a  vagrant  over  an  immense 
territory,  where  he  had  discovered  none  but  half- 
naked  savages,  dwelling  in  miserable  huts,  ignobly 
repulsive  when  compared  with  Castilla's  stately 
domes,  with  Granada's  fantastic  palaces,  and 
with  Peru's  imperial  dwellings,  massive  with 
gold!  His  wealth  was  gone;  two-thirds  of  his 
brave  companions  were  dead.  What  account  of 
them  would  he  render  to  their  noble  families  ? 


CHARLES  ARTHUR  GAYARRI:.— 6 

He,  the  bankrupt  in  fame  and  in  fortune,  how 
would  he  withstand  the  gibes  of  envy  ?  Thought 
— that  scourge  of  Ufe,  that  inward  consumer  of 
man — racks  his  brain  ;  his  heart  is  seared  with 
deep  anguish  ;  a  slow  fever  wastes  his  powerful 
frame;  and  he  sinks  at  last  on  the  couch  of 
sickness,  never  to  rise  again. 

The  Spaniards  cluster  round  him,  and  alter- 
nately look  with  despair  at  their  dying  chieftain, 
and  at  the  ominous  hue  of  the  bloody  river, 
known  at  this  day  as  the  Red  River.  But 
not  he  the  man  to  allow  the  wild  havoc 
within  the  soul  to  betray  itself  in  the  outward 
mien ;  not  he,  in  common  with  the  vulgar  herd, 
the  man  to  utter  one  word  of  wail !  AVith  smil- 
ing lips  and  serene  brow  he  cheers  his  com- 
panions, and  summons  them,  one  by  one,  to 
swear  allegiance  in  his  hands  to  Muscoso  do  Alva- 
rado,  whom  he  designates  as  his  successor. 
"Union  and  perseverance,  my  friends,"  he  says; 
"  So  long  as  breath  animates  your  bodies,  do  not 
falter  in  the  enterprise  you  have  undertaken. 
Spain  expects  a  richer  harvest  of  glory,  and  more 
ample  domains,  from  her  children  !"  These  are 
his  last  words,  and  then  he  dies.  Blest  be  the 
soul  of  the  noble  kniglit  and  of  the  true  Chris- 
tian!  Rest  his  mortal  remains  in  peace  within 
that  oaken  trunk  scooped  by  his  companions, 
and  by  them  sunk  many  fathoms  deep  in  the 
bud  of  the  Mississippi! — Colonial  Historij  and 
Romance. 

inEUVILLE    AND    BIENVILLE. 

High  on  the  quarter-deck  stood  the  captain, 
with  the  spy-glass  in  his  hand,  ajid  surrounded 
by  his  oflicers.  After  a  minute  survey  of  the 
unknown  vessels,  as  they  appeared  with  outlincn 
faint  ami  hardly  visible  from  the  distance,  and 
with  the  tip  of  their  masts  gradually  ctncrgiiig, 
as  it  were,  from  the  waves ;  he  had  dropped  lii» 
glass,  and  said  to  the  bystanders,  "  (jtentlcMicn, 
they  are  vessels  of  war,  and  iJritish  "  Then  lie 
instinctively  cast  a  rapid  glance  upward  at  tho 

41* 


CHARLES  ARTHUR  GAYARR^.— t 

ngc;ing  of  his  ship,  as  if  to  satisfy  himself  that 
notliing  had  happened  thereto  mar  that  symmet- 
rical neatness  and  scientific  arrangement  which 
liavc  ever  been  held  to  be  a  criterion  of  nautical 
knowledge,  and  therefore  a  proper  source  of  pro- 
fessional pride 

In  the  mean  time  the  vessels  which  had  been 
descried  at  the  farthest  point  of  the  horizon, 
had  been  rapidly  gaining  ground  upon  the  inter- 
vening distance,  and  were  dilating  in  size  as  they 
approached.  It  could  be  seen  that  they  had 
separated  from  each  other,  and  they  appeared  to 
be  sweeping  round  the  Pelican  (for  such  was 
the  name  of  the  French  ship),  as  if  to  cut  her 
oflE  from  retreat.  Already  could  be  plainly  dis- 
covered St.  George's  Cross  flaunting  in  the  wind. 
The  white  cloud  of  canvas  that  hung  over  them 
seemed  to  swell  with  every  flying  minute,  and 
the  wooden  structures  themselves,  as  they  plunged 
madly  over  the  furrowed  plains  of  the  Atlantic, 
looked  not  unlike  Titanic  race-horses,  pressing 
for  the  goal.  Their  very  masts,  Avith  their  long 
flags  streaming  like  Gorgon's  disheveled  locks, 
seemed  as  they  bent  under  the  wind,  to  be  quiv- 
ering with  the  anxiety  of  the  chase.  But,  ye 
sons  of  Britain,  Avhy  this  hot  haste  ?  Why  urge 
ye  into  such  desperate  exertions  the  watery 
steeds  which  ye  spur  on  so  fiercely  ?  They 
of' the  white  flag  never  thought  of  flight.  See! 
they  shorten  sail  as  if  to  invito  you  to  the 
approach 

Now  the  four  vessels  are  within  guns])ot,  and 
the  fearful  struggle  is  to  begin.  One  is  a  British 
ship  of  the  line,  showing  a  row  of  52  guns,  and 
her  companions  are  frigates  armed  with  42  guns 
each.  To  court  such  unequal  contest,  must  not 
that  French  commander  be  the  very  imperson- 
ation of  madness? 

There  he  stands  on  tlie  quarter-deck,  a  man 
ap{>arently  of  thirty  years  of  age,  attired  as  if 
for  a  courtly  ball,  in  the  gorgeous  dress  of  the 
time  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth.  The  profuse 
curls  of  his  perfumed  hair  seem  to  be  bursting 


CHARLES  ARTHUR  GAYARR^.— 8 

from  the  large  slouched  gray  hat  which  he  wears 
on  one  side  inclined,  and  decorated  with  a  red 
plume,  horizontally  stuck  to  the  broad  brim,  ac- 
cording to  the  fashion  of  the  day.  What  a  no- 
ble face!  If  I  were  to  sculpture  a  hero,  verily 
I  would  put  such  a  head  on  his  shoulders  ; — nay, 
I  would  take  the  whole  man  for  my  model.  I 
feel  that  I  could  shout  with  enthusiasm,  when  I 
see  the  peculiar  expression  which  has  settled  in 
that  man's  eye,  in  front  of  such  dangers  thick- 
ening upon  him. 

Ila!  what  is  it?  What  signify  that  convul- 
sive start  which  shook  his  frame,  and  that  death- 
like paleness  which  has  flitted  across  his  face  I 
What  woman-like  softness  has  suddenly  crept 
into  those  eyes  ?  I  understand  it  all !  That 
boy — so  young,  so  effeminate,  so  delicate,  but 
who,  ifi  an  under-officer's  dress,  stands  with  such 
manly  courage  by  one  of  the  guns — he  is) our 
brother,  is  he  not?  Perhaps  he  is  doomed  to 
death ;  and  you  think  of  his  aged  mother ! 
W' ell  may  the  loss  of  two  such  sons  crush  her  at 
once.  When  I  see  such  exquisite  feelings  tu- 
multuously  at  work  in  a  heart  as  soft  as  ever 
throbbed  in  a  woman's  breast — when  I  sec  you, 
Iberville,  resolved  to  sacrifice  so  much  rather 
than  to  fly  from  your  country's  enemies,  even 
when  it  could  be  done  without  dishonor — 
stranger  as  you  arc  to  me,  I  wish  I  could  stand 
by  you  on  that  deck  and  hug  you  to  my  bo- 
som   

That  storm  of  human  warfare  has  lasted  about 
two  hours ;  but  the  French  ship,  salainander- 
likc,  seems  to  live  safely  in  that  atmosphere  of 
fire.  Two  hours  I  I  do  not  think  I  can  stand 
this  excitement  longer ;  and  yet  every  minute  is 
adding  fresh  fuel  to  its  intensity.  But  now 
comes  the  crisis.  The  Prlican  has  almost  si- 
lenced the  guni  of  the  English  52,  and  is  bcar- 
iuT  down  uf>on  hor  evidently  with  the  intention 
to  board.  IJiit  strange  !  she  veers  round.  Oh  ! 
I  Rcc.  God  of  mercy!  I  feel  faint  at  heart  I 
The  52  i&  sinking — slowly  .she  settles  in  the  surg- 

4U 


CHARLES  ARTHUR  GAYARRI).— 9 

ing  sea — there — there — there — down  !  "What  a 
yell  of  defiance!  But  it  is  the  last.  What  a 
rushing  of  waters  over  the  engulfed  mass  !  Now 
all  is  over,  and  the  yawning  abyss  has  closed  its 
lips.  AVhat  remains  to  be  seen  on  that  bloody 
theatre  ?  One  of  the  English  42's,  in  a  disman- 
tled state,  is  dropping  slowly  at  a  distance  under 
the  wind,  and  the  other  has  already  struck  its 
flag,  and  is  lying  motionless  on  the  ocean,  a 
floating  ruin  ! — The  French  ship  is  hardly  in  a 
better  plight,  and  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun 
show  her  deck  strewed  with  the  dead  and  the 
dying.  But  the  glorious  image  of  victory  flits 
before  the  dimmed  vision  of  the  dying,  and  they 
expire  with  the  smile  of  triumph  on  their  lips, 
and  with  the  exulting  shout  of  "  France  forever  /" 

But  where  is  the  conqueror?  Where -is  the 
gallant  commander  whose  success  sounds  like  a 
fable  ?  My  heart  longs  to  see  him  safe,  and  in 
the  enjoyment  of  his  well-earned  glory.  Ah  ! 
there  he  is,  kneeling  and  crouching  over  the 
prostrate  body  of  that  stripling  whom  I  have  de- 
picted. He  addresses  the  most  tender  and  pas- 
sionate appeals  to  that  senseless  form  ;  he  covers 
with  kisses  that  bloody  head  ;  he  weeps  and 
sobs  aloud,  unmindful  of  those  that  look  on. 
In  faith  !  I  weep  myself  to  see  the  agony  of 
that  noble  heart :  and  why  should  that  hero 
blush  to  moan  like  a  mother — he  who  showed 
more  than  human  courage,  when  the  occasion 
required  fortitude  ?  Weep  on,  Iberville,  weep 
on !  Well  may  such  tears  be  gathered  by  an 
angel's  wings,  like  dew-drops  worthy  of  heaven, 
and,  if  carried  by  supplicating  mercy  to  the  foot 
of  the  Almighty's  throne,  they  may  yet  redeem 
thy  brother's  life. 

Happily,  that  brother  did  not  die.  He  was 
destined  to  be  known  in  history  under  the  name 
of  Bienville,  and  to  be  the  founder  of  one  of 
America's  proudest  cities.  To  him  New  Orleans 
owes  its  existence ;  and  his  name,  in  the  course 
of  centuries,  will  grow  in  the  esteem  of  posterity, 
proportionately  with  the  aggrandizement  of  the 


CHARLES  ARTHUR  GAYARRf.— 10 

emporium  of  so  many  countless  millions  of  hu- 
man beings. 

The  wonderful  achievement  which  I  have  re- 
lated is  a  matter  of  historical  record,  and  throws 
a  halo  of  glory  and  romance  around  those  two 
men  who  have  since  figured  so  conspicuously  in 
the  annals  of  Louisiana,  and  who,  in  the  begin- 
ning of  March,  1699,  entered  the  Mississippi,  ac- 
companied by  Father  Anastase,  the  former  com- 
panion of  La  Salle  in  his  expedition  down  the 
river  in  1682.  What  a  remarkable  family  ! 
The  father,  a  Canadian  by  birth,  had  died  on 
the  field  of  battle,  i«  serving  his  country ;  and 
out  of  eleven  sons,  the  worthy  scions  of  such  a 
stock,  five  had  perished  in  the  same  cause  ;  but 
of  the  six  who  remained,  five  were  to  consecrate 
themselves  to  the  establishment  of  a  colony  in 
Louisiana. —  Colonial  History  and  Romance. 

THE    DEATH-BED    OF     PHILLIP    II.    OF     SPAIN. 

The  King,  with  the  complication  of  diseases 
under  which  he  was  sinking,  became  so  weak 
that  his  physicians  were  much  alarmed.  It  was 
a  tertian  fever,  and  although  it  was  with  much 
difficulty  stopped  for  sometime,  it  returned  with 
more  violence,  with  daily  attacks,  and  within 
shortening  intervals.  At  the  end  of  a  week  a 
malignant  tumor  manifested  itself  in  his  right 
knee,  increased  prodigiously,  and  produced  the 
most  intense  pain.  As  the  last  resort,  when  all 
other  modes  of  relief  had  been  exhausted,  the 
physicians  resolved  to  open  the  tumor ;  and  as 
it  was  feared  that  the  patient,  from  his  debility, 
would  not  be  al)lo  to  bear  the  operation,  the 
phvsi(;ians,  with  nnioh  precaution, communicated 
to  him  their  apprehensions.  He  received  this 
inforiiiation  with  great  fortitude,  and  prepared 
liiniself  bv  a  general  confession  for  what  might 
hapi>(  n.  He  caused  some  relics  to  be  brought 
to  liiin,  and  often  liaving  adored  and  kissed 
them  with  much  devotion,  he  put  his  body  at 
the  disposal  of  his  mediral  attendants.  The 
operation  was  performed  by  the  skilful  surgeon, 

41T 


CHARLES  ARTHUK  GAYARR^.— 11 

Juan  do  Vergara,  It  was  a  very  painful  one, 
and  all  who  were  present  were  amazed  at  the 
patience  and  courage  exhibited  by  Philip. 

His  condition,  however,  did  not  improve.  The 
hand  of  God  was  upon  him  who  had  caused  so 
many  tears  to  be  shed  during  his  long  life,  and 
no  human  skill  could  avail  when  divine  justice 
seemed  bent  to  enforce  its  decree  of  retribution. 
Above  the  gash  which  the  operator's  knife  had 
made,  two  large  sores  appeared,  and  from  their 
hideous  and  ghastly  lips  there  issued  such  ■  a 
quantity  of  matter  as  hardly  seems  credible.  To 
the  consuming  heat  of  fever,  to  the  burning  thirst 
of  dropsy,  were  added  the  corroding  itch  of 
ulcers,  and  the  infection  of  the  inexhaustibla 
streams  of  putrid  matter  which  gushed  from  liis 
flesh.  The  stench  around  the  powerful  sovereign 
of  Spain  and  the  Indies  was  such  as  to  be  insup- 
portable to  the  bystanders.  Immersed  in  this 
filth,  the  body  of  the  patient  was  so  sore  that  it 
could  be  turned  neither  to  the  right  nor  to 
the  left,  and  it  was  impossible  to  change  his 
clothes  or  his  bedding. 

So  sensitive  had  he  become  that  the  slightest 
touch  produced  the  most  intolerable  agony  ;  and 
the  haughty  ruler  of  millions  of  men  remained 
helplessly  stretched  in  a  sty,  and  in  a  more  piti- 
able condition  than  that  of  the  most  ragged 
beggar  in  his  vast  dominions.  But  his  fortitude 
was  greater  than  his  sufferings.  Not  a  word  of 
complaint  was  heard  to  escape  from  his  lips; 
and  the  soul  remained  unsubdued  by  these  ter- 
rible infirmities  of  the  flesh.  He  had  been 
thirty-five  days  embedded  in  this  sink  of  corrup- 
tion when,  in  consequence  of  it,  his  whole 
back  became  but  one  sore  from  his  neck  down- 
ward   

It  seemed  scarcely  possible  to  increase  the 
afflictions  of  Philip,  when  a  chicken  broth  sweet- 
ened with  sugar,  which  was  administered  to  him, 
gave  rise  to  other  accidents,  which  added  to  the 
fetidness  of  his  apartment,  and  which  are  repre- 
sented, besides,  aa  being  of  an  extraordinary  and 

4» 


CHARLES   ARTHUR  GAYARRi:.— 12 

horrible  character.  He  became  sleepless,  with 
occasional  short  fits  of  letharo;y  ;  and,  as  it  were 
to  complete  this  spectacle  of  human  misery  and 
degradation,  the  ulcers  teemed  with  a  prodigious 
quantity  of  worms,  which  reproduced  themselves 
with  such  prolific  abundance  that  they  defied 
all  attempts  to  remove  their  indestructible 
swarms.  In  this  condition  he  remained  fifty- 
three  days,  without  taking  anything  which  could 
satisfactorily  explain  the  prolongation  of  his 
existence 

In  the  midst  of  these  excruciating  sufferings, 
his  whole  bodv  being  but  one  leprous  sore,  his 
emaciation  being  such  tliat  his  bones  threatened 
to  pierce  through  his  skin,  Philip  maintained 
unimpaired  the  serenity  of  mind  and  the  won- 
derful fortitude  which  he  had  hitherto  displayed. 
To  reliijcion  alone — or  what  to  him  was  religion — 
he  looked  for  consolation.  The  walls  of  the 
small  apartment  in  which  he  lay  were  covered 
with  crucifixes,  relics,  and  images  of  saints.  From 
time  to  time  he  would  call  for  one  of  them  and 
apply  it  to  his  burning  lips,  or  to  one  of  his 
sores,  with  the  utmost  fervor  and  faith.  In 
tliosc  days  of  trial  he  made  many  pious  dona- 
tions, and  ap[)ropriated  large  sums  to  the  dota- 
tion of  establishments  for  the  relief  of  widows 
and  orphans,  and  to  the  foundation  of  hospitals 
and  sanctuaries. 

It  is  strange  that  in  the  condition  in  wliich  we 
liavc  represented  him  to  be,  lie  could  turn  liis 
attention  to  temporal  affairs,  and  had  suflicient 
strr-ni^th  of  mitnl  to  dictate  to  his  minister  and 
confidential  secretary,  f'ristoval  de  Mora,  some 
of  liis  views  ami  intentions  for  the  conduct  of 
the  government:  or,  rather,  it  was  not  strange; 
for  it  was  the  ruling  [tassion  strong  in  death. 
In  old  age,  and  amidst  nuoh  torments  as  appalled 
the  worbl,  I'liilij)  displayed  the  same  tenacity  of 
pnr[)OHe  and  love  f)f  jtower  which  had  charactcr- 
izcfl  him  when  flnslicd  with  the  aspirations 
of  youth   and    health,  and    subsequently    when 

41f 


Charles  arthur  gayarrI— 13 

glorying  in  the  strength  and  experience  of  man- 
hood   

On  the  lltli  of  September,  two  days  before 
his  death,  he  called  the  Hereditary  Prince  his 
son,  and  the  Infanta  liis  daughter,  to  his  bedside. 
He  took  leave  of  them  in  the  most  affectionate 
manner;  and,  with  a  voice  scarcely  audible  from 
exhaustion,  he  exhorted  them  to  persevere  in  the 
true  faith,  and  to  conduct  themselves  with  pru- 
dence in  the  government  of  those  States  which 
he  would  leave  to  them.  He  handed  to  his  suc- 
cessor the  celebrated  testamentary  instructions 
bequeathed  by  St.  Louis  of  France  to  the  heir 
of  his  crown,  and  requested  tlie  priest  to  read 
them  to  the  Prince  and  Princess,  to  whom  he 
afterward  extended  his  fleshless  and  ulcered 
liand  to  be  kissed,  giving  them  his  blessing,  and 
dismissing  them  melting  into  tears. 

On  the  next  day  the  physicians  gave  Cristoval 
de  Mora  the  disagreeable  mission  of  informing 
Philip  that  his  last  hour  was  rapidly  approach- 
ing. The  dying  man  received  the  information 
with  his  usual  impassibility.  He  devoutly  lis- 
tened to  the  exhortations  of  the  Archbishop  of 
Toledo,  made  his  profession  of  faith,  and  ordered 
that  the  Passion  of  Chi'ist,  from  the  Gospel  of 
John,  should  be  read  to  him.  Shortly  after  he 
was  seized  with  such  a  fit  that  he  was  thought 
to  be  dead,  and  a  covering  was  thrown  over  his 
face.  But  he  was  not  long  before  coming  again 
to  his  senses,  and  opening  his  eyes,  he  took  the 
crucifix,  kissed  it  repeatedly,  listened  to  the 
prayers  for  the  souls  of  the  departed,  which  the 
Prior  of  the  monastery  was  reading  to  him,  and 
with  a  slight  quivering  passed  away,  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  on  the  13th  of  Septem- 
ber, 1598.  Philip  had  lived  seventy-one  years, 
three  months,  and  twenty-two  days ;  and  reigned 
forty-two  years. — Philip  II.  of  Sx>ain. 


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