THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
GIFT OF
FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD
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ALDEN'S CYCLOPEDIA
TJniyersal Litekature
PRKSENTIN(J
BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES, AND SPECIMENS
FROM THE WRITINGS OF EMINENT AUTHORS
OF ALL AGES AND ALL NATIONS
VOL. XIII
NEW YORK
JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER
1889
Copyright. 1889,
BY
THE ALDEN PUBLISHING COMPANY,.
CONTENTS OF VOL. XIII,
PAGE
Kalkva'la, The. — Wainamoinen loses the Magic
Words. — Wainamoinen learns the Magic Words.-
The Departure of Wainamoinen. — Epilogue, - - 0
Kane. Elisha Kent, {Amer.. 18M-1857.)— Icebergs.— The
Polar Bear at Home. — Perpetvial Daj-light. — Per-
petual Darkness. — Tlie returning Sun.— A Day in tlie
Arctic Bureau.— Utilizing Rats.— A Seal in Time. - 18
Kant, Immanuel, (Genu., 1724-1804.)— The Judgment and
the Understanding.- The Ideal of Beauty, - - 3-i
Karam'zin, Nikolai, (Ruxs., 170.5-1826.) -Song of the
good Tzar.— An Epigram.— .Vutuiiin. — The Grave :
two Voices, - - - - - - - 37
Keats, John, (EikjI., 170.^-1821.)— A Thing of Beauty.—
Hymn to Pan.— Saturn.— Oceauus.— Ode to a Grecian
Urn.— On first reading Chapman's Homer.— Ode to a
Nightingale. — A Fairy Song.— Ode to Autumn.—
Bards of Passion and of Mirth.— The Grasshopper and
the Cricket.— The Human Seasons.— Sonnet written
in January, 1818.— Lines ou the Mermaid Tavern. —
Keats's last Sonnet, - - - - - - 42
Ke'ble. John, (Engl., 1792-1866.) — Third Sunday in
Lent.— Second Sunday after Easter. — Fifteenth Sun-
day after Trinity.— All Saints' Day.— The Waterfall, 57
Kkightley [kite'ly], Thomas, (Brit., 1789-1782.)— Milton
and the Ptolemaic Astronomy, - - - - 66
Keli/gren. Johan Heinrik, (Stoed., 1751-1795.)— Folly
no Proof of Genius, - - - - - - 67
Kem'ble. Frances Anne, (Enr/l., 1809- .)— The Struggle
of Life, 71
Kem'pis Thomas a, (Germ., 1.380-1471.)— On the Imitation
of Christ.— Of Obedience and Subjection.— The Love
of Solitude and Silence. — Of the Inward Life.— Of
the Consideration of One's Self.— The Joys or Sor-
rows of the Present and of the Future.— Lowly Du-
ties to be performed.— A Spiritual Exercise before
Communion. — On Inquiries into the Mysteries of the
Holy Sacrament, - - - - - - 72
Ken, THOMA.S, (EiujI., 1637-1711.)— An Evening Hymn.—
A Morning Hymn, - - - - - - 81
Ken'nan, George, (Amer., 184.5- .)— Russian Exile by
Administrative Process.— Exile Sufferings, - - 84
Kbn'nedy, John Pendleton, (Amer., 179.5-1870.)— A Vir-
ginia Country Gentleman, a.d. 1825, - - - 88
G84y9;e
4 CONTENTS.
PAGE
Ken'nedy, William, {Scot., 1799-1849.)— At the Grave of
William Motherwell, - - - - 94
Ken'ney, James, {Brit., 1780-1849.)— Tom, if you love me,
say so, .... 9G
Kent, Charles, {Engl., 1823- .)— Love's Calendar, - 98
Key, Francis Scott, {Amer., 1770-1843.)— The Star-
spangled Banner, ... - 99
KiM'BALL, Harriet McEwen, (Amer., 1834- .)— The
Guest.— All's Well.— Longing for Rain, - - 101
KiM'BALL, Richard Burleigh, (Amer., 1816- .)— Prob-
lems of Youth.— An Interrupted Wedding, - - 103
King'lake, Alexander William, (Engl., 1811- .)—
Colloquy between Traveller and Pasha. — Todleben,
the Defender of Sebastopol, . - . . i06
KiNG'o, Thomas, (Dan., 16:i4-l7:i3.)— A Morning Song, . 117
Kings'ley. Charles, (Engl., ISIO-ISI-t)- The Sands of
Dee.— The Gothic Tribes and the Roman Empire. —
The dear old Doll.— The World's .\ge.— The Three
Fishei-s, - - - - - - - 118
Kip, William Ingraham. {Amer., 1811- .) — Church
Principles.— The Fall of Paganism, - - Hi
Kirch'berg, Conrad, (Germ., about 1050.) — The Merry
Month of May. - 126
Kirk, John Foster, (Amer., 1824- .)— The Fight at
Morat.- Finding the Body of Charles the Bold, - 127
KiRK'LAND, Caroline Matilda, {Amer., 1801-1864.) —
Meeting of the Female Beneficent Society, - - 132
KiT'TO, John, (Engl., 1804-1854.)— Origin of his Deaf-
ness, ----.--. 139
Klop'stock. Friedrich Gottlieb, (Germ., 1724-1803.)—
Ode to God, 145
Knapp, Francis, {Amer., 1B72-1712.)— A New England
Pond. 149
Knaust, Heinrich, (Germ., 1.541— 1557.)— Dignity of the
Clerks, 151
Knk'bel, Karl Ludwig, (Germ., 1744-1834.)— Adrastea, 152
Knight, Charles, {Engl., 1791-1873 )— A Prophecy of
Printing, ....... i.^js
Knowles, Herbert, (Engl., 1798-1817.) — Building our
Tabernacles, - - - - - - - 161
Knowle.s. James Sheridan, (Brit., 1784-1862.)— The
Death of Virginia.— William Tell among the Moun-
tains, ..--.-.- 163
Knox, Thomas Wallace, (Amer., 1835- .) — Future
Modes of Travel, - - - -108
Knox. William. (F!cot., 1789-182.5.) —Why should the
Spirit of Mortal be proud? .... 170
CONTENTS. 5
PAGE
KocK. Charles Paul de, (Fi:, 1794-1871.)— Children of
Nature, ..... 172
Kohl [kol], Johan Georg^ (Germ., 1808-1878.)— Ojibbe-
way Marriages.— Native Help to Explorers, ■ 174
Koran', The —The "Fatiiiat."— Concerning Almsgiving.
— Concerning Usury. — Concerning Contracts. — A
General Supplication. — The " .\doration." —Moses
and tlie Divine Messenger. -The Declaration of God's
Unity.— "The Daybreak. ■■— The Conclusion, - -176
KiiR'SER. Karl Theodor, (Germ., 1791-18ri)— The Bene-
diction of the German Free-Corps.— Prayer during
the Figlit.— A Prayer.— Adieu to Life.— Sword-Song, 187
KosE'fiARTEX, LuDWiG Theobul, (Germ., 1758-1818.)—
The Amen of the Stones, - - - - - 193
Krauth, Charles Porterfield, (Amer., 1823-1883.)— The
Word and Sacraments —Martin Luther, - - 195
Krummacher [Ivroom'aker], Friedrich Adolf, (Germ.,
1768-1845.)— Davids Harp. —Tiie Sheep shearing, - 197
Kri'mmacher [kroom'aker], Friedrich Wilhelm, (Germ.,
1796-1868.)— The Psalms, 199
Kry'loff [krelof], Ivan, (Riiss., 1768-1844.)— The Ele-
phant and the Pug-Dog.— The Horse and the Dog, - 200
Laboulaye [laboolay'l, ^DorARD RenS, (Fr., 1811-1883.)
—The Departure of the Volunteers, - - - 202
Lacoste, Marie R., (Amer., 1842- .) —Somebody's
Darling, 210
Laighton [lay'ton], Albert, (Amer., 1829-1887.)— Under
the Leaves.— To my Soul, - - - - - 212
Lamarti.ne'. Alphonse db, (Fr., 1790-1 869.) -The Cedars
of Lebanon.— The Gulf of Baya.— The " Temple •" ar
Paris, - - - 214
IjAUB, Charles, (Engl , 1775-1834.)— A Quakers' Meeting.
— Modern Gallantry. — Distant Correspondents. —
Hester.— Lines written in my own Album.— Choosing
a Name.— Parental Recollections, - - - '223
Lamb, Martha Joanna, (Amer., 1829- .)— Manhattan
Island.— George Washington in New York. - 238
Lamennais [la-ma-nay], Hi'gues Felicity, (Fr., 1782-
1854. )-Justice and Liberty.— Loyalty, - - -243
Lan'don. Letitia Elizabeth, (Engl., 1802-1838.) — The
Setting of the Pole Star, - - - - -247
Lan'dor. Walter Savage, (Engl., 177.5-1864.) — Roger
Ascham and Lady Jane Grey.- The Germans and
the French. — The Prometheus of .^^schylus.— The
Homer of the Odyssey.— Tlie Homer of tlie Iliad.—
Homer an Asiatic. — Landor's Sea Sliell. -Words-
worth's SeaShell.— The two Sea-Shells. -Efficacy of
Prayers.— Sparing Flowers.— Iphigeneia and Aga-
memnon—Rose Aylmer. -On Southey's Death.— An
Old Poet to Sleep, 249
(5 CONTENTS.
PAGE
Lang, Andrew, (Brit., 1844- .)- Egyptian Divine
Myths, - ~^5
Lanier [laneer'l, Sidney, (Amer., 1S43-1881.) — The
Marshes of Glynn.— A Rose-Moral, - - - 2G7
Lan'man, Charles, (Amer., 1819- .)— The Acadians, 273
Lar'com Lucy, {Amer., 1826- .)— Hannah binding
Shoes, -'•'^
Lard'ner, Dionysius, (Brit., 1793-1859.)-The Steam-
engine proper, ...--- 2i8
Lard'ner. Nathaniel, (Engl, 1684-1768.)-Credibility of
the Evangelists, - - - - - 281
La'throp, George Parsons, (Amer., 1851- .)— Music
of Growth.— The Lover's Year, - - - - 283
Lat'imer. Hugh, (Engl., 1485-1555.)— On Covetousness.—
Satan a diligent Preacher and Prelate, - - - 285
Lav'ater, Johann CA.SPAR, (Siriss, 1741-1801.) — Maxims, 291
Lay'ard, Austen Henry, (Engl., 1817- .)— The Ruins
in Assyria and Babylonia.— The first Day 's Excava/-
tion at Nimroud.-The Discovery of " Niuuod."— The
Palace of Sennacherib.- The Assyrian Records. - 295
Laz'arus Emma, (Awcr., 1849-1887.)— The Banns^r of the
Jew.— The New Colossus.— Yonth and Death —Age
and Death.— A June Night, - - - - 304
Lea, Henry Charles, (Amer., 1825- .)— The Inquisi-
tion as an Institution.— Policy of the Church towards
Heresy.— The Organization of the Inquisition.— ThQ
Functions of the Inquisitor.— The Inquisition and
Luther.— The 3Iiddle Ages and the Present Age.—
Summary of the Inquisition, - - - - 308
Leck'y, William E. H., (Brit., 1838- .)-The Middle
Ages.— Rationalism.— Italian Skeptics and Reformers.
—Persecution.— Marcus Aurelius.— Heathen Conform-
ity.—Truth vs. Dogma, - - - - - 31(5
Led'yard, John. (Amer.. 1751-1789.)— The Tartars and
the Russians.— Physiognomy of the Tartars.— Origin
of Tartar Peculiarities. Characteristics of Woman, - 326
Legare [leh-gree] Hugh Swinton, (Amer., 1789-1843.)
Chaiacteristics of Lord Byron, -
Leg'gett. William, (Amer., 1802-1839.)— Jack Cade.—
Shakespeare's Beatrice, - - - • -332
Leighton [lay'ton], Robert, (Scot., 1611-1684.)— The Hap-
piness of the Life to come.— The Course of Human
Life, - 339
Lk'land, Charles Godfrey, (Amer., 1824- .)— A
Thousand Years ago.— The two Friends.- Schneit-
zerl's Philosopede, .----• 342
Le Sage [le-sazh], alain Ren^, (fV., 1668-1747.)-Theory
and Practice of Medicine.— Perils of a Critic, - - 347
328
CONTENTS. 7
PAGE
Les'sixg. Gotthold Ephraim, (6V)-»h., 1730-1781.)—
Nathan the Wise and the Sultan Saladin, - - 354
Lk'vkr, Charles James, [Trish, 1806-1S72.)— Legend of
Luttrell and the D Widow Malone, - - 359
Lewes du'es), George Henry. (Engl., 1817-1878.)— Phi-
losophy and Science.— Xenophanes.— A Picture of
Wiemar, - - - - - - - 366
Leu'is, Charlton Thomas, {Amer., 1834- .)— The
Ownerhip of Ideas, ------ 371
Lew'is. Tayler, (Amer.. 1802-1877.)— The Theology of
Plato, - - 373
Ley'den, John, (Scot., 1775-1811.)— To an Indian Gold
Coin, ----..-- 37V
Lie'ber, Francis, (German-Ainer.. 1800-1872.) — Vox
Populi Vox Dei, - - - - - 279
Lix'coLN, Abraham, (.!;((<?)•., 1809-1865,)— The Perpetuity
of the Union.— Tlie Emancipation Proclamation. —
The Consecration Speech at Gettysburg.- Malice
toward None : Cliarity for All, . - - - ;^83
LiN'GARD, John, (Engl., 1771-1851.)— The Expulsion of the
Long Parliament by Cromwell, - - - - 388
Lin'ton, Eliza Lynn, (Engl, 1822- .)— Fenced in, - .392
Lin'ton, William James, (Engl., 1812- .)— A Prayer
for Truth.— Real and True.— Poets.— Labor in Vain, - 397
LiP'PiNCOTT, Sara Jane, (Amer., 1823- .)— The Poet of
To-day.— Invocation to Mother Earth, - - - 400
Liv'iNOSTONE, David, (Scot., 1813-1873.)— Encounter with
a Lion.— The Falls of Mosioatunya.- Latest Geo-
graphical Speculations.— The dead Livingstone, - 403
Li'vY, (Rom., B.C. 59-A.D. 17.)— The Legend of Romulus
and Remus.— The Combat of the Horatii and the
Curatii. — Hannibal's Passage of the Alps. — In Rome,
after the Defeat near Lake Thrasymenus.— In Rome,
after the Victory on the Metaurus.— Hannibal re-
called from Italy to Carthage. — The Death of Han-
nibal, - - - - - - - - 413
Locke, John, (Engl., 1632-1704.)— Mackintosh and Hal-
lam upon Locke. — School Logic and the Understand-
ing.—Natural Parts.— Theology.— Fundamental Veri-
ties.—Bottoming, ------ 425
Lock'er, Frederick, (Engl., 1821- .)— The Unrealized
Ideal. -^- Vanity Fair, - - - - - 433
Lock'hart. John Gibson, (Scot., 1794-1854.)— Burns on
liis Farm at Ellisland. — Children of Great Men. — An
Old English Mansion. -The Broadswords of Scotland.
—Eulogy on Captain Paton, . - . - - 435
Lo'GAN, John, (Scot., 1748-1788.)- To the Cuckoo, - 441
Long. George, (iJnf//., 1800-1879.)— Marcus Junius Brutus, 443
S CONTENTS.
PAGE
Long'fellow, Henry Wadsworth, {Amer., 1807—1882.)
—The Picnic at Roaring Brook.— Themes for Song.—
Hymn to the Night.— Footsteps of Angels.— The
Warning. — Grand Pr6 in Acadie.— Launching the
Ship. — John Alden and Priscilla.— The Song of
Hiawatha.— The Departure of Hiawatha.- Maiden-
hood.—The Buildor.s.-~The Day is done.— Dante. —
The Two Angels.— Curfew, - - - -446
LoNGi'NtJS, (Gr., A.n. 213-273.V-The Subl-me in Homer
and Moses.— The Iliad and the Odys.sey, - - 469
LoNG'STREET, AuGtTSTys BALDWIN, {Amev . ■'7"f>-1870.)—
A Monomachia in Georgia, . , - 47:5
CYCLOPEDIA
OF
UNIVERSAL LITERATURE.
KALEVALA, The, an epic poem — or
perhaps a cycle of runes of Finland, which
have been handed down orally from very
ancient times. There are not wanting
scholars who hold that portions at least of
the Kalevala antedate Homer and Hesiod,
and probably go back as far as the days of
David, or still earlier. That such a group
of heroic poems existed in Finland was
hardly suspected until within a little more
than half a century, when Topelius, a
practicing physician of Sweden formed a
collection of Finnish runes which he wrote
down from the lips of bards, much as Mac-
pherson professed to have done with the so-
called Gaelic poems of Ossian. Topelius
put forth these fragments in 1822, and a
still more complete collection in 1839.
Elias Lcinnrot, born in 1802, took up the
work begun by his predecessor. His first
work on the subject appeared as early as
1827. He subsequently journeyed through
all the districts of Finland, " often through
wild fens, forests, marshes, and ice-plains —
on horseback, in sledges drawn by reindeer,
in canoes, and other forms of primitive
THE KALEVALA.— 2
conveyance." He Lad the good fortune to
meet an old peasant who was held to be the
most famous reciter of the country, and
was reputed to know more of the ancient
runes of his people than any other hving
man. In 1835 Lonnrot put forth the frag-
ments which he had brought together. The
idea gradually developed itself in his mind
that these runes were parts of a great cycli-
cal poem, of which the central figure was
Wainamoinen, a mighty bard and magician.
Lonnrot set himself to arrange these runes
into a connected poem, and the result of his
labors was published in 1849.
The Kalevala, as thus edited, consists of
fifty runes, containing in all nearly 23,000
lines. It is written in octo-syllabic trochaic
verse — the measure with which we have
become familiar through Longfellow's Hia-
watha. It seems certain that Longfellow
had become acquainted with the KaJevala,
probably in the German translation of
Schiefner, which was published in 1852.
In any case, he borrowed the general idea
oi Hiaicatha^ and its peculiar metre from
the Kalevala. The poem at once attracted
the attention of scholars. Max Miiller says
of it: "From the mouths of the aged an
epic poem has been collected equalling the
Iliad in length and completeness ; nay, if
we can forget for a moment all that Ave in
our youth learned to call beautiful, not less
beautiful. . , , The Kalevala possesses
merits not dissimilar from those of the JUail,
and will claim its place side by side with
the Ionian Songs, with the Mahahharata,
the Shahnameh, and the Nihelunye.''' Stein-
thal is still more emphatic. He recognizes
but four great national epics : the lliad^ the
10
THE KALEVALA.— 3
fCalevala, the Nibelimye, and the Rola.id
Son(js.
In 1858 was published a translation of a
verj'- small portion of the Kalevala by Uie
late Prof. John A. Porter, of Yale, whose
early death probably prevented the trans-
lation of other of the runes. In 1888 Dr.
John Martin Crawford, of Cincinnati, put
forth a translation of the entire poem,
which is now for the first time made ac-
cessible to the English-speaking race. From
this admirable translation the following ex-
tracts are taken :
WAINAMOINEN LOSES THE MAGIC WORDS.
Wainanioinen, old and skilful,
Tlie eternal wonder-worker,
Builds his vessel by enchantment;
Builds his boat, by art of magic,
From the timber of the oak-tree.
From its posts and planks and flooring ;
Sings a song, and joins the frame-work ;
Sings a second, sets the siding;
Sings a third time, sets the row-locks ;
Fashions oars and ribs and rudder,
Joins the sides and ribs together.
When the ribs were firmly fastened,
Wiien the sides were tightly jointed,
Then alas ! three words were wanting.
Lost the words of master-magic,
How to fasten in the ledge,
Flow the stern should be completed,
How complete the boat's forecastle.
Then the ancient Wainanioinen,
Wise and wonderful enchanter,
Heavy-hearted spake as follows : —
" Woe is me, my life hard-fated !
Never will this magic vessel
Pass in safety o'er the water,
Never ride the rough sea-billows."
Then h(! thought and long considered,
Where to tind these words of magic,
U
THE KALEVALA.— 4
Find the lost-words of the Master :
From the brains of countless swallows,
From the heads of swans in dying.
From the plumage of the sea-duck?
For tliese words the hero searches,
Kills of swans a goodly number.
Kills a flock of fattened sea-ducks,
Kills of swallows countless numbers ;
Cannot find the words of magic.
Not the lost-words of the Master.
Wainamoinen, wisdom-singer.
Still reflected and debated : —
" I perchance may find the lost-words
On the tongue of summer-reindeer.
In the mouth of the white squirrel."
Now again he hunts the lost-words»
Hastes to find the magic sayings ;
Kills a countless host of reindeer,
Kills a rafter-ful of squirrels ;
Finds of words a goodly number,
But they are of little value,
Cannot find the magic lost-word.
Long he thought and well considered ;—
" I can find of words a hundred
In the dwellings of Tuoni,
In the castles of Manala."
Wainamoinen quickly journeys
To the kingdom of Tuoni,
There to find the ancient wisdom,
There to learn the secret doctrine ;
Hastf.'iis on through fen and forests
Over meads and over marshes.
Through the ever-rising woodlands ;
Journeys one week through the brambles,
And a second through the hazels,
Through the junipers the third week.
When appear Tuoni's islands,
And the hill-tops of Manala. Rime XVIl^
WAINAMOINEN LKARNS THE MAGIC WORDS.
When the ancient Wainamoinen
Well had learned the magic sayings,
12
THE KALEVALA.— 5
Learned tlie ancient songs and legends,
Learned the words of ancient wisdom,
Learned tlie lost- words of the Master,
Well had learned the secret doctrine,
He prepared to leave the body
Of the wisdom-bard, Wipunen,
Leave the bosom of the master,
Leave the wonderful enchanter.
Spake the hero, AVainamoinen : —
»' O thou Antero Wipunen,
Open wide thy mouth and fauces ;
I have found the magic lost -words,
I will leave thee now forever.
Leave thee and thy wondrous singing ;
Will return to Kalevala,
To Wainola's fields and firesides."
Thus Wipunen spake in answer : —
" Many are the things I've eaten.
Eaten bear, and elk, and reindeer.
Eaten ox, and wolf, and wild boar.
Eaten man, and eaten hero ;
Never, never have I eaten
Such a thing as Wainamoinen.
Thou hast found what thou desirest,
Found the three words of the Master ;
Go in peace, and ne'er returning.
Take my blessing on thy going."
Thereupon the bard AVipunen
Opens wide his mouth, and wider ;
A.nd the good old AVainamoinen
Straightway leaves the wise enchanter.
Leaves AVipunen 's great abdomen.
From the mouth he glides and journeys
O'er the hills and vales of Northland,
Swift as red-deer of the forest,
Swift as yellow-breasted marten,
To the firesides of AVainola,
To the plains of Kalevala.
Straightway hastes he to the smitliy
Of his brother, llmarinen.
Thus the iron -artist greets him : —
<' Hast thou found the long-lost wisdom ?
13
THE K ALE V ALA.— 6
H;ist thou learned tlie secret doctrine.''
Hast thou learned the master-magic,
How to fasten in the ledges,
How the stern should be completed,
How complete the sliijj's forecastle? "
Wainamoinen thus made answ(>r : —
"• I have learned of woi'ds a humlred,
Learned a thousand incantations,
Hidden deep for many ages ;
Learned the words of ancient wisdom,
Found the keys of secret doctrine,
Found the lost-words of the Master."
Wainamoinen, magic-builder,
Straightway journeys to his vessel,
To the spot of magic labor,
Quickly fastens in the ledges.
Firmly binds the stern together,
And completes the boat's forecastle.
Thus the ancient AVainamoinen
Built the boat with magic only.
And with magic launched his vessel ;
Using not the hand to touch it.
Using not the foot to move it.
Using not the knee to turn it.
Using nothing to propel it.
Thus the third task was completed
For the hostess of Pohyola,
Dowry for the Maid of Beauty,
Sitting on the arch of heaven.
On the bow of many colors. Rune XVI.
THE DEPARTURE OF WAINAMOINEN.
As the years passed, Wainamoinen
Recognized his waning powers,
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted,
Sang bis farewell song to Northland,
To the people of Wainola ;
Sang himself a boat of copper.
Beautiful his bark of magic ;
At the helm sat the magician.
Sat the anc'ient wisdom-singer.
Westward, westward, sailed the hero
u
THE K/VLEVALA.-7
O'er the blue-back of the waters,
Singing as he left AVainola ;
This his plaintive song and eclio : —
" Suns may rise and set in Suonii,
Rise and set for generations,
^\ hen the North will learn my teachings,
Will recall my wisdom-sayings,
Hungry for the true religion ;
Th<'n will Suomi need my coming,
Watch for me at dawn of morning.
That 1 may bring back the Sampo,
Bring anew the harp of joyancc,
Bring again the golden moonlight.
Bring again the silver sunshine.
Peace and plenty to the Northland."
Thus the ancient Wainamoinen,
In his copi)er-banded vessel.
Left his tribe in Kalevala,
Sailing o'er the rolling billows.
Sailing tlirougli the azure vapors,
Sailing through the dusk of evening,
Sailing to the fiei'y sunset.
To the lower verge of heaven ;
Quickly gained the far horizon,
Gained the purple-colored harbor.
There his bark he firmly ancliored,
Rested in his boat of copper ;
But he left his harp of magic,
Left his songs and wisdom-sayings
To the lasting joy of Suomi. Rune L.
EPILOGUE.
Now I end my measured singing,
Bid my weary tongue keep silence,
Leave my songs to other singers.
Horses have their times of resting
After many hours of labor ;
P^ven sickles will grow weary
When they have been long at reaping ;
Waters seek a quiet haven
After running long in rivers;
Fire subsides and sinks in slumber
15
THE KALEVALA.— 8
At the dawning of tlie inornin"; :
Therefore should I end my singing,
As my song is growing weary,
For the pleasure of the evening,
For the joy of morn arising.
Often have I heard it chanted,
Often heard the words repeated :
" Worthy cataracts and rivers
Never empty all their waters."
Thus the wise and worthy singer
Sings not all his garnered wisdom ;
Better leave unsung some sayings
Than to sing them out of season.
Thus beginning and thus ending,
Do I roll up all my legends,
Roll them in a ball for safety,
In my memory arrange them,
In their narrow place of resting,
Lest the songs escape unheeded.
While the lock is still unopened.
While the teeth remain un parted,
And the weary tongue is silent.
Why should I sing other legends,
Chant them in the glen and forest.
Sing them on the hill and heather ?
Cold and still my golden mother
Hears my ancient songs no longer,
Cannot listen to my singing ;
Only will the forest listen,
Sacred birches, sighing pine-trees,
Junipers endowed with kindness,
Alder-trees that love to hear me.
With the aspens and the willows.
When my loving mother left me,
Young was I, and low of stature ;
Like the cuckoo of the forests,
Like the thrush upon the heather.
Like the lark I learned to twitter,
Learned to sing my simple measures,
Guided by a second motlier,
Stern and cold, without affection ;
Drove me helpless from my chamber
16
THE KALEVALA.-9
To the north-side of her cottajze.
Where the chilling winds m mercy
Carried off the unprotected.
As a lark I learned to wander,
Wander as a lonely song-bird,
Through the forests and the I'enlands,
Quietly o'er hill and heather ;
Walked in pain about the marshes.
Learned the songs of winds and waters,
Learned the music of the ocean,
And the echoes of the woodlands.
Nature was my only teacher,
Woods and waters my instructors.
Homeless, friendless, lone and needy.
Save in childhood with my motlier.
When beneath her painted rafters.
Where she twirled the flying spindle,
By the work-bench of my brother,
By the window of my sister,
In the cabin of my father.
In my early days of childhood.
Be this as it may, my people,
This may point tiie way to others,
To the singers better gifted.
For the good of future ages,
For the coming generations,
For the rising folk of Suomi.
2 17
ELISHA KENT KANE.— 1
KANE, Elisha Kent, an American
physician and arctic explorer, born at Phil-
adelphia in 1820 ; died at Havana, Cuba,
in 1857. He studied medicine at the Uni-
versity of Pennsylvania, graduating in
18-12, and the next year received the ap-
pointment of assistant surgeon in the
U. S. navy, and as such accompanied the
embassy to China. After making numer-
ous tours in China and the adjacent regions
and in India, his health failing, lie set out
for home near the close of 1814. In the
Spring of 1846 he sailed, on board the frig-
ate United States for the coast of Africa.
Joining a caravan he made a trip to Daho-
mey; but in returning to tlie coast he was
attacked by malarial fever, and returned
home, reaching Philadelphia in April, 1847.
A few months afterwards he was trans-
ferred, at his own request, from the naval to
the military service ; and was ordered to
Mexico. While endeavoring to make his
way to the capital he was encountered by a
guerilla party, and received a severe wound
in consequence of which lie was invalided,
and returned to the United States. In Jan-
uary, 1849, he sailed in a store-ship bound
to Brazil, Portugal, and the Mediterranean,
returning in October.
At this time a deep interest was felt in
the fate of Sir John Franklin and his party,
who iiad been since July, 1845, lost to sight
in the arctic regions. A searching expedi-
tion was fitted out, mainly through the
munificence of Henry Grinnell, alSTew^York
merchant. It consisted of two vessels, the
Advance and the Rescue, commanded by
Lieutenant DeHaven, U. S. N. Kane re-
ceived the appointment of surgeon to this
ELTSHA KENT KANE.— 2
expedition. It sailed IVoni New York in
May, 1850, but tailing to reach an advanta-
geous point from which to prosecute the ob-
ject in view, the commander resolved tore-
turn that year. But in September the
vessels were beset by ice, and drifted help-
lessl}^ with the pack untilJune, 1851, when
they got free and made their Avay home.
Dr. Kane wrote an account of this expedi-
tion, under the title, Narrative of the Grin-
nell Exjyedition in Search of Sir John
Franklin (1854.)
The failure of this expedition to accom-
plish its object only intensified public inter-
est in the matter. The Advance was re-
fitted, and placed under the command of
Dr. Kane. They succeeded in reaching
latitude 78° 43', the most northerly point
ever gained by a sailing vessel, and win-
tered in a bay about half a dozen miles
south of this point. During the winter
sledge-parties were sent out, one of which
went as far north as latitude 80° 85'. The
ice remained unbroken, all the next sum-
mer: and it became evident that it was out
of the question to hope to survive another
year in these arctic regions. There was
nothing to be done but to abandon the vessel
and attempt to make their way by sledges
and boats to the settlements in Greenland.
This occupied eighty-four days of extreme
peril and hardship, Upernavik, the most
northerly Danish settlement, was reached
August 5, 1855. Dr. Kane wrote an ac-
count of this expedition, under the title,
Arctic Explorations (1856.)
This expedition, although it failed to
throw light upon the fate of Franklin,
made important additions to our knowledge
19
ELISHA KENT KANE.— 3
of the arctic regions. Congress voted
Arctic Medals to the members of the expe-
dition. The Royal Geographical Society
of England awarded the Founder's Medal
for 1856 to Kane, and the French Sociute
de Geographic gave him its gold medal for
1858, In the hope of recovering his shat-
tered health he sailed for England, and
thence to the West Indies. On this last
voyage he suffered a paralytic stroke, and
died soon after reaching Havana.
ICEBERGS.
The first iceberg which we approached
(July 2) Avas entirely inaccessible. Our com-
mander, in whose estimate of distance and mag-
nitude I have great coiitidence, made it nearly a
mile in circumference. With the exception of
one rugged corner, it was in shape a truncated
wedge, and its surface a nearly horizontal plateau.
The next presented a well-marked characteristic,
which, as I observed it afterwards in other ex-
amples, enabled me to follow the history of the
berg throughout all its changes of equilibrium.
It was a rectilinear groove at the water-line,
hollowed out by the action of the waves. These
grooves were seen in all the bergs which had re-
mained long in one position. They were some-
times crested with fantastical serrations, and
their tunnel-like roofs were often pendant with
icicles. On a grounded berg the tides may be
accurately gauged by these lines ; and in the
berg before me a number of them, converging to
a point not unlike the rays of a fan, pointed
clearly to those changes of e<iuilibrium wliich
had depressed one end and elevated the other.
A third was a monstrous ice-mountain, at
least two hundred feet high, irregularly |)oly-
hedral in shape, and its surface diversified with
hill and dale. Upon this one we landed. I hnd
never appreciated before the glorious variety of
iceberg scenery. The sea at the base pf this
20
ELISHA KENT KANE — 1
berg was dashing into hollow caves of pure and
intense ultramarine ; and to leeward the quiet
water lit the eye down to a long spindle-shaped
root of milky whiteness, which seemed to dye
the sea as it descended, until the blue and white
were mixed in a pale turquoise. Above, and
high enough to give an expression akin to sub-
limity, were bristling crags.
This was the first berg that I had visited. I
was struck with its peculiar opacity, the result
of its granulated structure. I had incidentally
met with the remark of Professor Forbes, that
" the floating icebergs of the Polar Seas are for
the most part of the nature of neve : and. while
I was at a distance, had looked upon the sub-
stance of the mass before nie as identical with
the Jirn, or consolidated snow of the Alpine
glaciers. I now found cause to change this
opinion. The ice of this berg, although opaque
and vesicular, was true glacier-ice, having the
fracture, lustre, and other external characters
of a nearly homogeneous growth. The same
authority, in speaking of these bergs, declares that
" the occurrence of true ice is comparatively rare,
and is justly dreaded by ships." From this im-
pression, which was undoubtedly derived fi'om
the appearance of a berg at a distance, I am also
compelled to dissent. The iceberg is true ice,
and is always dreaded by ships. Indeed, though
modified by climate, and especially by the alter-
nation of day and night, the Polar glacier must
be regarded as strit^tly atmospheric in its incre-
ments, and not essentially differing fi-oin the
glaciers of the Alps. The general color of a
berg I have before compared to frosted silver.
But when its fractures are very extensive, the
exposed faces have a very brilliant lustre. Noth-
ing can be more exquisite than a fresh, cleanly-
fractured berg surface. It reminded me of the
recent cleavage of sulphate of strontium — a re-
semblance the more striking from flic slightly
lazuli tic tinge of each.-77(e GrinneU Expedition^
Ciiap. VIII.
21.
ELISHA KENT KANE.— 5
THE POI.AK BKAR AT HOME.
While working with the rest of tlie crew (July
12) upon the ice, I Avas startled by a cry of
"Bear!" Sure enough, it was that menagerie
wonder. Not, however, the sleepy thing which,
with begrimed hair and subdued dirty face, ap-
j)eals to your sympathies as he walks the endless
rounds of a wet cage. Our Hrst polar bear moved
past us on the floe, a short half-mile otf, wilh
the leisurely march of fearless freedom. He
was a bear of the flrst magnitude — about nine
feet long, as we afterwards found by measuring
his tracks. His lengtli appeared to us still
greater than this, for he carried his head and
neck on a line with tlie long axis of his body.
His color, as defined upon the white snow, was
a delicate yellow — ^not tawny, but a true ochre
or gamboge — and his blue-black nose looked ab-
rupt and accidental, his haunches were regularly
arched, and, supported as they were on ponder-
ous legs, gave him an almost elephantine look.
The movements of the animal were peculiar. A
sort of drawling dignity seemed to oppress him,
and to forbid his lifting his august legs higher
than was absolutely necessary. It might have
been an instinctive philosophy that led him to
avoid the impact of his toes upon ice of un-
certain strength ; but whatever it was, he re-
minded me of a colossal puss-in-boots The
Grinnell Expedition, Chap. XII.
PERPETUAL DAYLIGHT.
The perpetual daylight had continued up to
this moment (August 18) with unabated glare.
The sun had reached his north meridian altitude
some days before, but the eye was hardly aware
of the change. Midnight had a softened cliar-
acter, like the low summer's sun at home, but
there was no twilight. At fiist the novelty of
this unvarying day made it pleasing. It was
curious to see the "midnight Arctic Sun set into
sunrise," and pleasant to tind that, whether you
22
ELISHA KKNT KANE— 6
ate or slept, oi- idled or toiled, the same dtiyliglit
was always there. No irksome night forced
upon you its system of compulsory alternations.
I (!ould dine at midnight, sup at breakfast-tiine,
and go to bed at noonday ; and but for an i\\)-
jiaratus of coils and cogs called a watch, wonld
have been no wiser and no worse.
My feeling wji^ at first an extravagant sense
of undefined relief — of some vague resti'aint re-
moved. I seemed to have thrown off the slavery
of hours. In fiict, I could hardly realize its en-
tirety. The astral lamps, standing dust-covered
on our lockers, puzzled me as things obsolete
and fanciful. But l)y-and-by came other feel-
ings. The perpetual light, garish and unfluctu-
ating, disturbed me. I became gradually aware
of an unknown excitement, a stimulus acting
constantly, like tiie diminutive of a strong cup
of coffee. My sleep was curtailed and irregular;
my meal-hours trod upon each other's heels ;
and but for stringent regulations of my own im-
posing my routine would have been completely
broken up. I began to feel how admirable, as
a systematic law, is the alternation of day and
)iight — words that type the two great conditions
of living nature — action and repose. To those
who with daily labor earn the daily bread, how
kindly the season of sleep ! To the drone who,
urged by the waning daylight, hastens the de-
ferred task, how fortunate that his procrastina-
tion has not a six-month's morrow! To the
brain-workers among men, the enthusiasts who
l)car irksomely tlie dark screen which falls upon
their d;iy-dreams, how benignant the dear night-
blessing whi('h enforces reluctant rest! — 77/e
Grhiaell Expedition, Chap. XIX.
PKKl'ETUAL DARKNESS.
Our men are hard at work preparing for tlie
Christmas theatre — the arrangements exclusively
tlieir own. But to-morrow (December 22) is a
day mon; welcome than Christmas — the solstitial
day of greatest darkness, from which we may
23
ELISHA KENT KANE.— 7
begin to date our returning light. It makes a
man feel badly to see the faces around him
bleaching into waxen paleness. Until to-day —
as a looking-glass does not enter into an Arctic
toilet — I thought I was the exception, and out
of delicacy said nothing about it to my com-
rades. One of them, introducing the topic just
now, told me, with an utter unconsciousness of
his own ghastliness, that I was the palest of the
party. So it is : "All men think all men," etc.
Why, the good fellow is as white as a cut po-
tato.
In truth, we were all of us at this time un-
dergoing changes unconsciously. The hazy
obscurity of the nights we had gone through
made them darker tlian the corresponding nights
of Parry. The complexions of my comrades —
and my own too, as I found soon afterwards —
were toned down to a peculiar waxy paleness,
Our eyes were more recessed, and strangely
clear. Complaints of shortness of breath be-
came general. Our appetite was most ludi-
crously changed. Ham-fat frozen, and sour-krout
swimming in olive-oil, were favorites ; yet we
were unconscious of any tendency towards the
gross diet of the polar region. Most of my
companions would not touch bear ; indeed I was
the only one except Captain DeHaven that still
ate it. Fox, on the other hand, was a favorite.
Things seemed to have changed their taste ; and
our inclination for food was at best very slight-
Worse than this, our complete solitude, com-
bined with permanent darkness, began to affect
our morale. Men became moping, testy, and
imaginative. In the morning, dreams of the
night — we could not help using the term — were
narrated. Some had visited the naked shores of
Cape Warrender, and returned laden with water-
melons. Others had found Sir John Franklin
in a beautiful grove lined by quintas and orange-
trees. Even Brooks, our hard-fisted, unimagina-
tive boatswain, told me. in confidence, of having
ELISHA KENT KANE.— 8
heard three strange groans out upon the ice. He
" thought it was a bear, but could see nothing."
In a word, the health of our little company was
broken in upon. It required strenuous efibrt at
washing, diet, and exercise to keep the scurvy
;it bay. Eight cases of scorbutic gums were al-
r(-ady upon my black-list. One case of severe
pneumonia left me in anxious doubt of the residt.
There was, however, little bronchitis — The
Grlnm'U Expedition, Chap. XXl.
THE RETURNING SUN.
For some days the snn-clouds at the south had
been changing their character. Their edges be-
came better defined, their extremities deiitated,
their color deeper as well as warmer; and from
the spaces between the lines of the stratus burst
out a blaze of glory typical of the longed-for
sun. He came at last. It was on the 29th of
February. Going out on deck after breakfast at
eight in the morning, 1 found the dawning far
advanced. The whole vault was bedewed with
the coming day ; and except Capella the stars
were gone. The southern horizon was clear. We
were certain to see the sun after an absence of
eighty-six days.
It had been arranged on board that all hands
should give him three cheers for a greeting ; but
I was in no mood to join the sallow-visaged
party. I took my gun, and walked over the ice
about a mile away from the ship to a solitary
spot where a big hummock almost hemmed me
in, opening only to the south. There, Parsee-
like, I drank in the rosy light, and watched the
horns of the crescent extending themselves round
towards the north. There was hardly a breath
of wind, with the thermometer only — 19°, and
it was easy, therefore, to keep warm by walking
gently up and down.
Very soon the deep crimson blush, lightening
into a focus of incandescent white, showed me
that the hour was close at hand. Mounting
upon a crag, I saw the crew of our ship formed
35
ELISHA KENT KANE.— 9
in line upon the ice. Then came the shout from
the ship — three shouts — cheering the sun. And
a few moments after, I fired my salut. The first
indications of dawn to-day were at forty-five
minutes past five. By seven the twilight was
nearly sufficient to guide a walking-party over
the floes. At nine the dark-lantern was doused.
At a quarter-past eleven those on board had the
first glimpse of the sun. At five p.m. we had
the dim twilight of evening — Tlie Grinnel Ex-
pedition, Chap. XXXIII.
A DAY IN THE ARCTIC BUREAU.
Itjs Thursday, March 9, 1854. Take a look
into our Arctic Bureau, on board the Advance!
One table ; one salt-pork lamp, with rusty chlori-
nated flame ; three stools, and as many waxen-
faced men with their legs drawn up under them
— the deck, at zero, being too cold for the feet.
Each has his department : Kane is writing,
sketching, and projecting maps ; Hayes copying
logs and meteorologicals ; Sontag reducing his
work at Tern Rock. At twelve a round of in-
spection, and orders enough to fill up the day
with work. Next, the drill of the Esquimaux
dogs — my own peculiar recreation — a dog-trot,
specially refreshing to legs that creak with every
kick, and rlieumatic shoulders that chronicle
every descent of the wiiip. And so we get on
to dinner-time — the occasion of another gather-
in», which misses the tea and coffee of break-
fast, but rejoices in pickled cabbage and peaches
instead.
At dinner, as at breakfast, the raw potato
comes in — our hygienic luxury. Like doctor-
stuff generally, it is not as appetizing as desira-
ble. Grating it down nicely, leaving out the
ugly red spots liberally, and adding the utmost
oil as a lubricant, it is as much as I can do to
persuade the mess to shut their eyes and bolt it ;
two absolutely refuse to take it. I tell them of
the Silesians using its leaves as spinach, of
the whalers in the South Seas getting drunk on
26
ELISHA KENT KANE.— 10
the molasses wliicli had preserved the large
jiotaloes of the Azores. I point to this gum, so
fungoid and angry the day before yesterday, and
so Hat and amiable to-day — all by a potato-poul-
tice. My eloquence is wasted ; they persevere
in rejecting this admirable compound.
Sleep, exercise, amusement, and work at will,
carry on the day till our six o'clock supper — a
meal something like breakfast and something
like dinner, only a little more scant; and the
otKcers come in with tiie reports of the day. Dr.
Hayes shows me the log — I sign it; Sontag the
weather — I sign the weather ; Mr. Bonsall the
tides and thermometers. Tliereu|)on comes in
'• mine ancient," Brookes, and 1 enter in his
Journal No. ;i all the work done under his
charge, and discuss his labors for the morrow.
McGarry couies next, with the clcaning-up ar-
rangements insiile, outside, and on the decks ;
and Mr. Wilson follows with ice-measurements.
And last of all comes my own record of the day
gone by ; every line, as I look back upon the
pages, giving evidence of a weakened body and
harassed mind Arctic Explorations, Vol. I.,
Chap. XV.
UTILIZING RATS.
Another article of diet, less inviting at first
than bear's liver, but which I found more in-
nocuous, was the rat. We had failed to exter-
minate this animal by our varied and perilous
efforts of the year before, and a well-justified
fear forbade our renewing the crusade. It Avas
marvelous, in a region appai'cntly so unfavorable
to reproduction, what a ])erfect wan-en we soon
had on board. Their impudence and address
increased with their numbers. It became im-
possible to stow anything below decks. Furs,
woolens, shoes, specimens of natural history —
everything we disliked to lose, however little
valuable to them — was gnawed into and de-
.stroyed. They harbored among the men's bed-
ding in the forecastle, and showed such boldness
ELISHA KENT KANE— 11
in figlit, and such dexterity in dodging missiles,
that they were tolerated at last as inevitable
nuisances. Before the winter was ended I
avenged our griefs by decimating them for my
private table. I find in my Journal of October
10 an anecdote that illustrates their boldness :
" We have moved everything movable out
upon the ice ; and besides the dividing moss-
wall between our sanctum and the forecastle,
we have built up a rude baiTier of our own,
iron-sheathed, to prevent these abominable rats
from gnawing through. It is all in vain. They
are everywhere already — under the stove, in the
steward's lockers, in our cushions, about our
beds. If I was asked what — after darkness and
cold and scurvy — are the besetting sins of our
Arctic sojourn, I should say. Rats, Rats, Rats.
A mother-rat bit my finger to the bone last
Friday as I was intruding my hand into a bear-
skin mitten which she had chosen as a home-
stead for her little family. I withdrew it, of
course, witii instinctive courtesy ; but among
them they carried off the mitten before I could
suck the finger. Last week I sent down Rliina,
the most intelligent dog of our whole pack, to
bivouac in their citadel forward. I thought
she would be able to defend herself against
them, for she had distinguished herself in a bear
hunt. She slept very well for a couple of hours
on a bed she had chosen for herself on the top
of some iron spikes. But the rats could not, or
would not, forego the horny skin about her
paws; and they gnawed her feet and nails so
ferociously that we drew her up, yelping and
vanquished."
Before I pass from these intrepid and pertina.
cious visitors, let me add that, on the whole, I
am personally much their debtor. Through the
long winter night Hans used to beguile his
lonely hours of watchfulness by shooting them
with the bow-and-arrow. The repugnance of
my associates to share with me the table-luxur}-
ELISHA KENT KANE— 12
of such "small deer" gave me the tVeqntiit ad-
vantage of a fresli-nieat soup, wliich eoutriluitt'd.
no doubt, to my comparative imnuunty froin
S'urvy. I had only one competitoi- in tlie dispen-
sation of ih.\s ent re met — or, rather, one coni[)an-
ion — for there was an abundance for both. It
was a fox. AVe caught and domesticated him
late in the winter ; but the scantiness of our
resources, and of course his own, soon instructed
him in all the antipathies of a terrier. He had
only one fault as a rat-catcher ; he would never
catch a second until he had eaten tiie first. —
Arctic Explorations, Vol. I., Chap. XIX.
A SEAL IN TIME.
Things grew worse and worse with us. The
old difficulty of breathing came back again, and
our feet swelled to such an extent that we were
obliged to cut open our canvas boots. But the
symptom which gave me most uneasiness was
our inability to sleep. A form of low fever
which hung by us when at work had been kept
down b}' the thoroughness of our daily rest. All
my hopes of escape were in the refreshing influ-
ences of the halts. It must be remembered that
we were now in the open bay, in the full line of
the great ice-drift to the Atlantic, and in boats
so frail and unseaworthy as to require constant
bailing to keep them afloat.
It was at this crisis of our fortunes that we
saw a large seal floating — as is the custom of
these animals — on a small patch of ice, and
seemingly asleep. It was an iissitk, and so large
tiiat I at first mistook it for a walrus. Signal
was made for the ffope to follow astern ; and,
trembling with anxiety, we prepared to crawl
down upon him. Petersen, with the large
Englisli rifle, was stationed in the bow, and
stockings were drawn over the oars as mufllers.
As we nearcd the animal, our excitement be-
came so intense that the men could hardly keep
stroke. I had a set of signals for such occa-
sions, wliich spared us the noi.se of the voice ;
29
ELISHA KENT KANE.— 13
and when about three hundred yards off, the
oars were taken in, and we moved on in deep
silence with a single scull astern.
He was not asleep, for he reared liis head
when we were almost within rifle-shot, and to
this day I can remember the hard, careworn,
almost despairing expression of the men's tliin
faces as tliey saw him move. Their lives de-
pended on his capture. I depressed my hand
nervously as a signal for Petersen to fire.
McGarry hung upon his oar, and the boat,
slowly but noiselessly sagging ahead, seemed to
me within certain range. Looking at Petersen,
I saw that the poor fellow was paralyzed by his
anxiety, trying vainly to obtain a rest for the
gun against the cutwater of the boat. The seal
rose on his fore-flippers, gazed at us for a
moment with frightened curiosity, and coiled
himself for a plunge. At tliat instant, simulta-
neously with the crack of our rifle, he relaxed
his long length on the ice, and at the very brink
of the water his head fell helpless to one side. I
would have ordered another shot, but no disci-
pline could have controlled the men. With a
wild yell, each vociferating according to his own
impulse, tliey urged both boats upon the floe.
A crowd of hands seized the seal and bore him
up to safer ice.
The men seemed half-crazy. 1 had not real-
ized how much we were reduced by actual fam-
ine, _They ran over the floe, crying and laugh-
ing, and brandishing their knives. It was not five
minutes before every man was sucking his bloody
fingers or mouthing long strips of raw blubber.
Not an ounce of this seal was lost. The intes-
tines found their way into the soup-kettles with-
out any observance of the preliminary home-
processes. The cartilaginous parts of the fore-
flippers were cut off in the melee^ and passed
around to be chewed upon ; and even the liver,
warm and raw as it was, bade fair of be eaten
before it had seen the pot. That night, on the
30
ELISHA KENT KANE.— 14
large halting floe, to which, in contempt of the
damages of drifting, we had hauled our hoats,
two entire planks of the Red Eric were devoted
to a grand cooking fire, and we enjoyed a rare
and savage feast.
This was our last experience of the disagree-
able effects of hunger. In the words of George
Stephenson, "-the charm was broken, and tlie
dogs were safe." The dogs I have said little
about, for none of us liked to think of them.
The poor creatures, Toodla and Whitey, had
been taken with us as last resources against
starvation. They were, as McGarry worded it,
"Meat on the hoof," and "able to carry their
own fat over the floes." Once, near Weary
Man's Rest, I had been on the point of killing
them ; but they had been the leaders of our
winter's team, and we could not bear the sacri-
fice. I need not detail our journey further.
Within a day or two we shot another seal, and
from that time forward had a full supply of
food.
On the first of August we sighted the Devil's
Thumb, and were again among the familiar lo-
calities of the whalers' battling-ground. The
bay was quite open, and we had been making
casting for two days before. We were soon
among the Duck Islands, and passing to the south
of Cape Shackleton, prepared to land. '■'■Terra
firma ! Terra fir ma ! " How very pleasant it was
to look upon, and with what a tingle of excited
thankfulness we drew near it! A little time to
seek a cove among the wrinkled hills, a little
time to excliange congratnlations. and then our
battered boats were hauled high and dry upon
the rocks, and our party, with liearts full of our
deliverance, lay down to rest Arctic Explora
tions, Vol. II., Chap. XXIX.
31
IMMANUEL KANT.— 1
KANT, Immanuel, a German philoso-
pher, born at Konigsberg in 1724; died there
in 1804. His fathei'. who was of Scottish de-
scent, was a saddler by trade. In 1740 he
entered the University of Konigsberg as a
student of theology, but his first attempts at
preaching were so unpromising that he
gave up the idea of becoming a clergyman,
and devoted himself to the study of mathe-
matics and the physical sciences. In 1755,
having been for about ten years a tutor in
private families, he became an academical
instructor, his inaugural theses being On
Fire^ and on the First Principles oj Meta-
physical Science. He delivered regular
courses upon Physical Geography, Anthro-
pology, Pedagogy, Natural Law, and the
Philosophy of Religion, Ethics, Logic, and
Mathematics. In 1764 he declined an of-
fer of the professorship of Poetry; but in
1770 (after having declined similar profes-
sorships at Jena and Erlangen) he accepted
the position of Professor of Logic and Met-
aphysics at Konigsberg, with a salary of
$300 a year. His inaugural dissertation,
De Mundi SensibiUs Atqxie Intelliyibilis
Forma et PriTicijnis, contains the germs of
the metaphysical system which he slowly
elaborated. But his great work, the Kritik
der reinen Vernunft (" Criticism of the Pure
Eeason"), upon which he had been em-
ployed for eleven years, did not appear un-
til 1781, when he had reached the age of
fifty-seven.
From this time until near the close of
his life his literary activity was remarka-
ble. The following are the titles of his
principal works: Prolegomena to Every
future System of Metaphysics claiming to
32
IMMANUEL KAXT— 2
he a Science (1783), Foundation of the Mela-
physics of Ethics (1785), Metaphysical Ele-
ments of Natural Science (1786), a second
edition, somewhat altered, of the Criticism,
of the Pure Reason (1787), Criticism of the
Practical Reason (1788), Religion within the
Bounds of mere Reason, a work wliich ulti-
mately led to his withdrawal from the Uni-
versity (1788), Metaphysical Elements of
Law and Metaphysical Elements of Virtue
(1797), The Strife of the Faculties, and An-
thropolo(/y in a Pragmatic Point of View
(1798.) '
It would be impossible in this place to
attempt to set fortli the metaphysical sys-
tem of Kant, or to enumerate tlie whole
library of works to which it has given rise
in German, French, Italian, and English.
The following extracts from Kant's works
are in the translation of Frederick H.
Hedge : —
THE JUDGMENT AND THE UNDERSTANDING.
Judgment is the faculty of conceiving the
Particular as contained in the Universal. When
tlie Universal (the Rule, the Principle, the Law)
is given, Judgment, which subordinates the Par-
ticular to it, is determinative. But where the
Particular is given, for which the Universal is to
be sought, it is merely reflective.
The determinative Judgment lias only to sub-
ordinate particulars to the general transcen-
dental laws furnished by the understanding;
law is given a priori. But so manifold are the
forms in Nature, the modifications, as it were,
of the general transcendental principles of
Nature left undetermined by the laws furnished
a priori by the pure Understanding (since these
apply only to the possibility of Nature in gen-
eral, as perceptible by the senses), that there
must exist for them hiws wliich indeed, as empir-
3 33
IMMANUEL KANT.-3
ical, may be accidental to the view of our Under-
standing, but which, if they are to have the
name of Laws (as the idea of Nature demands)
must be considered as necessary, and as proceed-
ing from a principle of unity among the mani-
fold Particulars.
The reflective Judgment, whose province it is
to ascend from the Particular in Nature to the
Universal, is therefore in need of a principle —
and this it cannot derive from Experience, since
its very aim is to establish the unity of all em-
pirical principles under principles higher — though
likewise empirical — and this is to establish the
possibility of a systematic subordinatioii among
them. Such a transcendental principle the re-
flective Judgment must therefore give to itself,
and cannot take it from anything else (since it
would then be determinative) ; nor yet impose it
upon Nature, since all study of the laws of Na-
ture must conform to Nature, as something inde- 'ft
pendent of the conditions of reflection. ^
Now, as the general laM's of Nature have ^
their foundation in the Understanding, the prin- %
ciple in question can be none other than this, ^j
that the particular empirical laws (as far as tliey
are left indeterminate by general laws) are to be
considered as so connected togethei- as if Nature
had been subjected to these also, by an Under-
standing (though not by ours), so as to render
possible a System of P^xperience according to
particular natural laws. Not as if such an Un-
derstanding must actually be postulated (for it is
only the rejiective and not the determinative Judg-
ment tliat requires this idea as its principle), but
the reflective faculty prescribes it as a law for
itself, and not for nature.
OF THE IDEAL OF BEAUTY.
As to Taste, there are no objective rules to
determine what is beautiful. For all judgment
from these sources is aesthetic — that is, subjec-
tive— feeling, and not a conception of any object
that determines it. To seek a Principle of
34
IMMANUEL KANT.— 4
Taste, which should give indefinite conceptions
of a universal criterion of the Beautiful, is a
fruitless endeavor, since what is sought is impos-
sible and self-contradictory.
That this feeling (of pleasure or displeasure)
shall be capable of being generally communicated
— and this without any conception of the nature
of the object; and the general approxinuiie
agreement of all nations in relation to this feel-
ing as to certain objects, is the empirical though
obscure criterion of Taste, scarcely reaching
to conjecture which, as so many examples
show us, has a deep hidden foundation in the
common nature of man, in the common princi-
ples of judgment as to the forms under which
objects are presented to us.
Hence some products of Taste are considered
as models ; not as if Taste could be acquired by
imitation — for Taste must be a faculty of the in-
dividual ; but he who copies a model shows him-
self expert, as far as he copies correctly ; but
Taste involves the power of judging of the model
itself. From this it follows that the highest
model — the prototy[)e of Taste — can only be an
Idea, which everyone must awaken in himself.
An Idea is properly a conception of Reason.
An Meal is the image of something adequate to
the Idea. Eacli such prototype of Taste rests
upon the vague idea of a " maximum of Beauty ; "
V)ut can be reached only by representation, and
not by conceptions. It is tlierefore more prop-
erly an " Ideal," than an " Idea " of Beauty ;
and this, though we may not possess it, yet we
strive to produce within ourselves. But since
it de[)ends- upon representation, and not upon
conception, it is an Ideal of the Imagination
only — the Imagination being the faculty of Re-
presentation. Now, how do we arrive at this
Ideal of Beauty — a priori or by experience?
and also, what kind of Beauty is capable of an
Ideal ?
Man, as a being having the end of his exist-
35
IMMANUEL KANT.— 5
ence within himself, and able to determine its
aims l)y means of Reason — or, where he is
obliged to take them from the outward world,
yet able to compare them with fundamental and
universal aims, and to form an aesthetic judgment
from I'omparison — Man alone can present an
Ideal of Beauty; in like manner as Humanity
alone, among all earthly things, can afford an
Ideal of perfection in him as Intelligence. The
ideal of the huxnan form consists in the expres-
sion of the moral nature, without which it can-
not atford a universal and positive pleasui'e, as
distinguished from the merely negative satisfac-
tion of an academically correct representation.
The correctness of such an Ideal of Beauty is
tested ill this : that it permits no intermixture
of sensuous satisfaction with the pleasure de-
rived Irom the object, and yet excites a strong
interest in it.
The Understanding alone gives the law. But
if the Imagination is compelled to proceed ac-
cording to a definite laAv, the product -will be
determined as to its Form according to certain
conceptions of the perfection of the thing ; and
in this case the pleasure will not be owing to
Beauty, but to Goodness (to Perfection, though
mere formal Perfection), and the judgment will
be no a-sthetic judgment. It is thus a normal
regularity without law ; a subjective harmony
of the Imagination and the Understanding,
without any objective harmony (wherein the
Notion is referred to a previous conception of
the object); and it is thus alone that the free-
dom and the regularity of the Understanding
can co-exist with the peculiar nature of an
testhetic judgment.
36
KARAMZIN.— 1
KARA MZ IN, Nikolai Mikhailovitch,
a Russian historian and poet, born in 1765,
died in 1826. After studying at Moscow
and St. Petersburg, and visiting Central and
Western Europe, he published his Letters
of a Russian Traveller^ first (1791-2) in the
Moscoiv Journal^ which he, edited then in
six volumes (1797-1801). Sundry tales
followed, as Poor Liza^ Natalia the Boyar^s
Daughter^ and Marfa the Posadnitza of
Novgorod^ which are still popular in Rus-
sia. He pulished two miscellanies, Aylaia
(179-1-5), The Aonides (1797), compiled
from foreign authors The Pantheon (1798),
and edited The European Messenger (1822-
1828). My Trifles is a collection of his
lighter pieces. Appointed historiographer
by the Czar in 1803, he gave himself up to
study and lived in retirement. In 1816 he
removed to St. Petersburg, where lie en-
joyed the favor of Alexander I., who was
interested in the progress of his history.
He lived to carry it to the eleventh volume,
A.D. 1813. It began to appear 1818, and
met witli immediate success. Karamzin
glorifies the rough Russian annals, and his
sentiments are so conservative that the
book has been called the " epic of despot-
ism." It has been translated into French,
modern Greek, and other languages,
but not into English. As a novelist
Karamzin was of the sentimental school
then everywhere prevalent; as a lyric poet
he is rather graceful than eminent. He
was the introducer of reviews and essays
in Russia.
SONG OP THE GOOD TZAR.
Russia had a noble Tzar,
Sovereign honored wide and far ;
37
KAKAMZIN.— 2
He a father's love enjoyed.
He a father's power employed.
And he sought his children's bliss.
And their happiness was his ;
Left for them his golden halls,
Left for them his palace walls.
He, a wanderer for them,
Left his royal diadem ;
Staff and knapsack all his" treasure,
Toil and danger all his pleasure.
Wherefore hath he journeyed forth
From his glorious, sceptred North?
Flying pride, and pomp, and poiir ;
Suffering heat, and cold, and shower.
Why? because this noble king
Light and truth and bliss might bring,
Spread intelligence, and power
Knowledge out on Russia's shore.
He would guide by wisdom's ray
AH his subjects in their way.
And while beams of glory giving,
Teach them all the arts of living.
Oh, thou noble King and Tzar !
Earth ne'er saw so bright a star.
Tell me, have ye ever found
Such a prince the world around ?
EPIGRAM.
He managed to live a long life through.
If breathing be living ; — but where he was bound,
And why he was born, not asked nor knew, —
Oh, why was he here to cumber the ground?
AUTUMN.
The dry leaves are falling;
The cold breeze above
Has stript of it glories
The sorrowing grove.
38
KARAMZIN.— 3
The hills are all weeping,
The Held is a waste,
The songs of the forest
Are silent and past ;
And the songsters are vanished,
In armies they fly
To a clime more benignant,
A friendlier sky.
The thick mists are veiling
The valley in white ;
With the smoke of the village
They blend in their flight.
And lo ! on the mountain
The wanderer stands,
And sees the pale Autumn
Pervading the lands.
Thou soiTowful wanderer,
Sigh not, nor weep ;
For Nature, though shrouded,
Will wake from her sleep.
The Spring, proudly smiling,
Shall all things revive,
And guy bridal garments
Of splendor shall give.
But man's chilling Winter
Is darksome and dim.
For no second Springtime
E'er dawns upon him.
The gloom of his coming
TiuKi dissipates never ;
His sun when departed
Is vanished forever.
KARAMZIN.— 4
THE GRAVE.
First Voice.
How frightful the grave ! how deserted and
drear !
With the howls of the storm-wind, the creaks of
the bier,
And the white bones all clattering together !
Second Voice.
How peaceful the grave ! its quiet how deep !
Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep,
And flowrets perfumed it with ether.
First Voice.
There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead,
And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a
bed,
And snakes in its nettle weeds hiss.
Second Voice.
How lovely, how sweet the repose of the tomb !
No tempests are there: — but the nightingales
come
And sing their sweet chorus of bliss.
First Voice.
The ravens of nightPflap their wings o'er the
grave :
'Tis the vulture's abode, 'tis the wolf's dreary
cave.
Where they tear up the earth with their
fangs.
Second Voice.
There the coney at evening disports with his
love.
Or rests on the sod, while the turtles above
Repose on the bough that o'erhangs.
40
KARAMZIN.— 5
First Voice.
There darkness and dampness with poisonous
breath
And loathsome decay till the dwelling of death ;
The trees are all barren and bare !
Second Voice.
O soft are the breezes that play round the tomb,
And sweet with the violet's wafted perfume,
With lilies and jessamines fair.
First Voice.
The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears
Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and
fears
He is launched on the wreck-covered river.
Secotid Voice.
The traveller outworn with life's pilgrimage
dreary
Lays down his rude staff', like one that is weary.
And sweetly reposes for ever.
Transl. of John Bowring.
41
JOHN KEATS.— 1
KEATS, John, an English poet, born at
London in 1795 ; died at Rome in 1821.
His lather, the proprietor of a livery stable,
died when this son was nine years of age,
leaving a moderate competence to his family.
Tlie lad and his two brothers were sent to a
good school at Edmonton, kept by the
father of Charles Cowden Clarke. At fif-
teen he was removed from school, and ap-
prenticed to a surgeon. He carried with
him from school a little Latin, and appar-
ently no Greek— a somewhat notable cir-
cumstance when taken in connection with
the fact, that his principal poems are im-
bued with the spirit of Grecian poesy. At
the conclusion of his apprenticeship he
went back to London to " walk the hos-
pitals ; " that is, to study surgery in a prac-
tical way. The profession was not suited
to him, nor he for it. He had in the mean-
time become acquainted with Leigh Hunt,
Hazlitt. Godwin, and other men of letters,
and resolved to make literature his vocation.
His first volume of poems, published in
1817, contained the Epistles^ which a])pear
in his collected Works. The poem, Endy-
mion^ published in 1818, was sharply criti-
cized in Blachiaood and the Quarterly Re-
view. A pulmonary disease set in, which
was aggravated by private difficulties, and
in 1820 he set out for Italy, to try the effects
of a warmer climate. Before leaving Eng-
land he put forth a volume of poems which
contained the fragmentary poem Hyperion^
Lamia, Tlie Eve of St. Agnes^ Isabella, and
several of the best of his smaller poems.
He lingered for a while at Naples and at
Rome, where he died. A few days before
his death, he said that he " felt the daisies
42
JOHN KEATS.— 2
srowiuii" over him." He was buried in the
Protestant Cemetery at Rome, and upon liis
tombstone was carved the inscription, dic-
tated by himself: "Here lies one whose
name was writ in water." The Life of
Keats has been written by several persons,
notably by Richard Monckton Milnes,aftei--
wards Lord Houghton (1848), and lastly by
Sidney Colvin (1887.)
BEAUTY.
A thing of Beauty is a joy forever :
Its loveliness increases ; it will never
Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health and quiet
bieathing.
Therefore, on every morrow are we wreathing
A tiowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days.
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching : yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees, old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils,
With the green world they live in ; and the
clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst tiie hot season ; the mid-forest brake.
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms;
And such too is the gi'andeur of the dooms
We liave imagined for the mighty dead ;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read :
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
Eiidyudon.
HYMN TO PAN.
O liearkener to the loud-dapping shears,
While evt'r and anon to his shorn peers
JOHN KEATS.— 3
A nun goes bleating: winder of the horn,
When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn
Anger our huntsmen : breather round our farms,
To keep off mildews and all weather-harms :
Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds.
That come a-swooniug over hollow grounds.
And wither drearily on barren moors :
Dread opener of the mysterious doors
Leading to universal knowledge — see,
Great son of Dryope,
The many that are come to pay their vows,
With leaves about their brows.
JEndymion.
SATURN.
Deep in the shady saidness of a vale,
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn.
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star,
Sat gray-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone.
Still as the silence round about his lair.
Forest on forest hung about his head
Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there ;
Not so much life as on a summer's day
Robs not on€ light seed from the feathered grass,
But whei'e the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more
By reason of his fallen divinity,
Spreading a shade. The Naiad 'mid her reeds
Pressed her cold finger closer to her lips.
Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went,
No further than to where his feet had strayed.
And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead,
Unsceptred ; and his realmless eyes were closed ;
While his bowed head seemed listening to the
Earth,
His ancient mother, for some comfort yet.
It seemed no force could wake him from his
place ;
But there came one wlio, with a kindred hand.
Touched his wide shoulders, after bending low
With reverence, though to one who knew it not.
44
JOHN KEATri.— 4
She \v:is ;i goddess of the infant world ;
By hei- in stiituie the tall Amazon
Had stood a pigmy's height ; she would have
ta'en
Achilles by the hair and bent his neck ;
Or with a finger stayed Ixion's wheel.
Her face was large as that of Memphian Sphinx,
Pedestaled haply in a palace court,
When sages looked to Egypt for their lore.
But oh ! how unlike marble was that face ;
How beaut ifiU, if Sorrow had not made
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
There was a listening fear in her regard,
As if calamity had but begun ;
As if the vanward clouds of evil days
Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear
"Was with its stored thunder laboring up.
One hand she pressed upon that aching spot
Where beats tlie humun heart, as if just there,
Tliough an immortal, she felt cruel pain ;
The other upon Saturn's bended neck
She laid, and to the level of his ear
Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake
In solemn tenor and deep organ tone :
Some mourning words, which in our feeble
tongue
Would come in these-like accents ; O how frail
To tUiit large utterance of the early gods !
Hyperion, Book I.
OCEANUS.
So ended Saturn ; and the God of the Sea,
Sophist and sage, from no Athenian grove.
But cogitation in his watery shades.
Arose, with locks not oozy, and began.
In murmurs, which his first endeavoring tongue
Caugiit infant-like from the far-foamed sands :
" O ye, whom wrath consumes ! who passion-
stung,
Writhe at defeat, and nurse your agonies !
Shut up your senses, stifle up your ears,
My voice is not a bellows unto ire.
^ 45
JOHN KEATS.-f)
Yet listen, ye who will, whilst I bring proof
How ye, perforce, must be content to stoop;
And in the proof much comfort will I give,
If ye will take that comfort in its truth.
AVe fall by course of Nature's law not force
Of thunder nor of Jove. Great Saturn, thou
Hast sifted well the atom-universe ;
But for this reason that thou art the King,
And only blind from sheer supremacy :
One avenue was shaded from thine eyes
Through which I wandered to eternal truth.
And tirst, as thou wast not the first of powers,
So art thou not the last ; it cannot be.
Thou art not the beginning nor the end.
" From Chaos and parental Darkness came
Light, the first fruits of that intestine broil,
That sullen ferment, which for wondrous ends
Was ripening in itself. The ripe hour came.
And with it Light ; and Light, engendering
Upon its own producer, forthwith touched
The whole enormous matter into life.
Upon that very hour, our parentage,
The Heavens and tlie Earth, were manifest :
Then thou first-born, and we the giant race.
Found ourselves ruling new and beauteous
realms.
" Now comes the pain of truth, to whom 'tis
pain ;
O folly ! for to bear all naked truths.
And to envisage circumstance, all calm.
That is the top of sovereignty. Mark well!
As Heaven and Earth are fairer, fairer far
Than Chaos and blank Darkness, though once
chiefs ;
And as we show beyond that Heaven and
Earth,
Li form and shape compact and beautiful.
In will, in action free, companionship.
And thousand other signs of purer life ;
So on our heels a fresh perfection treads,
A power more strong in beiiuty, born of us,
And fated to excel us, as we pass
46
JOHN KEATS.— 6
111 lilory tliat old Darkness: nor are we
"More conquered than by us the rule
Ot" shapeless Chaos.
'' Say, doth the dull soil
Quarrel with the proud forests it hath fed,
And feedeth still, more comely than itself?
Can it deny the chiefdom of green groves ?
Or shall the tree be envious of the dove
Because it cooeth, and hath snowy wings
To wander wherewithal and find its joys? —
We are such forest-trees, and our fair boughs
Have bred forth, not pale solitary doves,
But eagles, golden-feathered, who do tower
Above us in their beauty, and must reign
In riglit thereof; for 'tis the eternal law
Tiiat first in beauty should be first in might.
Yea. by that law, another race may drive
Our conquerors to mourn as we do now.
" Have ye beheld the young God of the Seas,
My dispossessor ? Have ye seen his face ?
Have ye beheld his chariot, foamed along
By noble-winged creatures he hath made?
I saw him on tlie calmed waters scud.
With such a glow of beauty in his eyes.
That it enforced me to bid sad fiirewell
To all my empire. Farewell sad I took.
And hither came to see how dolorous fate
Had wrought upon ye ; and how I might best
Give consolation in this woe extreme.
Receive the truth, and let it be your balm."
Hyperion, Book II.
ODE TO A GRECIAN URN.
Thou still unravished bride of quietness !
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A rtowery tale more sweetly than our rhynu :
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both.
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these ? What maidens
loth ?
47
JOHN KEATS.— 7
What nijul pursuit? What struggle to escape ?
What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ec-
stacy ?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone :
Fair Youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not
leave
Tliy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss
Though winning near the goal — yet do not
grieve ;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy
bliss,
Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair !
Ah, happy boughs ! that cannot shed
Your leaves or ever bid the Spring adieu ;
And happy melodist, unwearied.
Forever piping songs forever new ;
More happy love ! More happy, happy love !
Forever warm and still to be enjoyed.
Forever panting, and forever young ;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and
cloyed,
A burning forehead and a parching tongue.
Who are those coming to the sacrifice ?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heif^' lowing at the skies.
And all her silken flanks with garlands
drest ?
What little town by river or sea-shore,
Or mountain-built, with peaceful citadel.
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be, and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
4»
JOHN KEATS.— 8
O Attic sliape ! Fair attitude ! with brede
Of marble men and maidens over-wroiiglit,
With forest branches and the trodden weed ;
Thou silent form ! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity. Cold pastoral !
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou
say'st :
" Beauty is truth, truth beauty — that is all
Ye know ou earth, and all ye need to
know."
ON FIRST READING CHAPMAN'S HOMER.
Much have I traveled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ;
Round many Western Islands have I been.
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
Tliat deep-browed Homer ruled as his de-
mesne :
Yet never did I breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Cliapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken ;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific — and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise —
Silent, upon a peak of Darien.
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-ward had sunk;
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot.
But being too happy in thy happiness
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees.
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless.
Singest of Summer in full-throated ease.
4 49
JOHN KEATS.— 9
) for a draught of vintage, that hatli been
Cooh'd a long time in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Floi-a and the country-green.
Dance, and Provenyal song, and sun-burnt
mirth !
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful hippocrene.
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth ;
That I might drink, and leave the world un-
seen,
And with thee fade away into the forest-
dim :
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves bast never
known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, Avhere men sit and hear each other
groan ;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and
dies ;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs ;
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes.
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-moi--
row.
Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards.
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards :
Already with thee! tender is the night.
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne.
Clustered around l)y all her starry Fays ;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes
blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding
mossy ways.
.50
JOHN KEATS.— 10
I cauiiot see wliat flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the bouglis,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves ;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer
Darkling I listen, and for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Called iiim soft names in many a mused rhyme
To take into the air my quiet breath ;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die.
To cease upon the midnight with no pain.
While thou ail pouring forth thy soul
abroad.
In sucli an ecstacy ! —
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in
vain ! —
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird !
No hungry generations tread thee down ;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown :
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for
home,
She stood in tears amid the alien coi-n ;
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the
foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do — deceivintr elf.
51
JOHN KEATS— 11
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is the music: — do I wake or sleep?
A FAIRY SONG.
Shed no tear ! Oh, shed no tear !
The flower will bloom another year.
Weep no more! Oh, weep no more!
Young birds sleep in the root's white core.
Dry your eyes! Oh, dry your eyes!
For I was taught in Paradise
To ease my breast of melodies —
Shed no tear.
Overhead ! look overhead !
'Mong the blossoms white and red —
Look up, look up. I flutter now
On this flush pomegranate bough.
See me ! 'tis this silvery bill
Ever cures the good man's ill.
Shed no tear ! Oh, shed no tear !
The flower will liloom another year.
Adieu, adieu — I fly, adieu,
1 vanish in the heaven's blue —
Adieu, adieu !
ODE TO AUTUMN.
Season of mists, and mellow fruitfulness !
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that lound the thatch-
eaves run ;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel-
shells
With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er brinnned their clMmniy
cells.
52
JOHN KEATS.— 12
Who hath not seen thee oft within thy store ?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor.
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed \\nth the fume of poppies, while thy
hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined
flowers ;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy'laden head across a brook ;
Or by a cider-press, with patient-look,
* Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by
hours.
"Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are
they ?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day.
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly
bourn ;
Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft.
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
BAUDS OF PASSION AND OF MIRTH.
Bards of Passion and of Mirth,
Ye have left your souls on earth !
Have ye souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new ?
Yes, and those of heaven commune
With the spheres of sun and moon ;
With the noise of fountains wondrous,
AVith the parle of voices thundero.us :
With tlie whisper of heaven's trees,
And one another, in soft ease
Seated on Elysian lawns
Browsed by none but Dian's fawns ;
Ihideriu'atli large bluf-bells tented,
JOHN KEATS— 13
Where the daises are rose-scented,
And tlie rose lierself has got
Pert'ume which on earth is not ;
Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless tranced thing,
But divine melodious truth,
Pliilosophic numbers smooth,
Tales and golden histories
Of heaven and its mysteries.
Thus ye live on high, and then
On the earth ye live again ;
And the souls ye left behind. you
Teach us here the way to find you, *
Where your other souls are joying,
Never slumbered, never cloying.
Here, your earth-born souls still speak .
To mortals of their little week ;
Of their sorrows and delights ;
Of tlieir passions and their spites ;
Of their glory and their shame,
What doth strengthen and what maim :
Thus ye teach us, every day,
Wisdom, though fled far away.
Bards of Passion and of Mirth,
Ye have left your souls on earth !
Ye have souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new.
THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET.
The poetry of earth is never dead :
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown
mead :
That is the Grasshopper's he takes the lead
In summer luxury — he has never done
With his delights ; for, when tired out with
fun,
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never :
On a lone winter evening when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there
shrills
64
JOHN KEATS.— 15
The Cricket's song, in warmtli increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
THE HUMAN SEASONS.
Four seasons fill the measure of the year ;
There are four seasons in the mind of man :
lie has his lusty Spring, when iiancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span :
lie has liis Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honeyed cud of youthful tliought he
loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close ; contented so to look
On mists in idleness — to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
SONNET WRITTEN IN JANUARY, 1818.
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high ])iled books, in cliaractery,
Hold like full garners the full-ripened grain ;
Wlien I l)ehold upon the night's starred face
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance
And feel that I may never live to trace
Their sliadows, with the magic hand of
chance ;
And when 1 feel, fair creature of an hour !
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love ! — then on the shore
Of the wide world, I stand alone, and think
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN.
Souls of poets dead and gone,
Wliat Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern.
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
55
JOHN KEATS.— 15
Have yc tippled drink more fine
Tluin mine liost's Canary wine?
Or are the IVnits of Pai-adise
Sweeter tlian tliese dainty pies
Of venison ? O generous food !
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian
Sup and bowse from horn and can.
Souls of poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy tield or mossy cavern.
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ?
KEATS'S LAST SONNET.
Brit^ht star! would I were steadfast as thoi\
art —
Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lips apart,
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving w^aters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors —
No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable.
Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fiill and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest ;
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath
And so live ever — or else swoon to death.
56
JOHN KEBLE.— 1
KEBLE, John, an English clergyman
and poet, born in 1792 ; died in 1866. He
took his degree at Oriel College, Oxfoixl, in
1810, receiving a "double first" in classics
and mathematics, a distinction which had
never been gained before except by Robert
Peel, in 1808. He was ordained in 1815,
and in 1823 resigned all his Oxford employ-
ments and accepted three small curacies,
the united emoluments of which were less
than £100 a year. In 1824 he declined an
archdeanery in the West Indies, worth
£2,000 a year; and in 1825 accepted tlie
curacy of Hursley, becoming Vicar of the
parish in 1839. In 1832 he was made Pro-
fessor of Poetry at Oxford, holding that po-
sition for two terms of five years each, with
an interval between them. His Prseltct tones
Academica, in Latin, were published in
1832-40. His sermon, "The National
Apostacy," preached by appointment at
Oxford in 1833, is characterized by Dr.
Xewman "the start of tlie religious move-
ment " of that time. He was also the
author of several of the famous " Tracts
for the Times." He edited and annotated
The Complete Work of Richard Hooker
(4 vols., 1836); and in 1838, in conjunction
with Newman and Pusey, began the editing
of the Library of the Fathers^ a collection
extending to some forty volumes. His
poetical works, upon which his reputation
mainly rests, comprise : The Christian
Year (1827, 100th edition, 1865), The
GhiMs Christian Year (4th edition, 1841),
T}ie Psalter^ in Emjlish Verse (1839), Ljjra
Innocentinm (1846), and a volume of Post-
liuraous Poems. The Life of Keble lias
been written Chief Justice Sir John Taylor
Coleridge (1868.)
57
JOHN KEBLE.— 2
THIRD SUNDAY IN LENT.
{The Christian Inheritance.)
See Lucifer like lightning fall.
Dashed from his throne of pride ;
While, answering Thy victorious call,
The Saints his spoils divide ;
This world of Thine, by him usurped too long,
Now opening all her stores to heal Thy servants'
wrong.
So when the first-born of Thy foes
Dead in the darkness lay,
When Thy redeemed at midnight rose
And cast their bonds away,
The orphaned realm threw wide her gates, and
told
Into freed Israel's lap her jewels and her gold.
And when their wondrous march was o'er,
And they had won their homes,
Wiiere Abraham fed his flocks of yore,
Among their fathers' tombs ; —
A land that drinks the rain of Heaven at will.
Whose waters kiss the feet of many a vine-clad
hill ;—
Oft as they watched, at thoughtful eve,
A gale from bowers of balm
Sweeps o'er the billowy corn, and heave
The tresses of the palm,
Just as the lingering Sun had touched with gold,
Far o'er the cedar shade, some tower of giants
old.
It was a fearful joy, I ween.
To trace the Heathen's toil
The limpid wells, the orchards green.
Left ready for the spoil.
The liousehold stores untouched, the roses bright
Wreathed o'er the cottage walls in garlands of
delight.
58
JOHN KEBLE.— 3
And now another Canaan yields
To Thine all-conquering Ark ; —
Fly from the " old poetic" fields,
Ye Paynim shadows dark !
Immortal Greece, dear land of glorious lays,
Lo ! here the " unknown God " of thy uncon-
scious praise!
The olive-wreath, the ivied wand,
'' The sword in myrtles drest,"
Each legend of the shadowy strand
Now wakes a vision blest ;
As little children lisp, and tell of Heaven,
So thoughts beyond their thought to those high
bards were given.
And these are ours : Thy partial grace
The tempting treasure lends :
These relics of a guilty raq^
Are forfeit to Thy friends ;
What seemed an idol hymn now breathes of
Thee,
Tuned by Faith's ear to some celestial melody.
There's not a strain to Memory dear,
Nor flower in classic grove,
Tliere's not a sweet note warbled here,
But minds us of Thy love ;
O Lord, our Lord, and spoiler of our foes.
There is no light but Thine ; with Thee all
beauty glows.
The Cliristian Tear.
SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EASTER.
{Balaam'' 8 Propheq/.)
O for a sculptor's hand.
That thou might'st take thy stand,
Thy wild liair floating on the eastern breeze.
Thy tranced yet open gaze
Fixed on the desert haze.
As one who deep in heaven some airy pageant
sees.
59
JOHN KEBLE.— 4
In outline dim and vast
Tiieir fearful shadows cast
The giant forms of empires on their way
To ruin : one by one
They tower, and they are gone,
Yet in the Prophet's soul the dreams of avarice
stay.
No sun or star so bright,
In all the world of light,
That they should draw to Heaven his downward
eye:
He hears the Almighty's word,
He sees the angel's sword.
Yet low upon the earth his heart and treasures
lie.
Lo ! from yon argent field,
To liim and us revealed,
One gentle Star glMes down, on earth to dwell :
Chained as they are below.
Our eyes may see it glow.
And as it mounts again, may track its brightness
well.
To him it glared afar,
A token of wild war,
The banner of his Lord's victorious wrath :
But close to us it gleams.
Its soothing lustre streams
Around our home's green walls, and on our
church-way path.
We in the tents abide
Which he at distance eyed,
Like distant cedars by the waters spread ;
While seven red altar-fires
Rose up in wavy spires,
Where on the mount he watches his sorceries
dark and dread.
He watched till morning's ray
On lake and meadow lay,
60
JOHN KEBLE.— 5
And willow-shaded streams, that silent sweep
Around the bannered lines,
Where by their several signs
The desert-wearied tribes in sight of Canaan
sleep.
He watched till knowledge came
Upon his soul like flame,
Not of those magic fires at random caught :
But true Prophetic light
Flashed o'er him, high and bright,
Flashed once, and died away, and left his dark-
ened thought.
And can he choose but fear,
Wiio feels his God so near.
That when he fain would curse, his powerless
tongue
In blessing only moves ?—~^
Alas I the world he loves
Too close around his heart her tangling veil hath
flung.
Sceptre and Star divine.
Who in Thine inmost shrine
Hast made us worshippers, O claim Thine own ;
More than Thy seers we know : —
O teach our love to grow
Up to Thy heavenly light, and reap what Thuo
hast sown.
77*6 Christian Tear.
KIKTEENTH SUXDAY AFTER TRINITY.
{2Vie Lilies of the Field.)
Sweet imrslings of the vernal skies,
Hathed in soft airs, and fed with dew,
What more than magic in you lies.
To fill the heart's fond view?
In cliildhood's sports companions gay,
In sorrow, on life's downward way,
How soothing; in our last decay
Memorials piomj)t and true.
61
JOHN KEBLE.— 6
Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,
As pure, as fragrant, and as fair,
As when ye crowned the sunshine hours
Of happy wanderer there.
Fallen all beside the world of life.
How is it stained with fear and strife !
In Reason's world what storms are rife,
What passions range and glare !
But cheerful and unchanged the while,
Your first and perfect form ye show,
The same that won Eve's matron smile
In the world's opening glow.
The stars of heaven a course are taught
Too high above our human thought ;
Ye may be found if ye are sought.
And as we gaze, we know.
Ye dwell beside our paths and homes.
Our paths of sin our homes of sorrow ;
And guilty man, where'er he roams.
Your innocent mirth may borrow.
The birds of the air before us fleet,
They cannot brook our shame to meet ;
But we may taste our solace sweet,
And come again to-morrow.
Ye fearless in your nests abide ;
Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise,
Your silent lessons, undescried
By all but lowly eyes :
For ye could draw the admiring gaze
Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys
Your order wild, your fragrant maze,
He taught us how to prize.
Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour.
As when He paused and owned you good ;
His blessing on earth's primal bower.
Ye felt it all renewed.
What care ye now if winter's storm
Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form ? —
Christ's blessing at your heart is warm.
Ye fear no vexing mood.
62
JOHN KEBLE.— 7
Ala^ ! of thousand blossoms kind,
That daily court you and caress,
How few the happy secret find
Of your calm loveliness !
Live for to-day ! to-morrow's light
To-morrow's cares shall bring to siglit,
Go sleep like closing flowers at night,
And Heaven thy morn will bless.
The Christian Tear.
ALL saints' day.
Why blowest thou not, thou wintry wind,
Now every leaf is brown and sere.
And idly droops, to thee resigned,
^ The fading chaplet of the year?
Yet wears the pure aerial sky
The summer veil, half drawn on high,
Of silvery haze, and dark and still,"
The shadows sleep on every slanting hill.
How quiet shows the woodland scene !
Each flower and tree, its duty done.
Reposing in decay serene.
Like weary men w^hen age is won :
Such calm old age, as conscience pure
And self-commanding liearts ensure,
Waiting their summons to the sky.
Content to live, but not afraid to die.
Sui-e, if our eyes were purged to trace
God's unseen armies hovering round,
We should behold, by jingels' grace.
The four strong winds of heaven fast bound ;
Their downward sweep a moment stayed.
On ocean cove and forest glade.
Till the last flower of autumn shed
Her funeral odors on her dying bed.
So ill Thine awful armory, Lord,
^ The lightnings of tlie Judgment day
Pause yet awhile, in mercy stored.
Till willing hearts wear (juile away
C'i
JOHN KEBLE.— 8
Their earthly stains ; and spotless shine
On every brow in light divine.
The cross, by angel hands imprest,
Tlie seal of glory won, and pledge of promised
rest.
Little they dream, those haughty souls
Whom empires own with bended knee,
Wliut lowly fate their own controls.
Together linked by Heaven's decree: —
As bloodhounds hush their hayings wild
To wanton with some fearless child,
So Famine waits, and War with greedy eyes.
Till some repenting heart be ready for the
skies.
Think ye the spires that glow so bright
In front of yonder setting sun.
Stand by their own unshaken might?
No. — Wliere the upholding grace is won,
We dare not ask, nor Heaven would tell ;
But sure from many a hidden dell.
From many a rural nook unthought of there.
Rises for that proud world the Saints' prevailing
prayer.
On, champions blest, in Jesus's name;
Short be your strife, your triumph full,
Till every heart have caught your Hame,
And, lightened of the world's misrule,
Ye soar those elder Saints to meet,
Gathered long since at Jesus's feet ;
No woi-ld of passions to destroy.
Your prayers and struggles o'er, your task all
praise and joy.
Tlie Christian Tear.
THE WATERFALL.
Mark how a thousand streams in one —
One in a thousand, on they fare,
Now flashing in the sun.
Now still as beast in lair.
64
JOHN KEBLE— 9
Now roiiiul the rock, now mounting o'er,
In lawless dance they win their way,
Still seeming- more and more
To swell as we survey.
They rush and roar, they whii-1 and leap,
Not wilder drives the winter storm ;
Yet a strong law they keep,
Strange powers their course inform.
Even so the miglity sky-born stream :
Its living waters, from above,
All marred and broken seem,
No union and no love.
Yet in dim caves they softly blend,
In dreams of mortals unespied:
One is their awful end.
One their unfailing Guide.
Lyra Innocentium.
65
THOMAS KEIGHTLEY.— 1
KETGIITLBY, Thomas, a British au-
thor, born ill Dublin in 1789; died in Eng-
land in 1782. After taking his degree at
Trinity College, Dublin, in 1808, he went
to Loudon, where he devoted himself to
general literature, and near the close of his
life received a pension from the Govern-
ment. He aided Crofton Croker in prepar-
ing the Fairy Legends of Ireland; wrote
popular Histories of Rome^ Greece^ and Eny-
land, Fairy Mythology^ Outlines of History^
Mythology of Ancient Greece and Italy^
History of India^ Scenes and Events of the
Crusades, The Shakespeare Expositor, Life
of Milton, and other works.
:\IILTON AND THK PTOLEMAIC ASTRONOMY.
With the seventeenth century, at least in Eng-
land, expired the astronomy of Ptolemy. Had
Milton, then, lived after that century, he could
not for a moment have believed in a solid, glob-
ous world, inclosing various revolving spheres,
with earth in the centre, and unlimited, unoccu-
pied, undigested space beyond. His local heaven
and local hell would then have become, if not
impossibilities, fleeting and uncertain to a de-
gree which would preclude all firm, undoubting
faith in their existence; for far as the most
powerful telescopes can [)ierce into space, there
is nothing found but a uniformity of stars after
stars in endless succession, exalting infinitely
our idea of the Deity and his attributes, but en-
feebling in proportion that of any portion of
space being his peculiar abode. Were Mil-
ton in possession of this knowledge, is it pos-
sible that lie could have written the first three
books of Paradise Lost ? We are decidedly of
opinion that he could not, for he would never
have written that of the truth of which he could
not have persuaded himself l)y any illusion of the
imagination.
66
JOHAN HEINKIK KKLLGKEN.— 1
KELLGREN, Johan Heinrik, a Swed-
ish poet, born in 1751 ; died in 1795. He
took his first degree at the Universitj'- of
Abo in 1772, and in 1777 became tutor in
the famiW of a nobleman of Stockhobn. In
the toHowing year, in conjunction with
Lenngren, he established the Sfockholms
Poste7i, a weekly literary Journal, and be-
came a favorite Avith the King and Court.
He wrote several dramatic pieces, among
whicli are Gustav Wasa, Christ/ i/t\ and
Gustav Adolf urid Abba Brain'. But his
reputation in Swedish literature rests
mainly upon his Satires and Lyrical
P'li'ins.
KOLLY NO PROOF OK GENIUS.
I jrnuit 'tis oft of greatest men the lot
To stumble now and then, or darkly grope ;
KxtreuK's forever border on a blot,
And loftiest mountains' sides abruptest slope.
Alortals, observe what ills on Genius wait !
Now God, now worm ! — Why fallen ? — a
dizzy head.
The energy that lifts thee to Iieaven's gate.
What is it Ijut a hair, a distaff's thread ?
He who o'er twenty centuries, twenty climes,
Il;us reigned — whom all will first of poets
vote. —
K'(Mi our good father Homer, nods at times —
So Horace says — (Your pardon, but I quote. )
Thou, Eden's bard, nextclaimest Genius's throne:
Hut is the tale of Satan, Death, and Sin,
Of Iieaven's artillery, the poet's tone? —
More like street-drunkard's prate, inspired by
Is madness only amongst poets found ?
Grows folly but on literature's tree ?
67
JOHAN HEINKIK KELLGREN. -2
No ! Wisdom's self is to fixed limits bound,
And, passing those, resembles idiocy.
He, who the planetary laws could scan,
Dissected light, and numbers' mystic force
Explored, to Bedlam once that wondrous man
Rode on the Apocalypse's mouse-colored horse.
Thou, whose stern precepts against sophists
iiurled.
Taught that to Truth Doubt only leads the
mind,
Thy law forgot'st — and in a vortex whirled,
Thou wanderest, as a Mesmer, mad and blind.
But though some spots bedim the star of day.
The moon, despite her spots, remains the
moon ;
And tliough great Newton once delirious lay,
Swedenborg's nothing but a crazy loon.
Fond dunces ! ye who claim to be inspired,
In letters and philosophy unversed,
AVho deem the Poet's fame may be acquired
By faults with which great poets have been
cursed !
Ye Swedenborgian, Rosicrucian schools,
Ye number-pickers, ye physiognomists,
Ye dream-expounding, treasure-seeking fools.
Alchemists, magnetizers, cabalists —
Ye're wrong : though error to the wisest clings.
And judgments, perfect here, may there be
shaken.
That Genius, therefore out of Madness springs.
When ye assert, ye're deucedly mistaken.
Vain reasoning I — all would easily succeed.
Was Pope deformed, were Milton, Homer,
blind ?
To be their very likeness what would need
But just to crook the back, the eyes to liliud ?
1^8
.TOilAX JIKINklK KKLLGKEN.— 3
But leave we jest ; — weak \viaj)on jest, in soolli,
When Justice and Religion bleeding lie,
Society disordered, and 'gainst Ti'uth
Error dares strike, upheld by Treachery.
Arouse thee, Muse ! snatch from the murderer
His dagger, plunging it in his vile breast !
By Nature thou Reason's interpreter
Wast meant ; obey — and nobly — her behest !
Manheim ! so named from older Manhood's
sense,
And older Manhood's force, from Error's
wave
What haven shelters thee ? Some few years
hence
On spacious Bedlam shall the Baltic lave.
Virtue from light, and Vice from folly springs ;
To sin 'gainst AVisdom's prece[;t is high trea-
son
Against the majesty of Man and Kings !
Fanaticism leads on Rebellion's season.
Pardon, my Liege, the venturous honesty
That swells the poet's, breast, and utterance
craves!
The enthusiast for thy fame must blush to see
Thy sceptre raised to favor fools or slaves.
But you who to his eyes obscure the light.
AVhat is't you seek? what recompense higlier
|)rized?
I see it — O Fame! all, all confess thy might.
And even fools would be inunortalized.
Ye shall be so ! Your brows and mind await
A thistle and a laurel crown. To thee,
Posterity, their names I dedicate,
Thy laughing-stock to all eternity.
Trcmsl. in For. Quart. Renew,
69
FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.— 1
KEMBLE, Frances Anne, an English
actress and author, born at London, in 1809.
She was the daughter of Charles Kemble,
niece of Mrs. Siddons and John Philip
Kemble, the actor, and sister of John
Mitchell Kemble, the arcliEeological scholar.
She made her first appearance on the stage
at Convent Garden Theatre in 1829, as Ju-
liet, her father enacting Mercutio, and her
mother, Lady Capulet. In 1832 she came
to America, and played in all the principal
cities. In 183-1 she was married Mr. Pierce
Butler, of South Carolina. The marriage
proved an unliappy one ; and in 1848 the
husband sued for a divorce, on the ground
of " incompatibility of temper and aban-
donment." Tlie divorce was granted, to
the satisfaction of both parties, and the
wife resumed her maiden name. From
this time until about 1877 she resided
mainly at Lenox, Mass., and Philadelphia,
appearing frequently as a Shakespearean
reader. Miss Kemble wrote : Francis the
First, a drama (1882), e/owma? (1835), Phil-
adelphia and Boston (1835), The Star of
Seville, a drama (1837), A Year of Consola-
tion (18-17), Journal of a Residence on a Geor-
gia Plantation (1863). Records of a Girl-
hood (1879), Records <f Later Life (1882),
Notes on some of Shakespeare's Plays
(1882.)
THE STUGGLE OF LIFE.
Struggle not with thy life !^ — the heavy doom
Resist not, it will bow tliee like a slave
Strive not ! — thou shalt not conquer ; to thy
tomb
Thou shalt go cTushed and bound, tliougli
ne'er so brave.
70
FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.— 2
Complain not of thy life ! — for what art tlioii
More than thy feHows, that thou should'st not
weep ?
Brave thoughts still lodge beneath a furrowed
brow,
And the way-wearied have the sweetest sleep.
Marvel not at thy life ! — Patience shall see
The perfect work of wisdom to her given ;
Hold fast tliy soul to this higli mystery,
And it shall lead thee to the gates of heaven.
71
THOMAS A KEMPIS— 1
KEMPIS, Thomas a, a German devo-
tional writer, born at Kempen, near Co-
logne, about 1380 ; died at the monastery
of Mt. St. Agnes, near Zwolle in the Nether-
lands, in 1471. The name by v/hich he is
known comes from his birth-place, the
family name being " Hammerkin," " Little
Hammer," (Lat. Malleolus, as he is some-
times called.) At the age of thirteen he
entered the school of ''The Brothers of the
Common Life" at Devxntei". In 1400 he
began his novitiate at the monastery oi
Mount St. Agnes; was ordered priest in
1413 ; and in 1425 was elected Sub-Prior
of the monastery, having in cliarge the
spiritual direction of the novices. In 1429
he and his brethren were forced to migrate
to Lunel^erke, in Friesland. Tlie}^ returned
to Mount St. Agnes in 1432, when Brother
Thomas was made Treasurer of the monas-
tery. In 1448 he was again chosen Sub-
Prior, and held that post as long as he lived.
He was a voluminous writer. A complete
edition of his works in Latin was printed
at Antwerp — (third edition in 1615), and
a translation into German by Silbert was
published at Vienna in 1834. The De
hnitatione CJirisii has been attributed to
several persons, notably to John Gerson,
Chancellor of the University of Paris,
(1363-1429) ; but it is almost universally
accepted as the work of the monk of jVIount
St. Agnes. The Imitatione Cliristi is proba-
bly the most popular work of its kind ever
written, not even excepting Bunyan's Pll-
grim^s Progress. It has been translated
into every civilized language, including
Hebrew. There are more than sixty
versions into French, and in the library of
'72
THOMAS A KExMI'Irf.— 2
Cologne are not less than live hundred
editions published within the present cen-
tury. A polyglot edition, in seven lan-
guages^Latin, Italian, Spanish, French,
Gorniaii, English, and Greek, was published
at Sulzbacli in 1837. It is divided into
four books, entitled respectiv(^ly," Admoni-
tions useful for a Spiritual Life," "Ad-
monitions tending to Things Interna!,'
•• Of Internal Consolations," and "Concern-
ing the Sacrament ; " each book being sub-
divided into from twelve to sixty shi>it
chapters.
ON THK IMITATION OF CHRIST.
" He that followeth Me, walketh not in (l:iik-
iiess," saith the Lord. These are tlie words of
Christ, by wliich we are admonished liow w •
ouiilit to imitate His life and manners if we will
he truly enlightened, and delivered from all
blindness of heart. Let, therefore, our chiefest
endeavor be to meditate upon tiie life of Jesus
Clirist. The doctrine of Christ exeeedeth all
the doctrines of holy men ; and he that hath the
Spirit will find therein a hidden m;iiuin. But it
fallcth out that many who often hear the gospel
of Christ are yet but little affected, because they
are void of the spirit of Christ.
But whosoever would fully and feelingly ini-
derstand the words of Christ nnist endeavor to
conform his life wholly to the life of Christ.
U'hat will it avail thee to dispute profoundly
of the trinity if thou be void of hnniility, and art
thereby displeasing to the Ti-inity ? Surely high
words do not make a man holy and just ; but a
virtuous life maketh him dear to God. I had
rather feel compunction than understand (he
definition thereof. If thou didst know the whole
Hible by heai't, and the sayings of all (he phi-
losophers, what would all that profit (liee
Ti
THOMAS A KEMPIS.— 3
without the love of God, and without grace? —
De Imttatlune, Book L, Chap. 1.
OF OBEDIENCE AND SUBJECTION.
It is a gn'at matter to live in obedience, to be
under a superior, and not to be at our own dis-
posing. It is much safer to obey than to govern.
Many live under obedience, rather for necessity
than for charity ; such are discontented, and do
easily repine and murmur. Neither can tiiey
attain to freedom of mind unless they willingly
and heartily put themselves under obedience, foi-
the love of God. Go whither thou wilt, thou
shalt find no rest but in humble subjection under
the government of a superior. The imagination
and change of place have deceived many. True
it is that every one willingly doth that which
ao-reeth with his own sense and liking ; and is
apt to affect those most that are of his own
mind.
But if God be among us, we must sometimes
cease to adhere to our own opinion for the sake
of peace. Who is so wise that he can fully
know all things ? Be not therefore too confident
in thine own opinion, but be willing to hear the
judgment of others. If that which thou thinkest
be not amiss, and yet thou partest with it ibr
God, and followest the opinion of another, it
siiall he better for thee. I have often lieard tiiat
it is safer to hear and take counsel than to give
it. It may also fall out that each one's opinion
may be good ; but to refuse to yield to others,
when reason or a special cause requireth it, is a
sign of pride and stiffness — De I mi tatione, Book
I., Chap. 9.
THE LOVE OF SOLITUDE AND SILENCE.
Seek a convenient time to retire into thyself;
and meditate often upon God's loving kindnesses.
Meddle not with curiosities; but i-ead such things
as may rather yield compunction to thy heait
than occupation to thy head. If thou withdraw
thyself from speaking vainly and from gadtling
74
THOMAS A REM PIS— 4
illv, as also from hearkening after novelties and
rinnors, thou shall find leisure enough and
suitable for meditation on good things.
The greatest saints avoided the society of men
wiien they could conveniently, and did rather
choose to live to God in secret. One said :
'• As oft as I have been among men, I returned
home less a man that I was before." And this
we find true when we talk long together. It is
easier not to speak a word at all, tlian not to
speak more words than we should. He there-
fore that intends to attain to the more inwjird
and spiritual things of religion must, with Jesus,
depart from the multitude and press of people.
No man doth safely appear abroad but he who
gladly can abide at home, out of sight. No
man speaks securely but he that holds his peace
willingly. No man ruleth safely but he that is
willingly ruled. No man securely doth com-
in:uid but lie that hath learned readily to obey.
No man rejoiceth securely unless he hath within
him the testimony of a good conscience. — De
Imitatione, Book I., Chap. 20.
OK THE INWARD LIFE.
" The Kingdom of God is witliin you," saith
the Lord. Turn thee with thy whole heart
unto the Lord, and forsake this wretched world,
and thy soul shall find rest. Learn to despise
outward things, and give thyself to things in-
ward, and thou shalt perceive the Kingdom of
God to come in thee. " For the Kingdom of
God is peace and joy in the Holy Ghost," which
is not given to the unholy. Christ will come
unto thee, and show thee His consolations, if
thou pi-epai'c for Him a worthy mansion within
thee. All His glory and beauty is from within,
and there He dehghteth himself. The inward
n)an He often visiteth, and hath with him sweet
dis(;ourses. pleasant solace, much peace, familiar-
ity excfrdinirlv wonderful. — De hnitutione. Book
IL, Ch:ip. -2. ■
THOMAS A K EM PIS— 5
OF TiiK oonsidki;ation of one's self.
We cannot trust much to ourselves, because
grace oftentimes is wanting to us, and under-
standing also. There is but little light in us,
and tliat which we have we quickly lose Ijy our
negligence. Oftentimes too we do not perceive
our own inward blindness. We often do evil,
and excuse it worse. We are sometimes moved
with passion, and we think it to be zeal. We
reprehend small things in others, and pass over
greater matters in ourselves. We quickly enough
feel what we suffer at the hands of others; but
we mind not what others suffer from us.
He that dotli well and rightly consider his own
works, will iind little cause to judge iiarshly ot'
another. The inward Christian preferri'th tlie
care of himself before all other cares; and he
that diligently attendeth unto liimself doth sel-
dom speak much of others. Thou wilt never lie
so inwardly religious, unless thou pass over other
men's matters with silence, and look especially
unto thyself. If thou attend wliolly unto God
and thyself thou wilt be but little moved with
whatsoever thou seest abroad. Where art thou
when thou art not with thyself? and when I lion
hast run over all, what hast thou then piotited,
if thou hast neglected thyself? If thou desirest
peace of mind and true unity of purpose, thou
must put all things behind thee, and look only
upon thyself. Thou shalt then make great prog-
ress if thou keep tliyself free from all temporal care ;
thou shalt greatly decrease if thou esteem anything
temporal as of value. Let nothing be great unto
thee, nothing high, nothing pleasing, nothing ac-
ceptable, but only God himself, or that which is of
God; esteem all comfort vain which thou receiv-
est from any creature. A soul that loveth God
despiseth all things that are inferior unto God.
God ah)ne is everlasting, and of infinite great-
ness, fdling all cn'atures, tlie soul's solace, and
the true joy -of the heart. — Ih Imifatione, liooU
II., Chap. 3.
THOMAS A KEMPIS.— 6
HIE JOYS OR SORROWS OF THE PRESENT THE
SORROWS OR JOYS OF THE FUTIRE.
( )i" two evils the less is always to bo cliosen.
Tliat thou inayst therefore avoid the future ever-
histiiig j)unisliinent. endeavor to endure present
evils patiently for God's sake. Dost thou think
tliat the men of this world suft'er nothing or Isnt
little? Ask even of those who enjoy the great-
est delicacies, and thou shalt find it otherwise'.
But thou wilt say, '• They have many delights,
and follow their own wills, and therefore they do
not much weigh their own afflictions."
Be it so. that they do have whatsoever they
will : but how long dost thou think it will last ?
Behold the wealthy of this world shall consume
away like smoke, and there shall be no memory
of their past joys. Yea, even while they are
yet alive, they rest in them not without bitter-
ness, weariness, and fear ; for from the selfsame
thing in wiiich they imagine their delight to be,
oftentimi's they receive the penalt}' of sorrow.
Nor is it anything but just that, having inordi-
nately sought and followed after pleasures, they
should enjov them not without shame and bitter-
ness.
Oh, how brief, how false, how mordinate and
fdthy are all those pleasures I Yet so drunken
and blind are men that they understand it not ;
but. like dumb beasts, for the }ioor enjoyment of
tliis corruptible life, they incur the death of the
soul. Thou, therefore, my son, go not after thy
lusts, but refrain thyself from tliine appetite ; de-
liglit thyself in tin; Lord, and He shall give the
desires of thy heart. For if thou desire true
delight, and to be more plentifully comforted
I)y Me, behold, in the contempt ol" all worldly
things, and in the cutting off of all base de-
lights, shall be this blessing ; and abundant
consolation shall be rendered to thee. And the
more thou withdrawest thyself from all solace of
creatures, so much the sweeter and more'power-
ful coiisulations shalt thou find in Me. liut at
77
THOMAS A KEMPIS.— 7
the first thou slialt not, without some sadness,
nor Avithout a hiborious conflict, attain unto these
consolations. — De Imitatume, Book III., Cliap.
12.
LOWLV DUTIES TO BE PERFORMED.
INIy son, thou art not able always to continue
in the more fervent desire of virtue, nor to per-
sist in the higlier pitch of contemplation ; but
thou must sometimes of necessity, by reason of
original corruption, descend to inferior things,
and bear the burden of this corruptible life,
tliough against thy will and with wearisomeness.
As long as thou carriest :i mortal body, thou
shalt feel weariness and lieaviness of heart.
Thou oughtest therefore in the Hesh oftentimes to
bewail tlie bunh^n of the tlesh, for that tliou canst
not always continue in spiritual exercises and di-
vine contem[)lations.
It is then expedient for thee to flee to hum) tie
and exterior works, and to refresh thyself with
good actions ; to expect with a firm confidence
My coming and heavenly visitation ; to bear pa-
tiently thy banishment, and the dryness of the
mind, till I shall again visit thee, and set tluM'
free from all anxieties ; for I will cause thee to
forget thy former ])ains, and to enjoy thorough
inward quietness; and thou shalt say: "The
Sufferings of this present time are not ^vorthy to
be com[)ared with the future glory that shall be
revealed in us De Imitatio7ie, Book III., Chap.
51.
A SPIRITUAL EXERCISE BEFORE COMMUNION.
When I weigh Thy worthiness, O Lord, and
mine own vileness, I am confounded within my-
self; foi' if I come not unto Thee I fly fiom my
life ; and if I uiiworthily intrude myself I incur
Thy displeasure. What therefore shall I do, O
my God, my Helper and my Counsellor in all
necessity ? Teach Thou me the right way ; ap-
point me some brief exercise snital)le to this
Holv Communion, For it is good foi- iiic to
78
THO.MAS A KEMPIS— 8
know how I should ivveirntly and religiously
prepare my heart for Thee, for the profitable re-
ceiving of Thy .Sacrament, or (it may be) also
for the celebrating of so great and divine a saeri-
tk-e. Do Imitatlone, Book IV., Chap. 6.
ON INQIUMHS INTO THE 3IYSTERIES OF THE
HOLY SACRAMENT.
Tliou oughtest to beware of curious and un-
pn.tilable searching into this most profound
Sacrament, if thou wilt not be plunged into the
depths of doubt. '• He that is a searcher of My
Majesty shall be overpowered by the glory of
it." God is able to do more than man can un-
derstand. A dutiful and humble inquiry after
truth is allowable, provided we be always ready
to be taught, and study to walk according to the
sound opinions of the Fathers.
It is a blessed simpli(Mty when a man leaves
the dilficult ways of questions and disputings,
and goes forward in the plain and Hrm ways of
God's commandments. Many have lost devo-
tion while they sought to search into things too
high. Faith is required at thy hands, and a
sincere life ; not height of understanding nor
deep incjuiry into the mysteries of God. If thou
dost not understand nor conceive those things
that are under thee, how slialt thou be able to
comprehend those that are above thee ? Sub-
mit thyself unto God, and humble thy sense to
faith, and the light of knowledge shall be given
thee in such degree as shall be necessary and
profitable unto thee.
Some are grievously tempted about Faith and
the Holy Sacrament ; but this is not to be imputed
to themselves, but rather to the Enemy. Be
not thou anxious herein ; do not dispute with
thine own thoughts, nor give any answer to
doubts suggested by the Devil ; but trust the
words of God, trust his Saints and Proplu^ts,
and the wicked Enemy will flee from tliee. It
oftentimes is very profitable foi- the servant of
71)
THOMAS A KEMPIS.— 9
God to I'lulure snch tilings. For the Devil
tempts not unbelievers mu\ sinners whom he
already has possession of; but faithful and re-
ligious devout pei'sons he in various ways tempts
and vexes.
(to forwaid therefore with simple and nn-
<loiil)tii!g faith, and with the reverenee of a sup-
plieaiit approach this Holy Sacrament; and
whatsoever thou art not able to understand com-
mit securely to Almighty God. God deeeivetli
thee not ; he is deceived that trusteth too much
in himself. God walketh w^itli the simple, re-
vealeth Himself to the humble, giveth under-
standing to the little ones, openeth sense to pure
minds, and hideth grace from the curious and
proud. Human Reason is feeble and may be
deceived ; but true Faith cannot be deceived.
All Reason and natural search ought to follow
Faith, not to go before it, nor to break in upon
it; for Faith and Love do here specially lake
the lead, and work in hidden ways in this most
holy, most supremely excellent Sacrament.
God, who is eternal and incomprehensible, and
of infinite power, doeth things great and un-
searchable in heaven and earth, and there is no
tracing out of His marvelous works. If the
works of God were such as that they might be
easily comprehended by human Reason, they
could not be justly called marvelous or un-
speakable— De Imitatione, Book IV., Chap. 18.
80
THOMAS KEN.— 1
KEN, Thomas, an English divine and
author, born in 1637; died in 1711. He
was educated at Winchester and Oxford ;
took Holy Orders; held various ecclesiasti-
cal positions, and became chaplain to
Charles II., who, in 1681, made him Bishop
of Bath and Wells. After the accession
oi' James II. he refused to read in his
church the Declaration of Indulgence issued
bv that monarch, and was with six other
bishops committed to the Tower for con-
tumac^^ Upon the accession of William
III., in 1688, Ken refused to take the oath
of allegiance to the new sovereign and was
deprived of his bishopric. He had saved
about £700, for which Lord Weymoitlh
gave him an annuitv of £80, with a resi-
dence at his mansion of Longleat, in Wilt-
shire. Ken was a voluminous writer both
in pro.se and ver.se, mainly upon devotional
themes. Ten years after his death was
j)ublished a collection of his poems, in four
volumes; and an edition of his prose wi'it-
ings was issued in 1838. His Life has
been written by Hawkins (1713), and by
George L. Duyckinck (1859.) Many of his
Hymns — usually abridged and sometimes
considerably altered — find place in various
Ilj'mnals.
AN KVKXING HYMN.
All praiso to TIicc, my God, this night,
Ym all the blessings of the light I
K(*«'j) me, oil keep me. King of kings,
Beneath Thine own almighty wings.
Forgive me, Lord, for Thy dear Son
The ills tlijit I this day have done ;
That with till," world, myself, and Thee
I, ere I >1(('|), ;it peace may be.
THOMAS KEN.— 2
Teach me to live, tluit I may dread
The grave as little as my bed ;
Teach me to die, that so I may
Triumphing rise at the last day.
When in the night I sleepless lie,
My soul with heavenly thoughts supply;
Let no ill dreams disturb my rest,
No powers of darkness me molest.
Dull sleep! of sense me to deprive!
I am but half my time alive ;
Thy faithful lovers, Lord, are grieved
To live so long of Thee bereaved.
But though sleep o'er my frailty reigns,
Let it not hold me long in chains ;
And now and then let loose my heart,
Till it a Hallelujah dart.
The faster sleep the senses binds,
The more unfettered are our minds.
Oh, may my soul, from matter free,
Thy loveliness unclouded see!
Oh, may my Guardian, while I sleep,
Close to my bed his vigils keep ;
His love angelical instil.
Stop all the avenues of ill.
May he celestial joys rehearse,
And thought to thought -with me converse ;
Or, in my stead, all the night long,
Sing to my God a grateful song.
Oh, when shall I, in endless day,
Forever chase dark sleep away.
And hymns divine with angels sing.
Glory to Thee, eternal King !
A MOUNING HYMN.
Awake, my soul, and with the sun
Thy daily course of duty run ;
Shake off dull sloth, and early rise
To pay thy morning sacrifice.
THOMAS KEN.— 3
Redeem thy inis-s|ienf time thut's past;
I/ive this day as if 'twcne thy Uist;
To improve thy talents take due care;
'Gainst the Great Day thyself prepare.
Let all tl>y converse be sincere,
Thy conscience as the noon-day clear ;
Think how the all-seeing God thy ways
And all thy secret thoughts surveys.
Wake, and lift up thyself, my heart.
And with the angels bear thy part ;
Who all night long unwearied sing,
" Glory to Thee, eternal King ! "
I wake, I wake, ye heavenly choir;
May your devotion, me inspire ;
That I, like you, my age may spend,
Like you may on my God attend.
Glory to Tliee, who safe hast kept,
And hast refn-sliod me while I slept ;
Grant, Lord, when I from death shall wake,
1 may of endless life partake.
Lord, I my vows to Thee renew ;
Scatter my sins as morning dew ;
Guard my first spring of thought and will,
And with Tliyself my spirit fill.
Direct, control, suggest, this day
All I design, or do, or say:
That all my powers, with all their might,
Li Thy sole glory may unite.
Praise God, from wiiom all blessings flow ;
Praise Him, all creatures here below ;
Praise Iliin al)ove, angelic host ;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
83
GEORGE KENNAN.— 1
KENNAN, George, an American trav-
eller and author, born at Norwalk, Oliio, in
1845. His education was derived from the
public schools, and he early supported him-
self as a telegraph operator. In that capacity
he went to Kamtchatka at the end of 1864,
and for three years was engaged in explor-
ing northeastern Siberia, and locating a
route I'or the proposed Russo-American tel-
egraph line from the Okhotsk Sea to Beh-
ring Strait. These experiences he described
in Tent Life in Siberia and Advenfttres
Anion;/ the Koraks (1870.) He came home
in 1868, but undertook an exploration of
the Caucasus in 1870-71, crossing that
great range thrice. In 1885 the Ccidnry
Company sent him again to Russia and Si-
beria to investigate the exile system. In a
journey of 15,000 miles he visited the
prisons and mines between the Ural and
the Amoor River. Beginning his task with
sympathies leaning toward the government
and against the revolutionists, he I'ound oc-
casion to change this view. The publica-
tion of his articles on Siberia and the ex-
ile system, in the Century ifayazine,
1887-88, has proved an event of more than
literary importance. Besides drawing wide
attention and deep interest in English-
speaking countries, they have been trans-
lated, while yet hardly more than begun,
into several foreign languages, and are ap-
pearing as a serial in the organ of the Rus-
sian Liberals at Geneva, and as a s\i))})le-
ment to a Dutch paper issued at Batavia.
Our extracts are from this work.
KXILE BY ADMINISTRATIVE PROCESS.
Exile by administrative process means the
bain,--linu'nt of an olmoxions person from one
GEORGE KENNAN.-2
|iait of the cnipirc to anotlicr witliout tlio oltser-
viince of any of the legal formalities that, in
most civilized countries, precede or attend de-
privation of rights and the infliction of punish-
ment. The person so banished may not be
giiihy of any crime, and may not have rendered
liiniself amenable in any way to any law of tlie
s'ate; but if. in the opinion of the local author-
ities, his presence in a particular place is "preju-
dicial to social order," he may be arrested with-
out a warrant, and, with the concurrence of the
Minister of the Interior, may be removed forci-
bly fo any other place within the limits of the
empire, and there be put under police surveil-
lance for a period of five years. He may, or
may not, be informed of the reasons for this
summary proceeding, but in either case he is
perfectly helpless. He cannot examine the wit-
nesses upon whose testimony his presence is de-
clared to be prejudicial to social order. He can-
not summon friends to pi-ove his loyalty and
good character without great risk of bringing
upon them the same calamity which has liefal-
len him. He has no right to demand a trial, or
even a lu\aring. He cannot sue out a writ of
habeas corpus. He cannot appeal to the juiblic
tiirough the press. His communications with
the world are so suddenlv severed that some-
times even his own relatives do nf»t know what
has happened to liim. He is literally and abso-
lutely without any means whatever of self-pro-
tection. . .
A young student, called Vladimir Sidorski (I
use a fictitious name), was arrested by mistake
instead of anoth(!r and a different Sidorski,
named Victor, whose presence in IMoscow was
regarded by somebody as " prejudicial to social
oi-dcr." Vladimir protested that he was not
\'i<'tor, that he did not know Victor, and that
his arrest in the place of Victor was the residt
of a stu|)id bhindei-; but his protestations were
ot MO avail. The police were too miieli occu-
GEORGE KENNAN.— 3
pied in unearthing " conspiracies" and looking
after " untnistwortliy " people to devote any time
to a troublesome verification of an insignificant
student's identity. There must have been some-
thing wrong about him, they argued, or he
would not have been arrested, and the safest
thing to do with him was to send him to Siberia
— and to Siberia he was sent. When the con-
voy-otHcer called the roll of the outgoing exile
party, Vladimir Sidorski failed to answer to
Victor Sidorski's name, and the ofilcer, with a
curse, cried, " Victor Sidorski! why don't you
answer to your name?" " It's not my name,"
replied Vladimir, "and I won't answer to it.
It's another Sidorski who ought to be going to
Siberia." " What is your name, then ? " A'^lad-
imir told him. The officer coolly erased the
name " Victor," in the roll of the })arty, inserted
the name "Vladimir," and remarked cynically,
" It doesn't make a bit of diftierence ! "
EXILE SITFFERIN<;S.
In tlie city of Tomsk we began to feel for the
fii-st time the nervous strain caus(?d by the sight
of remediless human misery. From that time
until we recrossed the Siberian frontier on our
way back to St. Petersburg, we were subjected
to a nervous and emotional strain that was some-
times harder to bear than cold, hunger, or fa-
tigue. One cannot witness unmoved such suffer-
ing as we saw in the " bologans " and the hospi-
tal of the Tomsk forwarding prison, nor can one
listen without the deepest emotion to such sto-
ries as we heard from political exiles in Tomsk,
Krasnoyarsk, Irkutsk, and the Trans-Baikal. One
pale, sad, delicate woman, who had been banished
to Eastern Siberia, and who had there gone
down into the valley of the shadow of death, un-
dertook one night, I remember, to relate to me
her experience. I could see that it was agony
for her to live over in nariation the sufferings
and bereavements of her tragic past, and I
would gladly have sjjared her the self-imposed
86
GEORGE KENNAN.— 4
torture ; but i^lie av;i,< so deterniiiied that the
worM shouUl know thiougli me wliat Russians
endure before tht y become terrorists, tliat she
nervrd herself" to bear it, and between fits of
half-controlled sobbing, during which I could
only pace the floor, she told me the story of her
life. It was the saddest story I had ever heard.
After such an interview as this with a heart-broken
woman — and I had niany such — I could neither
sleep nor sit still; and to the nervous strain of
such experiences, ([uite as much as to liardship
and privation, was attributable the final bieak-
ing down of my health and strength in the
Trans-Baikal.
87
JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY.— 1
KENNEDY, John Pendleton, an
American lawyer, statesman, and author,
born at Baltimore in 1795; died at New-
port, R. I., in 1870. He graduated at Bal-
timore College in 1812, and was admitted
to the bar in 1816. He was elected to the
Maryland House of Delegates in 1820, and
was re-elected in the two subsequent years.
He was elected to Congress in 1838, and
again in 1842. In 1852 he was made Sec-
retary of the Nav\^ and in this capacity
rendered efficient aid to Perry's Japan Ex-
pedition, and to Kane's Second Arctic Voy-
age. Upon the accession of Mr. Pierce to
the Presidency, in 1853, he retired from po-
litical life. During the civil war he was an
earnest supporter of the Union cause. After
the close of the war he made several visits
to Europe. Here he became acquainted
with Mr. Thackeray, who was then writing
The Viryinians. Mr. Thackeray on one
occasion spoke of the difficulty in prepar-
ring the copy for the forthcoming Number,
and said, jestingly, to Mr. Kennedy, " I wish
you would write one for me." '' Well," re-
plied Mr. Kennedy, " so I will, if you will give
me the run of the story." The result was,
as we are told, that Mr. Kennedy wrote the
fourth Cliapter of the second Volume of
The Viryinians, which contains an accurate
description of the local scenery of a region,
with which Kennedy was familiar, tind with
which Thackeray was wholly unacquainted.
By his will Mr. Kennedy made provision
for the publication of a uniform edition of
his Works, which appeared in 1870, in ten
volumes. Besides a large number of dis-
courses, addresses, and essays, this collec-
tion inchules his three novels : Swallmc
JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY.— 2
Bnrii, n story of rural life in Virginia
(1882) Horsf'-Shoe Robinson^ a tale of tin*
Tory Ascendency (1835), and Roh of tlw
Boivl, describing the province of Maryland
in the davs of the second Lord Baltimore
•)
A VIUniNIA COIXTRY GENTLEMAN, A.D. 1825.
Frank Meiiwetlier lias some claims to suprem-
acy as Justice of tlie Peace ; for diii-ing three
years 1h^ smoked cigars in a lawyer's office in
Richmond, wliic-ji enabled him to obtain a bird's-
eye view of Blacksfone and the Revised Statutes.
Besides this, he was a member of a Law De-
bating Society, which ate oysters once a week
in a cellar; and lie wore, in accordance with tlie
Usage of the most promising law-students of the
day, six ci'avats, one above the other, and yel-
low-topped boots, by which he was recognized as
a blood of the metropolis.
Having in this way qualiiied himself to assert
and maintain his rights, he came to his estate,
U[)on his ari'ival at age, a very model of a
country gentleman. Since that time his avoca-
tions have a certain hterary tincture ; for hav-
ing settled liiniself down as a married man, and
got rid of his superfluous foppery, he rambled
with wonderful assiduity through a wilderness of
I'onuiiices, poems, and dissertations, which are now
collected in his library, and, with their batteied
blue covers, present a lively type of an army of
Continentals at the close of the war, or a hospi-
tal of invalids. These have all at last given way
to newspapers — a miscellaneous study very at-
tractive to country gentlemen. This line of
study has reiuh'red Meriwether a most perilous
antagonist in the matter of Legislative Proceed-
ings.
A landed proprietor, with a good house and a
host of servants, is naturally a hospitable man.
A guest is one of his daily wants. A friendly
face is a necessity of life, without which the
89
JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY.— 3
heart is ;ii»t to starve, or a luxury without which
it grows parsimonious. Men who are isohited
from society by distance, feel those wants by an
instinct, and are grateful for an opportunity to
relieve them. In Meriwether the instinct goes
beyond this. Tt has, besides, something dialec-
tic in it. His house is open to everybody as
freely almost as an inn. But to see him when
he has bad the good fortune to pick up an intel-
ligent, educated gentleman — and particularly
one who listens well ! — a respectable assenta-
tious sti'anger ! — all the better if he has been in
the Legislature ; or, better still, in Congress.
Such a person caught within the purlieus of
Swallow Barn, may set down one week's enter-
tainment as certain — inevitable — and as many
more as he likes : the more the merrier. He
will know something of the qualities of Meri-
wether's rhetoric before he is gone.
Then, again, it is very pleasant to note Frank's
kind and considerate bearing towards his servants
and dependents. His slaves appreciate this, and
hold him in most aifectionate reverence ; and
therefore are not only contented but happy under
his dominion.
Meriwether is not much of a traveller. He
has never been in New England, and very sel-
dom beyond the confines of Virginia. He makes
now and then a winter excursion to Richmond,
which, I rather think, he considers as the centre
of civilization ; and towards autumn it is his
custom to journey over the mountains to the
Springs — which he is obliged to do to avoid the
unhealthy season in the tide-water region. But
the Upper Country is not much to his taste, and
would not be endured by him if it were not for
the crowds that resort there for the same reason
that operates upon him; and, I imagine — though
he would not confess it — for the opportunity
whicii this concourse aifords him for discussion
of opinions.
He thinks lightly of the mercantile interest;
90
JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY.— 4
and, in lact, undervalues the manners of large
cities generally. He believes that those who
live in them are hollow-hearted and insincere,
and wanting in that substantial intelligence and
virtue wliich he affirms to be characteristic of
the country. He is an ardent admirer of the
genius of Virginia, and is frequent in his com-
mendation of a toast in which the State is com-
pared to the Mother of the Gracchi. Indeed, it
is a familiar thing with liim to speak of the aris-
tocracy of talent as only inferior to that of the
landed interest : — the idea of a freeholder im-
plies to his mind a certain constitutional pre-emi-
nence in all the virtues of citizenship, as a mat-
ter of course.
The solitary elevation of a country gentle-
man, well-to-do in the world, begets some mag-
nificent notions. He becomes as infallible as
the Pope; gradually acquires a habit of making
long speeches; is apt to be impatient of contra-
diction ; and is always very touchy upon " the
point of honor." There is nothing more conclu-
sive than a rich man's logic anywhere ; but in
the country, amongst his dependents, it flows
with the smooth and unresisted course of a full
stream irrigating a meadow, and depositing its
mud in fertilizing abundance. Meriwether's
sayings, about Swallow Barn, import absolute
verity. But I have discovered that they are
not so current out of his jurisdiction. Indeed,
every now and then, we have quite obstinate
discussions, when some of the neighboring poten-
tates, who stand in the same sphere with Frank,
come to the house. For these worthies have
opinions of their own ; and nothing can be more
dogged than the conflict between them. They
sometimes fire away at eacli other, with a most
amiable and convincing hardihood, for a wlicdc
evening, bandying interjections, and making
bows, and saying shrewd things, with all the
courtesy imaginable. But for inextinguishable
pertinaiil V in argument, niid uIIit imprctrna-
<)\
JOHN rKNDLETON KENNEDY.— 5
Idlily of belief, tlici'c is no other dis[»Lit;iii( like
your country gentleman who reads the iiews-
[)apers. AYhen one of these discussions fairly
gets under weigh, it never fairly comes to an
anchor again of its own accord. It is either
blown out so far to sea as to Ite given up for
lost ; or puts into port in distress for want of
documents ; or is upset l>y a call foi- boot-jacks
and slippers — which is something like the Pre-
vious Question in Congress.
If my worthy cousin be somewhat over-argu-
mentative as a politician, he restores the equi-
librium of his character by a considerate coolness
in religious matters. He piques himself upon
being a High-Churchman, but is not the most
diligent frequenter of places of worsliip ; and
very seldom permits himself to get into a dispute
upon points of faith. If Mr. Chub, the Presby-
terian tutor ill the family, ever succeeds in draw-
ing him into this field — as he has occasionally
the address to do — Meriwether is sure to fly the
course ; he gets puzzled with Scripture names,
and makes some odd mistakes between Peter
and Paul, and then generally turns the parson
over to his wife, who, he says, "has an astonish-
ing memory."
He is somewhat distinguished as a breeder of
blooded horses ; and ever since the celebrated
race between Eclipse and Henry has taken to
this occupation with a renewed zeal, and as a
matter affecting the reputation of the State. It
is delightful to hear him expatiate upon the
value, importance, and patriotic bearing of this
employment, and to listen to all his technical
lore touching the mysteries of horse-craft. He
has some fine colts in training, which are com-
mitted to tiie care of a pragmaticfd old negro
named Carey, who in his reverence for the occu-
pation is the perfect shadow of his master. He
and Frank hold grave and momentous consulta-
tions upon the affairs of the stable, in such a
sagacious strain of equal debate that it would
92
JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY.— 6
puzzle a spectator (o tell which was the leadiii'^
member in the council. Carey thinks he knows
a great deal more npon the subject than his
master; and their frequent intercourse has begot
a familiarity in the old negro which is almost
fatnl to Meriwether's supremacy. The old man
feels himself authorized to maintain his positions
according to the freest parliamentary form, and
sometimes with a violence of asseveration that
compels his master to abandon his ground,
purely out of faint-heartedncss. Meriwether
gets a little nettled at Carey's doggedness, but
generally turns it off with a laugh. I was in the
stable with him one morning soon after my
arrival, when he ventured to expostidate with
the venerable groom upon a professional point ;
but the controversy terminated in its customary
way :—
"Who sot you up, Master Frank, to tell me how
to fodder that 'ere creature, when I as good as
nursed you on my knee?"
*' Well, tie up your tongue, you old mastiff,"
replied Frank as he walked out of the stable ;
"and cease growling, since you will have it your
own way." And then, as we left the old man's
presence, he adtled, with an affectionate chuckle.
•■ A faithful old cur, too, that snaps at me out of
pure honesty ; he has not many years h-ft, and
it does no harm to humor "him." — Swallow
Ram.
93
WILLIAM KENNEDY— 1
KENNEDY, William, a Scottish poet,
born at Paisley in 1799; died near London
in 1849. He was associated with Mother-
well in conducting the Paisley Mafjazine.
Subsequently he became private secretary
to the Earl of Dalhousie, whom he accom-
panied to Canada. He was afterwards ap-
pointed Consul at Galveston, Texas, and in
1841 published in London The Eise, Pro-
(jress^ mid Prospects of the Republic of
Texas. Kenned3''s other works are : My
Early Days^ a tale (1825), Fitful Fancies^
a volume of poems (1827), TJie Arroio and
the Rose, and other Poems (1830), besides
some later occasional poems. He retired
on a pension in 1847, and died shortly
after a visit to Scotland, when tlie follow-
ing poem was written : — ■
AT THE GRAVE OF WILLIAM MOTHERWELL,
1847.
Place we a stone at his head and liis feet ;
Sprinkle his sward with the small flowers sweet;
Piously hallow the poet's retreat : —
Ever approvingly,
Ever most lovingly.
Turned he to nature, a worshipper meet.
Harm not the thorn which grows at his head ;
Odorous honors its blossoms will shed,
Grateful to him, early summoned, who sped
Hence not unwillingly —
For he felt thrillingly —
To rest his poor head 'mong the low-lying dead.
Dearer to him than the deep minster-bell,
Winds of sad cadence, at midnight will swell,
Vocal with sorrows he knoweth too Avell,
AVho, for the early day,
Pliiining this roundelay,
Might his own fate from a brother's foretell.
',•4
WILLIAM KENNEDY.— 2
Worldly ones treading this terrace of graves,
Grudge not the minstrel the little he eraves,
When o'er the snow-mound the winter-blast
raves —
Tears — -which devotedly,
Though unnotedly.
Flow from their spring in the soul's silent caves.
Dreamers of noble tlioughts, raise him a shrine,
Graced with the beauty which lives in his line ;
Strew with pale flowerets, wlien pensive moons
shine,
His grassy covering.
Where spirits, hovei'ing,
Chant for his requiem music divine.
Not as a record he lacketh a stone !
Pay a light debt to the singer we've known —
Proof that our love for his name hath not flown
With the frame perishing —
That we are cherishing
Feelings akin to the lost poet's own.
95
JAMES KENNEY.-l
KENNEY, James, a British poet, born in
Ireland in 1780; died in 1849. He was
employed as a clerk in a banking-liouse.
In 1803 he published Society^ wiiJi other
Poems. He subsequently wrote Raisiruj
Lite Wind^ Sioeelhearts and Wives, and sev
eral other successful dramatic pieces.
TOM, IF YOU LOVE ME, SAY SO.
Dear Tom, my brave, free-hearted lad,
Where'er you go, God bless you;
You'd better speak than wish you had,
If love for me distress you.
To me, they say, your thoughts incline —
And possibly they may so:
Then, once for all, to quiet mine,
Tom, if you love me, say so.
On that sound heart and manly frame.
Sits lightly sport or labor;
Good-humored, frank, and still the same.
To parent, friend, or neighbor :
Then why postpone your love to own
For me, from day to day so ;
And let me whisper, still alone,
" Tom, if yon love me, say so? "
How oft when I was sick, or sad
With some remembered folly,
The sight of you has made me glad —
And then most melancholy !
Ah ! why will thoughts of one so good
Upon my spirits prey so ?
By you it should be understood —
" Tom, if you love me, say so ! "
Last Monday, at the cricket-match,
No rival stood before you ;
In harvest-time, for quick dispatch.
The farmers all adore you ;
And evermore your praise they sing ; —
Though one thing you delay so.
And I sleep nightly murmuring,
" Tom, if you love me, say so ! "
96
JAMES KENNEY.— 2
Whate'er of ours you chance to seek,
Almost before you breathe it,
I bring, with blushes on my cheek.
Ami all my soul goes with it.
Why thank me then, with voice so low.
And faltering turn away so?
When next you come, before yon go,
'' Tom, if you love me, say so ! "
Wlien Jasper Wild, beside the brook,
Rosenlful round us lowered,
I oft recall that lion-look
That (luelled the savage coward.
Bold words and free you uttered then :
W^ould they could find their way so,
When these moist eyes so plainly mean,
" Tom, if you love me, say so ! "
My friends, 'tis true, are well-to-do,
And yours are poor and friendless ;
Ah, no ! for they are rich in you —
Their iiappiness is endless.
You never let them shed a tear.
Save that on you they weigh so :
There's one might bring you better cheer ;-
'• Tom, if you love me, say so ! "
My uncle's legacy is all
For you, Tom, when you choose it ;
In better hands it cannot fall.
Or better trained to use it.
I'll wait for years ; but let me not
Nor wooed nor plighted stay so :
Since wealth and worth make even lot —
" Tom, if you love me, say so ! "
97
CHARLER KENT.-l
KENT, Charles, an English poet, was
bom at London in 1828. Besides several
tales and essays in prose, he published
Dreamland, with other Poems in 1862. A
complete collection of his poems was issued
in 1870.
love's calendar.
Talk of love in vernal hours,
When tlie landscape blushes
With the dawning glow of flowers,
While the early thrushes
Warble in the apple-tree ;
When the primrose springing
From the green bank, lulls the bee,
On its blossom swinging.
Talk of love in summer-tide
When tlirough bosky shallows
Trills the streamlet — all its side
Pranked with freckled mallows ;
When in mossy lair of wrens
Tiny eggs are warming ;
When" above the reedy fens
Dragon-gnats are swarming.
Talk of love in autumn days,
When the fruit, all mellow,
Drops amid the ripening rays,
While the leaflets yellow
Cir(de in the sluggish breeze
With their portents bitter ;
When lietween the fading trees
Broader sunbeams glitter.
Talk of love in winter time.
When the liailstorm hurtles.
While the robin sparks of rime
Shakes from hardy myrtles,
Never sjieak of love with scorn,
Such were direct treason ;
Love was made for eve and morn,
And for every season.
FRANCIS SCOTT KEY.— 1
KEY, Francis Scott, an American
lawyer and poet, was born in Maryland in
1870 ; died at Baltimore in 1843. He was
educated at St. John's College, Md., studied
law, and commenced practice in his native
county, but subsequently removed to
Washington, where he became District
Attorney for the District of Columbia.
He wrote only a few occasional poems,
which were collected into a volume, and
published in 1857. The only notable poem
in this volume is the song " The Star-span-
gled Banner." It happened that, in Au-
gust, 1814, the author witnessed the bom-
bardment of Fort McHenry, near 'Balti-
more, bv the British fleet. It could hardly
be hoped that the American flag, which
they could plainly see when night closed
in, would be seen flying in the morning.
But when morning broke it was still flying.
Upon the spur of the moment Key wrote
the poem, which at once took rank as one
of our national songs. An imposing mon-
ument to him was erected in 1887, in the
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco.
THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER.
Oil ! say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hailed at tlie twilight's
last gleaming —
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through
the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gal-
lantly streaming?
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting
in air,
Gave proof, through the night, that our flag was
still there.
Oh ! say, does that Star-spangled banner yet
wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the
brave ?
U9
FRANCIS SCOTT KEY.— 2
On that sliore, dimly seen through the misis of
the deep,
AVhere the foe's haughty liost in dread .silence
reposes.
What is tliat which the breeze, o'er tlie tower-
ing steep.
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now dis-
closes ?
Now it catches the gleam of the murning's first
beam.
In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream :
'Tis the Star-spangled Banner — Oh, long may it
wave [brave !
O'er the land of the free and the home of the
And where is the band who so tauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's con-
fu.sion
A liome and a country should leave us no more?
Tlieir blood has washed out their foul foot-
steps' pollution !
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the
grave ;
And the Star-spangled Banner in triumph doth
wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the
brave.
Oh ! thus be it ever when freemen sliall stand
Between their loved home and the war's des-
olation :
Blessed with victory and peace, may the Heaven-
rescued land,
Praise the Power that hath made and per-
served it a nation !
Thus conquer weT must, when our cause it is
just:
And this be our motto — "In God is our trust ! ".
And the Star-spangled Banner in triumph shall
wave [brave.
O'er the land of the free and the home of the
100
HARRIET McEWEN KIMBALL.— 1
KIMBALL, Harriet McEvven, an
American poet, born at Portsmouth, N. H.,
in 1834. Her works, which are mainly re-
ligious lyrics, are : Hymns (1867), Sivalloiv
Fliyhts of SoiKj (1874), and the Blessed
Company of all Faithful (1879.)
THE GUEST.
Speechless Sorrow sat with me,
I was sighing heavily ;
Lamp and tire were out ; the rain
"Wildly beat tlie window-pane.
In thu dark we heard a knock,
And a hand was on the lock ;
One in waiting spake to me,
Saying sweetly,
" I am come to sup with thee."
All my room was dark and damp ;
" Sorrow," said I, " trim the lamp ;
Light the Hre, and cheer thy face ;
Set the guest-chair in its place."
And again I heard the knock ;
In the dark I found the lock
"Enter! I liave turned the key;
Enter, Stranger,
Who art come to sup with me."
Opening wide the door, he came ;
But I could not speak his name.
In tlie guest-chair took his place ;
But I could not see his face
When my che(?rful fire was beaming.
When my little lamp was gleaming,
And the feast was spread for three —
Lo ! my Master
Was the Guest that supped with me.
all's well.
The day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep
My weary spirit seeks repose in Thine :
Father, forgive my trespasses, and keep
This little life of mine.
101
HARRIET McEWEN KIMBALL.— 2
Witli loving kindness curtain Thou my bed;
And cool in rest my burning pilgrim-feet;
Thy pardon be the pillow for my head —
So shall my sleep be sweet.
At peace with all the world, dear Lord, and
Thee,
No fears my soul's unwavering faitli can
shape ;
All's well ! whichever side the grave for me
The morning light may break.
LONGING FOR RAIN.
P^arth swoons, o'erwhelmed with weight of
bloom ;
The scanty dews seem dropped in vain ;
Athirst she lies, while garish skies
Burn with their brassy hints of lain.
Morn after morn the flaming sun
Smites the bare hills with fiery rod ;
Night after night, with blood-red light.
Glares like a slow-avenging god.
Oh for a cloudy curtain drawn
To screen us from the scorching sky!
Oh for the rain to lay again
Tiie smothering dust-clouds passing by !
To wash tlie hedges, white with dust,
Freshen the grass and fill the pool ;
While in the breeze the odorous trees
Drip softly, swaying dark and cool.
102
RICHARD BURLEIGH KIMBALL.— 1
KIMBALL, Richard Burleigh, an
American author, born at Plainfield, N. H.,
in 181B. He graduated at Dartnioutli in
1834, studied law at home and in France,
and practised it at Waterford, N. Y., and
in New York City from 1842 till he went
to Texas, founded a town which bore his
name, constructed a railroad from Galves-
ton to Houston, and was its president 1854-
60. He received the degree of LL. D. from
Dartmouth in 1873. He published Ldttrs
from EiKjland (1842), Letters from Cuba
(1850), Cuba and the Cubans '(1850), St.
Leger or TJireads of Life (1849), Romance
of Student Life Abroad (1852), Laic Lectures
(1853), Undercurrents of Wall Street {l^CA\
Was lie Successful (1864), Henrif Powers^
Banher (1868), To-day in New York (1870),
and Stories of Exceptional Life (1887.) He
edited In the Tropics (1862) and The Prince
of Kashna (1864), was an editor with
others of the Knickerbocker Gallery (1853),
and wrote much for the magazines. St.
Tje'jer^ his most popular work, was twice
re))rinted in England and once in Leipsic;
lour of liis books were translated into
Dutch, and several into German and French,
PROBLEMS OF YOUTH.
My father (erroneously perhaps) deteiinined
to give his children a private education, atfirni-
ing tliat pulilic schools and universities were
alike destructive to mind, manners, and moi-als.
So at home we were kept, and furnished with
erudite teachers, who knew everything about
l>ooks and nothing about men.
I had ill all this abundance to foster the un-
happy fi'ding which burned within. Thought,
liow it troubled me— and I had so mucli to
think aliont. But bcvoiid all, tln' trn-at wonder
' l0:i
RICHARD BURLEIGH KIMBALL— 2
of my life was, ' Wliat life was made for? ' I
wondered what could oecii|)y tlie world. I read
over the large volumes in the old library, and
wondered why men should battle it with each
other for the sake of power, when power lasted
but so short a time. I wondered why kings
who could have done so much good had done so
much evil ; and I wondered why anybody was
very unhappy, since death should so soon relieve
from all earthly ills. Then I felt there was
some unknown power busy within me, which de-
manded a field for labor and development, but 1
knew not what spirit it was of. I wanted to see
the world, to busy myself in its business, and
try if I could discover its fashion, for it was to
me a vast mystery. I knew it was filled with
human beings like unto myself, but what were
they doing, and wherefore ? The lohat and the
why troubled me, perplexed me, almost crazed
me. Tiie world seemed like a mad world, and
its inhabitants resolved on self-destruction. How
I longed to break the shell which encased this
mystery ! I felt that there was a solution to
all this; but how was I to discover it? — Saint
Leger.
AN INTERRUPTED WEDDING.
The ceremony went on — the moments to me
seemed ages ; the responses had been demanded
and were made by Leila, in a firm unwavering
voice ; and the priest had taken the ring in
order to complete the rite. At this moment, a
moan at my side caused me to turn, Wallenroth
had sunk down insensible. The priest paused,
startled by the interruption ; a gesture from
Vautrey recalled him to his duty ; but now a
slight disturbance was heard, proceeding from
the entrance : the noise inci-eased — the priest
paused again — when a hideous creature with the
aspect of a fiend darted swiftly forward, and be-
fore one could say what it was. lighted with a
single bound upon the shoulders of the Count.
I saw the glitter of steel aloft, and flashing sud-
104
RICHAKD BUKLEIGH KIMBALL.— 3
deiily downward; I saw Vautrey fall heavily
upon the mosaic — dead. His exeoutioiu'r crouched
a inonient over hira, with a brute fierceness ;
then drew the dirk from the wound, and as
drops of" blood fell from its point, sprang quickly
toward me, shaking the weapon with a wild and
triumphant air, and exclaiming, ' Tat's petter
dune ! ' The truth flashed upon me — I beheld in
the repulsive w-retch before me the creature we
had encountered at the toll-gate — the wild sav-
age seen at St. Kildare, tlie fierce cateran of the
highlands, the leal subject of Glenfinglas — Doii-
acha Mac Ian.
105
ALEXANDER WILLIAM KINGLAKE.— 1
KINGLAKE, Alexander Willl^m, an
English historian, born near Taunton in
1811. He was educated at Eton and at
Trinity College, Cambridge, where he took
his degree in 1832, and was called to the
bar in 1837. Soon after he made a tour in
European Turkey, Asia Minor, Syria, and
Egypt. Letters which he wrote to his friends
were several years later, in 1844, published
under the title of Eothe.n (" From the East.")
On his return from the East he entered
upon practice in London as a Chancery
lawyer. In 1857 he was returned to Parlia-
ment, in the Liberal interest for the borough
of Bridgewatei" ; for which he was again
returned in 1868, but was unseated on peti-
tion. Besides ^o(;Aew lii.s only notable work
is the History of the Invasion of the Crimea^
of which- volumes T. and II. appeared in
1863 ; volumes VI [. and VIII. in 1877 ; the
other volumes having been published inter-
mediately.
COLLOQUY BETWEEN TRAVELLER AND PASHA,
AS INTERPRETED BY THE DRAGOMAN.
Unless you can contrive to learn a little of the
language, you will be rather bored by your visits
of ceremony ; the intervention of the interpre-
ter, or dragoman, as he is called, is fatal to the
spirit of conversation. A traveller ma}' write
and say " the Pasha of So-and-So was par-
ticularly interested in the vast progress which
has been made in the application of steam,
and appeared to understand the structure of our
machinery," and so on, and that "he expressed a
lively admiration for the many sterling qualities
for which the people of England are dis-
tinguished." But the heap of commonplaces
thus quietly atti-ibuted to the Pasha will have
been founded, perhaps, on some such conversa-
tion as this ; —
106
ALEXANDER WILLIAM KINGLAKE.— 2
Pasha. — The Englishman is w<4c'ome ; most
blessed among hours is this of his coming.
Dragoman. — The Pasha pays you his compli-
ments.
Traveller Give him my best compliments in
return, and say I'm delighted to have the lionor
of seeing him.
Dragoman His Lordship, this Englishman,
Lord of London, Scorner of Ireland, Suppres-
sor of France, has quitted his governments, and
left his enemies to breathe for a moment, and
has crossed the waters in strict disguise, with a
small but eternally faithful retinue of followei-s,
in order that he might look upon the bright
countenance of the Pasha among Pashas — the
everlasting Pashalik of Karagholookoldour.
Traveller What on earth have you been say-
ing about London? The Pasha will be taking
me for a mere cockney. Have I not told you
always to say that I am from a branch of the
family of Mudcombe Park, and am to be a
magistrate for the county of Bedfordshire, only
I've not {pialilied, and that I should have been a
Deputy-Lieutenant if it had not been for the ex-
traordinary conduct of Lord Mountpromise, and
that I was a candidate for Goldborough at the
last election, and that I should have won easy,
if my committee had not been bought? I wish to
Heaven that if you do say anything about me,
you'd tell the simple truth.
Pasha — What says the friendly Lord of Lon-
don ? Is there aught that I can grant him within
the Pashalik of Karagholookoldour?
Dragoman — This friendly Englishman — this
branch of Mudcombe — this head-purveyor of
Goldborough — this possible policeman of Bed-
fordshire, is recounting liis achievements, and
the numljer of his titles.
Pasha — The end of his honors is more dis-
tant than the ends of the Earth, and the cata-
logue of his glorious deeds is brighter than the
firmament of Heaven.
107
ALEXANDER WILLIAM KINGLAKK— 3
Dragoman. — The Pasha congratulates your
Excellency.
Traveller About Goldborough ? The deuce
he does ! But I want to get at his views in re-
lation to the present state of the Ottoman Em-
pire. Tell him that the Houses of Parliament
have met, and that there has been a Si)eech from
the Throne, pledging England to preserve the
integrity of the Sultan's dominions.
Dragoman. — This branch of Mudcombe, this
possible policeman of Bedfordshire, informs your
Highness that in P^ngland the Talking Houses
have met. and that the integrity of tlie Sultan's
dominions has been assured forever and ever by
a speech from the Velvet Chair.
Pasha Wonderful Chair ! Wonderful
Houses ! Whirr ! whirr ! whirr ! all by wheels !
whiz ! whiz ! all by steam ! Wonderfid Chair !
Wonderful Houses ! Wonderful Peo[)le ! Whirr !
whirr ! all by wheels ! whiz ! whiz ! all by
steam !
Traveller. — What does the Pasha mean by
tlie whizzing? He does not mean to say, does
he, that our Government will ever abandon their
pledges to the Sultan ?
Dragoman No, your Excellency ; but he
says the English talk by wheels and by steam.
Traveller. — That's an exaggeration ; but say
that the English really have carried machinei-y to
great perfection ; tell the Pasha (he'll be struck
by that) that wherever we have any disturban-
ces to put down — even at two or three hundred
miles from London — we can send troops by the
thousands to the scene of action in a few hours.
Dragoman His Excellency, this Lord of
Mudcombe, observes to your Highness that
whenever the Irish, or the French, or the In-
dians rebel against the English, whole armies of
soldiers, and brigades of artillery, are dropped
into a mighty chasm called Euston Square, and
in the biting of a cartridge they arise up again
in Manchester, or Dublin, or Paris, or Delhi,
108
ALEXAXDKR WILLIAM KINGLAKE.— 4
ami iiiteily exterminate the enemies of England
iVoin tlie face of the Eartli.
Pasha. — I know it — I know all — the particu-
lars have been faithfully relate<l to me. and my
mind comprehends locomotives. The armies of
P^ngland ride upon the vapors of boiling caul-
drons, and their horses are flaming coals ! whirr !
whirr I all by* wheels ! whiz ! whiz I all by
steam.
Traveller. — I wish to have the opinion of an
unprejudiced Ottoman gentleman as to the pros-
pects of our English commerce and manufact-
ures. Just ask the Pasha to give me his views
on the subject.
Pasha. — The ships of the English swarm like
flies ; their printed calicoes cover the whole earth ;
and by the side of their swords tlie blades of
Damascus are blades of grass. All India is but
an item in the ledger-books of the merchants,
whose lumber-rooms are filled with ancient
thrones! "Wiiirr! whirr! all by wlieels ! wliiz I
svhiz ! all by steam !
Dragoman. — The Pasha compliments the
cutlery of England, and also the P^ast India
Company.
Traveller. — Well, tell the Pasha I am exceed-
ingly gratified to find that he entertains snch a
high opinion of our manufacturing energy ; but
I should like him to know, thougli, that we have
got something in England besides that. You
can explain that we have our virtues in the
country — that the British yeoman is still, thank
(Jod I the British yeoman. Oh ! ])y-tlie-I)ye,
whilst you are about it. you may as well say that
we are a truth-telling people, and, like the
Osmanlees, are faithful in the performance of our
promises.
Pasha — It is true, it is true : through all
Eeringstan the English are foremost and best ;
for the Russians are drilled swine, and the Ger-
mans are sleeping babes, and the Italians are
the servants of songs, and the French are the
109
ALEXANDER WILLIAM KINGLAKE.— 5
sons of newspiipei's, nnd the Greeks they are
weavers of lies; but the English and the
Osmanlees are brothers tonrether in righteons-
ness ; for the Osmanlees believe in only one
God, and cleave to the Koran, and destroy idols;
so do the Englisli worship one God, and abomi-
nate graven images, and tell the trnth, and be-
lieve in a Book ; and though they drink the
juice of the grape, yet to say that they worship
their prophet as God, or to say that they
are eaters of pork — these are lies — lies born of
Greeks, and nursed by Jews.
Dragoman. — The Pasha compliments the
English.
TrareUer (rising) — Well, I've had enough of
this. Tell the Pasha I'm greatly obliged to
him for his hospitality ; and still more for his
kindness in furnishing me with horses ; and say
that now I must be off.
Pasha. — Proud are the sires, and blessed are
the dams of the horses that shall carry your
Excellency to the end of his prosperous journey.
May the saddle beneath him glide down to the
gates of the happy city, like a boat swimming
on the third river of Paradise. May he sleep
the sleep of a child, when his friends are around
him, and the while that his enemies are abroad,
may his eyes flame red through the darkness —
more red than the eyes of ten tigers ! — Farewell !
Dragomcm — The Pasha wishes your Excel-
lency a pleasant journey.
So ends the visit — Eothen.
TODLEBEN, THE DEFENDER OF SEBASTOPOL.
The more narrow-minded men of the Czar's
army — and even while Nicholas lived, the con-
fused Czar liimself — would have thought they suf-
ficiently descT-ibed the real defender of Sebastopol
by calling him an " Engineer Officer," with
perhajjs superadded some epithet such, as "ex-
cellent," or "able," or "good ; " and it is true
that his skill in that brancli of the service en-
110
ALEXANDER WILLIAM KINGLAKE.— 6
ablfd the great volunteer to bring liis powers to
act at a critical time; but it would be a wild
mistake to imagine that, because fraught with
knowledge and skill on one special subject, his
mind was a mind at all prone to run in accus-
tomed set grooves. He was by nature a man
great in war, and richly gifted with power, not
oidy to provide in good time for the dimly ex-
pected conditions which it more or less slowly
unfolds, but to meet its most sudden emergen-
cies. AVlieii, for instance, we saw him at Inker-
man in a critical moment, he, in theory was
only a spectator on horseback ; but to avert the
impending disaster, he instantly assumed a com-
mand, lie seized, if one may so speak, on a
competent body of troops, and rescued from im-
minent capture the vast, clubbed, helpless pro-
cession of Mentschikoflf's retreating artillery.
He was only at first a volunteer colonel, and
was afterwards even no more, in the langujtge
of formalists, than a general commanding the
engineers in a fortress besieged ; but the task
he designed, th<i task he undertook, the task he
— till wounded — pursued with a vigor and genius
that astonished a gazing world, was — not this or
tiiat fraction of a mighty work, but simply the
whole defence of Sebastopol. Like many an-
other general, he from time to time found him-
self thwarted, and too often encountered obstruc-
tions ; but upon the whole, even after the
" heroic period," when the glorious sailors were
mainly his trust and his strength, there glowed
in the hearts of the Russians, notwithstanding
tbreign invasion, a genuine spirit of jjatriotism
which not only brought tliem to face the toils
and dangers of war with a ready devotion, but
even in a measure kept down the growth of
ignoble jealousies directed against this true
chief.
The task of defending .Sebastopol was a
charge of su[)erlative moment, and drew to it-
self before long the utmost efforts that Russia
111
ALEXANDER WILLIAM KINGLAKE.— 7
could bring to bear on the war. Since tlie fort-
ress— because not invested — stood open to all
who would save it, and only closed against
enemies, the troops there at any time planted
were something more than a " garrison," being
also in truth the foremost column of troops en-
gaged in resisting invasion ; and moreover the
one chosen body out of all the Czar's forces
which had in charge his great jewel — the price-
less Sebastopol Roadstead.
The invaders and the invaded alike had from
time to time fondly dwelt on plans for deciding
the fate of Sebastopol by means of action else-
where; but tiie Russians, deterred from " ad-
ventures" by the terrible Inkerman day, had
since given up all recourse to field operations
attempted with any such object ; and, on the
other hand. General Pelissier by his great
strength of will had substantially brought the
invaders to follow a like resolve. From this
avoidance on both sides of serious field opera-
tions, it resulted of course that hostilities be-
came, as it were, condensed on the Sebastopol
battle-field. There, accordingly, and of course
with intensity proportioned to the greatness
and close concentration of efforts made on both
sides, the raging war laid its whole stress.
On the narrow arena thus chosen it was Rus-
sia— all Russia — that clung to Sebastopol, with
its faubourg the Karabelnaya ; and since Todle-
ben there was conducting the defence of the
place, it follows from what we have seen, that
he was the chief over that very part of the
Czar's gathered, gathering, armies which had
" the jewel " in charge ; and moreover that, call
him a Sapper, or call him a warlike Dictator,
or whatever men choose, he was the real com-
mander for Russia on the one confined seat of
conflict where all the long-plotted hostilities of
both the opposing forces had drawn at last to a
centre.
To appreciate the power he wielded, and dis-
112
ALEXANDER WILLIAM KINGLAKE.— 8
tinguish liim from an olficer defending an iii-
vt'sted fortress, one must again recur to the
[)eculiar nature of the strife on which France
and Enghind had entered. Though maintained
in great part with the kind of appliances tliat
are commonly used by the assailants and
defenders of fortresses, the conflict was so
strongly marked in its character by the absence
of complete investment as to be rather a con-
tinuous battle between two entrenched armies
than what men in general mean when tliey
casually speak of a "siege." Each force, if
thus lastingly engaged, was likewise all the
wliile drawing an equally lasting support, the
one from all Russia extending the strength of
the Eni[)ire in her own dominions, the other
from what was not less than a great European
Alliance with full command of the sea.
Tlie commander of a fortress besieged in the
normal way. cut off from the outer world, must
commonly dread more or less the exhaustion of
his means of defence; but no cares of that ex-
act kind cast their weight on the mind of the
chief engaged in defending Sebastopol; for be-
ing left wholly free to receive all the succors
that Russia might send him, he had no exhaus-
tion to fear, except, indeed, such an exhaustion
of Russia herself as would prevent her furnish-
ing means for the continued defence of the for-
tress. The garrison holding Sebastopol, and
made, one may. say, inexhaustible by constant
reinforcement, used in general to have such
a strength as the Russians themselves thought
well fitted for the defence of the fortress; juid
if they did not augment it, this was simply be-
cause greater numbers for service required be-
hind ramparts would have increased the ex-
acted sacrifices without doing proportionate
good.
But in truth — because constantly drawing
fresh accessions of strength from the rear this
peculiarly circumstanced garrison represented
118 8
ALEXANDEli WILLIAM KINGLAKE.— 9
both a power {iiid n sacritice tliat could not be
measured by merely counting its numbers at
any one given time. The force was so privi-
leged as to be exempt from the weakness of ai-
mies with dwindling numbers. The garrison
was ever young, ever strong, ever equal in num-
bers to what were considered its needs. It was
constantly indeed sending great numbers of
men, sick and wounded, to hospitals over the
Roadstead, and was always contributing largely
to "the grave of the hundred thousand" in the
Severnaya ; but the wounded, the sick, tiie dead
were constantly replaced by fresh troops ; and
even a plague of downheartedness in the sol-
diery, such as showed itself on the 18th of June,
was an evil that the commander of the garrison
knew how to shake off by marching away the
dispirited regiments, and promptly filling their
places with troops in a more warlike mood.
Great of course was the power, though not to
be told by arithmetic, of an ever fresh body of
troops thus peculiarly circumstanced, with Todle-
ben's mighty defenses to cover their front ; but
proportionately great was the strain that Sebas-
topol put upon Russia by continually exacting
fresli troops for a garrison that was fast losing-
men, yet — on peril of a fatal disaster — must al-
ways be kept in due strength. Because he de-
fended the fortress under all these conditions at
a time when the forces on each side were avoid-
ing grave field operations. General Todleben, I
think, must be said to have virtually held the
command in that protracted conflict which we
have almost been ready to call a "■ continuous
battle," and, indeed, since the Inkerman days,
to have virtually wielded the power — the whole
of the power — that Russia opposed to her invad-
ers on the Sebaslopol theatre of war. . . .
And what Todleben achieved, he achieved in
his very own way. Never hearkening appar-
ently to the cant of the Russian army of those days,
which, with troops marshalled closely like sheep,
114
ALEXANDER WILLIAM KIX( iLAKE.— 10
professed lo fight with the bayonet, he made
it his task to avert all strife at close quarters, by
pouring on any assailants sucli storms of mitrail
as should make it impossible for them to reach
the verge of his counterscarps. That is the
plan he designed from the first, and the one he
in substance accomplished. From tiie day when
he made his first eflforts to cover with earth-
works the suddenly threatened South Side to the
time when his wound com])elled him to quit the
fortress, he successfully defended Sebastopol ;
and, as we have seen, to do this — after Inker-
man, or at all events, after the onset attempted
against Eiipatoria — was to maintain the whole
active resistance that Russia o[)posed to her in-
vadei'S iu tiie south-western Ci'imea.
One may say of Todleben, and the sailors and
the other brave men acting with them, that by
maintaining tlie defence of Sebastopol. not only
l(Mig after the 20th of September, but also long
after the oth of November, they twice over
vancpiished a moral obstacle till then regarded
as one that no man could well overcome: '"If a
battle undertaken in defence of a fortress is
fougiit and lost, the place will fall." This, be-
fore the exploit of the great volunteer, was a
saying enounced with authority as though it
were almost an axiom that science had deigned
to lay down. Yet after the defeat of their
army on the banks of the Alma, aftei- even its
actual evasion from the neighborhood of Sebas-
topol, he, along with the glorious sailors and the
rest of the people there left to their fate proved
to be of such (piality that, far from consenting
to let the place "fall," as experience declared that
it must, he and they — under the eyes of the en-
emy— began to create, and created that vast
chain of fortress defence which, after more than
eight months, we saw him still holding intact.
And again, when — in sight of the fortress which
it strove to relieve — an army gathered in
strength, fought and lost with great slaughter
115
ALEXANDER WILLIAM KINGLAKE.— 11
the battle of Inkcrnuui, sending into the Kara-
belnayaits thousands u[)on thousands of" wounded
soldiery, the resolute chief and brave garrison
did not therefore remit, did not slacken, their
defence of the place ; so that — even twice over
— by valor they refuted a saying till then held
so sure that, receiving the assent of mankind, it
had crystallized into a maxim.
For other Russians the glory of having de-
fended Sebastopol until the time we have
reached was, after all, a forerunner of defeat ;
but for Todleben personally, whilst he still
toiled in the fortress, no such reverse lay in
wait. The time when he quitted it (wounded)
was for him more tlian ever a time of victory,
following close, as it did, on his crowning
achievement made good on the 18th of June.
If the Czar had come down to Sebastopol, or
rather to the Karabelnaya, at the close of the
engagement on the morning of the 18th of June,
he might there have apostrophized Todleben, as
he did long years after at Plevna, when saying :
" Edward Ivanovitcli, it is thou that hast ac-
complished it all!" — Iiwasion of the Crimea.
^ 116 -^
THOMAS KINGO.— 1
KIXGO, Thomas, a Danish ecclesiastic
and poet, born in 163-± ; died in 1723. He
became Bishop of Funen, and wrote num-
erous Psalms and Spiritual Songs, which are
held in high esteem among the pious of his
native land. He has been "the Watts of
Denmark."
A MOKNING SONG.
From eastern quarters now
The Sun 's up-wandering,
His rays on the rock's brow
And hill's side squandering ;
Be glad, my soul, and sing amidst thy pleasure.
Fly from the house of dust.
U[) with thy thanks, and trust
To heaven's azure.
Oh, countless as the grains
Of sand so tiny,
Measureless as the main's
Deep waters briny,
God's mercy is, which He upon me showereth !
Each mirroring in my shell
A grace innumerable
To me down pouretli.
Thou best dost understand,
Lord God, ray needing ;
And placed is in Thy hand
My fortune's speeding;
And Thou foreseest what is for me most fitting.
Be still, then, O my soul!
To manage in the whole,
Thy God permitting.
May fruit the land array,
And corn for eating !
May Truth e'er make its way,
With Justice meeting!
Give Thou to me my share with every other.
Till down my staff I lay,
And from this world away
Wend to another !
Transl. in For. Quart. Review.
117
CHARLES KINGSLEY.— 1
KTNGSLEY, Charles, an English cler-
gyman and author, born in 1819 ; died in
1875. He took his degree at Magdalen
College, Cambridge, in 1842, and two years
afterwards was presented to the living of
Eversley in Hampshire. In 1859 he was
appointed Professor of Modern History at
Cambridge, and was made Canon of West-
minster in 1872. His publications number
about thirty -five. Besides several volumes
of Se)-?no7is, h.\s principals works are: T7ie
Saint's Tragedy (1848), Alton Locke, Tailor
and Poet (1850), Yeast, a Problem (1851),
Hypatia, or new Foes with an old Face (1853),
Westward Ho ! (1855), The Heroes, or Greek
Fairy Tales (1856), Sir Walter Baleigh and
his Tinips (1859), The Water Babies (1863),
Hereward, tlie Last of the English (1866),
Hoiv and Why (1869), A Christmas in the
West Indies (1871), Prose Idyls (1873),
Health and Education (1874). Most of his
poems are inserted in his tales,
THE SANDS OF DEE.
"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home.
And call the cattle home,
Across the sands o' Dee."
The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam,
And all alone went she.
Tlie creeping tide came up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,
And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see ;
The blinding mist came down and hid the land —
And never home came she.
" Oh, is it a weed, or fish, or floating liair —
A tress o' golden hair,
0' drowned maiden's hair,
118
CHAKLEH KlNGttLEY.— 2
Abovt' the nets at sea?
Was lu'ver salmon yet that slione so fair,
Among tlie stakes on Dee."
They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel, crawling foam,
The cruel hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea ;
But still the boatman hear her call the cattle
home,
Across the sands o' Dee. ,
THE GOTHIC TRIBES AND THE ROMAN EMPIRE.
The health of a Church depends not merely
on the creed which it pi'ofesses, not even on the
wisdom and holiness of a few great ecclesiastics,
but on the faith and virtue of its individual
members. The mens sana must have a corpus
sffiiui/i to inliabit. And even for the AVesteni
Churcli tlie lofty future which was in store for
it would have been impossible without some in-
fusion of new and healthier blood into the veins
of a world drained and tainted by the influence
of Rome. And the new blood was at hand in
the early years of the fifth century. The great
tide of those Gotliic nations of which the Nor-
wegian and the German are the purest remain-
ing types, though every nation of ICurope, from
(iibraltar to St. Petersburg, owes to them the
most precious (dements of strength, was swee])-
ing onward, wave over wave, in a steady south-
western current across the Roman territory, aiul
only stopping and recoiling when it reached the
siiores of the Mediterranean.
Tliose wild tribes were bringing witli them
into the magic circle of the "Western Church's
influence the very materials which she re(|uired
for tlie building up of a future Christendom, and
wliich slie would find as little in tlie Western
Empire as in the Eastern : — comparative purity
of morals ; sacred respect for woman, for family
life, for law, equal justice, individual freedom,
119
CHARLES KINGSLEY.— 3
and, above all, for honesty in word and deed ;
bodies untainted by liereditiiry eifeminuey ; hearts
earnest though genial, and blest with a strange
willingness to learn even from those whom they
despised ; a brain equal to that of the Roman in
practical power, and not too far beliiiid that of
the Eastern in imaginative and speculative acute-
ness.
And their strength was felt at once. Their
vanguard, confined with difficulty for three cen-
turies beyond the Eastern Alps, at the expense of
sanguinary wars, had been adopted, wherever it
was practicable, into the service of the Empire ;
and the heart's core of the Roman legions was
composed of Gothic officers and soldiers. But
now the main body had arrived. Tribe after tribe
was crowding down to the Alps, and trampling
upon each other on the frontiers of the Empire.
The Huns, singly their inferiors, pressed them
from behind with the irresistible weight of imm-
bers ; Italy, with her rich cities tiiid fertile
lowlands, beckoned them on to plunder. As
auxiliaries, they had learned their own
strength and Roman weakness ; a casus belli
was soon found.
The whole pent-up deluge bunst over the
plains of Italy, and the Western Empire became
from that day forth a dying idiot, wliile the new
invaders divided Europe among themselves.
The fifteen years, 398-413, had decided the
fate of Greece; the next four years that of
Rome itself. The countless treasures which five
centuries of rapine had accumulated round the
Capitol had become the prey of men clothed in
sheep-skins and horse-hide ; and the sister of an
Emperor had found her beauty, virtue, and pride
of race worthily matched by tliose of the hard-
lianded Northern hero who led her away from
Italy as his captive and his bride to found new
kingdoms in South France and Spain, and to
drive the newly-arrived Vandals across the
120
CHARLES KINGSLEY.— 4
Stniits of Gibraltar into tlu' tlieii blooming
coast-land of Northern Africa.
Eveiywhere the mangled limbs of the Ohl
World were seething in the Medea's cauldron, to
come forth whole, and young, and strong. The
Longobards — noblest of their race — had found
a temporary resting-place upon the Austrian
frontier, after long southward wanderings from
the Swedish mountains, soon to be dispossessed
again by the advancing Huns, and, crossing the
Alps, to give their name forever to the plains of
Lombardy. A few more tumultuous years, and
the Franks would find themselves lords of the
Lower Rhineland ; and before the hairs of Hy-
patia's scholars had gi-own gray, the mytliic
Hengst and Ilorsa would have landed on the
shores of Kent, and an English nation have be-
gun its world-wide life.
But some great Providence forbade our race
— triumphant in every other quarter — a footing
Ijeyond tlie Mediterranean, or even in Constan-
tinople, which to this day preserves in Europe
tlie faith and manners of Asia. The Eastern
World seemed barred by some strange doom
from the only influence which could have regen-
erated it. Every attempt of the Gothic races
to establish themselves beyond the sea — wh<;ther
in the form of an organized kingdom, as did the
Vandals in Africa ; or as a mere band of bii-
gands as did tlie Goths in Asia Minor, under
Gaiiias ; or as a pretorian guard, as did the
\'arangiaiis of tlie Middle Ages; or as religious
invaders, as did the Crusaders — ended onlv in
the corruption and disappearance ol' the colon-
ists. Climate, bad example, and the luxury of
power degraded them in one century into a race
of helph'ss and debauched slaveholders, doomed
the Vandals to utter extirpation before the semi-
Gothic jirmies of Belisarius; and with them van-
ished the last chance that the Gothic races
would exercise on the Eastern World the same
stern yet wliolesome discipline under which the
Western had been restored to life. — Hypatia.
121
CHARLES KINGSLEY.-5
THE DEAR OLD DOLL,
I liad once a sweet little doll, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world ;
Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears.
And her hair was so charmingly curled.
Hut I lost my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day ;
And I cried for her more than a week, dears.
But I never could tind where she lay.
I round my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day ;
Folks say that slie is terribly changed, dears.
For her paint is all waslied away,
And lier arm trodden off by the cows, dears,
And her hair not the least bit cuiled ;
Yet, for old sake's sake, she is still, dears.
The prettiest doll in the world.
Tlie Water Babies.
THE world's age.
Who will say the woi id is dying ?
Wliowill say our prime is past?
Sparks from Heaven, within us lying,
Flash, and will flash, until the last.
Fools! who fancy Christ mistaken;
Man a tool to buy and sell;
Eartli a failure, God-forsaken,
Ante-room of Hell.
Still the i-ace of Hero-spirits
Pass the lamp from hand to hand ;
Age from age the words inherits —
" Wife, and child, and Father-land."
Still the youthful hunter gathers
Fiery joy from wold and wood ;
He will dare, as dared liis fathers,
Give him cause as good.
While a slave bewails his fetters;
While an orphan pleads in vain ;
While an infant lisps his letters,
Heir of all the ages' gain ;
122
CHAKLES KINGSLEY.— 6
While a lip grows ripe for kissing ;
"While a moan from man is wrung —
Know, by every want and blessing,
That the world is young.
THE THREE FISHERS.
Three fishers went sailing away to the West,
Away to the West as the sun went down ;
Each thought on the woman who loved him the
best.
And the children stood watching them out of
the tow n ;
For men nuist work, and women must weep.
And there's little to earn, and many to keep
Though the harbor bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the light-house tower,
And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went
down ;
They looked at the squall, and they looked at
the shower,
And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and
brown.
But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbor bar be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sands.
In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their
hands.
For those who will never come home to the
town ;
For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep;
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
123
WILLIAM INGRAHAM KIP.— 1
KIP, William Ingraham, an Ameri-
can clergyman and author, born in New
Yorlv in 1811. After graduating at Yale in
1831, he studied law, and then divinity, and
was ordained deacon in 1835. Having min-
istered for a time at Morristowu, N. J., and
Grace church. New York, he became rector
of St. Paul's, Albany, in 1838, and was
elected Missionary Bishop of California in
1853. His jurisdiction became a diocese in
1857. His publications include : The
Lenten Fast, (1843), The Double Witness of
the Church (1844), Christmas Holidays in
i?ome(1845). Early Jesuit Missions in Am-
erica (1846), Early Conflicts of ChrisLianity
(1850), The Catacombs of Rome (1854),
Unnoticed Things of Scripture (1868), The
Olden Time in New Yorh (1872), and The
Church of the Apostles (1877.) He edited
Confessions of a Romish Convert (1850.)
CHURCH PRINCIPLES,
No one can long labor with effect \n a cause
which he does not perfectly understand. He may
be aroused to a spasmodic effort by some sudden
burst of entliusiasm, but it needs something
more to sustain him amid the weariness and self-
denial of continued exertion. To inspire him
with an abiding earnestness, liis views must
be clear and distinct. He must be, as it were,
deeply penetrated with the truth he would advo-
cate, and then he will be compelled to listen
reverently to her voice, and to go forth and labor
in her behalf, when she [wints him to the held.
Otherwise a secret, lurking unbelief will belie
the cold profession of his lips ; or else, if believed
at all, the truth for which he is bound to con-
tend will be entirely inoperative, and " lie bedrid-
den in the dormitory of the soul ! "
The Church can never depend upon the stabil-
ity of her ignorant members. He who attends
124
WILLIAM INGRAHAM KIP.— 2
her services merely because he was boni a
Churchman — or because to do so is convenient —
or because he prefers the minister who happens
to officiate at her altar — can be of but little ben-
efit to her cause. The slightest reason will in-
duce him to leave lier fold and unite with others.
He has merely a personal preference, not
founded on any distinct understanding of her
claims Tke Double WitTiess of the Church.
THE FALL OF PAGANISM.
And where is the Kingly power of Rome,
from which came forth those edicts condemning
the faithful to the wild beasts and the sword ?
Look at that bill, which lies between us and the
walls. It seems covered with a mass of mighty
ruins, as if destruction there had fjillen on some
splendid city and changed its stately magnifi-
cence to crumbling walls and prostrate columns.
That is the Palatine Hill, and there are the ruins
of Nero's Golden House ; and there the trees
twine their roots through marble fioors once
trodden by the masters of the world, and the
tall grass and rank weeds wave above them in
wild luxuriance. A solitary building raises its
white walls in the midst of all this desolation,
hourly the sound of a bell is wafted through the
air, and those who are lingering round hear a
low chant borne faintly to their ears ; for that is
the monasteiy of the Capuchin monks, and
their prayers and anthems have replaced the
sensual rt^vellings of the Caesars.
And the ancient paganism, too, like the civil
power which supported it, has vanished as a
dream. There is the Capitoline Hill, which
once had its fifty shrines, yet no smoke ascends
from its height — no altars are seen — the temples
which once crowned it are gone, and their col-
umns and precious marbles have been used to
erect the Christian churches. — The Catacombs
of Rome.
125
CONRAD KIRCHBERG.— 1
KIRCHBERG, Conuad, a German Min-
nesinger, of whom we only know that he
flourished during the latter half of the
eleventh century. Several of his poems
have come down to us.
THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY.
May, sweet May again is come,
^lay that frees the land from gloom.
Children, children, up, and see
All her stores of jollity.
On the laughing hedgerow's side
She hath spread her treasures wide ;
She is in the greenwood shade,
AVhere the nightingale hath made
1-Cvery branch and every tree
Ring witli her sweet melody.
Hill and dale are May's own treasures :
Youths, rejoice in sportive measures ;
Sing ye ! join the chorus gay !
Hail this merry, merry May !
U|) tlien, cliildren ! We will go
Where the blooming roses grow ;
III a joyful company,
We the bursting flowers will see.
Up ! your festal dress prepare !
Where gay hearts are meeting, there
May hatli pleasures more inviting.
Heart and sight and ear delighting.
Listen to the birds' sweet song ;
Hark, how soft it floats along !
Country dames, our pleasures share ;
Never saw I sky so fair ;
Therefore dancin<r forth we go.
Youths, rejoice! the flowerets blow!
Sing we! join the chorus gay.
Hail this merry, merry May !
Transl. of E. Taylor.
126
JOHN FOSTER KIRK.-l
KIRK, John Foster, an American his-
torian, born in New Brunswick, Canada, in
1824. He took up his residence at Boston
about 1843, and from 1847 to 1859 was
secretary to William H. Prescott, whom he
aided in the preparation of his later works.
From 1870 to 1886 he was the editor oi Lip-
pencotfs Mayazine. in Philadelphia. .Tnl886
lie was appointed Lecturer on European
History at the University of Pennsylvania.
His principal work is the History of Charles
the Bold., Duke of Burgundy, (three vol-
umes 1863-68.)
THE FIGHT AT .^MORAT.
Charles saw himself on Sunday, January 5,
1477, stripped of both his wings, assailed at
once on botli his flanks. He had liis choice be-
tween a rapid flight and a speedy death. Well,
then — death. Leading his troops, he plunged
into the midst of his foes, now closing in upon
all sides. But so encaged, so overmatched, what
courage could have availed ? " The foot stood
long and manfully," is the testimony of a hos-
tile eye-witness. The final struggle, thougli ob-
stinate, was short. Broken and dispersed, the
men had no recourse but flight. The greatest
nuniljer kept to the west of Nancy, to gain the
road to Conde and Luxembourg. Cliarles, with
tiie handful that still remained around liini, fol-
lowed in the same direction. The mass, lioth
of fugitives and pursuers, was already far ahead.
There was no clioice now. Fliglit, coiiil);!!,
deatii — it was all one.
Closing up, the little band of nobles — last iclir
of chivalry — charged into the centre of a body of
foot. A halbardier swung his weapon, and brought
it down upon tiie head of Charles. He leeled in
the .saddle. Citey flung his arms around iiim
and steadied him, receiving, while so engaged, a
tLrusI from a spear throiigli tlie parted joints of
127
JOHN FOSTER KIRK.— 2
his corsekt. Pressing on, still figlifiiig, still
hemmed in, they dropped one by one. Charles's
page — a Roman of the ancient family of
Colonna — rode a little behind, a gilt helmet
hanging from his saddle-bow. He kept his eye
upon his master — saw him surrounded, saw him
at the edge of a ditch, saw his hoi-se stumble,
the rider fall. The next moment Colonna wa.s
himself dismounted and made prisoner.
None knew who had fallen, or lingered to see.
The rout swept along, the carnage had no pause.
The course was strewn with arms, banners, and
the bodies ofthe slain. Riderless horses plunged
among the ranks of the victors and the van-
quished. There was a road turning directly
westward : but it went to Toul : French lancers
were there. Northward the valley conti-acted.
On the one side was the forest, on the other the
river; ahead, the bridge of Bouxieres, guarded,
barred by Campobasso. Arrived there, all was
over. A few turned aside into the forest, to be
hunted still, to be butchered by the peasantry, to
perish of hunger and cold. Others leaped into
the river, shot at by the arquebusiers, driven
back or stabbed by the traitors on the opposite
bank, swept by the current underneath the ice.
The slaughter here was far greater than on the
field. No quarter was given by the Swiss. But
the cavalry, both of Lorraine and the allies, re-
ceived the swords of men of rank. When Rene
came up the sun had long set. There was little
chance, less occasion, for further pursuit. The
short winter's day had had its full share of blood.
Merciful Night came down, enabling a scanty
remnant to escape. — History of Charles the
Bold.
FINDING THE BODY OF CHARLES THE BOLD.
If the Duke of Burgundy were still alive —
that was the thought which now occupied eveiy
breast. If he were alive, no doubt but that he
would return — no hope that the war was over.
128
JOHN FOSTER KIRK.— 3
Messengers were sent to inquire, to explon-. Tlie
field was searched. Horsemen went to IMetz and
neijiliboring places to ask whether he had passed.
None had seen him, none could find him, none
had anything to tell. Wild rumors had started up.
He had hidden in the forest, retired to a hermit-
age, assumed tlie religious garb. Goods were
bought and sold, to be paid for on his re-appear-
auce. Years afterwards there were those who
still believed, still expected.
Yet intelligence, proof, was soon forthcoming.
In the evening of Monday Campobasso pre-
sented himself, bringing with him Colonna, who
told what he had seen, and gave assurance that
he could find the spot. Let him go, then, and
seek, accompanied by those who would be surest
to recognize tlie form — Mathieu, a Portuguese
physician, a valet-de-chambre, and a '" laundress "
who had prepared tlie baths for the fallen prince.
They pass(Ml out of the gate of Saint John,
descending to the low, then marshy ground, on
the west of the town. It was drained by a
ditch, the bed of a slender rivulet that turned a
mill in the faubourg. The distance was not
great — less than half an English mile. Several
hundred bodies lay near together; but these they
passed, coming to where a small band, " thirteen
»r fourteen," had fallen, fighting singly, yet to-
getlier. Here lay Citey, here Contay, here a C'roy,
a Helvoir, a Lalain — as in every battle-^eld ; here
a Bievre, loved by his enemies, his skull laid
)|)en " like a pot."
Tliese are on the edge of the ditch. At the
l)Ott()m lies another body, " short, but thick-set
:iMil well-membiMcd,'' in a worse plight than all
the rest; strip[)ed naked, horribly mangled, the
ilieek eaten away by wolves or famished dogs.
Can tills be he ? They stoop and examine. The
nails, never pari;d, ure '• longer than any man's."
Two teeth are gone — thi'ough a fall years ago.
rhere are othei marks : a fistula in the groin, in
the neck a scar left by a sw(ud-lln'ust received
9 129
JOHN POSTER KIEK.-4
at Montlheiy. The men turn pale, the woman
shrieks and throws herself upon the body : "My
lord of Burgundy ! My lord of Burgundy ! "
Yes, this is he — the " Great Duke," the de-
stroyer of Liege, the " Terror of France ! "
They strive to raise it. The tiesh, embedded
in the ice, is rent by the effort. Help is sent
for. Four of Rene's come — men with imple-
ments, cloths, and bier ; women have sent their
veils. It is lifted and borne into the town,
through the principal street, to the house of George
Marqueiz, where there is a large and suitable
chamber. The bearers rest a moment ; set down
their burden on the pavement. Let the spot be
forever marked with a cross of black stones.
It is carried in, waslied with wine and warm
water, again examined. There are three princi-
pal wounds. A halberd, entering at the side of
the head, has cloven it from above the ear to the
teeth ; botli sides have been pierced with a spear ;
another has been thrust into the bowels from be-
low. It is wrapped in fine linen, and laid out
upon a table. The head, covered with a cap of
led satin, lies on a cushion of the same color and
material. An altar is decked beside it ; waxen
tapers are lighted ; the room is hung with Idack.
Bid his brother, his captive nobles, his sur-
viving servants, come and see if this be indeed
their prince. Tliey assemble around, kneel, and
weep ; take his hands, his feet, and press them
to their lips and breast. He was their sovereign,
their " good lord," the chief of a glorious house,
the last, the greatest of his line.
Let Rene come, to see and to exult. Let him
come in the guise of the paladins and preux on
occasions of solemnity and pomp — in a long
robe sweeping the ground, with a long beard in-
terwoven with threads of gold ! So attired, lie
enters, stands beside the dead, uncovers tlie face,
takes between his warm liaiuls that cold right
hand, falls upon his knees, and bursts into sobs.
" Fair cousin," Ik^ says — not accusingly, but
130
JOHN FOSTER KIRK.— 5
lialt-excusingly — " thou brouglitest great caUinii-
(ics and sorrows upon us; may God assoil tliy
soul ! " — Gentle Rene, good and gentle prince,
(Tod, we doubt not, hath pardoned many a fault
of thine for those tender thoughts, those cliarita-
ble tears, in the hour of thy great triumph be-
side the corpse of thy stern foe! — A quarter of
an hour he remains, praying before the altar ;
then retires to give ordeis for the burial. Let
liim Avho for a twelvemonth was Duke of Loi-
raine be laid in tlie Church of Saint George, in
front of Ihe High Altar, on the spot where lie
stood when invested witli the sovereignty won
I)v conquest, to be so lost. — History of Charles
the Bold.
131
CAKOLINE MATILDA KIKKLAND.— 1
KIKKLAND, Caroline Matilda
(Stansbury), ail American author, born
at New York in 1801 ; died there in 1864.
After the death of her father, a publisher
of books, the family removed to Clinton,
N. Y., where in 1827 she married Mr. Wil-
liam Kirkland. About 1888 thej emi-
grated to Michigan, which was their home
for nearly three years ; and this residence
in what was then a " new country," furnished
material lor several books. Returning to
New York, she established a successful
school for young ladies ; and wrote much
for various periodicals, becoming in 18-18,
editor of the Union Mat/az/jie, afterwards
issued at Philadelphia asSartarn''s McKjazine.
At the beginning of the civil war she en-
tered warmly into the philanthropic meas-
ures growing out of that struggle. Her
sudden death was the result of overwork in
behalf of the " Sanitary Fair." Her princi-
pal works are : A Neio Home : Who'' II Fol-
low (1839), Forest Life (1842), W<tstern
ClearitKjs (1846), Holidays Abroad (1849),
The Evejiin;/ Book (1852), A Book for the
Home Circle (1853), The Book of Home
Beauty, and Personal Memoirs of George
Washington (1858.)
Herhusband, William Kirkland(1800-
1846) was for some time a Professor in
Hamilton College ; and after returning from
Michigan, embarked in journalism, being
one of the founders of the Christian In-
quirer. Their son, Joseph Kirkland, is a
]awyeY of Illinois. He served in the army
during the civil war, and has written Zury,
the meanest Man in Spring County (1887.)
His sister, Elizabeth Stansbury Kirk-
jiAND, Principal of a Female Seminary in
132
CAROLINE .M.\rilJ)A KIKKLAND.— 2
Chicago, has written : iSix hide Cook.s{lS7b),
Dor(Cs Housekecpinfj {iS77), A Short History
of France (1878), and Speech and Manners
(1885.)
.MEETING OF THE FEMALE BENEFICENT SOCIETY.
At length came the much desired Tuesday,
whose destined event was the first ineetinji' of" the
Society. I had made preparations tor sucli plain
and siniph' tare as is usual at such feminine gather-
ings, and began to think of arranging my dress
witli the decorum required by the occasion, when
about one hour before the appointed time came
Mrs. Nippers and Miss Clincli, and ere they were
unshawled and uniiooded, ^Irs, Flyter and her
three children — the eldest four years, and tiie
youngest six months. Then Mrs. Muggles and
her crimson Itaby, four weeks old. Close on her
heels, Mrs. Briggs and her little boy of about
three years' standing, in a long-tailed coat, with
vest and decencies of scarlet Circassian. And
there I stood in my gingham wrapper and kitchen
apron, much to my discomfiture and the undis-
guised surprise of the Female Beneficent So-
ciety.
" I always calculate to be ready to begin at
the time api)ointed," remarked the gristle-lipped
widow.
" So do I," responded JNIi's. Flyter and Mrs.
Mugirles, both of whom sat the whole afternoon,
and did not sew a stitch.
" What ! isn't there any work ready r " con-
tinued Mrs. Nippers, with an astonished aspect ;
" well, I did suppose that such smart officers as
we have would have prepared all beforehand
AVe always used to at the East."
Mrs. Skinner, wlio is really quite a pattern-
woman in all that makes woman indispensable —
cookery and sewing — took up the matter (piite
warmly, just as I slipped away in disgrace to
inakf tiie requisite reform in my costume.
When I returned, the work was distributed, and
133
CAROLINE MATILDA KIRKLAND.— 3
the company broken up into little knots or
coteries, every head bowed, and every tongue in
full play.
I took my seat at as great a distance from the
sharp widow as might be ; though it is vain to
think of eluding a person of her ubiquity — and
reconnoitred the company who were " done off"
in first-rate style for this important occasion.
There were nineteen women, with thirteen babies,
or at least " young 'uns," who were not above
ginger-bread. Of these thirteen, nine held large
chunks of ginger-bread or doughnuts, in trust for
the benefit of the gowns of the Society, the re-
maining four were supplied with lumps of maple-
sugar, tied up in bits of rag, and pinned to their
shoulders, or held dripping in the hands of their
mammas.
Mrs. Flyter was '' slicked up " for the occasion
in the snufF-colored silk she was married in,
curiously enlarged in the back, and not as
voluminous in the floating part as is the waste-
ful custom of the present day. Her three im-
mense children, white-haired and blubber-lipped
like their amiable parent, were in pink ging-
hams and blue glass-beads. IMrs. Nippers wore
her unfailing brown merino and black apron ;
Miss Clinch her inevitable scarlet calico ; Mrs.
Skinner her red merino, with baby of the same ;
Mrs. Daker shone out in her very choicest city
finery; and a dozen otlier Mistresses shone in their
" 'tothcr gowns " and their tandjoured collars.
Mrs. Philo Doubleday's pretty black-eyed Dolly
was neatly stowed in a small willow basket,
where it lay looking about with eyes of sweet
wonder, behaving itself with marvelous quiet-
ness and discretion — as did most of the other
little torments, to do them justice.
Much consultation, deep and solemn, was
held as to tiie most profitable kinds of work to
be undertaken by the Society. Many were in
favor of makin<i; up linen-^cotton-linen of course
— but Mrs. Nippei's assiu-ed the company that
134
CAROLINE -MATILDA KIRKLAND — 4
,-liiils never used to sell well at tlie Ea.-t. and
theii'tbre she was perfectly eertain that they
woulil not do here. Pincushions and such like
teminalities were then proposed; hut at these
Mrs. Nippers held up both hands, and showed a
double share of blue-white around her eyes.
Nobody al)Out her needed pincushions ; and,
besides, where should we get materials ? Aprons,
capes, caps, collars were all proposed with the
same ill-success. At length Mrs. Doubleday,
with an air of great deference, incpiired what
Mrs. Nippers would recommend. The good
lady hesitated a little at this. It was more her
forte to object to other peoples' plans than to
suggest better; but, after a moment's considera-
tion, she said she should think fancy boxes,
watch-cases, and alum-baskets Avould be very
pretty.
A dead silence fell on the assembly ; but of
course it did not last long. Mrs. Skinner went
on quietly cutting out shirts, and in a very short
time I'ui'nished each member with a good supply
of work, stating that any lady might take work
home to finish if she liked.
Mrs. Nippers took her work, and edged herselC
Into a coterie of which Mrs. Flyter had seemed
till then the magnate. Very soon 1 heard — " I
declare it's a shame ! " — " I don't know what'll
be done about it ! " — " She told me so with her
(iwn mouth I " — '• Oh, but I was there myself !"
etc., etc.. in many different voices ; the inter-
stices tilled with undistinguishable whispers,
'•not loud but deep." It was not long before
tlie active widow transferred her seat to anothei-
corner ; Miss Clinch plying her tongue — not her
needle — in a third. The whispers and excla-
malions seemed to be gaining ground. The few
silent members were inquiring for more work.
" Mrs. Nippers has the sleeve ! Mrs. Ni[)pers,
have you finislied that sleeve?" Mrs. Nippers
colored, said '• No," and sewed four stitches,
i;j5
CAROLINE MATILDA KHiKT-AXD— 5
At length the storm grew loud upace : " It will
break up the Society — "
"What is that?" asked Mrs. Doubleday in
her sharp treble. " What is it, Mrs. Nippers ?
You know all about it."
Mrs. Nippers replied that she only knew what
she had heard, etc., etc. But after a little urging
consented to inform the company in general that
there was great dissatisfaction in the neighbor-
hood; that those who lived in log-houses iit a
little distance from the village had not been in-
vited to join the Society ; and also that many
people thought twenty-five cents quite too high
for a yearly subscription.
Many looked quite aghast at this. Public
opinion is nowhere so strongly felt as in the
country, among new settlers ; and as many of
the present company still lived in log-houses, a
tender string was touched. At length an old
lady, who had sat quietly in a corner all the
afternoon, looked up from behind the great
woolen sock she was knitting :
" Well, now ! that's queer ! " said she, ad-
dressing Mrs. Nip[)ers with an air of simplicity
simplified. " Miss Turner told me you went
round her neighborhood last Friday, and told
that Miss Clavers and Miss Skinner despised
everybody that lived in log-houses. And you
know you told Miss Briggs that you thf)Ught
twenty-five cents was too much ; didn't she,
Miss Briggs?"
Mrs. Briggs nodded. The widow blushed to
the very centre of her pale eyes ; but " e'en
though vanquished," she lost not her assurance:
" AVhy, I am sure I only said that we only paid
twelve-and-a-half cents at the East ; and as to
log-houses, I don't know — I can't just recollect
— but I didn't say more than the others did."
But human nature could not bear up against
the mortification ; and it had, after all, the
scarce credible effect of making Mrs. Nippei-s
sew in silence for some time, and carry her
136
CAROLINE MATILDA KIKKLAND.-- 6
colors at halt'-inast tlie remainder of t lit' aftor-
IlOOIl.
At tea each lady took one oi' iiiore ot' lier
liabies oil lier lap, and nuicli grabbing ensued.
Those who won; calicoes seemed in good spirits
and a|)petitc^ror green tea. at least; but those
who had unwarily sported silks an<l other un-
washal)les looked acid and uncomfortable. Cake
Mew about at a great rate, and the milk-and-
water which ought to have quietly gone down
sinidry juvenile throats was spii-ted without
mercy into sundiy wry faces. l>ul we got
tin-ough. The astringent refreshment produced
its usual crisping effect upon the vivacity of the
company. Talk ran high upon all Montacutian
themes : —
'• Do you raise any butter now ? " — " When
ar<' you going to raise your barn? " — '• Is your
man a-going to kill this week?" — "1 ha'n'tseen
a bit of meat these six weeks." — '' AVas you to
meetin' last Sabbath?" — "Has Miss White got
any wool to sell ? " — " Do tell if you've been to
Ditioit ?" — "Are you out ofcandles?" — " Well,
J sliotild think Sarah Teals wanted a new gown ! "
— " I hope we shall have milk in a week or two."
And so on; for, be it known tiiat in a state of
society like ours the bare necessaries of life are
subjects of sufficient interest for a good deal of
conversation.
'•Is your daughter Isabella well?" asked
Mr>. Xippers of me, solemnly, pointing to little
Tx-ll. who sat munching her bread-and-l)utter,
half asleep at the fragmentious table.
'■ Yes, I believe so; look at her cheeks."
'• Ah, yes ! it was her cheeks I was looking at.
'J'hey are so very losy. I have a little niece who
is the very image of her. I never see Isabella
without thinking of Jerusha ; and Jerusha is
most dreadfullv scrofulous."
SatisH«Hl at having made me uncomfortable,
Mrs. Xippers turned to Mrs. Doubleday, who
187
CAROLINE MATILDA KIRKLAXD.— 7
WHS trotting her pretty babe with her usual proiul
fondness.
"Don't yon think your baby breathes rather
strangely?" said the tormentor.
" Breathes ! how ! " said the poor thing, off
her guard in an instant.
" Why, rather croupish, I think, if /am any
judge. I have never had any children of my
own, to be sure; but I was with Miss Gi'een's
baby wlien it died, and "
"Come, we'll, be off," said Mr. Doubleday,
who had come for his spouse. "■ Don't mind
that envious vixen " — aside to iiis Polly. Just
thiMi somebody on the opposite side of the room
happened to say, speaking of some cloth affair.
"Mrs. Nippers says it ought, to be sponged."
" Well, sponge it then by all means," said Mr.
Dcjul^leday ; " nobody else knows half as mucli
about sponging." And with wife and baby in
tow, off set the laughing Philo, leaving the widow
absolutely transfixed.
" AVhat could INIr. Doubleday mean by that! "
was at length her indignant exclamation. No-
body spoke. •' I am sure," continued the crest-
fallen widow, with an attempt at a scornful gig-
gle, "I am sure, if anybody understood him, I
would be glad to know what he did mean."
" Well now, I can tell you," said the same
simple old lady in the corner, who had let out
tlie secret of Mrs. Nipper's morning walks ;
" Some folks call that sponging when you go
about getting your dinner here, and your tea
there, and sich-like — as you know you and Meesy
there does. That was wdiat he meant, I guess."
And the old lady quietly put up her knitting
and prepared to go home. Mrs. Nipper's claret
vXork and green bonnet, and Miss Clinch's ditto,
ditto, were in earnest requisition ; and 1 do not
think that either of them spent an out that week.
■ — A New Home.
13S
JOHN KITTO.— 1
IvITTO, JoHX, an English soliohir, l.oni
lit Plvuiouth in 1804; died at Canstad I, Ger-
many, in 185-i. At the age of twelve he
was rendered incnrably deaf in consequence
of a fall from the roof of a house. He was
placed in the work- house, and subsequently
apprenticed to a shoemaker who treated
him so cruelly that his indentures were can-
celled, and he went back to the \\ork-house.
His ionduess for study, procured for him
admission to the Dissenting College at
Islington, soon after which he published by
subscription a small volume of miscel-
laneous writings. After three or four years
he went to Bagdad as a private tutor, re-
maining there three years, during which
time he acquired an intimate acquaintance
with Oriental life. Returning to England,
he was engaged by Charles Knight who
employed him in the compilation of various
books for the "Library of Useful Knowl-
edge." In 1854 he was seized with paral-
ysis, and went to Germany, where he died.
Among his numerous compilations are :
The. Pictorial Bible (1835-38), U72cle Oliver's
Travels (1838), Pictorical History of Pales-
tine (1839-40), Cijcloi:)sedia of Biblical Liter-
attire (1839-40), Physical Gi:oiiraphy of the
Holy Land (1848), Daily Bible llhistrations
(8 vols., 1849-53.) In 1848 he estabhshed
the Journal of Sacred Literature^ which he
edited until 1853. In 1845 he published
The Lost Senses: Deafness and Blindness^
in which he gives a touching account of his
own deprivation of hearing.
ORIGIN OF HIS DEAFNESS.
I bfcanie deaf on my father's birthdiiy, early
in the year 1817, wlien I liad lately eoinpleted
the twelftli year of niv agt\ The eoinmence-
139 -'
JOHN KITTO.— 2
merit of tliis condition is too clearly connected
with my circumstances in life to allow me to re-
fi-ain from relating some particulars wliicli I
should have been otherwise willing to withhold.
My father, at the expiration of his apprentice-
ship, was enabled by the support of his elder
brother, an engineer, to commence life as a
master-builder, with advantageous connections
and the most favorable prospects. But V)Oth
brothers seem to have belonged to that class of
men whom prosperity ruins ; for after some
years they became neglectful of their business,
and were eventually reduced to great distress.
At the time I have speciHed, my father had be-
come a jo'bbing mason, of precarious employ-
ment, and in such circumstances that it had for
some time been necessary that I should lend my
small assistance to his labors. This early de-
mand upon my services, joined to much previous
inability or reluctance to stand the cost of my
schooling, and to frequent headache, which kept
me much from school, even when in nominal at-
. tendance, made my education very Ijackward.
I could read well, but was an inditferent writer
and worse cipherer, when the day arrived which
was to alter so materially my condition and
hopes in life.
The circumstances of that day — the last of
twelve years of hearing, and the first (as I
write) of twenty-eight years of deafness — have
left a more distinct impression upon my mind
than those of any previous, or almost of any
subsequent day of my life. It was a day to be
remembered. Tlie last day on which any cus-
tomary labor ceases the last day on which any
customary privilege is enjoyed — the last day on
which we do tlie things we have done daily —
are always marked days in the calendar of life.
How much more, therefore must the mind linger
on the memories of a day which was the last of
many blessed things, and in which one stioke of
action and sutferintr — one moment of time —
140
JOHN KITTO.— 3
wroujilit :i greater change of ooiiilition than any
sudden lot^s of wealth or honors cvci- mjuh' in
til" slate of man.
Oil the day in question my father and anolher
man, attended by myself, were engaged in new-
slating the roof of a house, the ladder ascending
to which was fixed in a small court paved with
Ihig-stones. The access to this court from the
street was hy a paved passage through which
ran a gutter whereby waste water was roiiducted
from the yard into the street.
Three tidngs occupied my mind that day.
One was that the town-crier, who occupied part
of the house m which we lived, had licen the
previous evening prevailed upon to intrust me
with a book for which I had long been worrying
him, and with the contents of wiiich I was most
eager to become acquainted. 1 think it was
" A7?-iy's Wonderful Magazinv''' — and I now
dwell tlie rather upon this circumstance as, with
other facts of the same kind, it helps to satisfy
me that I was already a most voracious reader,
and that the calamity which befell me did not
create in me the literary appetite, but only threw
me more entirely upon the resources which it
offered.
The second circumstance was that my grand-
mother had finished^all but the buttons — a new
smock-frock which I had hoped to have assumed
that very day, but which w^as faithfully promised
for the morrow. As this was the first time I
siiould have worn that article of attire, the event
was contemplated with something of that inter-
est and solicitude with which the assumption of
the tof/n virilis may be supposed to have been
conliMTiplated by the Roman youth.
The last circumstance — and the one, i)erhaps,
which had some effect u|>on what ensued— was
this : In one of the apartments of the house
upon which we were at work, a young sailor, of
whom I had some knowledge, had diecl after a
lingering illness which had been attended witli
141
JOHN KITTO.— 4
oirciimstuiices which the doctors could not well
understand. It was therefore concluded that the
body should be opened to ascertain the cause of"
liis death. 1 knew^ that this was to be done, but
not the time appointed for the operation. But
in passing from the sti'eet into the yard, with a
load of slate which I was to take to the house-
to[», my attention was drawn to a stream of
blood — or rather, I suppose — bloody water —
flowing through the gutter by which the passage
was traversed.
The idea that this was the blood of the dead
youth whom I had so lately seen alive, and that
the doctors were then at work cutting liim up
and groping at his insides, made me shuddei',
and gave what I should now call a shock to my
nerves — although I was very innocent of all
knowledge about nerves at that time. I cannot
but tiiink that it was owing to this that I lost
much of the presence of mind and collectedness
so important to me at that moment ; for wlien I
had ascended to the toj) of the ladder, and was
in the critical act of stepping from it on to the
roof, I lost my footing, and fell backward, fiom
a height of about thirty -five feet, into the pa\ed
court below.
Of what followed 1 know nothing ; and as
this is the record of my own sensations, I can
here I'eport nothing but that which I myself
know. For one moment, indeed, I awoke from
that death-like state, and then found that my
father, attended by a crowd of people, was bear-
ing me homeward in his arms ; but I had then
no recollection of what had happened, and at
once relapsed into a state of unconsciousness.
In this state I remained for a fortnight, as I
afterwards learned. These days were a blank
in my life ; I could never bring any recollections
to bear upon them ; and when I awoke one
morning to consciousness, it was as from a night
of sleep. I saw that it was at least two hours
later than my usual time of rising, and marveled
142
JOHN KITTO.— 5
llu.t I liad been suffered to sleep so late. I at-
tempted to spring up in bed, and was astoni.<hed
to find that I could not even move. The utter
[)rostration of my strength subdued all curiosity
within me. I experienced no pain, but felt that
I was weak. I saw that I was treated as an
invalid, and acquiesced in my condition, though
some time passed before I could piece together
mv broken recollections so as to comprehend it.
1 was very slow in learning that my hearing
>vas eutiiely gone. The unusual stillness of all
things was grateful to me in my utter exhaustion;
and If, in this half-awakened state, a thought of
the matter entered my mind, I ascribed it to the
unusual care and success of my friends in i)re-
serving silence around me. 1 saw them talking,
indeed^ to one another, and thought that, out of
regard to my feeble condition, they spoke in
whispers, because I heard them not. The truth
was revealed to me in consequence of my solici-
tude about the book wliich liad so much inter-
ested me on tlie day of my fall. It had, it
seems, been reclaimed by the good old man who
had lent it to me, and who doubtless concluded
that I should have no more need of books in thir
life. He was wrong ; for there has becTi notli-
int^ in tliis life which I have needed more. I
asked for this book with much earnestness, and
was answered by signs which I could not com-
prehend. "Why do you not .speak r " 1 cried.
" Pray let me have the book."
Tins seemed to create much confusion, and at
length sonic one, more clever than the rest, hit
upon the hap|)y expedient of writing upon a slate
that thi; book had been reclaimed by the owner,
and that I could not in my weak state be allowed
to read it. " But," I said in great astonishment,
"why do you write tome? "Why not speak ?
Speak, .speak !" Those who stood around the
bed exchanged significant looks of concern, and
the writer soon displayed upon his slate the
awful words — " Von are Deaf! "
143
JOHN KITTO— 6
Did not this utterly crush me ? By no meaus.
Ill my then weakened condition nothing like
this could affect nie. Besides, I was a child, and
to a child the full extent of such a calamity
could not be at once apparent. However. I
knew not the future — it was well 1 did not ; and
there was nothing to show me that I suffered
under more than a temporary deafness which in
a lew days might pass away. It was left for
time to show me the sad realities of the condition
to which I was reduced. — TTie Lost Senses.
144
FKIEDKICH GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK.— 1
KLOPSTOCK, Feiedhk'h Gottlieb, a
German poet, born at Quedlinburg in 1724;
died at Hamburg in 1803. At an early
age, while a student at the Seminary of
Schulpforte, he conceived the idea of writ-
ing an e[)ic poem upon the story of Henry
the Fowler. He entered the University of
Jena, where he studied until 1745, and his
enthusiasm took a religious turn, and he
chose " The Messiah " as the theme of his
proposed epic. In 1746 he Avent to Leipsic,
where a literary association had been
gathered together, the aim of which was
an entire renovation of the form and spirit
of German poetry. This association estab-
lished at Bremen a literary journal, the
Lilerarische Zeituruj. The first tliree cantos
of Klopstock's Messiah were published in
this journal in 1748 ; the remainder of the
poem appeared at intervals, the last })art as
late as 1773. From the outset Klopstock
was recognized in certain circles of Germany
as a great epic poet, worthy to rank with
Dante and Milton. Later generations have
failed to accord to him any such place.
The external life of Klopstock Avas a for-
tunate one. After the publication of the
first three cantos of The Messiah he acted
as a private tutor for a couple of years. In
1750 the Danish Prime Minister invited
him to Copenhagen, offering him a pension
of $300, so that he might be able to devote
himself wholly to the composition of his
epic. He was received at Copenhagen
with marked distinction; became a favorite
of the King, by whom he was employed in
honorable official posts, ending in 1771
with that of Councillor of the Danish Lega-
tion at Hamburg, which thereafter became
10 '" 145
FKIEDKICH GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK.— 2
his residence. Another pension was granted
him by the Prince of Baden, and the
French Revolutionary Government nijide
him an honorary citizen of the Republic.
He died at the age of nearly four-scoi'e, and
his funeral was celebrated with a pomp
almost regal.
Klopstock's works cover a great variety
of topics. Among them are grammatical
and philological treatises; several ])atri()lic
dramas in commemoration of the national
hero Hermann, or Arminius; and numer-
ous odes. Most of his works, however, are
dramatic poems based upon Scriptural
themes. The most important of these are
The Messiah^ The Death of Adam, tSohmori,
and David. Of his works, taken in mass,
Novalis says that " they reseml)le transla-
tions from some unknown poet, prepared
by a skillful but unpoetical philologist."
Some of his odes, however, are worthy of
less guarded commendation. Perhaps the
best of them is the Ode to God, which we
give in the translation contained in the
Foreiyn Review.
ODE TO GOD.
Thou Jehovah
Art named, but I am dust of dust
Dust, yet eternal : for the iiumortal .Soul
Thou gaved'st me, gaved'st Thou foreteruity;
Breathed'st into her, to form tliy maze,
Sublime desires for peace and bliss,
A tlironging host ! but one, more beautiful
Than all the rest, is as the Queen of all,
Of Thee the last divinest image,
The fairest, most attractive — Love!
Thou feelest it, thougli as the Eternal One :
It feel, rejoicing, the high angels whom
Thou mad'st celestial — Thy last image,
The fairest and divinest Love !
146
FRIEDRICH GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK — 3
I)-.)) wiihin Adam's ln'art Tlioii iilantid'st it,
111 Ills idea of pertVotion made.
For him create, to him thou broiightest
The Mother of the Hmiiaii Raee.
Deep also in my heart tliou planted'st it :
In my ith'a of perfection made.
For me create, from me Thou leadest
Her wliom my soul entirely loves.
Towards her my soul is all outshed in tears —
]My full soul weeps, to stream itself away
"NVlioUy in tears ! From me Thou leadest
Her whom I love, 0 God ! from ine —
For so Thy destiny, invisibly,
Ever in darkness works — far, far away
From my fond arms in vain extended —
l)Ut not away from my sad heart !
And yet Thou knowest why Thon didst con-
ceive,
And to reality creating, call
Souls so susceptible of feeling,
And for each other fitted so.
Thou knowest, Creator ! But Thy destiny
Those souls — thus born for each other — parts:
High destiny impenetrable —
How dark, yet how adorable !
Bnt Life, when with Eternity compared,
Is like tlie swift breath by the dying breathed.
The last l)reath, wherewith flees the spirit
That age to endless life aspired.
"What once was labyrinth in glory melts
Awav — luid destiny is then no more.
All, then, with rapturous re-beholding,
Thou givest soul to soul again !
Thought of the Soul and of Eternity,
Wortliy and meet to soothe the saddest pain :
My soul conceives it in its greatness ;
But. Oh, I feel too much the life
That here I live ! Like immortality,
"What seemed a breath fearfully wide extends !
I .see, I see my bosom's anguish
In boundless darkness magnified.
God ! let this life pass like a fleeting breath !
147
FRIEDRICH GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK.— 4
Ah, no ! But her, who seems designed for me,
Give — easy for Thee to accord me —
Give to my trembling, tearful heart !
The pleasing awe that thrills me, meeting her !
The suppressed stammer of the dying soul,
That has no words to say its feelings
And save by tears is wholly mute !
Give her unto my arms, which, innocent
In childhood, oft to Thee in heaven,
When with the fervor of devotion
I prayed of Thee eternal peace !
With the same effort dost Thou grant and take
From the poor worm, whose hours are centuries.
This brief felicity — the worm, man.
Who blooms his season, droops and dies !
By her beloved, I beautiful and blest
Will Virtue call, and on her heavenly form
AVith fixed will gaze, and only
Own that for peace and happiness
Which she prescribes for me. But, Holier One,
Thee too, who dwell'st afar in higher state
Than human virture — Thee I'll honor,
Only by God observed, more pure.
By her beloved, will I more zealously,
Rejoicing, meet before Thee, and i)our forth
My fuller heart, Eternal Father.
Inliallelujas ferventer.
Then, when she with me, she Thine exalted
praise
Weeps up to heaven in prayer, with eyes that
swim
In ecstacy, shall I already
With her that higher life enjoy.
The song of the Messiah, in her arms
Quaffing enjoyment pure, 1 nobler may ,
Sing to the Good, who love as deeply
And, being Christians, feel as we !
148
FRANCIS KNArP— 1
KXAPP, Fraxcis, an Anglo-American
])oet, bom in Berkshire, England, in 1672 ,
died at Watertuwn, Mass., abont 1712. He
matriculated at St. Joim's College, Oxford,
and came it) New England to take posses-
sion of some land, which had been acquired
l)V his -grandfather at Watertown, near
Boston, where he passed the remainder of
his life in the quiet pursuits of a scholar.
A poem relating to " Fresh Pond," in Wa-
tertown, which appeared in the Neiv Eruj-
land Weeldy Journal^ in 1731, has a dis-
tinctively New England character.
A NEW ENGLAND POND.
Of ancient streams presume no more to tell —
The famed Castalian or Pierian well.
Fresh Pond superior must these rolls confess,
As much as Cambridge yields to Rome or
Greece.
More limpid water can no fountain show,
A fairer bottom or a smoother brow.
On this side willowg hem the basin round ;
There gracefid trees the promontory crown.
No noxious snake disperses poison here,
Nor screams of night-bird rend the twilight air,
Excepting him wlio, when the groves ai'e still,
Hums ninoious tunes, and whisjjers whip-poor-
will.
Hither, ye bards, for ins[)iration come;
Let every other fount but this be dumb.
Which way soe'er your airy genius leads,
Receive your model from tht:se vocal shades.
Would you in homely pastoral excel,
Take i)attern from the merry piping quail ;
()l)serve the blue-bird for a roundelay.
The chattering pye or ever-babbling jay ;
The plaintive dove the soft love-verse can teach,
Ami mimic thrush to imitators preach ;
In Pindar's sirain the lark salutes the dawn,
The lyric robin chirps the evening on.
For poignant satire maik the mavis well,
149
FRANCIS KNAPP.— 2
And hear the sparrow for a madrigal
For every sense a pattern here you have
From strains heroic down to humble stave.
Not Phoebus's self, although the God of Verse,
Could hit sucli fiue and entertainiug#lirs ;
Nor the fair maids who round the fountain sate,
Such artless heavenly music modulate.
Each thicket seems a Paradise renewed ;
The soft vibrations tire the moving blood.
Each sense its part of sweet delusion siiares,
The scenes bewitch the eye, the song the ears.
Pregnant with scent, each wind regjdes the smell.
Like cooling sheets the enwrapping breezes feel.
During the dark, if poets eyes we tru>-t.
These lawns are haunted by some swarthy ghost.
Some Indian prince who, fond of former joys,
With bow and quiver through the shadow plies;
He can't in death his native grove forget.
But leaves Elysium for his native seat.
O happy pond ! had'st thou in Grecia flowed,
The bounteous blessing of some watery god,
Or ha<l some Ovid sung this liquid rise,
Distilled perhaps from slighted Virgil's eyes!.
Well is thy worth in Indian story known.
Thy living lymph and fertile border strown ;
Thy various Hocks the covered shore can shun,
Drove by the fowler and the fatal gun ;
The sliining roach and yellow bristly bream ;
The pick'rel, rav'nous monarch of the stream ;
The perch, whose back a ring of colors shows;
The horny pout, who courts the slimy ooze ;
The eel serpentine, some of dubious race ;
The tortoise with his golden-spotted case ;
The hjury muskrat, whose peifume defies
The balmy odor of Arabian skies.
The throngs of Harvard know thy pleasures well- —
Joys too extravagant, perhaps, to tell ;
Hither oftimes the learned tribe repair.
When Sol returning warms the glowing year.
150
HEINEICH KNAUST.— 1
KNAUST, Heixrich, a German poet,
born in 1541 ; died in 1557. Among the
best of hiri quaint verses are tlie following :
DIGNITY OK TllK CLERKS.
Paper doth make a rustio, and it can rustle
well ;
To lind it is no puzzle, sitli aye it rustle will.
In every place 'twill rustle, where'er 's a little
bit;
So too the Scholars rustle withf)uteii all deceit.
Ot" tag and rag they make the noble writer's
stuff;
One might with laughter shake, I tell you true
enough.
Old tatters, cleanly worked, thereto they do pre-
pare ;
Lift m;uiy from the ashen, that erst sore want
did bear.
'I'lir ))eu beliiud the ear, all pointed for to write,
Dotli hidden anger stir. Forevermore the ("leik
doth sit.
Before all other wights; since him a Cleik I hey
call ;
The princes he delights — they love liiu) most Of
all.
The Clerk full well they name a ti'easure of
much cost ;
Thou he's begrudged the same, nathless he
keeps his post.
Before the Clerk must bend oft many .-i warrior
grim,
And to the corner wend, although it pleased not
him.
Transl. of C. C. Felton.
151
KARL LUDWIG VON KNEBEL.— 1
KNEBEL, Karl Ludwig von, a Ger-
man poet, born in Bavaria in 1744 :
died at Jena in 1834. His progenitors were
Protestant refugees from the Nether-
lands, lie became an officer in tlie regi-
ment of the Crown Prince of Prussia, and
at the age of thirty was appointed tutor to
Prince Constantine of Wiemar. At the court
of Wiemar he lived for mauy years in close
intimacy with Goethe, Herder, and Wieland.
He wrote much original })oetry, and made
various translations from other languages
into German. Among these translations
are the De Reruvi Nalurd ol Lucretius, the
Eleyies of Propertius, and the /S«/<^of Al-
bieri.
AURASTEA.
Ween ye that Law and Right and the Rule of
Life are uncertain —
Wild as the wandering wind, louse as the drift
of sand?
Fools ! look round and perceive an order and a
measure, in all things I
Look at the hcirh as it grows, look at the life of
the brute :
Everything lives by a law, a central balance sus-
tains all ;
Water, and fire, and air, wavy and wild as they
be,
Own an iidiercnt power that binds their rage,
and without it
Earth would burst every bond, ocean would
yawn into hell.
Life and breath, what are they? The system of
laws that sustains thee
Ceases : and, mortal, say whither thy being hatli
fled !
What thou art in thyself is a type of the com-
mon creation ;
For in the Universe, Life, Order, Existence are
one,
152
KARI. LUDWia VON KXEBEI. — 9
Look to the world of Miiul : Hath soul no law
that coiitfols it?
Elements may in one build up the temple ot
Thou_i>lit ;
And when the building is just, the feeling of
Truth is the oflspring :
Truth, how great is thy might, e'en in the breast
of the child !
Constant swayeth within us a living balance
tliat weighs all.
Truth, order and right measures and ponders,
and feels
Pas»ions arouse the breast ; the tongue, swift-
seized by the impidse.
Wisely (if wisdom there be) follows the laws of
the soul ;
Thus, too, ruleth a Law — a sure Law, deep in
the bosom.
Blessing us when we obey, punishing when we
offend.
Far by the sacred stream where goddess Ganga
is worshipped.
Dwell a race of mankind pure in heart and in
life :
From the stars of the welkin they have their
birth ; and the ancient
Karth — more ancient than they — knoweth no
older people that lives.
Simple and sweet is their food ; they eat no
flesh of the living,
And from the blood of the brute shrinks the
pure spirit away ;
For in the shape of another it sees itself meta-
morphosed,
And in the kindred of form owneth a natuic
the same.
Children of happier climes, of suns and moons
that benignly
Shine, hath ilew from above watered your sensi-
tive souls ?
To till' delicate flowers, gentle and lovelv as
they >
153
KARL LUDWIG VON KNEBEL.— 3
Say, what power of gods Imtli joined your
spirits in wedlock
Under blooming groves, and sweet and pregnant
with ambra,
Gaugeth the Spirit Divine purer the measure of
Right ?
Pure is tlie being of God they teach, His nature
is goodness :
Passions and stormy wrath stir not the bosom
of Brahm.
But by the fate of the wrecked the wicked are
punislied unfading ;
Sorrow and anguish of soul follow the doers of
sin ;
In their bosom is hell, the sleepless voice of
accusing
Speaks ; and gnaweth a worm, never, oh ! never
to die !
154
CHARLES KNIGHT.— 1
KNIGIIT, Charles, an English publisher
and author, bom in 1791; died in 1873.
In 1828 he commenced the publication of
Kni (jilt's Quarterly Mayazine in Avhich ap-
peared Macaulay's earliest writings; tlie
title was changed in 1827 to The London
Mayazine^ and in it appeared Carlyle's Life
of Schiller and De Quincey's Confessions of
an EiKjlish Opium-Eater. About 1830 he
became connected with the Societ}' for the
Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, as publisher
and agent. Among the works, issued mainly
at his own risk, were the Penny Majazine^
which at one time had a circulation of
200,000 copies. In 1856-1862 was pub-
lished The Popular History of Enyland^
written mainly by himself. Among his
numerous compilations are Half Hours uritli
the Best Authors (1848), and Half Hours
ivith the Best Letter- Writers (1866.) His Life
of Caxton^ published in 1844, was in 1854
greatly enlarged, and issued under the title,
The Old Printer and the Modern Press.
Mr. Knight's publishing enterprises were
not ultimately successful ; but about 1860
he received from the Government the ap-
pointment of publi slier of the I^ondon Ga-
zette.^ the duties being merely nominal, and
the salary £1,200 a year. Soon after his
death a statue of him was erected at Wind-
sor, where he was born, and where he first
entered upon business as a bookseller and
publisher.
A FROl'HEOY OF PRINTING.
It was evensonj^ time when, after a day of
listlessiiess, the priiUers in tlie Almoniy of West-
minster prepared to close the doors of their
workshop. This was a tolerably spacious loom,
155
CHARLES KNIGHT.— 2
with a carved oaken roof. The setting sun
shone brightly into the chamber, and lighted up
such furniture as no other room in London could
then exhibit. Between the columns which sup-
ported the I'oof stood two presses — ponderous
machines. A " form " of types lay unread upon
the "tabh'" of one of these presses; the other
was empty. There w^ere " cases " ranged be-
tween the opposite columns ; but there was no
" copy " suspended ready for tlie compositors to
proceed with in the morning. No ]iea[t of wet
paper was piled upon the floor. The " balls,"
removed from the presses, were rotting in a cor-
ner. The " ink-blocks " were dusty, and a thin
film had formed over the oily pigment. William
Caxton, he who had set tliese machines in mo-
tion and tilled the whole space with the activity
of his mind, was dead. His daily w^ork w:is
ended.
Three grave-looking men, decently clothed in
black, were girding on their swords. Tiieir caps
were in their hands. The door opened, and the
chief of the workmen came in. It was Wynkyn
de Worde. With short speech, but looks of
deep significance, he called a " Chapel " — the
printers' Pai'liament — a conclave as solemn and
as omnipotent as the Saxons' Wittenagemut.
Wynkyn was the " Father of the Ciiapel."
The four drew their higli stools round the
"imposing-stone." Upon the stone lay two un-
corrected folio pages — a portion of tlie JJves of
the Fnt/iers. The "proof" was not returned.
He that they had followed a few days before to
his grave in Saint Margaret's Church, had lifted
it once to his failing eyes— and then they closed
in night.
'' Companions," said Wynkyn — surely tluit
word " companion " tells of the antiquity of
printing, and of the old love and fellowsiiip that
subsisted amongst its craft^ — " Com[)anions, the
good work will not stop."
156
CHAKLKS KNIGHT.— 3
• Wynkyii," saiil Richard Pyiison, "who is to
carrv on the work ? "
'• I am ready," answered Wynkyn.
A faint, expression of joy arose to the lips of
these honest men ; but it was dampened by the
remembrance of him they had lost.
•• He died," said Wynkyn, "as he lived. The
Lices of the Holy Fathers is finished, as far as
the translator's labor. Tiiere is the rest of the
the copy. Read the words of the last page which
/ have written : ' Tims endeth thv most rirtnoxis
hlttforji of the devout and n'c/ht-re/iou'tted /ires of
the Hnly Fathers living in the desert, worthy <f
renwinhrance to all well-disposed persuns. icliich
has been translated out of French into Enylish by
William Caxton, of Westminster, late dead, and
finished at the last day of his life.'"
Tlie tears were in all their eyes ; and " God
rest his soul ! " was whispered around.
"Companion," said William Machlinia, "is
not this a hazardous enterprise ? "
"I have encouragements," replied Wynkyn ;
"the Lady Margaret, his Highness's mother,
gives me aid. So droop not, fear not. We will
carry on the work briskly in our good master's
house. — So fill the case."
A shout almost mounted to the roof.
" But why should we fear? You, IMachlinia,
you, Letton, and you, dear Richard Pynson, if
you choose not to abide with youi- old companion
here, there is work for you all in these good
towns of Westminster, London, and Southwark.
You have money ; you know where to buy types.
Printing inust go forward."
"Always full of heart," said Pynson. "But
have you foi-got the statute of King Richard ?
We cannot say, ' God rest his soul ! ' for oui- old
master scarcely ever forgave him putting T^oi-d
Rivers to death. Yon forget the statute. "\A'e
ought to know it, for we printed it. J can turn
to the file in a moment. It is the Act touching
tlie merchants of Italy, which forbids them sell-
157
CHARLES KNIGHT.— 4
ing tlit'ir whits in this realm. Here it is — 'Pro-
vided filways tliat this Act, or any part thereof,
in no wise extend or be prejudicial of any let,
hurt, or impediment to any artiticer or merchant
stranger, of what nation or country he be or
shall be of, for bringing into this realm, or selling
by retail or otherwise, of any manner of books
written or imprinted.' — Can we stand up against
that, if we have more presses than the old press
of the Abbey of Westminster ? "
"Aye, truly, we can, good friend," briskly
answered Wynkyn. " Have we any books in
our store? Could we ever print books fast
enough ? Are there not readers rising up on
ail sides? Do we depend upon the Court?
The mercers and the drapers, the grocers and
the spicers of the city crowd here for our books.
The rude uplandish men even take our books —
they tiiat our master rather vilipended. The
tapsters and taverners have our books. The
whole country-side cries out for our ballads and
our Robin Hood stories ; and, to say the truth,
the citizen's wife is as much taken with our
King Arthurs and King Blanchardines as the
most noble knight that Master Caxton ever
desired to look upon in his green days of jousts
in Burgundy. So fill the case ! "
'• But if foreigners bring books into Eng-
land," said the cautious William Machlinia,
" there will be more books than readers."
"Books make readers," rejoined Wynkyn.
"Do you not remember how timidly our bold
master went on before he was safe in his sell ?
Do you forget how he asked this lord to take a
copy, and that knight to give him something in
fee ; and how he bargained for his summer veni-
son and his winter venison as an encouragement in
his ventures? But he found a larger market
than he ever counted upon ; and so shall Ave all.
Go ye forth, my brave fellows. Stay not to
work for me, if you can work better for your-
selves. I fear no rivals."
158
CHARLES KNIGHT- 0
'*"\Vhy, AVynkyii," iiitrr|>osed Pyiisoii ; ••you
talk as it" printing were as necessary as air;
books as toud, clothing, or tire."
•'And so they will be some day. "What is to
stop the wish for books? Will one man liave
the command of books, and another man desire
them not? Tlie time may come when every
man shall require books,"
" Perhaps." said Letton, who had an eye to
printing tiie Statutes, "the time may come when
every man shall want to read an Act of Parlia-
ment, instead of the few hnvyers who buy our
Acts now,"
"Hardly so," grunted AVynkyn,
"Or perchance you think that Avhen our
Sovereign Liege meets his Peers and Commons
in Parliament, it were well to print a book,
some month or two after, to tell w^iat the Par-
liament said, as well as ordained."
" Xay, nay, you run me hard," said Wynkvn.
"And if within a month, why not witiiin a
day? Why shouldn't we print the words as fast
as spokc.Mi? We only want fairys fingers to ])i(k
up our types, and presses that Dortor Fatistus
and his <levils may some day make, to tt'll all
London to-morrow morning what is (h)iic this
morning in the palace at "Westminster."
"■Prithee, be serious," ejaculated Wynkyn,
" I was speaking of possible things ; and I rcallv
think the day may come when one person in a
thousand may read books and buy books, and we
shall have a trade almost as good as tJiat of
armorers and tlelehers."
" Tiie Bil)lc ! " exchiimed Pynson ; "Oh that
we might print tlie Jiible ! I know of a (■oi)y
of Wicklitfc's liibh'. That wci-c indeed a book
to print I "
"I iiav(i no doubt, Richard, that the happy
time may come wlum a Bible shall be chaiiu'd
in every church, for every Christian man to look
up(jn. Von remember when oui- brothci' lluntc
showed us the chained books in the Library at
159
CHARLES KNIGHT.— 6
Oxford. So, a century or two hence, a Bible
may be found in every paiisli. Twelve thou-
sand parishes in England! \Ve should want
more paper in that good day, Master Richard." .
"You had better fancy," said Letton, " tliat
every housekeeper will want a Bible! Heaven
save the mark, how some men's imaginations
run away with them ! "
"I cannot see," interposed Machlinia, "how
we can venture upon more presses in London.
Here are two. They have been worked well
since the day when they were shipped at C()-
logne. Here are live founts of type — as nuich
as a tliousand weiglit. They have been well
worked ; they are pretty nigh worn out. What
man would risk sucli an adventure after our
good old master? He was a favorite at court
and in cloister. He was w'ell patronized. AVho
is to patronize us ? "
" The people, I tell you," exclaimed Wyn-
kyn. " The babe in the cradle wants an Absey-
book ; the maid at her distaff a Ballad ; the
priest wants his Pie ; the young lover wants a
Romance of Chivalry to read to his mistress;
the lawyer wants his Statutes ; the scholar
wants his Virgil and Cicero. They will all
want more, the more they are su[)plied. How
many in England have a book at all, think you?
Let us make books cheaper by printing more of
them at a time. The church-wardens of Saint
Margaret's School asked me six-and-eight pence
yesterday for the volume that our master left
the parish ; for not a copy can I get, if we
should want to print again. Six-and-eight-
pence ! That was exactly what he charged his
customers for the volume. Print five hundred
instead of two hundred, and we could sell it foi-
t h ree-and-fourpe n ce. "
" And ruin ourselves," said Machlinia.
" Master Wynkyn, I shall fear to work for you
if you go on so madly. What has turned your
head?" — WiUium. Guxton, a Bioyraphy.
160
HERBERT KKOWJ-ES.— 1
KXOWLES, Herbert, an English })oet,
born at Cantevbury in 1798; died in 1817,
at the age of nineteen. There are in our
lanouage few poems by one who died so
young equal to the following, wh'ich was
written in the Churchyard of Richmond,
Yorkshire.
BUILDING OUR TABEUN.\CLES.
"Lord, it is good for us to he hn-e ; if thou ^viU, let
us make here three tabernacles ; one for Thee, and one
for Moses, and one for Elias.^'
Methiiiks it is good to be here.
If thou wilt, let us build — but for whom?
Nor Elias nor Moses appear ;
But the shadows of eve that encompass with
gloom
The abode of the dead and the place of the
tomb.
Shall we build to Ambition ? Ah no !
Affrighted, he shrinketh away ;
For see, they would pin him below
In a small narrow cave; and, begirt with cold
clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.
To Beauty ? Ah no ! she forgets
The charms which she wielded before ;
Nor knows the foul worm that he frets
Tiie skin which but yesterday fools could adore.
For the smoothness it held or the tint which it
wore.
vShall we build to the purple of Pride,
The trappings which dizen the proud?
Alas, they are all laid aside.
And here's neither dress nor adornments allowed,
But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the
shroud.
161
HERBERT KNOWLES.— 2
To Riches ? Alas ! 'tis in vain ;
Who hid, in their turns have been hid ;
The treasures are squandered again ;
And here in the grave are all metals forbid
But the*tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid.
To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?
Ah ! here is a plentiful board !
But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.
Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Ah no ! they have withered and died,
Or fled with the spirit above.
Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by
side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.
Unto Sorrow ? — the dead cannot grieve ;
Not a sob, not a sigli meets mine ear.
Which Compassion itself could relieve.
Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear
Peace ! peace is the watchword, the only one
here.
Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?
Ah no ! for his empire is known,
And here there are trophies enow!
Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark
stone,
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may dis-
own.
The first tabernacle to Hope we will build.
And look for the sleepers around us to rise!
The second to Faith, which insures it ful-
filled ;
And the third to the Lamb of the great Sacrifice,
Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to
the skies.
162
JAMES SHERIDAN KXOWLES.— 1
KNCWLES, James Sheridan, a British
dramatist, born at Cork, Ireland, in 1784 ;
died at Torquay, Devonshire, in 1862. He
was removed to Loudon, in 1793,^ and not
long after produced a play and a popular
ballad. In 1806 lie appeared on the stage
at Dublin, and for some years joined to
the labors of an actor those of dramatic
author and teacher. His first important
success was attained at Belfast by Caius
Gracchus in 1815. F?V(7i?n'?/s, produced in
1820, established his reputation. William
Tell followed in 1825. His other plays are
The B€'j(iars DaiKjhter of Bethnal Green
(1828), Alfred the Great (1831.) The Hunch-
back (1832), The .m7e(1833), The Dav<jh-
ter (1836), The Love Chase (1837), Woman's
Wit{m2,d>\The MaidofMariendorpt (1838),
Love (1839) John of Pmcida (1840), Old
Maids (1841), TV/e Rose of Arayon (1842), and
The Secretary (1843.) These were gathered
into three volumes as his Dramatic Works
(1843:) revised edition in two volumes,
1856.) Knowles abandoned the stage from
conscientious scruples in 1845, wrote two
novels, Fortescue and Georcje Lovell (1847),
received a pension of £200 in 1849, be-
came a Baptist preacher in 1852, and pub-
lished The Rock of Rome (1849) and The Idol
demolished by its own Priests (1851.)
DEATH OF VIRGINIA.
Apjyius Virginias,
I ft'<4 for yon ; l)ut thougli you were my father,
Tin; majesty of justice should be sacred —
Claudius nuist take Virginia home with him!
Viryinius. — And if he must, I should advise
him, Appius,
To take her home in time, before his guardian
Complete the violation which his eyes
163
JAMES SHElilDAN KNOWLES.— 2
Already liave begun. — Friends! fellow-eili/cns :
Look not on Claudius — look on your Decemvir!
He is the master claims Virginia!
The tongues that told him she was not my child
Are these : — the costly charms he cannot [)ur-
chase,
Except by making her the slave of Claudius,
His client, his purveyor, that caters for
His pleasure — markets for him, picks and scents.
And tastes, that he may banquet — sei'ves him
»P
His sensual feast, and is not now ashamed.
In the open, common street, before your eyes —
Frighting your daughters' and your matrons'
cheeks
With blushes they ne'er thought to meet — to
help him
To tlie honor of a Roman maid ! my child !
Who now clings to me, as you see, as if
This second Tarquin had already coiled
His arms around her. Look upon her, Romans!
Befriend her! succor her! see her not polluted
Before her father's eyes ! — He is but one.
Tear her from Appius and his lictors while
She is unstained ! — Your hands ! your hands !
your hands !
Citizens. — They are yours, Virginius.
App. — Keep the people back !
Support my lictors, soldiers ! Seize the girl.
And drive the people back.
Icilias. — Down with the slaves !
[The people make a show of resistance; but, upon
the advance of the soldiers, retreat, and leave IciL-
lus, Virginius, and his daughter in the hands of
Appius and his party.]
Deserted ! Cowards ! traitors ! — Let me free
But for a moment ! — I relied on you :
Had I relied upon myself alone,
I had kept them still at bay I kneel to you :
Let me but loose a moment, if 'tis only
To rush upon your swords.
Vir. — Icilius, peace !
164
JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.— 3
You see how 'tis: we are deserted, left
Alone by our friends, surrounded by our ene-
mies,
Nerveless and helpless.
App. — Separate them, lictors !
Vir. — Let them forbear awhile, I pray you,
Appius :
It is not very easy. Though her arms
Are tender, yet the hold is strong by which
She grasps me, Appius — forcing them will luirt
them :
They'll soon unclasp themselves. Wait but a
little ;
You know you're sure of her.
App. — I have not time
To idle with thee : give her to my lictors.
Vir — Appius, I pray you wait ! If she is
not
My child, she hath been like a child to me
For fifteen years. If I am not her father,
I have been like a father to her, Appius,
For even such a time. They that have lived
So long a time together, in so near
And dear society, may be allowed
A little time for parting. Let me take
The maid aside, I pray you, and confer
A moment with her nurse; perhaps she'll give
me
Sonu! token will unloose a tie so twined
And knotted round my heart, that, if you break
it,
My lieart breaks with it.
App. — Have your wish. Be brief! —
Lictors, look to them.
Virginia. — Do you go from me?
Do you leave me? Father! Father!
Vir. — No, my child.
No, my Virginia. Come along with me.
Virginia — Will you not leave me? Will you
take me with you?
Will you take me home again ? 0, bless you,
bless you !
165
JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.— 4
IMv ftitlier ! my dear father ! Art thou not
My father?
[Virgin lus, perfectly at a loss what to do, looks
anxiously around the Forum : at length his eye
falls on a butcher's stall, with a knife upon it.]
FiV. — This way, my child. — No, no ; I'm not
going
To leave thee, my Virginia! I'll not leave
thee.
App. — Keep back the people, soldiers! Let
them not
Approach Virginius ! Keep the people back ! —
[ViKGlNius secures the knife.]
Well, have you done ?
Vir Short time for converse, Appius,
But I have.
App. — I hope you are satisfied.
Vir I am —
I am — that she is my daughter !
App. — Take her, lictors !
[Virginia shrieks, and falls half-dead upon her
father's shoulder.]
Vir Another moment, pray you. Bear
with me
A little : 'tis my last embrace. 'Twon't try
Your patience beyond bearing, if you're a man !
Lengthen it as I may, I cannot make it
Long My dear child ! My dear Virginia !
[Kissing her.]
There is one only way to save thine honor —
'Tis this.
[Virginius stabs her, and draws out the knife.
IciLius breaks from the soldiers that held him, and
catches her.]
Lo, Appius, with this innocent blood
I do devote thee to the infernal gods !
Make way there !
App Stop him ! seize him !
Vir If they dare
To tempt the desperate weapon that is maddened
166
James smeridan k:nowles.— 5
With drinking of my daugliter's blood, why, let
them : thus
It nislu's in amongst them. Way there ! way!
Virginius.
TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.
Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again !
I hold to you the hands you tirst beheld,
To show "they still are free ! Methinks I hear
A spirit in your echoes answer me,
And bid your tenant welcome to his home
Again ! O sacred forms, how proud you look !
How high you lift your lieads into the sky!
How huge you are! how mighty and how free I
How do you look, for all your bai-ed brows,
More gorgeously majestical than kings
Whose loaded coronets exhaust the mine!
Ye are the things that tower, that shine, whose
smile
Makes glad, whose frown is terrible ; whose forms,
Rolled or unrobed, do all the impress wear
Of awe divine ; whosQ subject never kneels
In mockery, because it is your boast
To keep him free ! Ye guards of liberty,
I'm with you once again ! — I call to you.
With all my voice ! I hold my hands to you
To show they still are free ! I rush to you
As though 1 could embrace you !
WiUiam Tell.
167
THOMAS WALLACE KNOX— 1
KNOX, Thomas Wallace, an American
traveller and author, born at Pembroke, N.
H., in 1835. He studied at neighboring
academies, and opened one of his own at
Kingston, N. IT. His work as anews}iaper
correspondent began in Colorado in 1860,
was transferred to the U. S. Army in the
south-west 1860-61, and continued in a jour-
ney round the world in 1866-67, and another
in 1877-78. The intervals have been usually
spent in New York city, in labors of journal-
ism and authorship. He has invented a
system of topographical telegraphy, which
was adopted by the U. S. government for the
transmission of weather maps. In 1880 he
received the order of the White Elephant
from the King of Siam. He has published
Carap-fire and Cotton-field (1865), Overland
tliroiKjh Asia (1870), Under qrourul Life
(1873), Backsheesh (1875), Hoiv to Travel
(1880), Pochet-Guide for Europe (1881),
Arotind the World (1882), Voya(ie of the
" Vivian " to the North Pole (1884), Lives of
Blaine and Logan (1884), Marco Polo for
Boys and Girls (1885), Robert Fulton and
Steam Navigation (1886), Life of Henry
Ward Beecher (1887), Decisive Battles since
Waterloo (1887), and Dog Stories and Dog
Lore (1887). He is perhaps best known by
his series of Boy Travellers, who since 1878
have been conducted through China and
Japan, Siam and Java, Ceylon and India,
Egypt and the Holy Land, Africa, South
America, and On the Congo. Of similar
character are The Young Nimrods in North
America and in Europe, Asia, and Africa.
FUTURE MODES OF TRAVEL.
We may yet come to the speed of a railway
train on the water, and more than one inventor
168
THOMAS WALLACE KNOX.— 2
believes that he can do so. The prediction tliat
we will yet cross the Atlantic in three days is no
wilder than would have been the prediction, at
the beginning of this century, that we could
travel on land or sea at our present rate, and
that intelligence could be flashed along a wire
in a few seconds of time from one end of the
world to the other. The railway, the ocean
steamer, the telegraph, the telephone, and many
other things that seem almost commonplace to
us, would have been regarded as the emanations
of a crazy brain a hundred years ago. We, or
our descendants, may be able to go through the
air at will, and show the birds that we can do as
much as they can. Not long ago, I was reading
a sketch supposed to be written a thousand years
hence. Tlie writer describes his travels, and
gives a i)icture of the public highway. An om-
nibus supported by balloons, and drawn by a
[lair of them'^harnessed as we would harness
horses — is represented on its way thi-ough the
air. The driver is on his box, and the conductor
at the door, while the passengers are looking out
of the windows. A bird, who has doubtless be-
come thoroughly familiar with the aerial craft,
lias seized the hat of a passenger and flies away
with it, and the victim of the theft is vainly
stretching his hands towards his pioperty.
Balloons are sailing through the air, and in one
a man is seated, who is evidently out for a day's
sport. He has a rod and line, and is industri-
ously occupied in birding, just as one might en-
gage in fishing from the side of a boat. A
string of birds hangs from the seat of his con-
veyance, and he is in the act of taking a fresii
prize at the end of his line. There is another
picture representing the ferry of the future. It
consists of an enormous mortar, from which a
couple of bombs have been fired ; they are con-
nected by a chain, and each bomb is laige
enough to contain several persons The Boy
Travellers in the Far East.
169
WILLIAM KNOX— 1
KNOX, William, a Scottish poet, born
in 1789; died in 1825. The following
pc^em, of which only a part is here given,
was a special favorite of Abraham Lincoln.
WHY SHOULD THE Sl'IRIT OF MORTAL Bli PROLD?
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying eloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passes from life to his rest in' the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid ;
And the young and the old, and the low and the
high,
Siiall moulder to dust, and together shall lie.
The infant a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection who proved,
The husband that mother and infant who blest,
Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest.
The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the mitre luith worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave.
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in
whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure — her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those that beloved her and
praised
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.
Tlie saint who enjoyed the communion of
heaven,
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.
So the multitude goes, like the flower and the
weed
That wither away to let others succeed ;
vSo the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that hath often been told.
^ -^ 170 ■
WILLIAM KNOX.— 2
For we are the same that our fathers have been ;
We see the same sights, our fathers have seen ;
We drink the same stream, and we feel the same
sun,
And run the same course that our fathers have
run.
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers wouhl
think ;
From the death we are shrinking our fathers
would shrink ;
To tlie life we are clinging they also would
cling ;
But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the
wing.
Yea ! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together like sunshine and rain ;
And the smile and the tear, the song and the
dirge
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.
'Tis the twink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a
breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of
death.
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the
shroud : —
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ?
171
CHAKLKS i)E KOCK.— 1
KOCK, Charles Paul de, a French
novelist, born at Passyin 1794; died at Paris
in 1871. His father, a banker of Dutch
family, perished during the Reign of Terror.
The son's life was wholly uneventful, and
was passed chiefly in Paris. His first
novel, published at eighteen, was not suc-
cessful. He then, with much assistance
from others, produced a quantity of melo-
dramas, comic operas, and vaudevilles,
wliicli brought him reputation and money,
but are of small literary value. His prose
fictions, which number about 100, had for
some time a wide though somewhat unsav-
ory popularity, though rather abroad than
in France. They had little of style,
seriousness, or elevation ; but they were
amusing, and as pictures of middle class
Parisian life in the eighteenth century some
historical value is claimed for them. De
Kock was " the Charles de Bernard of low
life," and no less the favorite novelist of
Thackeray's Major Pendennis. His most
famous story is Le Barhier de Paris, and
the purest and most meritorious of them is
Andre le Savoyard.
CHILDREN OF NATURE.
Usages, customs, hvnguage, fashions change,
but the world remains ever the same ; for I
mean by " worhl " not only the brilliant ciicles
of a capital, but also the inhabitants of the
smallest liamlet, the savages of Florida or tlic
native, of Java. You affirm that in society one
is neither frank nor loyal. But is the country-
man very frank, who, with liis simple language,
his naive air, tries to sell you a bad piece of
land, to dupe you in all the markets he visits
with you, to set you astray even when you in-
quire vour way of him? Is that Javanese very
172
CHAKLES i)E KOCK.— 2
lo'val, wlio, hidden in the environs of Batavia
waits in tiic thirkness ibr the passing of a trav-
eller, to let tiy an arrow at him. whicli he has
taken care to dip in a poison that renders the
wound mortal ? Nevertheless these people are
the children of nature. (Society has not cor-
rupted them, but you see that nature has not
caused them to be born free of vice. Believe
me, my brother, there is something of human
nature everywhere, and we are not born any
better on the banks of the Ganges than on those
of the Seine. What renders us better is in-
struction, for this enlightens us. — U Homme de
la Nature et V Homme Police.
173
JOHANN GEORG KOHL.— 1
KOHL, JoHANN Geoeg, a German
traveler and author, born in Bremen in
1808 ; died there in 1878. He studied at
Guttin<ien, Heidelberg, and Munich, and for
six years was a tutor in Courland. His
Russian travels were described in volumes
whose success determined his vocation.
Journeys throughout Europe and America
were taken, and similarly utilized in works
on Austria (1842), the British Islands
(1844), Denmark, etc. (1846-47), the Alps
(1849-51), the Netherlands (1850), Istria,
etc. (1851), South-eastern Germany (1852),
the Danube (1854), Canada and New Eng-
land (1857), and tlie North- west (1859). The
years 1854-58 were spent in the United
States and Canada. In 1858 he returned
te Bremen, and became city librarian 1863.
Some of his books appeared in English
versions, as Kitchi-Gam,i^ Wanderinys
round Lake Sujierior (1857), Travels in Can-
ada and through New York and Pennsyl-
vania (1861), and a Popular History of the
Discovery of America (1862.)
OJIBBEWAY MARRIAGES.
A well-known writer on the Indians is of
opinion that it is not considered exactly honoi'able
and respectable among the Ojibbeways to have
several wives. This view my people here con-
tradict point-blank. They assert that, on the
contrary, it is considered highly honorable to be
in a position to su|iport several wives. The
cleverer and more fortunate a hunter is, the
more wives does he have. A distinguished hunter
has no occasion to look after wives — he can
scarcely keep them at bay. A man who can
support several squaws gains influence ; he is
regarded as a man of great gifts and jwwcrful
character, and parents offer him their daugliters.
174
.TOHANN GEORG KOHL.— 2
Usually tliey take their wives from one family
— frequently a whole row of sisters. The first
wife, however, always remains at tlie head of
art'airs. Her place in the lodge is usually by her
husband's side. The hunter also entrusts tlie
game he has killed to her for distribution
Kitchi-Gami, Transl. o/'Wraxall.
NATIVE HELP TO EXPLORERS.
Down to the latest times all the successors of
Columbus have acted as he did. In almost
every instance the first intimations of new
countries and of their natural capabilities have
been derived from natives. The i('})orts of the
Cuban Indians of land in the west led the
Spanish colonists of that island to Mexico. The
inhabitants of the Isthmus of Darien spread the
first news of the great ocean in the south. The
road through the valleys of the Andes had been
prepared for the Spaniards by the old Incas of
Peru. Pizarro and Almagro, tiie conquerors of
that realm, in all their enterprises marched in
the same directions as the generals of the Incas
had marciied before them. Even the fi-avellers
and discoverers of modern times, when they have
come to a new ])art of America, have above all
things made incpurieri of the natives, and got them
to draw with a [)iece of chalk or cliarcoal on
paper, on the bark of trees, or on tlie skins of
bntfaloes, the form of the land, an outline of the
coast, or the course of tlie livers, and they have
shaped their plans and directed their counses ac-
cording to the information thus obtained. — Dis-
covery of Ainerica^ IransL of R. R. Noel.
175
THE KORAN.— 1
KORAN, The (Arab, al Quran, -'the
Reading,") the sacred book of the Moham-
medans. For Islam the Koran is all, and
more than all, that the Bible is for Chris-
tianity. It is not only the ultimate author-
ity in all matters of faith, but is the basis
of all jurisprudence, and tlie foundation of
all right civil and domestic life. It is,
moreover, in the estimation of the Moslems
a model of composition so absolutely perfect
that it could have only a divine origin. If
the Caliph Omar, as is said, ordered all the
books in the library at Alexandria to be
burned, because if they contained only
what was in the Koran they were useless,
and if they contained anything not in the
Koran they were false, he only gave voice
to what has ever been the current belief of
Islam. Tlie Koran everywhere claims to
be a direct revelation from the Most Pligh
to Mohammed his Prophet. The mode of
this revelation is over and over again
declared. In heaven, we are told, is " the
mother of the book, a concealed book, a
well-guarded tablet." The revelation was
made piecemeal, as occasion required. The
mediator was an angel, who is sometimes
called simply "the spirit," sometimes " the
holv spirit," and sometimes "Gabriel," that
is, "the Mighty one of God." This angel
dictated the revelations to Mohammed, who
repeated them aloud to amanuenses, who
wrote down the words as they fell from the
lips of the Prophet. Thg period during
which these revelations were vouchsafed
may be approximately placed as covering
the last twentj^'-three years of Mohammed's
life, beginning when he was about forty
years old.
•^ 176
THE KORAN.— 2
According to legeuds, which may be ac-
cepted as trustworthy, no collection of
these revelations was made until a. d. 633,
the year after the death of Mohammed.
Abubekr, his immediate successor, deputed
a young man named Zaid, who had acted
as the amanuensis of the Prophet to collect
these revelations from co[)ies written on flat
stones, on bits of leather, on the ribs of
palm-leaves, but chiefly from his own
memory. He wrote out a fair copy and
presented it to Abubekr, who gave it to
Omar wlio succeeded him, who bequeathed
it to Ilassa, one of the widow^s of the
Prophet. This original copy was somehow
lost. Some seventeen years later (about
A.D. 650), the Caliph Othman perceived
the necessity of an authorized text of the
Koran. The task of preparing this was
confided to Zaid, with whom three other
learned men were associated. They col-
lected all the codices which they could find,
collated them, and prepared a text, and
then burned all the previous codices. Four
copies of this Koran were made, one of
which was deposited at Medina, and one
was sent to each of the great metropolitan
cities, Cufa, Basra, and Damascus. It is
admitted that these four copies were essen-
tially identical, and that all later manu-
scripts are derived from this original, and
fairly represent it.
The Koran contains somewhat less mat-
ter than the New Testament. It is divided
into 114 Swas, or sections, of very une-
qual length ; and there is no apparent prin-
ci])le regulating the order of the arrange-
ment, except that the longer Suras are
placed at tlie beginning of the volume. To
12 177
THE KOKAN— ;5
this, however, there is one notable excep-
tion. The first Sura is one of the shortest
of all. It forms at once the Cr&lo and the
Pater Nosier of Islam, and is recited on all
solemn occasions. It is commonly desig-
nated as the Fatihat, or " Exordium,'" but is
also called " The Mother of the Koran,"
" The Pearl," and " The All-sufficient." It
runs thus :
SURA I. "AL-FATIHAT," OR THE EXORDIUM.
In the name of God, the compassionate Com-
passion er : Praise be to God, the Lord of the
Avorlds, the compassionate Compassioner, the
Sovereign of the day of judgment. Thee do
we worship, and of Thee do we beg assistance.
Direct us in the right way ; in the way of tliose
to whom Thou hast been gracious, on whom
there is no wrath, and wlio go not astray.
The second Sui-a, the longest of all, con-
tains, in the English version, about 12,000
words ; there are some half dozen of half
that length ; many with about 1,000 words,
and several with less than 100, The car-
dinal idea pervading the entire Koran is
the being of one God — the Most High —
the Creator of all things, the Ruler of the
Universe, and its final Judge, to the abso-
lute exclusion of any other divinity. It is
written in a sort of rhythmical prose. Not
infrequently the sentences run into long-
continued rhyming passages. These graces
of style, so pleasing to an Oriental ear, can
hardly be reproduced in any version. In
reciting the Koran the sentences are in-
variably intoned or chanted, as we may
presume was the case with the Greek and
probably the Hebrew poems. No small
part of the Koran is a paraphrastic repro-
duction of portions of the Pentateuch, with
178
THE KOKAN.— 4
which Mohammed must have been fairly
couverriaut. Other passages eviuce some
acquaintance, if not with the New Testa-
ment itself, with several of what are desig-
nated as " the Apocryphal Gospels."
There are few things more strongly in-
sisted upon in the Koran than the duty of
almsgiving, the abstaining from usury, and
the performance of the strictest justice
between man and man. The following pas-
sages are from near the close of the second
Sura as translated by Sale :
CONCERNING ALMSGIVING.
If ye make your alms to appear, it is well;
but if ye conceal them, and give to the poor,
this will be better for you, and will atone for your
sins ; and God is well-informed of that which ye
do. The direction of them belongetli not unto
thee ; but, God difecteth whom he pleaseth. The
good that ye shall give in alms shall redound
unto yourselves; and ye t^hall not give unless
out of desire of seeing the face of (4od. And
what good things ye shall give in alms, it shall
be repaid you. They who distribute alms of
their substance night and day, in private and in
public, shall have their reward witli their Lord ;
on them shall no fear come, neither shall they
be grieved.
CONCERNING USURY.
They who devour usury shall not arise from
the dead, but as he ariseth whom Satan hath in-
fected by a touch. This shall happen to them
because they say, " Truly selling is but as
usury;" and yet God hath permitted selling and
forbidden usury. He therefore who when tlierc
cometh unto him an admonition from his Lord
abstaineth from usury for the future shall have
what is past forgiven iiim ; and jiis affair belong-
eth unto God. But whoever returneth to usury
179
THE KORAN.— 5
they shall be the companions of hell-tire, they
shall continue therein for ever.
CONCERNING CONTRACTS.
Deal not unjustly with others, and ye shall
not be dealt witli unjustly. H there be any
debtor under a difficulty of paying his debt, let
his creditor wait till it be easy for him to do it;
l)ut if ye remit it as alms, it will be bettei- for
you, if ye knew it. And fear the day Avhen ye
shall return unto God ; then shall every soul be
paid what it hath gained, and they shall not be
treated unjustly.
O true believers, when ye bind yourselves one
to the other in a debt for a certain time, write it
down ; and let a writer write between you ac-
cording to justice ; and let not the writer refuse
writing according to what God hatli taught him;
but let him write, and let him who oweth the
debt dictate, and let him fear God liis Lord, and
not diminish aught thereof. But if he who
oweth the debt be foolish or weak, or be not
able to dictate himself, let his agent dictate ac-
cording to equity; and call to witness two wit-
nesses of your neighboring men ; but if there be
not two men, let there be a man and two women
of those wdiom ye shall choose for witnesses ; if
one of these women should mistake, the other of
them sliall cause her to recollect. And the wit-
nesses shall not refuse, whensoever they shall be
called. And disdain not to write it down, be it
a large debt, or be it a small one, until its time
of payment. This will be more just in the sight
of God, and more right for bearing witness,
and more easy, that ye may not doubt. And
take witnesses when ye sell one to the other, and
let no harm be done to the writer nor to the
witness, which if ye do it will surely be injustice
in you ; and fear God, and God will instruct
you, for God knoweth all things.
This long Sura whicli was revealed at
different times and places, concludes with
the following praj^er: —
180
THE KORAN.— 6
A GENERAL SUPPLICATION,
We implore Thy mercy, O Lord, for unto
Thee must we return. God will not force any
soul beyond its capacity. It shall have the good
which it gaineth, and it shall suffer the evil
which it gaineth. O Lord, punish us not, if we
forget, or act sinfully. O Lord, lay not on us a
burthen like that which Thou hast laid on
those who have gone before us.* Neither make
us, O Lord, to bear what we have not strength
to bear; but be favorable unto us, and spare us,
and be merciful unto us. Thou art our Patron :
help us therefore against the unbelieving na-
tions.
One of the most striking of the Suras is
the thirty-second, which we quote entire.
It is entitled " Adoration," simply because
that word occurs near the middle of it.
SURA XXXII. ENTITLED ADORATION.-
The revelation of this book — there is no doubt
thereof — is from the Lord of all creatures. Will
they say, " Mohammed hath forged it?" Nay,
it is the truth from thy Lord, that thou mayest
preach to a people unto whom no preacher hath
come before thee; peradventure they will be
directed. It is God who hath created the heav-
ens and the earth, and whatever is between
them, in six days; and then ascended his throne.
Ye have no Patron or Intercessor besides Him.
Will ye not therefore consider ? He governeth
all things from heaven even to the earth. Here-
after shall they return unto him, on the day
whose length shall be a thousand years of those
whicli ye compute.
This is He who knoweth the future and the
present: the Mighty, the Merciful. It is He
who made everything which He hath created
* Referring, according to the commentators, to
various observances and prohibitions in the Mosaic
law.
181
THE KORAN.— 7
expei'fling good; and first created man of clay,
and afterwards made his posterity of an extract
of despicable water; and formed him into proper
shape, and breathed of His spirit into liim ; and
hath given you the senses of hearing and seeing,
and hearts to understand. How small thanks
do ye return !
And they say, " Wlien we shall lie hidden in
the earth, shall we be raised thence a new crea-
ture ? " Yea, they deny the meeting of their
Lord at the resurrection. Say : The Angel of
Death, who is set over you, shall cause you to
die: then shall ye be brought back unto your
Lord. If thou couldest see, when the wicked
siiall bow down their lieads before their Lord,
saying, " O Lord, we have seen and heard:
suffer us therefore to return into the world, and
we will work that which is right, since we are
now certain of the truth of what hath been
preached unto us," thou wouldest see an amaz-
ing sight. If we had pleased, we had certainly
given unto every soul its direction ; but the
word which hath proceeded from Me must
necessarily be fulfilled, when I said, " Newly |[
will fill hell with genii and men altogether.
Taste, therefore, the torments prepared for you ;
because ye have forgotten the coming of this
your day, we also have forgotten you. Taste
tlierefore a punishment of eternal duration for
that which ye have wrought.
Verily they only believe in our signs who,
when they are warned thereby, fall down in
adoration and celebrate the praises of their Lord,
and are not elated with pride. Their sides are
raised from their beds, calling on tlie Lord with
fear and with hope, and they distribute alms out
of what We have bestowed on them. No soul
knoweth the complete satisfaction which is
secretly prepared for them as a reward for that
which they have wrought. Shall he, theretbre,
who is a true believer be as he who is an im-
182
THE KORAN.— 8
pioiKs iraiisgressor? They shall not be held
eijual.
Afi to those who believe and do what is riglit.
they shall have gardens of perpetual abode, an
ample recompense for that which they shall have
wrought. I>ut as for those who impiously trans-
gress, their abode shall be hell-iirc ; so often as
they shall endeavor to get thereout they shall be
dragged back into the same, and it shall be said
unto them, " Taste ye the torment of hell-fire,
which ye rejected as a falsehood. And We will
cause them to taste the neai*er punishment of
tliis world, besides the more grievous punish-
ment of the next. Peradventure they will repent.
AVho is more unjust than he who is warned by
the signs of his Lord, and then turneth aside
from the same? We will surely take vengeance
upon the wicked.
We heretofore delivered the Book of the Law
unto Moses : wherefore be not thou in doubt as
to the revelation thereof. And we ordained the
same to be a direction unto the children of Is-
rael ; and we appointed teachers from among
tlieni, who should direct the people at Our com-
mand, when they had persevered with patience,
and had tiiinly believed in Our signs. Verily
the Lord will judge between them, on the day
of the resurrection, concerning that wherein
they have disagreed. Is it not known unto
tiiem how many generations we have destroyed
before tiiem. through whose dwellings they walk ?
Verily herein are signs : Will they not therefore
hearken ? Do they not see that We drive rain
into a land bare of grass and parched up, and
tiiereby produce corn, of which theii- cattle eat,
and themselves also ? Will they not therefore
regard ?
The infidels say to the true believers, " When
will this decision be made between us, if ye
speak the truth ? " Answer : " On the day of
that decision the faith of those who shall have
disbelitived shall not avail them ; neither shall
183
THE KORAN.— 0
they be rt;si)ite(l any longer. Wliereibrc, avoid
tlK'Ui, and expect the issue. Verily they expect
to obtain some advantage over thee.
The teacliings of the Koran are often
coached in the form of an apologue. One
of the most neatly turned of these is the
following, which constitutes a portion of
the eighteenth Sura : —
MOSES AND THE DIVINE MESSENGER.
Moses and Joshua, the son of Nun, found one
of Our servants unto whom We liad granted
mercy from Us, and whom We had taught wis-
dom before Us. And Moses said unto him,
" Shall I follow thee that thou mayest teach me
part of that which thou hast taught, for a dii-ec-
tion unto me ? " He answered, " Verily thou
canst not bear with me ; for how canst thou pa-
tiently suffer those things the knowledge whereof
thou dost not comprehend?" Moses replied,
" Thou shalt find me patient, if God please ;
neither will I be disobedient unto thee in any-
thing." He said, "If thou follow me therefore
ask me not concerning anything until I shall de-
clare tiie meaning thereof unto thee."
So they both went on unto the sea shore until
they went up into a ship ; and he made a hole
therein. And Moses said unto him, " Hast thou
made a hole therein that thou might est drown
those wdio are on board? now hast thou done a
strange thing." He answered, " Did I not tell
thee that thou couldest not bear with me ? "
Moses said, " Rebuke me not, because I did fui-
get ; and impose on me not a difficulty in wliicli
I am commanded."
Wherefore they left the ship, and proceeded
until they met with a youth ; and he slew him.
Moses said, " Hast thou slain an innocent per-
son, without his liaving killed another? Now
hast thou committed an unjust action." He
answered, " Did I not tell thee that thou couldest
184
THE KOKAN'.— 10
not bear with me ? " Moses said, " II" I ask
thee concerning anything hereafter, sutt'er nic;
not to accompany thee. Now thou hast received
an excuse from me."
They went forward therefore until they came
to the inhabitants of a certain city. And they
asked food of the inhabitants thereof; but they
refused to receive them. And they found there
a wall which was ready to fall down, and he set
it upright. AVhereupon Moses said unto him, "If
thou wouldest thou mightest doubtless have re-
ceived a reward for it." He answered, " This
shall be a separation between me and thee; but I
will first declare unto thee the signification of that
which thou couldest not bear with patience : —
" The vessel belonged to certain poor men,
who did their business in the sea ; and I was
minded to render it unserviceable, because there
was a king behind them who took every sound
ship by force. As to the youth, his parents
were true believers, and we feared lest he, being
an unbeliever, should oblige them to suffer his
perverseness and ingratitude ; wdierefore we de-
sired that their Lord might give them a more
rigliteous cliild in exchange for him, and one
more affectionate towards them. And the wall
belonged to two orphan youths in the city, and
under it was a treasure hidden which belonged
to them ; and their father was a righteous man ;
and thy Lord was pleased that they should attain
their full age, and take forth their treasure
through the mercy of thy Lord. And I did not
what thou hast seen of mine own will, but by
God's direction. This is the interpretation of
that which thou couldest not bear with patience."
The closing twenty Suras are very brief,
consisting usually of but a single sentence.
The place and time of the delivery of most
of them is not stated. It may be pre-
sumed that they are among those which
Zeid wrote down from memory after ihc
death of the Prophet.
185
THE KORAN.-ll
SURA CXII ENTITLED "THE DECLARATION
OF god's UNITY."
Say : " God is one God ; the eternal God.
He begetteth not, neither is he begotten ; and
there is not any one like unto Him."
SURA CXIII ENTITLED "THE DAYBREAK."
Say: "I fly for refuge unto the Lord of the
daybreak, that he may deliver me from the mis-
cliief of those things which He hath created ; and
from the mischief of the niglit when it cometh
on ; and from the mischief of women blowing
on knots ; and from the mischief of the envious
when he envieth.''
SURA CXIV. THE CONCLUSION.
Say : " I tiy for refuge unto the Lord of men,
the King of men, the God of men, that He may
deliver me from the mischief of the whisperer
wlio slily withdrawetb, wlio whispereth evil sug-
gestions into the breasts of men ; from genii and
men."
186
KAKL THEODOR KORNER — 1
KORNER. Karl Theodor, a German
patriot and poet, born at Dresden in 1791 ;
killed in a skirmish at Wobbelin in 1813.
He published a volume of poems in 1810,
wrote several plays at Vienna, of which
Zriny is the best, and was appointed poet
to the City Theatre, but is chiefly remem-
bered for his passionate war- songs. Full
of ardor for German freedom, he joined the
Black Huntsmen of Liitzow in March, 1813,
and marched with them into Saxony.
While waiting in a wood to attack the
French on the night (Aug. 25) before his
death, he wrote his famous Sclncertlit^d.
j.\n iron monument marks the spot where
he fell. His father published some of his
lyrics as Leier und Schwert (1814). His
complete Works appeared in 183-1, and his
Life by his father in an English version in
18-45. Our extracts are taken from an
Edinburgh translation. Lyre und Strord,
(1841), and from Professor John Stuart
Blackie'sTFa?- Songs of the Germa?is {1870.)
ON THE SOLEMN BENEDICTION OF THE PRUS-
SIAN FREE-CORPS IN THE CHURCH OF
ROGAU IN SILESIA.
Nigh to God's altars while we draw,
Bent on a pious aim,
Our duty summons us to war,
Our hearts are kindling flame.
For Fight and Victoiy we fire:
'Twas God who gave the fierce desire —
To God alone be glory !
Yes, God is our unfailing trust,
Dread though the fight be found.
For Right and Duty strive we must,
And for our holy ground.
We'll rise and rescue Fatherland;
187
KARL THEODOR KORNER— 2
God will achieve it by our hand.
To God alone be glory.
The plot of Pride and Tyranny
Explodes with demon start ;
Thy hallowed torches, Liberty,
Shall blaze in every heart!
Then sweep to the battle-flurry grim !
God is with us, and we with Him !
To God alone be glory !
He cheers us now to victory's goal,
For truth, for justice's sake;
He whispei'ed in our inmost soul,
" Wake ! Gei-man People, wake ! "
He'll land us, death and doom despite.
Where Freedom's day is dawning bright : —
To God alone be glory !
PKAYER DURING THE FIGHT.
Father, I call on Thee !
Clouds from the thunder-voiced cannon enveil
me.
Lightnings are flashing, death's thick darts as-
sail me :
Ruler of battles, I call on Thee !
Father, 0 lead Thou me !
Father, O lead Thou me !
Lead me to victory, or to death lead me ;
With joy I accept what Tiiou hast decreed me.
God, as Thou wilt, so lead Thou me !
God, I acknowledge Thee!
God, I acknowledge Thee !
Where, in still autumn, the sear leaf is falling,
Where peals the battle, its thunder appalling ;
Fount of all grace, 1 acknowledge Thee!
Father, O bless Thou me !
Father, O bless Thou me !
Into Thy hand my soul I resign, Lord ;
Deal as Thou wilt with the life that is Thine,
Lord.
188
KARL THEODOR KORNER.— 3
Living or dying, 0 bless Tliou me !
Father, I praise Thy name !
P'ather, I praise Thy name !
Not for Earth's wealth or dominion contend
we ;
The holiest rights of the freeman defend we.
Victor or vanquished, praise I Thee !
God, in Thy name I trust!
God, in Tliy name I trust !
When in loud thunder my death-note is knell-
When from my veins the red blood is welling,
God, in Thy holy name I trust !
Father, I call on Thee !
Transl. of J. S. Blackie.
A PRAYER.
Hear us. Almighty One !
Hear us, All-gracious One !
Lord God of battles, give ear !
Father, we praise Thee !
Father, we thank Thee !
The dawn of our freedom is here.
'Spite all the rage of hell,
God, Thy strong hand shall quell
Devils who falter and juggle.
Lead, Lord of Sabaoth !
Lead us, O triune God !
Onward to victory's struggle.
Lead ! though our lot should hap
In the grave's bloody lap :
" Laus Deo " sit nostrum carmen !
Kingdom, power, and glory
Are Thine ! we adore Thee !
Lead us, Almighty One ! Amen.
189
KARL THEODOR KORNER.— 4
ADTEl' TO LIFE.
[Wiittcn when I lay sore wounded and liolpless, and tlioiight
to die.]
Tlie parched wour.tl burns ! the lips all bloodless
quiver :
The laboring heart, and pulse which feebly
plays,
They warn me it is here, my last of days.
God, as Thou wilt ! or slay me, or deliver !
Briglit forms swept by on Fancy's flowing i-iver;
>«ow the dull death-dirge quells those dreamy
lays.
Yet, cheeidy ! One heart-anchored treasure
stays,
Will live with me in yonder skies forever !
And what could here my holiest raptures move,
AVhat still I prized all youthful joys above —
Or name it Liberty, or call it Love —
It stands before me now, a seraph bi'ight,
And ere these faltering senses fail me quite.
Wafts me on gentle breath to heaven's own rosy
light.
SWORD-SONG.
Thou sword so cheerly shining.
What are thy gleams divining?
Look'st like a fi'iend on me ;
Triumphs my soul in thee.
Hurrah ! Inirrah ! luirrah !
'' I love my brave knight dearly.
Therefore 1 shine so clearly.
Borne by a gallant knight.
Triumphs the sword so bright."
Yes, trusty sword, 1 love thee ;
A true knight thou shalt prove me.
Thee, my beloved, my bride,
I'll lead thee forth in pride.
" My iron-life, clear-raying,
I give it to thy swaying.
O come and fetch thy bride !
Lead, lead me forth in pride ! "
190
KAEL THEODOR KOKN^EIi— 3
The festal trump is blaring.
The bridal dance preparino-.
Wlien cannon shakes the glen,
I'll come and fetch thee then.
" O blest embrace that frees me !
My hope impatient sees thee.
Come, bridegroom, fetch tliou me ;
Waits the bright wreath for thee ! "
Why in thy sheath art ringing,
Thou iron-soul, fire-flinging ?
So wild with battle's glee.
Why ray'st thou eagerly ?
" I in my sheath am ringing;
I from my sheath am springino-:
Wild, wild with battle's glee,
Ray I so eagerly."
Remain, remain within, love ;
Why court tlie dust and din, love ?
Wait in tliy chamber small.
Wait till thy true knight call.
" Then speed thee, true knight, speed thee !
To love's fair garden lead me.
Show me the roses red.
Death's crimson-blooming bed."
Then, from thy sheath come free thee !
Come, feed mine eye to see thee !
Come, come, my sword, my bride ;
I lead thee forth in pride !
" How glorious is the free air !
How whirls the dance with glee there !
Glorious, in sun arrayed.
Gleams, bridal-bright, the blade."
Then up, true Ritter German,
Ye gallant sons of Herman !
Beats the knight's heart so warm,
With 's true love in In's arm.
191
KARL THEODOR KORNER.— 6
"With stolen looks divining,
Those on my left wert shining.
Now on my right, my bride,
God leads thee forth in pride.
Then press a kiss of fire on
The bridal mouth of iron.
Woe now or weal betide.
Curst whoso leaves his bride !
Tlu'n break thou fortli in singing,
Tliou iron-bride, fire-flinging !
Walk forth in Joy and pride !
Hurrah, tliou iron-bride !
Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah !
192
LUDWIG THEOBUL KOSEGARTEN.— 1
KOSEGARTEN, Ludwig Theobul, a
German ecclesiastic and poet, born in 1758 ;
died in 1818. From 1792 to 1807 he was
preacher in the island of Eugeii, and in
the latter year became Professor of His-
tory at Griefswald. He wrote dramas,
novels, and poems, and published several
translations from the English. His son,
JOHAXX (ioTTFRIED KoSEGARTEN (1792-
1860) was an accomplished Oriental
scholar ; and published translations from
Arabic, Persian, and Sanskrit, holding the
l^rofessorship of Oriental Literatnre at
Jena and Griefswald from 1817 to his
death.
THE AMEN OF THE STONES.
Blind witli old age, the Venerable Bede
Ceased not, for that, to preach and publish
forth
The news from Heaven — -the tidings of great
joy-
From town to town — through all the villages —
"With trusty guidance roamed the aged Saint,
And preached the word with all tlie fire of
youth.
One day his boy had led him to a vale
That lay all thickly sown with rugged rocks :
In mischief more than malice, spake the boy : —
" Most reverend father, there are many men
Assembled liere, who wait to hear thy voice."
The blind old man, so bowed, straightway
rose up.
Chose him his text, expounded, then applied ;
Exhorted, wai-ned, rebuked, and comforted,
So fervently that soon the gushing tears
Streamed thick and fast down to his hoary
beard.
Wlien, at the close, as seemeth always nn^e),
He prayed, "Our Father," and pronoiniced
aloud.
193
LUDWIG THEOBUL KOSEGARTEN.— 2
" Thine is the kingdom and the power ; Thine
The glory now, and through eternity ! "
At once there rang through all that echoing
vale
A sound of many voices crying
" Amen ! most reverend Sire, Amen ! Amen ! "
Trembling with terror and remorse, the boy
Knelt down before tlie Saint, and owned his sin.
" Son," said the old man, '• hast thou ne'er
read,
' When men are dumb, the stones shall crv
aloud ? '
Henceforward mock not, son ; the word of God
Living it is, and mighty, cutting sharp.
Like a two-edged sword. And when the heart
Of flesh grows hard and stubborn as the stone,
A heart of flesh shall stir in stones themselves."
Traiisl. of Chakles T. Brooks.
194
CHAKLLS POKTEKFJEI.I) KRAUTH.— 1
KRAUTll, Charles Porterfiei.d, an
American theologian, born at Martinsburg,
Va., in 1823; died in Philadelphia in 1883.
He graduated at the College and Seminary
at Gettysburg, Pa., entered the Lutheran
ministrv, and was pastor at Baltimore
1841—1:7, Shepherdstown, Va., 1847-48,
Winchester, Va., 1848-55, Pittsburgh,
1855-59, and of St. Mark's in Philadelphia
1859-61. He edited the Lutheran and Mis-
sionary 18(U-67, was Professor oC System-
atic Theology in the Lnthern Seminary at
Philadelphia from its organization in 1864,
and of Mental and Moral Science in tl.c
University of Peun. fj'om 1868, holding also
the vice provostship from 1873. He was
chairman of the Old 'JVstament Company
of the American Bible Revision Commit-
tee, and President of the Lutheran General
Council for ten years. He wrote exten-
sively for reviews, translated Tholuck's
Commentary on John (1850), and Ulrici's
Review of Strauss (1874), and edited Berke-
ley's Principles of Human Knowledge (1874),
and Fleming's Vocabulary of PlrilosopJty
(1860), which he greatly enlarged in 1877.
His most important work is The Conserva-
tive Reformalion and its TJieoloijy (1872.)
TllK WOISI) AM) SACltAMENTS.
If Christ iiiiist (lie to make our redemption,
II<' iiiiist live (() apply it. If the Lord's Supper
is a sacrament of the redemption made hy,His
deatli, it is afso a sacrament of the sa.me redemp-
tion applied I)y His life. If it tells us that His
hody ;ind Mood wen^ necessary to make om- re-
demption. i( tells us also that they are still
necessary to apply the redemption they then
made. He made the sacrifice once for all — He
applies it constantly, we live hy Him, we must
195
CHARLES P0KTP:KF1EL1) KKAUTH,— 2
hang oil Him — the vine does not send up one
gush of its noble stij) and then remain inert. It
receives the totality of life, once for all, but tin;
sap which sustains it must flow on — its one un-
changing and abiding life puts itself fortli into
the new offshoots, and by constant application
of itself maintains the old branches. If the
sap-life ceases, the seed-life cannot save. C;i(
the branch off, and the memory of the life will
not keep it from withering; it must have the life
itself — and this it must derive successively from
the vine. It could not exist without the original
life of the vine, nor can it exist without the
present life of the vine, be its past what it may.
Faith cannot feed on itself, as many seem to
imagine it can — it must have its object. The
ordinances, the Word, and the sacraments give
to it that by which it lives. Faith in the nutri-
tious power of bread does not nourish — the
bread itself is necessary." — Tlie Conservative
Reformation.
MARTIN LLTHER.
The greatness of some men only makes us
feel that, though they did well, others in their
place might have done just as they did. Luther
liad that exceptional greatness which convinces
the world that he alone could have done the
work. He was not a mere mountain-top, catch-
ing a little earlier the beams which, by th^ir
own course, would soon have found the valleys ;
but rather, by the divine ordination under which
he rose, like the sun itself, without which the
light on mountain and valley would have been
but a starlight or moonlight. He was not a
secondary orb, reflecting the light of another
orb, as was Melanchthon, and even Calvin ;
still less like the moon of a plaiiet, as Bucer
or Brentius ; but the centre of undulations
which filled a system with glory. — llie Con-
servative Reformation .
196
FRIEDRICH ADOr.F KKTMMACHEK — 1
KHUMMACIIEK, Kkikdhich Adolf, a
(ierinau author, born at Tecklenburg,
Wesphalia, iu 1768 ; died at Bremen in
1845. He studied theology at Lingeu and
Halle, and was Rector of tlie Grammar
School at Mors, Professor of Theology at
Duisburg, Reformed pastor at Krefeld and
Kettwich, Superintendent at Bernberg, and
lastly pastor at Bremen. He wrote Cor-
nelius the Centurion^ a Life of St. John^ (both
published in an English translation in 1840),
and many other books, of which the Para
behi (1805) is the most popular: this ap-
peared in an English version in 1858. His
life was written by Moller (2 vols., 1849.)
uavid's harp.
One day David the King of Israel sat on
Mount Sion. His harp was before him, and he
leaned his head u])on it. Then the prophet Gad
came to him, and said, " Whereon muses my
lord the king? "
David answered : '' On the continual changes
of my destiny. How many songs of gratitude
and joy have I sung to tliis liarp ! hut how many
songs also of mourning and sorrow ! "
" Be thou like unto the harp," said the
prophet.
'' What meanest thou ? " askeil the king.
'• Behold," answered the man of God, " both
thy sorrow and thy joy drew heavenly sounds
from the harp, and animated its stiings. Thus
let joy and sorrow form tliy heart and life to a
celestial harp."
Then David arose and touched the strings.
rnii SHEEP-SIIEAKIN<;.
A mother once took her little daughter Ida to
see the shearing of the sheej). Then the little
girl comphiined, and said. "Ah, how cruel meii
an- to toi-nient the poor .'niinials !"
IVT
FRIEDRICH ADOLF KRUMMACHER— 2
"O no," answered the mother; "God lias
ordered it so, that men might elotlie themselves,
for they are born naked."
"But," said Ida, "now the poor sheep will be
so cold."
" O no," answered the mother. " He gives
the warm raiment to man, and tempers tlie
wind to the shorn lamb."
198
FlM!:DRICir WILIIKT.M KRUMMACHER.— 1
KRUMMACHER, Fbiedrich Wilhelm,
:i German religious writer, sou of Friedricb
Adolpli Krumniacber, boru at Mors in 179H ;
died at Potsdam in 18(38. He studied at
llalle and Jena, and was pastor at Rulirort
and Genlarke. In 1843 he was called to a
chair at Mercersburg, Pa., but declined,
lie was appointed chaplain of the Russian
court at Potsdam in 1853. He was an elo-
quent preacher. Of his numerous books
Elijah the Tishhite (1828), Elisha (1837),
Solomon and the Shulamite, David the King
o/'/srac/ (1868), and others have appeared
in English versions, as w^ell as an Autohi-
o<jraphy (1869.) The first-named is his
most popular book.
THE PSALMS.
^Vho that is somewhat intimately acquainted
witli the Psalms is not forced, as lie I'eadsthem,
to pause and consider whether it be true that be-
tween him, the reader, and the birthdays of
these songs, almost three thousand years inter-
vene ? Do they not all breathe the same fresh-
ness of life as if they had been composed but
yestei'day? It seems to us with them as if we
dwelt in our own houses and beside our own
altars, and this thought rests on no delusion.
How strange the songs of other nations sound
to us, while in the Psalms of Israel we every-
wliere meet with our own God, and with tlie
whole range of our own personal feelings and
experiences. Is it not clear from this that it
was lie who knows the hearts, whose thione is
in tlie heavens, who himself loosed the tongue
<»t' the sacred singer that he miglit sing his songs
for all iujes, and give expression to all the di-
verse moods of feeling which move ever and
anon in ihe world of hallowed human thought?
— David, the Kiitij o/" Israel.
199
i
KRYLOFF.-^l '765^1^ 4 yi
KRYLOFF,orKRiLOFF, Ivan Andrevitch;
a Russian fabulist, born at Moscow in 1768;
died at St. Petersburg in 1844. In boy-
hood he held a post under government, and
wrote Philomela^ Cleopatra., and other plays.
He was engaged in journalism at the capi-
tal for some years, and from 1797 to 1801
lived as tutor at the country seat of Prince
Galitzin, whom he then accompanied to
Livonia as secretary. A passion for cards
led him for a time into a wandering life.
His first fables, numbering twenty-three, ap-
peared in 1809 ; their success was so ra})id
that he gave his mind to this species of
composition. Beginning with translations
and imitations of La Fontaine, he soon
became original and national : before his
death. 77,000 copies had been sold in Eus-
sia, and his fame had reached other lands.
He became a member of the Academy of
Sciences in 1811, held a post in the impe-
rial library 1812-41, and was made council-
lor 1840 : in 1838 a festival was held in his
honor. His works were collected at St.
Petersburg in 1844, and his statue erected
in the summer garden. His life was writ-
ten by three different Russians. His Fables^
which are the first of their kind in modern
literature, have been translated into Eng-
lish by W. R. S. Ralston (1868), into
French by Einerling (1845) and others, and
into German by Lowe (1874.) A version
in French and Italian was published by
Count OrloH:' as early as 1825.
THK KLEPIIANT AND THE PITG-DOO.
An Elephant was beinj:^ taken tliroiigli flie
streets, ])robal)ly as a sijjlit. It is well known
that Eleiihaiits are a wonder aiiioiig us; so crowds
20U
KRYLOFF.— 2
of giiping idli'is followed the Elephant. Fiom
some cause or other, ;i Puji-dog comes to meet
him. It looks at the Elephant, and then begins
lo run at it, to bark, to squeal, to try to get at
it, just as if it wanted to tight it.
'' Neighbor, cease to bring shame on yourself,"
says another Dog. " Are you capable of fight-
ing an Elephant ? Just see now, you are al-
ready hoarse ; but it kee})s straight on, and pay.>
you not the slightest attention."
"Aye, aye," replies the Pug-dug, "that's
just what gives me courage. In this way, you
see, without lighting at all, I may get reckoned
among the greatest bullies. Just let the dogs
say, ' Ah, look at Puggy ! He must be .•-tiong,
indeed, that's clear, or he would never bark at
an Elephant."
THE HOUSE AND THE DOC.
A Dog and a Horse, which served the same
]>easant, began to discuss each other's merits one
day.
'• How grand we are, to be sure," says the
Dog. "I shouldn't be sorry if they were lo
turn you out of the farmyar<l. A noble ser-
vice, indeed, to jdough or draw a cart ! And
I've never heard of any other proof of your
merit. How can you possibly compare yourself
with me? I rest neither l)y day or by night.
In the daytime I watch the cattle in the mead-
ows ; by night I guard the house."
"Quite true," replied the Horse. " What you
say is perfectly correct. Only remember that,
if it weren't for my ploughing, you \\ouldn't
have anything at all to guard hei'e."
201
EDOUARD l^ENE LABOULAYE.— 1
LABOULAYE, fiDOUARi) Rene Le-
FEBORE DE, a French publicist and author,
born in 1811 ; died in 1883. He began
hfe as a type-founder, then studied Liw, and
in 1839 published a Hislory of Landnl
Properly in Europe. This was followed
b\- an Essay on tlie Life and Doctrines of
De Saviyny (18-10), Researches ■i)do the Civil
and Political Condition of M^omen (1843),
and an Essay on the Criminal Laics of the
Romans^ co)icernin(j the Responsihility of
Magistrates (1815.)
In 1849 lie was appointed to tlie Chair
of Comparative Legislation in the College
of France.
During the Second Empire he took an
active part in tlie eftbrts of the Liberal
party, and was consequently regarded with
disfavor by the government. He was an
admirer of American institutions, and
both before and during the war of se-
cession, threw his influences on the side
of the Union, to which he rendered good
service by his work entitled The United
/States and France (1862.) Among his
works not already mentioned are, Gontem-
porary Studies on Germany and the Slavic
States (1855), Reliyious Liberty (1856),
Studies upon Literary Prop>erty in France
and Enyland (1858), Ahdallah, cm Arabian
Romance (1859), Moral and Political
Studies (1862), The State and its Limits
(1863), Paris in America (1863), Prince
Canicie (1868.)
THE DEPARTURE OF THE VOLUNTEERS.
The roll of a drum, followed by the flourish
fif vpsonnding trumpets, drowned my voice.
Tvv'j LI.) i;;v(.« entered the sclioo] : ojie of ihem
202
EDOUAKD KENE LABOULAYE.— 2
— it was Alfred — nin to Susnniiji, and teiuk-rlv
took her hand. The other, my son Henry,
threw himself upon my neck. " Father," said
he, " the Southerners have crossed the Potomac ;
Washington is threatened. There is a call for
volunteers, and we set out to-night. Come
• luickly. ^Mother is waiting."
Fo1Iow(m1 by my children, I left the peaceful
retreat wher(% at last, I had surprised the secret'
of Ameri(uui greatness. Tiie aspect of the city
had changed ; houses were decorated with fiao-s,
from every window the Federal standard, tossed
by the wind, displayed its stripes of crimson
and azure, and its thirty-four stars, a mute pro-
test in favor of the Union. Large handbills an-
nounced the disaster to the Federal army, and
summoned the citizens to their country's aid.
Armed battalions were marching to the sound
of trumpets and drums. The churches were
crowded with volunte(?rs invoking the God of
their fathers before they marched to battle.
War-songs and religious hymns came mingled
to the ear ; fathers, mothers, sisters, accompanied
tlie young recruits, encouraging them, shaking
liands, weeping, embracing, lifting their hands
to heaven. It was the fervor of a crusade.
I reached home greatly agitated. A Parisian,
I had grown up in the midst of disturbances and
of civil war ; the remembrance of these things
saddened me. But in this departure for the
frontier, in this enthusiasm impelling a whole
nation to arms, there was something so noble,
so grand, that I felt myself lifted up. Even the
perils that lay before Henry and Alfred did not
affriglit me ; I felt a secret impulse to accompany
tliem. Had not I a fireside, a ftimily to de-
fend? AVas not America, where I possessed
these treasures, my country also ?
At my door I found a whole regiment of
Zouaves, volunteers from that ward, the aged
Colonel St. John mounted on a white horse.
Foi-getful of his rheumatism and his woimds, the
2f)?,
EDOUAia) RENE LABOF LAYE.— 3
gallant veteran was eager to lead tlie young men
to court iet. lieside the Colonel niarehed Rose
in a captain's uniform, accompanied by liis eight
sons, and four other line young men, Green's
sons. Fox, turned into a lieutenant, and the
centre of a group, was liolding forth, gesticulat-
ing and breatliing blood and slaughtei*. His
false collar and his snufl-box did not accord vei-y
will with his uniform, and might have made me
laugh at another time, but he spoke with so
nuich tire that he had to me a martial air. He
was ditterent from a professional soldier : he was
a man resolved to die for his country.
" Neighbor," said Rose to me, " we count on
you ; tiie old sliould set an example. We need
a surgeon for our regiment of Zouaves ; you
have been unanimously chosen ; nothing is want-
ing but your consent."
"You have it," cried I; "yes, my good
fri<Mids, I will go w'ith you. We shall be there
to watch over the boys, and, if need be, to (iiva
shot with tiienio Hurrah for tln^ Fnio)i I Our
country for ever ! "
The ci'y was repeated through all the ranks,
mingled with that of " Hurrah for Daniel !
Hurrah for the Major ! " I felt the very depths
of my heart stirred by the acclamations of these
brave young fellows. I entered the house with
head erect and sparkling eyes. A new life was
awakening in my soul. I was happy I
A few hours sufficed to ])rocure me a surgeon's
uniform. Rose presented me with a fine case of
instruments ; I bought revolvers, a sabre, a
horse ; in thi-ee hours I was ready ; we were to
set out on the same evciuing.
Up to this time I had not reflected on what I
was doing; my French ardor iiad cariied me
away. But at the moment of quitting the house
in which I had passed so many happy and use-
ful days, I felt an indescribable sadness, as if
once gone, I should never return. And if I did
return, would it be with my son and Alfred
204
EDOUARD RENE LABOULAYE.— 4
wlioiii I had begun to love ns if he weic my
.sou ?
T -fiook ort" these sad thoughts which iicver-
thihss returned ceaselessly to the assault, wlien
I lie old Coloni'l entered my house. The sight
(if him did me good. He was one of those brave
soldiers prodigal of their blood, sparing of the
l)lood of others. We could not have had a more
honorable and trustworthy leader.
" Colonel," said I, when his congratulations
were ended, " we are alone and I can sjxak
freely. Between ourselves, what do you make
of these new recruits ? Enthusiasm is a gotid
thing, but what is it beside military diill and dis-
cipline? Notwithstanding the courage of these
well-meaning young men, there are battalions
that break up at the first fire."
'■ Patiencp, Major," replied the veteran. " I
am less severe than you ; and. besides, I have
been a soldier all my life. Two months behind
the retloubts at Washington will turn these vol-
unteers into soldiers. Discipline is much, it is
ti-ue, but it is an attainment within reach of the
most ignorant. What cannot be given is courage,
faith, i)atriotism. There is the final spring, if
we talk of swordsmen ; to handle the bayonet a
ijuick and rigorous arm is needed ; but it is the
soul that gives strength to the arm. A few
yciir- (if war and endurance suffice to educate a
nation and make two enemies equal. There
remains, then, moral Ibrce ; that always has the
last word ; and this is why the best armies are
those composed of citizens."
"Excuse me, Colonel, I think nothing equals
experienced troops."
" You are mistaken," said St. John. " In a
revicAV, or a pai'ade, that is possible ; war is
another thing. Good officers, young soldiers,
old generals, are necessary. There is nothing
like youth for marching without complaint, olx-y-
ing without murmur, meeting danger fearlessly,
and deatli unmoved and smiling. The more in-
205
•EDOUARD RENE LAP.OUEAYE— 5
(cHl^ciit, pious, and patriotic it is, the more it
call be depended ii[)oii. They have other ideas
in tlie Ohl AVorld : there precedent and the
worship of brute force still reign. Here civiliza-
tion has opened our eyes. No doubt, victory
always belongs to the general who at the critical
moment can throw against a given point the
greatest number of battalions. But other condi-
tions being equal, the young and patriotic soldier
is worth more than an old one who follows war
as a trade."
" You have no generals," said I. " ITp to the
present time yours has been a peaceful country,
begetting farmers and merchants rather than
Cajsars."
"Be tranquil," replied the Colonel. "You
will have generals, and more than enough of
them. War is like the chase, a profession in
which certain men excel from the first. Such
an one — to-day a blacksmith, an engineer, a
lawyer, perhaps a doctor — will awake to-morrow
a general. History shows that tliei-e are stei-ile
epochs when letters, art, and industry are dead,
but in none of them have soldiers been wanting.
Man has the hunter's sanguinary instinct ; peace
may restrain, but cannot destroy it. With the
coming of war you will have heroes. Heaven
grant that the people may esteem them arighf,
and not sacrifice liberty to them ! " . . . .
The sound of bugles announced the time of
departure. I went down holding the hands of
Henry and Alfred. Jenny embraced us all with
the courage of a woman and a Christian mother.
Susanna, silent and agitated, gave us each a
Bible to carry with us everywhere. Martha had
prepared a prophetic sermon, but at the tirst
word the poor girl gave a terrible sob, and tak-
ing Henry in her arms, as if he had been a child,
covered him with tears and kisses. I wrung her
hand ; she threw herself on my neck, and half-
strangled me before I could mount my horse.
At the same instant Sambo came lunning out,
20(;
EDOUAKD R1:NE LABOULAYE.— 6
liiilicroiisly accoutrril, witli ;i red and blue sasli,
•M pliiiULMl hat, and a .sabic that dnijrged on the
uromid. •• Massa," cried he, " take nie with
yon ; I am brave. If my i-kin is black, my
Moo 1 is led. li" they don't kill me first 1 will
beat them all." 1 could hardly get rid of the
uour boy, thougli I gave the sagest reasons to
eouviiiee him that his courage was ridiculous.
As long as 1 was near the house 1 dared not
look back ; there were tears in my eyes, and I
leaied they would overflow ; but at a turn in the
street I looked back. The three women were
waving their handkerchiefs and following us with
their eyes. My heart beat tumultuously. " O
God ! " cried I, " to tliee I confide my loved
ones ! " For the first time I wept, I prayed,
and was comforted.
At four o'clock we were drawn up in battle
array before the Mayor's office. Green reviewed
us, and spoke to us of the country with au
emotion that bordered on eloquence. His voice
was drowned l)y our cheers. Then all became
silent, self-controlled. Perhaps I alone of the
whole regiment was restless. Strange thing ! I
longed to be under lire. In a moment of rest I
passed before my companions, laughing, talking,
gesticulating, with a word for everyone, rallying
those who were moved, encouraging those who
tried to smile, promising my aid in time of
danger. I had already the war-fever. . . ,
The night was fine : the early-risen moon
shone far and wide on fields bordered with
])o!)lars and divided by willows. On the horizon
a river rolled its silvered waters. There was a
(•ertain charm in letting myself be carried by my
horse ; and in giving myself up to reverie in the
miilst of tiiat beautiful country. It is the soldier's
good-fortune that he can enjoy the present hour
without disquieting himself about the morrow.
The camping-place was not far distant. At
eight o'clock we halted. The Colonel had wished
us to learn to march. The lesson was not need-
207
E[)o^ Aja) i;ene J.AHOULAYE.— 7
less; the regiment had tlie aii' of a flock of sheep
in disorder. But the brave St. John conjrratu-
hited all the reeruits, accustoming them little l>y
little to look n]»on him as a father, and put con-
fidence in him.
••' Major," said he to me, "do not laugh. In
a mouth we shall he worth as much as the Prus-
sians. When Ji man believes himself a soldier,
he is half one already; you shall see what an
army of citizens can be."
Tiie bivouac was in the midst of the fields.
The fires lighted and the horses picketed, we
supped cheerfully on the pi'ovisions that each
one had brought with him. P"'or the conscripts
this first repast in the oi)en air was a feast :
war had not yet made them regret the comfort
and afiection of the fireside.
When supper was over, and it did not last
long, the soldiers, instead of laughing and shout-
ing, seated themselves in silence upon their
blankets to listen to the ministers. The officers
formed the circle. Truth advanced in the
midst of us, and opening the Bible, read with
inspired voice the song of David when God had
delivered him from the hand of his enemies.
While Truth recited this lofty poem, I looked
about me. All the oificers listened, praying,
their eyes Hashing with ardor and faith. The
last flames of our dying fires illuminated their
noble faces and cast upon them an indescribable,
mysterious brightness. I could almost have be-
lieved myself carried back into the middle of
the seventeenth century, and set down in a
camp of Round-heads. " And these," thought
1, "are the men to whom our Parisian news-
papers deny all patriotism and all religion ! No;
military despotism can never obtain a foot-hold
in this generous land. The soil upturned and
made fruitful by the Puritans can bring forth
only liberty."
The reading over, 1 wrung the hand of Truth,
and taking advantage of my privilege, I in-
14 208
EDOUAED KENE LABOULAYE.— 8
spectcd all the companiei?, in search of my son
aiul Alfred. I found them both lyinj; on the
giouiul, wrapped in their blankets, and talking
in low tones, I well knew of whom.
'• Boys," said I, " a soldier must husband his
jtrength; the lirst requisite is sleep. INIake a
phu-e for me between you, and dream with your
eves shut."
So saying I embraced my two sons, wrapped
my cloak carefully about me, drew the hood
(i\er my face, and went to sleep with a heart as
liiilit as if I were at home." — Paris in America.
'^ 209
MAKIE K. LACOaTE.— 1
LxiCOSTE, Marie K., au American pcjet,
of whose life we know nothing beyond a
brief sketch in Epes Sargent's Gycloiydedia
of Br 'dish and American Poetry. This bio-
graphical sketch reads thus : " Miss Lacoste
was born about the year 18'12, was a resi-
dent of Savannah, Georgia, at the time
(i8t>o) she wrote the poem, fSo7nebod/i/s Dar-
liwj. Without her consent it was pub-
lished, with her name nttached, in the
Southern (Viarcliman. Her residence in
1886 was Baltimore, and her occupation
that of a teacher. In a letter of that year
she writes : ' I am thoroughly French, and
desire always to be identified with France ;
to be known and considered ever as a
Frenchwoman. I cannot be considered an
authoress at all, and resign all claim to tlie
title.'" But, comments Mr. Sargent, "if
she did not wish to be regarded as an
authoress, and a much esteemed one, she
ought never to have written Sornehody's
Darliiuj. The marvel is that the vein from
which came the felicitous little jioem has
not been more productively worked."
somebody's dakmno.
Into a ward of the whitewashed walls,
Where the dead and dying lay,
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody's Darling was borne one day : —
Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave,
Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.
Matted and dani]> are the curls of gold.
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;
Fale are the lips of delicate mould : —
Somebody's Darling is dying now.
210
MARIE R. LACOSTE— 2
Back from his beautirul lilue-veined brow
liiiish all the \vaH(UMin«i waves of gold.
Cross his hands on his bosom now: —
Somebody's Darling is still and cold.
Kiss him onoe more for somebody's sake ;
■Murmur a prayer soft and low ;
One bright curl from its fair mates take —
They were somebody's pride, you know ;
Somebody's hand had rested there :--
Was it a mother's soft and white ?
And have the lips of a sister fair
Been baptized in those waves of light?
God knows best. He has somebody's love ;
Somebody's heart enshrined him there ;
Somebody wafted his name above.
Night and morn, on the wings of prayer ;
Somebody wept \vhen he marched away.
Looking so handsome, brave, and grand ;
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay ;
Somebody clung to his parting hand.
Somebody's waiting aiul watching for him.
Yearning to hold him again to the heart ;
And there 1ie lies, with his blue eyes dim,
And the smiling childlike lips apart.
Tenderly bury the fair young dead.
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear ;
Carve on the wooden slal) at his head,
" Somebody's Darling slumbers here."
211
ALBERT LAIGHTON. —1
LAIGHTON, Albert, an American
poet, bom in Portsmouth, N. H., in 1829;
died there in 1887. He was for many
years connected with a banking institution
in_ his native town. His poems, which
originally appeared in various periodicals,
were published collectively in 1859, and
subsequently in 1878. In connection with
Mr. A. M. Payson he compiled a volume
of Poets of Portsmouth (1865.)
UNDER THE LEAVES.
Oft have I walked these woodland paths,
AVithout the blest foreknowing
That underneath the Avithered leaves
The faintest buds were groAvinff.
To-day the south-wind sweeps away
The types of Autumn's splendor,
And shows the sweet arbutus flowers —
Spring's children, |)ure and tender.
0 prophet flowers ! witli lips of bloom.
Outvying you in beauty,
The pearly tints of ocean shells.
Ye teach me faith and duly.
Walk life's dark ways, ye seem to say,
With Love's divine foreknowing,
Tliat where man sees but withered leaves,
God sees the sweet flowers growing:.
THE DEAD.
1 cannot tell you if the dead,
That loved us fondly when on earth,
Walk by our side, sit at our hearth,
By ties of old affection led : —
Or, looking earnestly within,
Know all our joys, hear all our sighs.
And watch us with their holy eyes
Whene'er we tread tlie paths of sin : —
212
ALl'.F.KT LAICiHTON— 2
Of if, with iiiyjitii- lovi' and sign,
Tlicv jspeak to us, or press our hand.
And strive to make us understand
Tlie nearness of tlieir forms divine.
I^ut this I know : — In many dreams
Tlii'v come to us from realms afar,
Ami leave the golden gates ajar,
Through which immortal glorv streams.
TO :my soul.
Guests from a holier world.
Oh, tell me where the peaceful valleys lie!
Dove in the ark of life, when thou shalt fly,
Wliere will thy wings be furled?
AVhere is thy native nest?
■\Vher»' the green pastures that the blessed roam ?
Impatient dweller in thy clay-built home.
Where is thy heavenly rest?
On some immortal shore.
Some realm away from earth and time, I know,
A land of bloom where living waters How,
And grief comes never more.
Faith turns my eyes above;
Day fills with floods of light the boundless skies ;
Night watches calmly with her starry eyes,
All tremulous with love.
And, as (Mitranced I gaze,
Sweet music floats to me from distant lyres ;
I see a temple round whose golden spires
I'nearlhly glory plays.
Beyond those azure deeps
I fix tliy home — a mansion kept for thee
Within the Father's house, whose noiseless key
Kind Death, tlie warder keeps.
213
LAMARTINE— 1
LAMARTINE, Alphonse Marie Louis
DE, a French poet, historian, and statesman,
born near Macon, in 1790 ; died at Paris in
1869. He was educated chiefly by his
mother, and was sent to the College at
Belley, where he remained until his nine-
teenth year. In 1811 he went to Italy,
where he spent two years. His family had
suffered for their adherence to the Royalist
cause, and when Napoleon was sent to
Elba, Lamartine returned to France and
entered the service of Louis XVIII. On
the return of Napoleon he took I'efuge
in Switzerland. In 1818-19 he traveled
in Savoy, Switzerland, and Italy, writing
))oetrv, of which his first volume, Medi/a-
lions Poetiques was published in 1820. He
now entered the diplomatic service. In
1823 he married an English lady of fortune,
and the same year published Nouvi4les
Meditations.
After the accession of Louis Philippe he
travelled with his family in Turke}^ Egypt,
and Syria. During his absence he was
elected to the Chamber of Deputies, and
took his place about the beginning of 1834.
He was re-elected in 1837. In 18-11 he
opposed Thiers's project of fortifying the
capital. In 1843 he advocated the exten-
sion of the franchise, and the foundation of
a constitutional monarchy.
The Revolution of February, 1848, gave
him a foremost place among the men of
France. He was made Minister of Foreign
Affairs, was elected for the Constitu-
tional Assembly in ten departments, and
was chosen one of the five members of the
Executive Committee. For four months
he held the reins of government. But in
214
LAMAirriNE.— 2
June liis influence .succumbed thnt of Ca-
vaiguac.
The remainder of his life was spent in
literary labor. His private fortune was
gone, and the Government in 1867 granted
him $100,000. In 1860 he supervised an edi-
tion of his works in forty-one volumes.
Among them are, Harmonies PoUtiques ct
Reliijieuse (1830), Souvenirs, Impressions.
Pensees et Paysafjes pendant lut Yoyaije en
Orient (1835), Jocelyn, Journal trouve chez
an Cure de Village (1836), La Chute d'un
A7i'/e (1838), Kbcueillements Poetiqucs
(1839), Histoire des Girondms (1847), His-
tory of (he Revolution of 1848, and Histories
of Turkey and Russia. The entire list of
his writings, in prose and verses, is very-
long.
THE CEDARS OE LEBANON.
Eagles, tliat wheel above our crests,
8ay to tlie storms that round us blow,
Tliey cannot liarm our gnarled breasts,
Firm-rooted as we are below.
Their utmost eftbrts we defy.
Tliey lift the sea-wuves to th<'. sky ;
But when they wrestle with our arms,
Nervous and gaunt, or lift our hair,
Balanced within its cradle fair
The tiniest bird has no alarms.
Sons of the rock, no mortal hand
Here planted us: God-sown we grew.
We are the diadem green and grand
On Eden's summit that He threw.
Wlien watei-s in a deluge rose,
Our hollow flanks could vvell enclose
Awhile the whole of Adam's race ;
And children of the Patriai'ch
Within our forest built the Ark
Of Covenant, foreshadowing Grace.
215
LAMARTINE.— 3
We saw the Tribes as captives led,
AVe saw them buck return anon ;
As rafters have our branches dead
Covered the porch of 8oh)nion ;
And later, when the Word, made man,
Came down in God's salvation-plan
To pay for sin the ransom-price.
The beams that form'd tlie Cross we "ave :
These, red in blood of power to save,
Were altars of that Sacrifice.
In memory of such great events.
Men come to worship our remains ;
Kneel down in prayer within our tents,
And kiss our old trunks' weather-stains,
The saint, the poet, and the sage.
Hear and shall hear from age to age
Sounds in our foliage like the voice
or many waters ; in these shades
Their burning words are forged like blades,
While their uplifted souls rejoice.
Transl. of ToKU Dutt.
THE GULF OK BAYA.
Mark you how the peaceful wave
Gently dies upon the shore ! —
Breezes sweet with pilfered store
Fan, and dip, and splash and lave
The hiughing waters e\ ermore !
Sit we in this faery skiff.
Lazily adown we'll row
Kound the Gulf and past the cliff,
Winding with the river's flow.
Now far behind us glides the river
And on we go as if for ever ;
And brushing o'er the creamy foam
With trembling hands our oars we ply,
While in the distance seems to die
The silvery track that tells of home.
What freshness in a dying day !
Plunged into Thetis's bosom white
•JIG
LAMARTINE.— 4
Tin- Sim luis yielded up his sway-
To the jKile Queen of Night.
Tlie bosoms oi' the lialf-closed Howers
Open, to give their choicest dowers
Of love, to Zephyr's balmy kisses —
Ne'er a tiny plant he misses.
But carries, and spreads, tor my mirth.
Over the waves the scents of earth.
"What sweet songs! and what sweet laughter!
On the waves and on the sea.
While we hear a moment after
Kcho hailing them with glee.
Mistrustful of the rising moon,
And whistling some old Ronian tune,
The lisher takes his angle home ;
While tender youths, and dark-eyed maids,
By babbling rills, and myrtle glades.
Gather life's blisses as they roam.
But already darkness falls.
Black and fearsome grows the sea,
Gone are all those merry calls.
Dread silence where those calls should be !
Now croaks the frog ; the night-owl flits,
And deep-brow'd Melancholy sits
Brooding o'er the ruin'd scene.
For every stone and statue fair,
Each half-wall'd Temple crumbling there,
Can tell of what has been.
For crush'd beneath the weight of some fell des-
pot's sway.
Naught is there left of freedom — naught ot
the olden time.
Where, in Italia's borders, can we find to-day
Men t(j hail as heroes, and deeds to term
sublime ?
Each grass-grown stone — each ruin hoary
Should call up burning thoughts of libtM'ty and
glory ;
Just as in some ohl temple, tho' of its charms,
berel't,
217
LAMARTINE.— 5
We feel the influence still the former god has
left-
Yet Brutus's shade and Cato's, still fondly call
in vain
For manly hearts to build the old world up
again —
Go ask these ruin'd walls, and cruml)ling as they
are,
They'll give you happier thoughts, and mem'ries
sweeter far !
Here Horace had his country seat ;
And here in solitude he wi-ought ;
Here quiet ease, and graceful thought.
And leisure found a last retreat ;
Propertius met his Cynthia here.
And to his Delia's glances clear
TibuUus breathed in tuneful notes his tender
strain ;
And further down behold where hapless Tasso
sung —
The glorious thoughts that flashed across a poet's
brain.
Could not shield from penury — could not save
from pain.
But drove him forth an exile reviled by every
tongue !
And back to these same borders at last he came
— to die,
He came, when glory call'd him, and perish 'd in
her womb,
The boys he madly yearned for again appeared
to fly—
The tardy laurel ripened but to darken o'er liis
tomb !
O Hill of Baya ! — Home of bards sublime !
Beneath thy greensward, and thy scented
thyme,
All that is noblest in us lies !
Por Love and Glory now are thine no more.
Thy only answers to my cries
218
LAMAKTINE.— 6
Are tlie dull ocean's sullen sighs,
And my own voice re-echoed from the shore !
Thus nil is changed, and all is past,
Thus we ourselves must pass away !
For nothing in this world can last,
'- But Life and Love are gone as fast
As the bright track that marked our way !
Transl. of Hahky Cukwen.
THE TEMPLE.
We left Louis XVL at the threshold of the
Temple, where Petion had conducted him, with-
out his being able to know as yet whether he
entered there as suspended from the throne or
as a prisoner. This uncertainty lasted some
days.
The Temple was an ancient and dismal fort-
ress, built by the monastic Order of Templars,
at the time when sacerdotal and military theocra-
cies, uniting in revolt against princes with tyr-
anny towards the people, constructed for them-
selves forts for monasteries, and marched to
dominion by the double power of the cross and
the sword. After their fall their fortified dwell-
ing had remained standing, as a wreck of past
times neglected by the present. The chateau of
the Temple was situated near tlie faubourg St.
Antoine, not far from tlie Bastile ; it enclosed
with its buildings, its palace, its towers, and its
•wardens, a vast space of solitude and silence, in
the centre of a most densely populated quarter.
The buildings were composed of a ■primre^ or
palace of the Order, the apartments of wiiich
served as an occasional dwelling for the Comte
d'Artois, when that prince came from Versailles
to Paris. This dilapidated palace contained
apartments furnished with ancient movables,
beds, and linen for the suite of the prince. A
porter and his family were its only hosts. A
garden surrounded it, as empty and neglected as
I lie palace. At some steps from this dwelling
210
LAMARTINE.— 7
was the iloiijoii of the chateau, once the Ibiliti-
catioii of the Temple. Its abrupt dark mass
rose on a simple spot of ground towards the
sky ; two square towers, the one larger, the
other smaller, were united to each other like a
mass of walls, each one having at its flank othei-
small suspended towers, in former days crowned
with battlements at their extremity, and these
formed the principal group of tliis construction.
Some low and more mod(?rn buildings abutted
upon it, and served, by disa])pearingin its shade,
to raise its height. This donjon and tower were
constructed of large stones, cut in Paris, the ex-
coriations and cicatrices of which marbled the
walls with yellow livid spots, upon the black
ground which the rain and snow incrust upon
the large buildings of the north of France.
The large tower, almost as high as the towers of
a cathedral, w^as not less than sixty feet from
tlie base to the top. It enclosed within its four
walls a space of thirty square feet. An enor-
mous pile of masonry occupied the centre of the
tower, and rose almost to tlie point of the edi-
fice. This [>ile, larger and wider at each story,
leaned its arches upon the exterior walls, and
formed four successive arched roofs, which con-
tained four guard-rooms. These halls communi-
cated with other hidden and more narrow places
cut in the towers. The walls of the edifice
were nine feet thick. The embrasures of the
few windows wdiich lighted it, very large at the
entrance of the hall, sunk, as they became nar-
row, even to the crosswork of stone, and left
only a feeble and remote light to penetrate into
the interior. Bars of iron darkened these apart-
ments still further. Two doors, the one of
doubled oak-wood very thick, and studded with
lai'ge diamond-headed nails ; the other plated
with iron, and fortified with bars of the same
metal, divided each hall from the stair by which
one ascended to it.
This staircase rose in a spiral to the platform
220
LAMARTINE.— 8
of the edifice. Seven successive wickets, or
seven solid doors, shut by bolt and key, were
ranjied from binding to hindinsr, from the base
to the terrace. At each one of these wickets a
sentinel and a key-bearer were on guard. An
exterior gallery crowned the summit of tlie don-
jon. One made here ten steps at each turn.
Tlie least breath of air howled there like a tem-
pest. The noises of Paris mounted there, weak-
ening as they came. Thence the eye ranged
freely over the low roofs of the quarter Saint
Antoine, or tiie streets of the Temple, upon the
dome of the Pantheon, upon the towers of the
cathedral, upon the roofs of the pavilions of
the Tuileries. or upon the green hills of Issy, or
of Choisy-le-Roi, descending with their villages,
their parks, and their meadows towards the
course of the Seine.
The small tower stood with its back to the
large one. It had also two little towers upon
each of its flanks. It was equally square, and
divided into four stories. No interior commimi-
cation existed between these two contiguous
edifices ; each had its separate staircase ; an
open platform crowned this tower in place of a
roof, as on the donjon. The first story enclosed
an antechamber, an eating-hall, and a library of
old books collected by the ancient priors of the
Temple, or seiving as a depot for the refuse of
the libraries of the Comte d'Artois ; the second,
third, and fointh stories offered to the eye the
same disposition of apartments, the same
nakedness of wall, and the same dilapida-
tion of furniture. The wind whistled there,
the rain fell across the broken panes, the swallow
flew in there at pleasure ; no beds, sofas, or
hangings were there. One or two couches for
the assistant jailers, some broken straw-bottom
chairs, and earthen vessels in an abandoned
kitchen, formed the whole of the furnitiwe. Two
low arched doors, whose freestone mouldings
represented a bundle of [)illars, surmounted by
LAMARTINE.— 9
broken escutcheons of the Temple, led to the
vestibule of these two towers.
Large alleys paved with flagstones surrounded
the building ; these were separated by barriers of
planks. The garden was overgrown with vege-
tation— thick with coarse herbs, and choked by
lieaps of stones and gravel, the relics of de-
molished buildings. A high and dull wall, like
that of a cloister, made the place still more gloomy.
Tliis wall liad only one outlet, at the extremity
of a long alley on the Vieille Rue du Temple.
Such were the exterior aspect and interior dis-
position of this abode, when the owners of the
Tuileries, Versailles, and Fontainebleau arrived
at nightfall. These deserted halls no longer ex-
pected tenants since the Templars had left them,
10 go to the i'uneral pile of Jacques Molay. These
pyramidal towers, empty, cold, and mute for so
many ages, more resembled the chambers of a
pyramid in the sepulchre of a Pharaoh of the
West than a residence. — History of the Giron-
dists Transl. o/"H. T. Ryde.
222
CHARLT^:3 lamp.— 1
LAMB, Charles, i\\\ English ;int!u)r.
bora at London in 1775 ; died at Ediiu^i-
t'Mi, a suburb of London, in 1834. He was
educated at Christ's Hospital, Coleridge
being one of his schoolfellows. At the age
of fourteen he was employed as a clerk in
the South Sea House ; and three years later
lie received an appointment in the account-
ant's office of the East India Company, a
position which he held for more than thirty
years, until 1825, when he was suffered to
retire with a life annuity of £450. His
sister Mary Ann Lamb (born in 1765, died
in 1847) was most intimately connected with
the entire life of her brother. In 1796, in
a sudden paroxysm of insanit}'-, she stabbed
her mother to the heart, killing her in-
stantly, and for the remaining half-century
of her life she underwent not unfrequent
attacks of her mental malady. Charles
Lamb, then barely one-and-twenty, devoted
himself to the care of his afflicted sister ;
and in the intervals of her mental malady
she shared in his literary tastes and labors.
She wrote Mrs. Leicester's School, a collec-
tion of juvenile tales, and was joint-author
with him of Tales from Shal-espeare, and of
a small volume of Poetry for Children.
diaries Lamb commenced his literary
career by putting forth, in conjunction wilh
Coleridge and Lloyd, a volume of poems
(1797) ; the next year he wi'ole Rosamond
Gray, a prose tale, and still later John
Woodville, a drama. In 1808 he published
Speci/inens of JiJn(jIish Dramatic Poets^ who
flourished nearly contemporary with
Shakespeare. But by far the most notable
of his writings are the Essays rf Elia, begun
ill 1820, and continued until 1838. His
•22.?,
CHARLES LAMB.— 2
sister survived him for tliirteeii veai\s and
the annuity which tlie East India Coinpaiiv
had settled upon him was continued to her
during the remainder of herlilie, which was
passed in retirement.
A QI'AKEIW' iMEETINO.
Reader, would'st thou know Avhat true pciicc
and quiet mean; would'st tliou find a refuge from
the noises and chimorsof tlie niuhitude ; woidd'st
thou enjoy at once sohtude and society ; would'st
thou possess the de[)th of thine own spirit in
stillness, without heing sinit out from the con-
solatory faces of thy species ; would'st thou lie
alone, and yet accompanied ; solitary, yet not
desolate ; singular, yet not without some to keep
thee in countenance ; a unit in aggregate : a
simple in composite: — Come with me into a
Quakers' Meeting. Dost thou love silence deep
as that " before the vvinds were made?" Go
not out into the walderness ; descend not into the
profundities of the earth ; shut not up thy case-
ments ; nor pour wax into the little cells of thy
ears, with little-faithed self-mistrusting llysses.
Retire with me into a Quakers' Meeting.
For a man to refrain even from good words,
and to hold his peace, it is commendable ; but
for a multitude it is a great mastery. Wliat is
the stillness of the desert compared with this
peace? what the uncommnnicating muteness of
tiie fishes? Here the goddess reigns and revels.
"Boreas and Cesias and Argestes loud," do not
with their inter-confounding uproars more aug-
ment the brawl, nor the waves of the blown
Baltic with their clubbed sounds, than theii-
opposite (Silence, her sacred self) is multiplied
and rendered more intense by nimibers and li\
sympathy. Siie too hath her deeps that call
unto deeps. Negation itself hath a positive nioic
and less ; and closed eyes would seem to obscu li-
the great obscurity of midnight.
There are wonnds wliich an imperfect soli-
CHARLES LAMB— 3
tiule cannot heal. By imperfect I mean that
wliich a man enjoyeth by himself. Tlie perfect
is that whicli he can sometimes attain in crowds,
hnt nowliere so absohitely as in a Quakers'
meeting;. These first hermits did certainly nii-
derstaiul this principle when they retired into
Esyptian solitudes, not singly, but in shoals, to
enjoy one another's want of conversation. The
Carthusian is bound to his brethren by tliis
agreeing spirit of incommunicativeness. In
secular occasions what's so pleasant as to be
reading a book through a long winter evening,
with a friend sitting by — say a wife — he or she
too (if that be probable) reading another, with-
out interruption or oral communication ? — can
tliere be no sympathy without the gabble of
words? Away with this inhuman, shy, single,
sliade-and-cavern-haunting solitariness. Give
me, Master Zimmermann, a sympathetic soli-
tude.
To pace alone by the cloister, or side-aisles of
some cathedral, time-stricken ; '' or under hang-
ing mountains, or by the fall of fountains," is
l)ut a vulgar luxury compared with that which
those enjoy who come together for the purposes
of more complete abstracted solitude. This is
tlie loneliness " to be felt." The Abbey Church
<if Westminster hath nothing so solemn, so
s[)irit-soothing, as the naked -whIIs and benches of
a Quakers' Meeting. There are no tombs, no
iuscri[)tions — '"Sands, ignoble things, dropped
from the ruined sides of Kings ; " but here is
something which throws Antiquity lierself into
the foreground — Silence — eldest of things —
languageof old Night — primitive Discourse — to
\\ liich the insolent decays of mouldering grandeur
have but arrived by a violent, and, as we may
say, unnatural jirogression.
"How reverend is the view of these hushed
heads, looking tranquillity." Nothing-plotting,
nouglit-caballing, uiimischievous Synod ! Con-
vocation without intriirue ! Parliiiment without
15 '225
CHARLES LAMB— 4
debate ! AVhat a lesson dost thou read to Conn--
cil and to Consistory ! If" my pen tieat you
liglitly — as haply it will wander — yet my spirit
hath gravely i'elt the wisdom of your custom,
when sitting with you in deepest peace, which
some out-welling tears would rather contine than
disturb.
More frequently the Meeting is broken upi
without a word having been spoken. But the
mind has been fed. You go away with a sermon
not made with hands. You have been in the
milder caverns of Trophonius ; or as in some
den where that fiercest and savagest of all wild
creatures — the Tongue — that unruly member —
has strangely lain tied up and captive. You
have bathed with stillness. Oh, when the
spirit is sore-fretted, even tired to sickness of
the janglings and nonsense-noises of the world,
what a balm and a solace it is to go and seat
yourself for a quiet half-hour upon some undis-
puted corner of a bench, among the gentle
Quakers.
Their garb and stillness conjoined, present a
uniformity and stillness conjoined, present a
uniformity, tranquil and herd-like — as in the
pasture — " forty feeding like one." The very
garments of a (Quaker seem incapable of receiv-
ing a soil ; and cleanliness in them to be some-
thing more than the absence of its contrary-
Every Quakeress is a lily ; and when they come
up in bands to tlieir Whitsun-conferences,
whitening the easterly streets of the metropolis,
from all parts of the United Kingdom, tliey
show like troops of the Shining Ones. — EUa.
MODERN GALLANTRY.
In comparing modern with ancient manners,
we are pleased to compliment ourselves upon
the point of gallantry : a certain obsequiousness,
or deferential respect, which we are supposed to
pay to females, as females. I shall believe that
this pi'inciple actuates our conduct when 1 can
22G
CHARLES LAMix— 5
forget that in the nineteenth centuiy of the era
from which we date our civility, we are just he-
ginning to leave off the very frequent practice of
wiiipping females in public in common with the
coarsest male ofi'enders. 1 shall believe it when
Dorimont hands a tisliwife across the kennel,
or assists the apple-woman to pick up her wan-
dering fruit which some unlucky dray has just
dissipated. Until that day conies I shall never
believe this boasted point to be anything more
than a conventional liction ; a pageant got uji
between the sexes, in a certain rank, and at a
certain time of life, in which both find llieir a<-
count equally.
I sliall be even disposed to rank it among Car
salutary fictions of life, when in polite cii'cles I
shall see the same attentions paid to age as lo
youth, to homely features as to handsome, to
coai'se complexions as to clear — to the woman,
us she is a woman, not as she is a beauty, a
fortune, or a title. I shall believe it to be some-
thing more than a name, when a well-dressed
gentleman, in a well-dressed company, can
advert to the topic of female old age without ex-
citing, and intending to excite a sneer ; wlien
the phrases " antiquated virginity," and such a
one has •• overstood her market," pronounced in
good company, shall raise immediate oft'ense in
man or woman tliat shall iiear them spoken.
Joseph Paice, of Bread-Street Hill, Merchant,
and one of the Directors of tiie South-Sea Com-
pany, was the oidy pattei-n of consistent gallantry
that I have ever met with. He took me under
his shelter at an early age, and bestowed some
pains upon me. I owe to his precepts and ex-
ample whatever there is of the man of business
(and that is not much) in nn' composition. It
was not his fault that I did not proiit more.
Though bred a Presbyterian, and brought up
a merchant, he was the finest gentleman of his
time. He had not one system of attention to
feniah^s in tlie di-awing-room and another in the
227
CHARLES LAMB.— 6
sliop or in the stall. I do not mean that he made
no distinction. But he never lost sight of sex,
or overlooked it in the casualties of a disadvan-
tagcious situation. I have seen him stand bare
headed — smile if you please — to a poor servant-
girl while she has been inquiring of him the
way to some street — in such a posture of unforced
civility as neither to embarrass her ni the ac-
ceptance nor himself in the offer of it. He was
no dangler in the common acceptation of the
word ; but he reverenced and uplield, in every
form in which it came before him, womanhood.
I have seen him — nay, smile not — tenderly es-
corting a market-woman, whom he had en-
countered in a shower, exalting his umbrella
over her poor basket of fruit, that it might re-
ceive no damage, with as much carefulness as
though she had been a countess.
He was never married, but in his youth he
had paid his addresses to the beautiful Susan
AVinstanley, who dying in the early days of their
courtsliip, confirmed him in the resolution of
perpetual bachelorship. It was during their
courtship, he told me, that he had been treating
his mistress with a profusion of civil speeches —
the common gallantries — to which kind of tiling
she had hitherto manifested no repugnance ; but
in this instance with no efiect. She rather
seemed to resent his compliments. He could
not set it down to caprice, for the lady had al-
ways sliown herself above that littleness. When
lie ventured on the following day — finding her a
little better humored — to expostulate with her
on her coldness of yesterday, she confessed, with
her usual frankness, that she had no sort of dis-
like to his attentions ; that she could even en-
dure some high-flown compliments; that a young
woman placed in her situation had a right to ex-
pect all sort of civil things to be said to her;
that she lioped siie could digest a dose of adula-
tion, short of insincerity, with as little injury to
her iiuniility as most young women. But that,
CHAKLEti LAMB.— 7
;i little before he liad commenced his eompli-
luents, she had overheard him by accident, in
rather rough language, rating a young woman,
who had not brought home his cravats ((uite to
the appointed time; and she thouizlit to her-
self:
" As I am Miss Susan Winstanley, and a
young lady — a reputed beauty, and known to be
a fortune — I ca;n have my choice of the finest
speeches from the mouth of this very tine gentle-
man who is courting me ; but if I had been poor
Mary Sucli-a-one, and had failed in bringing home
the cravats to the appointed hour — though per-
haps I had sat up half the night toforwai'd them
— what sort of compliments should I have re-
ceived tlien ? And my woman's pride came to
my assistance ; and I thought that if it were only
to do nie honor, a female, like myself, miglit
have received handsomer usage. And I was de-
termined not to accept any fine speeches to the
compromise of that sex, the belonging to which
was after all my strongest claim ;uid title to
them."
I think the lady discovered both generosity
and a just way of thinking in this rebuke which
she gave her lover ; and I have sometimes im-
agined that the uncommon strain of courtesy
which through life regulated the actions and be-
havior of my friend towards all of womankind
owed its happy origin to this seasonable lesson
from the lips of iiis lamented mistress. I wish
the whole female world would enteitain the
same notion of these things that ]\liss AVinstanley
showed. Then w<' should see something of the
spirit of consistent gallantry, and no longer wit-
ness of the anomaly of the same man — a pattein
of true [)oliteness to a wife, of cold contem])t or
rudeness to a sister; the idolater of his female
mistress ; the (les])iser of his no less female aunt
or unfortunate — still female — maiden cousin.
Just so much respect as a woman derogates from
her own sex, in whatever condition placed — her
33?
CHARLES LAMB— 8
handmaid or dependent — she deserves to have
derogated from herself on that score.
AVhat a woman should demand of a man in
courtship, or after it, is first, respect for her as
she is a woman ; and next to that, to be re-
spected by him above all other women. Bnt
let her stand upon her female character as upon
a foundation ; and let the attentions incident to
individual preference be so many pretty addita-
ments and ornaments — as many and as fanciful as
you please — to the main structure. Let her first
lesson be, with sweet Susan Winstanley, to rev-
erence her sex Elia.
DISTANT CORRESPONDENTS.
{In a Letter to B. F., Esq., at Sydney, Neio South
Wales. )
My Dear F — When 1 think how welcome
the sight of a letter from the world where you
were born must be to you in that strange one to
wliich you are transplanted, I feel some com-
punctions visitings at my long silence. But in-
deed it is no easy effort to set about a corre-
spondence at our distance. The weaiy world of
waters between us oppresses the imagination.
It is difficult to conceive how a scrawl of mine
should ever stretch across it. It is a soit of jue-
sumption to expect that one's thouglits should
live so far. It is like writing for posterity ; and
reminds me of one of IMrs. Rowe's superscrip-
tions, " Alexander to Stre[)hon in tlie Shades."
Epistolary matter usually conipriseth three
topics : News, Sentiment, and Puns. In the
latter I include all non-serious subjects; or sub-
jects serious in themselves, but treated after my
fashion, non-seriously. And first for News. In
tliem the most desirable circumstance, I suji-
pose, is that they shall be true. But what
security can I have that what I send you for
truth shall not before you get it unaccountcibly
turn into a lie ? For instance, our mutujil friend
F — is at this present writing — my Noiv — in good
230
CHAELES LAMB— 9
liealtli. and eiijuys a fair share of worklly irjmta-
tion. You are glad to hear of it. This
is natural and friendly. But at this pres-
ent reading — your Now — he may possibly be
in the Bench, or going to be hanged, which in
reason ought to abate something of your trans-
port (/. e. at hearing he was well, etc.,) or at
least considerably to modify it.
Not only does truth, in these long intervals,
unessence Iierself, but (what is harder) one can-
not venture a crude fiction for fear that it may
ripen into a truth upon tlie voyage. What a
wild, improbable banter I put upon you some
three years since — of Will Weatherall having
married a servant-maid ! I remember gravely
consulting you how we were to receive her (for
Will's wife was in no case to be rejected) ; and
your no less serious replication in the matter ;
how tenderly you advised an abstemious intro-
duction of literary topics before the lady, with a
caution not to be too forward in bringing on the
carpet matters more within the sphere of her
intelligence ; your deliberate judgment — a rather
wise suspension of sentence — how far jacks and
spits and mops could be introduced as subjects ;
whether the conscious avoiding of all such mat-
ters in discourse would not have a worse look
than the taking them casually in our way ; and
in wliat manner we should carry ourselves to
oui- Maid Becky — Mrs. William Weatherall be-
ing by : whether we should show more delicacy
and truer sense for Will's wife by treating
Becky with our customary chiding before her, or
by an unusual deferential civility paid to Becky
as to a person of great worth, but thrown by the
caprice of fate into a humble situation.
There were difficulties, 1 remember, on both
sides, which you did me the favor to state with
the precision of a lawyer, vmited to the tender-
ness of a friend. I laughed in mv sleeve at
your solemn pleadings, when lo ! while I was
valuing mvs<'lf upon this flam put upoti vou in
•J31
CHARLES LAMB.— 10
New Soutli Wales, the devil in England — ^jcal-
oiH of" any lie-children not his own, or working
after my copy — has actually instigated our triend
(not three days since) to the commission of a
niatrimony which I had oidy conjured up for
your diversion. William Weatherall has mar-
ried Mrs. Cotterel's maid. But to take it in its
truest sense, you will see, my dear F — , that
News from me must become History to you ;
which I neither profess to write, nor indeed care
much for reading. No person, unless adivinei-,
can with any prospect of veracity conduct a cor-
respondence at such an arm's length.
Then as to Sentiment. It fjires little better
with that. Tiiis kind of dish above all requires
to be served u[) hot, or sent off in water-plates,
that your friend may have it almost as warm as
yourself. If it have time to cool, it is the most
tasteless of all cold meats. I have often smiled
at a conceit of the late Lord C — . It seems
that travelling somewhere about Geneva, lie
came to some pretty green spot or nook, where
a willow or something hung so fantastically and
invitingly over a stream — was it? or a rock ? —
no matter : but tlie stillness or the repose, after
a weary journey, 'tis likely in a languid mo-
ment in his Lordship's not i-estless life, so took
his fancy that he could imagine no place so
proper, in the event of his death, to lay his
bones in. This was all very natural and excus-
able as a sentiment, and shows his character in
a very pleasing light. But when from a passing
sentiment it came to be an act; and when by a
positive testamentary disposal, his remains were
actually cari-ied all that way from England, who
was there — some desperate sentimentalists ex-
cepted— that did not ask the question, AVhy
could not his Lordship have found a spot as sol-
itary, a nook as romantic, a tree as green and
pendent, in Surrey, in Dorset, or in Devon ?
Conceive the sentiment boarded up, freighted,
entered at the Custom House (startling the tide-
232
CHAl^LKS I. ami;.— 11
■\v;iitt.*is witli the novelty), lioisted into a ship.
Conceive it passed about and handhnl between
the rude jests of tarpaulin ruffians — a thing of
its delicate texture — tlie salt bilge wetting it till
it became as vapid as a damaged lustring. Trace
it then to its lucky landing at Lyons, shall we
say — I have not the map before me — jostled
upon four men's shoulders — baiting at this town
stopping to refresh at t'other village — waiting
a passport here, a license there — the sanction of
tiie magistracy in this district — the conounence
of the ecclesiastics in that canton ; till at length
it arrives at its destination, tired out and jaded,
from a brisk Sentiment into a feature of silly
Pride or tawdry senseless Aflf'ectation. How few
Sentim nits, my dear F — , I am afraid we can
set down, in the sailors' phrase, as quite sea-
worthy.
Lastlv. as to the agreeable levities which
thoug!) contemptible in bulk, are the twinkling
corpuscula which should irradiate a right friendly
epistle — your Puns and small Jests are, I appre-
liiMid, extremely circumscribed in their sphere of
action. They are so far from a capacity of
being packed u|) and sent beyond sea, that they
will scarce endure to be transported by hand
from tliis room to the next. Their vigor is at
The instant of their birth. Their nutriment for
their brief existence is the intellectual atmos-
phere of the by-standers. A Pun hath a hearty
kind of present ear-kissing smack with it ;
you can no more transmit it in its pristine flavor
than you can send a kiss. Have you not tried
in some instances to palm off a yesterday's pun
u|)oM a gentleman, and lias it answered ? Not
but it was new to his hearing, but it did not
seem to come new from you. It did not seem to
hitch in. It was like picking up at a village
aleliouse a two-days'-old newspaper. You have
not seen it l)efore, but you resent the stale thing
a-: an affront. This sort of merchandise above
all re*p]ires a (juick return. A pun and its . •
233
CHARLE^^ LAMB.— 12
co;^iiitory laugh must be co-instautaneous. The
one is the brisk lightning, the other the tieroe
thunder. A moment's interval, and the link is
snapped. A pun is reflected from a friend's
face as from a mirror. Who would consult his
sweet visnomy were it two or three minutes (not
to speak of twelve months) in giving back its
copy ?
1 am insensibly chatting to you as familiarly as
when we used to exchange good-morrow out of
our old contiguous windows in pump-famed
Ilare-Court in the Temple. My heart is as dry
as that spring sometimes turns in a thirsty Au-
gust, when I revert to the space that is between
us ; a length of passage enough to render obso-
lete the phrases of our P^nglisli letters before
they can reach you. But while I talk, I think
you hear me — thoughts dallying with vain sur-
mise—
" Aye rae ! while thee the seas and sonuding shores
Hold far away."
Come back before I am grown into a very old
man, so as you shall hardly know me. Come
before Bridget walks on crutches. Girls whom
you left as children have become sage matrons
while you are tarrying there. The blooming
Miss W — r (you remember Sally. W — r)
called upon us yesterday, an aged crone. Folks
whom you knew die off every year. If you do
not make haste to return, there will be little left
to greet you of me or mine. — Elia.
HESTER.
When maidens such as Hester die,
Their place ye may not well supply,
Though ye among a thousand try,
With vain endeavor.
A month or more hath she been dead ;
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think upon the wormy bed
And lier, together.
234
CHARLES LAMB.— 13
A springing motion in her gait
A rising step, did indicate
Of pi'ide and joy no common rate,
That flushed her spirit.
1 know not by what name beside
I shall it call : — if 'twas not pride,
It was a joy to that allied.
She did inherit.
Her parents held the Quaker rule,
Wiiicli doth the human feeling cool;
But she was trained in nature's school-
Nature had blest her.
A waking eye, a prying mind,
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ;
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind —
Ye could not Hester.
My si)rightly neighbor, gone before
To that unknown and silent shore !
Shall we not meet, as heretofore,
Some summer morning,
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day
A bliss tliat would not go away —
A sweet forewarning?
Charles Lamb.
lines writtex in my own album.
Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white
A young probationer of light
Thou wert, my soul, an album bright,
A spotless leaf; but thought and care,
And friend and foe, in foul and fair.
Have written "strange defeatures" there*
And Time, with heaviest hand of all.
Like tliat fierce writing on the wall,
Hath stamped sad dates, he can't recall.
235
CHARLES La. Ml!. -14
And error, gilding worse designs —
Like speckled snake that slays and shines —
Betrays his path by crooked lines.
And vice hath left his ugly blot ;
And good resolves, a moment hot,
Fairly begun — but finished not
And fruitless late remorse doth trace —
Like Hebrew lore a backward pace —
Her irrecoverable race.
Disjointed numbers ; sense unknit ;
Huge reams of folly ; shreds of wit ;
Compose the mingled mass of it.
My scalding eyes no longer brook
Upon this ink-blurred thing too look : —
Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.
Charles Lamb.
choosing a name.
I have got a new-born sister ;
I was nigh the first that kissed her.
When the nursing-woman l)rought her
To papa, his inftint daughter,
How papa's dear eyes did glisten !
She will shortly be to christen ;
And papa has made the ofler
I shall have the naming of her.
Now I wonder what would please her —
Charlotte, .Julia, or Louisa?
Aim and Mary — they're too common;
Joan's too formal for a woman ;
Jane's a prettier name beside ;
But we had a Jane that died.
They would say if 'twas Rebecca,
That she was a little Quaker.
Judith's pretty, but tliat looks
Better in old English books;
Ellen's left off long ago;
Blanche is out of fashion now.
None that i have named as yet
Are as good as Margai'et.
236
CHAKLES LAMB.— 15
Kmily is neat and tine ;
Wliat do you think of Caroline?
I!n\v I'm puzzled and perplexed,
Wh.tt to choose or tliink of next!
I am in a little fever
I.e.-t the name that I should give her
Should disgrace her or defame her : —
1 will leave papa to name her.
Mary Lamb.
pakextal recollections.
A child's a plaything for an hour ; its pretty
tricks we try
For tiiat or for a longer space, th(>n tire and lay
it by.
But I know one that to itself all seasons could
control ;
That would have mocked the sense of pain oi;:
of a grieved soul.
Thou straggler into loving arms, young climber
up of knees,
When I forget thy thousand ways, then life and
all shall cease.
Mary Lamb
237
MARTHA J. LAMB.— 1
LAMB, Martha Joanna Keade (Nash),
:n) American author, born at Plainfield.
Massachusetts, in 1829. In 1852 she nuir-
ried Mr, Charles A. Lamb, of Ohio. For
several years she lived in Chicago, whei'e
she was instrumental in founding a Home
for the Friendless and a Half-Orphan
Asylum. Since 1866 she has lived in New
Yoi-k. In 1883 she became the editor of
the Magazine of Americau History. Among
her works are several books for children
(1869-70), S'picy, a novel (1872), The Tombs
of Old Trinity (1876), State and Society in
Washraqton (1878), 2%e Coast Survey
(1879), The Life-Saving Service (1881), The
Christmas Otvl (1881), History of the City
of New York (1866-81), Snoio and Sim-
shine (1882), and Wall Street in History
(^1883.) She has also written numerous
short stories, and has contributed more than
one hundred historical and other papers to
magazines. In 1879 she edited American
Homes, and in 1883 wrote the Historical
Sketch of Neio York, for the tenth census.
M.A^NHATTAN ISLAND.
Two hundred and sixty -five years ago the site
of the city of New York was a rocky, wooded,
canoe-shaped, thirteen-mile-long island, bounded
by two salt rivers and a bay, and peopled by
dusky skin-clad savages. A half-dozen porta-
ble wigwam villages, some patches of tobacco
and corn, and a tew bark canoes drawn up on
the shore, gave little promise of our present
four hundred and fifty miles of streets, vast
property interests, and the encircling forest of
shipping. . . .
To the right, the majestic North River, a
mile wide, unbroken hy an island ; to the left,
the deep East River, a third of ;i mile wide,
2:;8
MARTHA J. LAMB.— 2
with a cliain of slender islands abreast ; ahead, a
Iti-autit'ul l)Hy tit'teen miles in circnmt'ereiice, at
the foot uf wliieh the waters were c-niinped into
a narrow strait with bold steeps on either side ;
and astern, a small channel dividing the island
t'lom the mainland to the north, and connecting
tlie two salt rivers. Nature wore a hardy
■•uiintena\ice, as wild and untamed as the savage
landliolders. Manhattan's twenty-two thousand
acres of rock, lake, and lolling table-land, rising
ill places to an altitude of one hundred and
thirty-eight feet, were covered with sombre for-
ests, grassy knolls, and dismal swamps. The
ti-ees were lofty : and old, decayed, and w^ithered
limbs conti-asted with the younger growth of
brandies, and wild-flowers wasted their sweet-
ness among the dead leaves and uncut herbage
at their roots. The wanton grape-vine swung
carelessly from the topmost l)oughs of the oak
and sycamore, and l>lackberiy and raspberry
bnshes, like a picket guard, presented a bold
front in all the possible avenues of approach.
Strawberries struggled for a feeble existence in
various places, sometimes under foliage through
wiiich no sunshine could penetrate, and wild
rose-bushes and wild currant-bushes hobnobbed,
and were often found clinging to frail footholds
among the ledges and cliffs, while apple-trees
pitifully beckoned with their dwarfed fruit, as if
to be relieved from too intimate an association
with the giant progeny of the crowded groves.
The entire surface of the isl;in<l Avas bold and
granitic, and in profile resembled the carlilagi-
nons back of the sturgeon. Where the Tombs
piison now casts its gnm shadow in Centre
Street, was a fresli-water lake, supplied by
springs from the high grounds about it, so deep
that the largest shi[)S might have floated upon
its surface, and pure as the Croton which now
flows through the reservoirs of the city. It had
two outlets — small streams, one emptying into
239
MARTHA J. I.AMB— ;}
the North, the otlier into the East River His-
tory of the City of New York.
OEOUGE WASHINGTON IN NEW YORK.
Tlic winter of 1790 opened Jiuspieionsly.
New York City was in promising healtli and
pictnresque attire. The weather until February
was remai-kably mihl and lovely. " I see the
President has returned fragrant witli the odor
of incense," wrote Trumbull to Wolcott in
December. " This tour has answered a good
political pur()Ose, and in a great measure stilled
those who were clamoring about the wages of
Congress." The community at large was full
of pleasing anticipations. People flocked into
the metropolis from all quarters, and the pres-
ence of so much dignity of character, statesman-
ship, legal learning, culture, and social elegance
produced new sensations, aspirations, and ambi-
tions.
Washington was the observed of all observers.
His wonderful figure, which it has pleased the
present age to clothe in cold and mythicnl dis-
guises, was neither unreal nor marble. He stood
six feet three inches in his slippers, well-propor-
tioned, evenly developed, and straight as an
airow. He had a long muscular arm, and
probably the largest hands of any man in New
York. He was fifty-eight, with a character so
firm and true, kindly and sweet, kingly and
grand, as to remain unshaken as the air when a
boy wings his arrow into it, through all subse-
quent history. His great will-power and gravity
seem to have most attracted the attention of
mankind. His abilities as a business man, the
accuracy of his accounts, which through much
of his life he kept with his own hand, and his
boundless generosity should also be remembered.
Pie took care of his money ; at the same time
he cast a fortune worth at least three quarters
of a million into the scale — to be forfeited
should the Revolution fail. But the greatest of
240
MARTHA J. LAMB.— 4
all his traits was a manly self-poise founded upon
tiie most perfect self-control. He was withal es-
sentially human, full of feeling, emotional, sym-
pathetic, and sometimes passionate; He was fond
of society, conversed well, enjoyed humor in a
(piiet way, and was sensible to the beauty and
open to the appeal of a good story.
Wliile loyal to every duty, and closeted with
Jay, Hamilton, and Knox for hours eacli day in
shaping the conduct of the departments, he
found time for healthful recreation. The
citizens of New York grew accustomed to his
appearance upon the streets in one or another of
his numerous equipages, or on horseback, and on
foot. His diary throws many a domestic and
private light upon the pleasing picture. He tells
us, for instance, how after visiting the Vice-
President and his wife one afteriToon, at Rich-
mond Hill, with Mrs. Washington, in the post-
cliaise, he walked to Rufus King's to make a
social call, "and neither ]Mr. King nor his lady
was at home to be seen." On another occasion he
sent tickets to Mrs. Adams. Mrs. Greene, Gen-
eral Philip and Mrs. Schuyler, Secretary and
Mrs. Hamilton, and Mr. and Mrs. Rufus King,
iiuiting them to seats in his box at the little
John Street theatre. Music commenced, and the
audience rose the moment Wasliihgton and his
iri('i\ds entered the building. The play was
J)(irbifs Return, written by William Duidap.
Darby, an Irish lad, proceeded to recount his
adventures in New York and elsewhere, to his
friends in Ireland. Washington smiled at the
humorous allusion to the change in the govern-
ment : —
"Here, too, I saw some mighty pretty shows —
A revolution without blood or blows;
For, as I understood, the cunning elves,
The people, all revolted from themselves."
lint at the lines : —
" A man who fought to free the land from woe,
Like me, had kit his farm a soldiering to go,
1(3 241
MARTHA J. LAMB.— 5
Then, having gained his point, he had, like me,
Returned, his own potato-ground to see.
But there he tould not rest. With one accord
He is called to he kind of — not a lord —
I don't know what ; lie's not a ffreat man, sure,
For poor men love him just as he were poor ; "
the eyes of the aiulience were fixed cnriously
upon the President, who elianged color sli<^htly
and looked sei'ious, when Kathleen asked,
"How looked he, Darby? AVas he short or
tall ? " and Darby replied that he did not see
him because he had mistaken a man " all hire
and glitter, bothernm and shine," for him, until
(lie show was out of f'ight, Washington's features
relaxed and he indulged in a rare and hearty
laugh History of tJie City of New York.
242
LAMENNAIS.— 1
LAMENNAIS, HucxUEs Felicitk Eob-
KHT DE, a French ecclesiastic and author,
boiMi at St. Malo in 1782 ; died in Paris in
185-i. He received the tonsure in 1811,
and entered Holy Orders 1817. His first
book, R('fi€xions sur VEtatde VEglise (1808),
was destroyed by the police. Tradition de
VEijUse sur V Institution des Eveqnes (1814)
took Ultramontane ground against the Gal-
lican position. The first volume o'i Esi^ai sur
r Indifference en Mature de Religion (1817)
asserted the absolutism of faith ; — but the
author valued the State chiefly as au ad-
jimct to the Church. The second volume
(1820) gave less satisfaction, and the third
and fourth (1821) were denounced by the
Sorbonne and the bishops. He presented
a defence to Pope Leo XII., who said that
he would give trouble. De la Religion
consideree dans ses Rapports avec T Ordre Civil
et Oatholique (1825-26) claimed entire spir-
itual supremacy for the Pope; for it he was
prosecuted in France. Des Progrh de la Re-
volution et de la Guerre contre T Eglise (1829)
gave the first signs of his leaning toward
political liberty. In 1830 he founded
EAvenir^ with the motto ^^Dieuet Liberte — le
Pape et le Pewple^^ and was assisted by La-
cordaire, Montalembert, and others. They
sought the paj)al approbation in vain, and
were condemned by a rescript of Aug. 15,
1832. Tliey yielded, and EAvemr was
suspended ; but Lamennais's greatest book.
Paroles d\m Croyant (1831) made a breach
with all authority, alike ecclesiastical and
civil. This prose poem won instant fame,
ran rapidly through a hundred editions,
and was translated into nearly every Euro-
pean language ; the Pope condemned it as
243
LAMENNAIS.— 2
"'small in size, but immense in its pervers-
ity." Affaires de Rome (1836), Le Livre
<l>i Periple (1837), Esquisse dhme Philoso-
phie (18-10-4:6), De La Religion {IMl), and
Du Passe el de VAvenir du Peuple (1842),
maintained tlie- position of pure theocratic
democracy. For Le Pays et le Gouvernement
(18-10) he was imprisoned a year. In 18-48
he was sent to the Assembly, and offered a
Constitution, which was rejected as too rad-
ical. His last years were occupied in trans-
lating Dante, At his own direction, he
was buried in Pere la Chaise among the un-
known poor.
JUSTICE AND LIBERTY.
He who asketh himself how much justice is
worth, profaueth justice in his heart ; and he
who stops to calculate what liberty will cost,
hath renounced liberty in his heart. Liberty and
justice will weigh you in the same balance in
wliich you have weighed tlit-m. Learn, then, to
know their value.
There have been nations who have not known
that value, and never misery equalled theirs.
If there be upon eartli anylliing truly great,
it is the resolute firmness of a people who march
on, under the eye of God, to the conquest of
those rights which they hold from him. without
flagging for a moment ; who think not of their
wounds, their days of toil and sleepless nights,
and say, " What are all these ? Justice and
liberty are well worthy of severer labors."
Such a people may be tried by misfortunes, by
reverses, by treachery ; nay, may even be sold by
some Judas: but let nothing discourage them.
For in truth I say unto you that when, like the
Sa\iour of the world, they shall go down into
the tomb, like Him tliey shall come fortli again,
conquerors over death, and over tlie prince of this
world and his servants.
244
I.A.MKXXAI.S.— 3
Tlii' laborer beareth tlic l)urth(Mi of" tbr day.
cx.Ktsed to tlie ram ami sun tuid winds, that ii ■
may by his labor prepare tliat harvest wliirli
sliall enrich his granaries in autumn.
Justice is the harvest of nations.
Tiie workman rises before the dawn, he lights
his litth' lamp, and endures ceaseless fatigue, tliat
lie may gain a little bread with which to feed
himself and his children.
Justice is the bread of nations.
The merchant shrinks from no labor, com-
plains of no trouble, exhausts Jiis body, and for-
gets repose, tiiat he may amass wealth.
Liberty is tiie wealth ot nations.
The mariner traverses seas, trusts himself to
wave and tempest, risks his body amid the rocks,
and endures heat and cold, that he may secure
repose in his old age.
Liberty is the repose of nations.
The soldier submits to many hard privations,
lie watches, fights, and sheds his blood, for what
he calls glory.
Liberty is the glory of nations.
If there be on earth a people who tliiiik less
of justice and liberty than tiie laborer does of
his harvest, or the workman of his daily bread,
or the merchant of his wealth, or the mariner
of his ri'pose, or the soldier of his glory : — build
ai-ound that people a high wall, that their breath
may not infect the rest of the world.
When the great day of judgment for nations
shall come, it will be said to that people, "AVhat
hast thou done with thy soul ? There is neither
sign nor trace of it to be seen. The enjoyments
of the brute have been everything to thee.
Tiiou hast loved the mire — go, wallow in the
mire."
And that people who, rising above mere ma-
terial good, have placed their afti'Ctions on the
true good ; who, to obtain that true good, have
s|)ared no labor, no fatigue, no sacrili(« ; shall
hear this word : "• For thos(^ who have a soul.
2J5
LAMENNAIS.— 4
there is the recompense of souls. Because tlion
luisl loved justice and liberty before all tliin;j;s,
come and possess forever liberty and justice." —
Words of a Believer.
" LOYALTY."
The rulers of this world have opposed to the
wisdom of God, which men understand not, (he
wisdom of the prince of this world, even of Satan.
Satan, who is the king of the oppressors of
nations, suggested to them an infernal stratagem,
by which to confirm their tyranny.
He said to them : "• This is what ye should do.
Take in each family the strongest of the young
men, put arms in their hands and teach them to
use them and they wmII fight for you against their
fathers and their brethren ; for I will persuade
them that the action will be glorious. I will
make for them two idols, whi(di tliey shall call
Honor and Loyalty, and a law which they shall
call Passive Obedience ; and they will worship
these idols, and blindly .«ubmit themselves to
that law, because I will seduce their understand-
ings; and ye will then have nothing more to
fear."
And the oppressors of nations did as Satan
had advised them, and Satan accomplished what
he had promised them.
Then might be seen the children of a nation
raising their hands against that nation, to mur-
der their brothers and to chain their fathers,
forgetting even the mothers who bore them.
And when you showed them the altars of that
God who made man, of that Christ who saved
him, they would say, "This is the God of the
country ; but, as for us, we have no gods l)i;t
those of our masters, Honor and Loyalty."
Since the seduction of the first woman by the
serpent, there hath been no seduction more dread-
ful than this. But it approacheth its end
Words of a Believer.
246
I
LETITIA ELIZABETH LAMDOX— 1
LAXDOX, Letitia Elizabeth, nn Imi--
lish author born at Brompton, a sul)urb of
Loiuloii, ill 1802 ; died at Cape Coast Castle
in \Vestern Africa, in 1838. At the age of
eighteen she began to contribute to the
Litrrary Gazette^ with the editorship of
wliich she soon became connected. In the
summer of 1838 she married Mr. Maclean
the Governor of Cape Coast Castle, and ac-
companied him to Africa. She had been
accustomed to take minute doses of prussic
acid for a nervous aft'ection. Soon after iier
arrival at the Castle she was found dead in
lier chamber ; as was sup[)osed from an ac-
cidental overdose of the poison. She pub-
lished several volumes of prose and verse.
Iler Literary Reniains^ with a Life bj
Laman Blanchard, were published in 1841.
The following verses — the last which she
ever wrote — were composed on the voyage
to Africa, during which she had been wont
to watch the Pole-star, as it nightly sunk
below the horizon.
TUK SETTING OF TlIK I'Ol.E-STAR.
A Star has left the kiiulHiig sky —
A lovely northern light :
How many planets are on high,
But that has left the night.
I miss its bright familiar face ;
It was a friend to me —
Associate with my native place,
And those beyond the sea.
It rose upon our English sky,
Shone o'er our J^nglish land,
And brought l)ack many a loving eye,
And many a gentle hand.
It seemed to answer to my thought,
It called the past to mind
247
LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON.— 2
And with its welcoiiR' presence bruuglit
All I had loft behind.
The voyage it lights no longer, ends
Soon on a foreign shore;
How can I but recall the friends
That I may see no more ?
Fresh from the pain it was to part —
How could I bear the pain ? —
Yet strong the omen in my heart
That says — We meet again.
Meet, with a deeper, dearer love :
For absence shows the worth
Of all from which we then remove —
Friends, home, and native earth.
Thou lovely Polar-Star, mine eyes
Still turned the lirst on thee.
Till I have felt a sad surprise.
That none looked up with me.
But thou hast sunk u])on the wave,
Thy radiant place unknown ;
I seem to stand l)eside a grave,
And stand by it alone.
Farewell ! Ah, would to me were given
A power upon thy light !
What words upon our English heaven
Thy loving rays should write !
Kind messiiges of love and hop(;
Upon thy rays should be ;
Thy shining orbit should have scope
Scarcely enough for me.
Oh, fancy vain, as it is fond,
And little needed too ;
My friends ! I need not look beyond
My heart to look for you.
248
WALTER RAVAGE LAXDOR— 1
I.AXlKJH, Walter Savage, an English
author bom at Warwick iu 1775 ; died at
Florence, Italy, in 186-i. His i'ather was a
practising physician, though a man of large
private estate. The son was educated at
Rugby, and afterwards entered the Univer-
sitv of Oxford, but having been rusticated
for a trifling breach ol' discipline, he did not
return, and so never took his degree. He
early manifested an uncontrollable temper,
which at times bordered upon insanity. At
the death of his father he succeeded to the
family estates, and purchased Llanthony
Abbey, a w'ild property in Wales, upon
which he spent much money, and com-
menced the building of a mansion, npon
wliich he laid out £8,000. Pie soon quar-
relled with his tenants and neighbors, and
abandoned Llanthon\^, ordering his unfin
ished mansion to be demolished. In 18 lo
he went to the Continent, and after spend-
ing some time in France proceeded to Italy,
wdiere he resided in several places until
1821, when he took up his abode at Floi'-
ence, in the neighborhood of which he pur-
chased the fine Gherardesca villa.
As early as 1811 lie had married Julia
IMiuillier, a young woman of French extrac-
tion. Disagreements and quarrels arose,
which culminated in 1835, when he finallv
broke with his family, and went back to
England, settling himself- at Bath, wliich
was his residence until 1858. In that year
he put forth a metrical miscellany, entitled
Dry Sticks fa'joted hy W. S. Landor ; this
brochure contained some attacks u])on a lady
who had become obnoxious to him. A
suit for libel was instituted, and Landoi- —
now past fourscore — was cast in large dam-
249
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.— 2
ages. He at once put his remaining prop-
erty out of his hands, and went back to
Florence, where the remaining eight years
of his life were passed. His property had
all gone from him, and his last days would
have been passed in poverty had not some
of his friends settled upon him a moderate
annuity.
Landor's English works were finally
edited and arranged by John Forster(1869,
second edition 1874.) They till seven vol-
umes, to which is preiixed a Life of Lan-
dor, in one volume. The principal of his
prose works are : Imcujinary Conversa-
tions^ of which several series appeared
(1824-46), The Citation and Examination of
William Shakes'peare (1834), Pericles and
Aspasia (1834), The Peutameron (1837.)
His poetical works fill something more than
one volume. Gebir, is a narrative poem, as
wild and fanciful as the Arabian JS'ifjhts or
Beckford's Vathek (1798), of which he put
forth in 1803 a Latin version, which, says
Swinburne, "for might and melody of line,
for power and perfection of language, must
always tlispute the palm of precedence with
the English version." There are several
dramatic pieces, among which is Coimt
JvXian (1812), of which Swinburne says,
" No comparable work is to be found in
English poetry between the date of j\Iilton\s
Samson A(jonistes and the date of Shelley's
Prometheus Unbound. The style, if some-
what deficient in dramatic ease, has such
might and purity and majesty of speech, as
elsewhere we find in Milton alone." IHie
Hellenics (1847) contain some of the very
noblest of Landor's poetrv- The LaM Fritif
of an Olil Tree (1853)' "contains," says
250
WALTEli SAVAUE LA^DOK.— a
Swiiibarne, "poems of various kinds and
merit, closing with Five Scenes on the mar-
t3n'dora of Beatrice Cenci, unsurpassed, even
by the author himself for noble and heroic
pathos, for subtle and genial, tragic and
profound, ardent and compassionate insiglit
into charactei', with consummate mastery
of dramatic and spiritual truth."
The Imayinary Conversations, of which
there are about 125, form about Ijalf the
works of Landor, as tiiey a})pear in the col-
lection edited by John Forster. The inter-
locutors are men and women of all ages and
countries. In most of them one of the
speakers — and sometimes both — are repre-
sented as saying precisely what Landor
woaldhave said had he been in their place;
in some of them, indeed, he presents him-
self by name as one of the colloquists.
ROGKR ASOHAM AND LADV .JANE (iRAY.
Ascham. — Tlioii art going, my dear young
lailv into a most awful state ; thou art passing
into matrimony and great wealth. God hath
willed it ; submit in thankfulness. Thy atfec-
tions are rigiitly placed and well distributed.
Love is a secondaiy passion in those who love
most ; a primary in those who love least. He
who is inspired by it in a high degree, is in-
spired by honor in a higher ; it never reaches its
plenitude of growth and perfection but in the
most exalted minds. Alas! alas!
Lady Jane. — What aileth my virtuous As-
cham ? AVhat is amiss ? Why do I tremble ?
Ascham I remember a sort of prophecy,
made three years ago. It is a prophecy of thy
condition and of my feelings upon it. Recol-
lectest thou who wrote, sitting upon the
sea-beach, the evening after an excursion to the
Isle of Wight, these verses ? —
251
WALTER SAVACiE LANDOR.— 4
" Invisibly bright water 1 so like air,
Ou looking down I fear'd tliDU couldst not bear
My little bark, of all lij^ht barks most light,
And look'd again, and drew me from the sight,
And hanging back, breathed each fresh gale aghast,
And held the bench, not to go on 30 fast.
Lady Jane. — I was very childish when 1 com-
posed them ; and if I had thought any more
about the matter, I should have hoped you
had been too generous to keep them in youi-
memory as witnesses against me,
Aschain. — Nay, they are not so much amiss
for so young a girl ; and tliere being so few ot
them, I did not reprove thee. Half an hour, I
thought, might have been spent more unprofita-
bly ; and I now shall believe it firmly, if thou
wilt but be led by them to meditate a little on
the similarity of the situation in which thou wert
to what thou art now in.
Lady Jane. — I will do it and w'hatever else
you command ; for I am weak by nature, and
veiy timorous unless where a strong sense of
duty holdeth and supporteth me : there God
acteth, and not liis creature. Those were with
me at sea who would have been attentive to me
if I had seemed to be afraid, even though wor-
shipful men and women were in the company ;
so that something more powerful threw my fear
overboard. Yet I never will go again upon the
water.
Ascham. — Exercise that beauteous couple —
that mind and body — much and variously; but
at Iiome, at home, .Jane ! indoors, and about
tilings indoors; for God is there too. AVe have
rocks and([uicksandson the banks of our Thames,
0 lady, such as ocean never lieard of; and
many (who knows how soon !) may be ingulfed
iu the current under their garden walls.
Lady Jane Thoroughly do I now understand
you. Yes, indeed, I have read evil things of
courts ; but I think nobody can go out bad who
253
WALTEK SAVAGE LANDOK.— o
iitereth good, if timely and true warning !?hall
iiave been given.
Ascham. — I see perils on perils which thou
lost not see, albeit thou art wiser than thy poor
Id master. And it is not l)eeause Love hath
lilinded thee, for that surpasseth his supposed
omnipotence ; but it is because thy tender heart,
having always leaned affectionately upon good,
hath felt and known nothing of evil. I once
persuaded thee to reflect much : let me now
persuade thee to avoid the habitude ofreflection ;
to lay aside books, and to gaze carefully and
steadfastly on wiiat is under and before thee.
Ladt/ Jane. — I have well bethought me of my
duties. Oh, how extensive they are ! what a
ixoodly and fair inheritance ! • But tell me, would
\ou command me never more to read Cicero,
and Epictetus, and Plutarch, and Polybius?
Tlu- others I do resign : they are good for the
arbor and for the gravel-walk ; yet leave unto me,
I beseech you, my friend and father, leave unto
me for my fireside and for my pillow, truth, elo-
([uence, courage, constancy.
Ascham. — Read them on thy marriage-bed, on
thv cliild-bed, on thy death-bed. Thou spotless,
undrooping lily, they have fenced thee riglit well.
Tlierie are the men for men ; these are to fashion
tlie bright and blessed creatures whom God one
ilav shall smile upon in thy chaste bosom.
Mind tliou thy husband.
Ladj/ Jane I sincerely love the youth who
haili espoused me : I love him with tlie fondest,
the most solicitous affection. I pray to the Al-
miudHy for his goodness and happiness ; and do
Ibrgct at times — unworthy supplicant I — the pray-
ers I should have offered for myself. Never
fear that I will disparage my kind religious
ii'aclu'r by disobedience to my husband in tlie
ino-t trying duties.
Ascham Genthi is he, geiith- and virtuous ;
but time will harden him; time must harden even
253
WALTER SAVAGE LAXDOR.— 6
tliee, sweet Jane I Do tliou, complacently and
indirectly, lead him from ambition.
Lady Jane. — He is contented with me, and with
home.
Aschain — Ah, Jane ! Jane ! men of high es-
tate grow tired of contentedness.
Lady Jane. — He told me he never liked books
niiless I read them to him. I will read them tij
him every evening ; I will open new worlds to
Iiim richer tlian those discovered by the Span-
iards ; I will conduct him to treasures — Oh,
v.hat treasures! — on which he may sleep in in-
nocence and |)eace.
Asckam — Rather do thou walk with liin), ride
with him, play with liim ; be his fairy, his page,
his everything that love and poetry have in-
vented. But watch him well ; sport with his
fancies, turn them about like the ringlets upon
Ills cheek ; and if he ever meditate upon power,
go toss thy baby to his brow, and bring back his
thoughts into his heart by the music of tliy dis-
course. Teach him to live unto God and unto
thee ; and he will discover that women, like tbe
plants in woods, derive their softness and tender-
ness from the shade Lnaginary Conversations.
T\\Q Penktmeron (•' Five Days") purjiorts
to be " Interviews of Messer Giovanni Boc-
caoio and Messer Francesco Petrarca, when
iVIesser Giovanni lay infirm at his villetta
hard by Certaldo ; after which they saw
not ^ach other any more on our side of
Paradise : Showing how they discoursed
upon that famous theologian, Messer Dante
Aligliieri, and sundry other matters." The
subjoined is apart of one of these colloquies:
THE GERMANS AND THE FRENCH.
Boccacio — The Germans, altliongh as igno-
rant as the French, are less cruel, less insolent
and rapacious. The French have a. separate
claw for every object of appetite or passion, and
254
walti:r savage landor-I'
;i s[)riiig tliut eiial)l('s tlitiii io scizo il. Tlic dc-
sir.'s of the Gerniiin are overlaid witli food, and
.xtiiijiuislied with drink, Avliich to others are
>timuiaiits and incentives. The German loves
to see everything abont him orderly and entire,
however coarse and common. The nature of
tlie Frenehman is to derange and destroy every-
tliiiig. Sometimes when he has done so, he will
eonstruct and retitit in his own manner, slenderly
and fiintastically ; ot'tener leaving it in the mid-
dle, and proposing to lay the foundation when he
has pointed the pinnacles and gilt the weather-
cock.
Petrarca. — There is no danger that the
French will have a durable footing in our Italy
or any other country. Their levity is more in-
tolerable than German pressure, their falsehood
than German rudeness, and their vexation than
German exaction.
Boccacio. — If I must be devoured, I have lit-
tle choice between the bear and panther. May
we always see the creatures at a distance and
across the grating. The French will fondle us,
to show how vastly it is our interest to fondle
t!iem ; watching all the while their opportunity ;
seemingly mild and half asleep ; making a dash
at last, and laying l)are and fleshless the arm we
extend to them, from shoulder-blade to elbow.
Petrarca. — No nation grasping so much ever
held so little, or lost so soon, what it had in-
veigled. Yet France is surrounded by smaller
and apparently weaker states, which she never
ceases to molest and invade. Whatever she has
won, and whatever she has lost, has been alike
won and lost by her perfidy — the characteristic
of the people from the earliest ages, and recorded
i>y a series of historians, Greek and Roman.
Boccacio My father spent many years
among them, where also my education was com-
pleteil ; yet whatever I have seen, I must ac-
kmiwledge, corresponds with whatever 1 have
read, anil corroborates in my mind the testi-
255
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR -8
mony of tradition. Their Mncient Iiistory is only
Ji preface to liieir later. Deplorable as is the
coiulitioii of Italy, I am more contented to share
in her sutferings than in the frothy festivities of
her frisky neighboi-.^7%e Peatameron.
We are iiiolined to regard Pericles and
Aspasfa, written at the age of fifty-eight, as
the best of Landor\s worlcs. It consists of
a series of letters written mainly by Aspa-
sia, an Ionian girl who had just come to
Athens, to her friend Cleone, who remained
at her Asiatic home. In her first letter
Aspasia tells of her witnessing a representa-
tion on the stage of the Promelheus Bound
of ^schylus.
THE PROMETHEUS OF ^SCHYLUS.
How fortunate ! To have arrived at Athens
at dawn on the twelfth day of Elaphobolio. On
this day began the festivals of Bacchus, and the
theatre was thrown open at sunrise. What a
theatre! What an elevation ! what a prospect
of city and port, of land and water, of porticoes
and temples, oi' men and heroes, of demigods
and gods ! It was indeed my wish and inten-
tion when I left Ionia, to be present at the first
of the Dionysiacs ; but how rarely are wishes
and intentions so accomplished, even when winds
and waters do not interfere.
I will now tell you all. No tinae was to be
lost ; so I hastened on shore in the dress of an
Athenian boy who came over with his mother
from Lenuios. In the giddiness of youth he
forgot to tell me that, not being eighteen years
old he could not be admitted; and he left me on
the steps. My heart sank within me; so many
young men stared and whispered ; yet never wns
stranger treated with more civility. Crowded
as the theatre was (for the tragedy had begun )
every one made room for me.
When thev were seated, and I too, I looked
256
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOK.— 9
toward the stage ; and behold, there lay before
me, but afar otf, boinul u[)on a rock, a more ma-
jestic- form, and bearing a countenance more
heroir I should rather say more divine — than
ever my imagination had conceived I I know
not how long it was before I discovered tliat as
many eyes were directed toward me as toward
the competitor of the gods.
Evei-y wish, hope, sigh, sensation, was succes-
sively with the champion of the human race,
with this antagonist of Zeus, and his creator,
yEschylus. How often, O Cleone, have we
tlnobbed with his injuries! how often has his
vulture torn our breasts ! how often have we
thrown our arms round each other's neck, and
half-renounced the religion of our fathers!
Even your image, inseparable at other times,
came not across me then : Prometheus stood
between us. He had resisted in silence and dis-
dain the crudest torments that Almightiness
could inflict ; and now arose the Nymphs of the
Ocean, which heaved its vast waves before us ;
and now they descended with open arms and
sweet benign countenances, and spake with pity;
and the insurgent heart was mollified andciuelled.
I soljljed, I dropped. There is much to be told
when Aspasia faints in a theatre — and Aspasia
in disguise ! Everything appeared to me an il-
lusion l)ut the tragedy. Wliat w^as divine seemed
human, and what was human seemed divine —
Pericles and Aspasia.
This fainting of Aspasia discloses her
sex, and brings her into connection with
Pericles, to whom she soon came to be
just what Marian Evans was to George
Lewes. Landor was perhaps more thor-
oughly permeated with the Homeric spirit
than any other man of modern times, and
running through Pericles and Aspasia are
remarks upon Homer and his poems.
These are put into the mouth of Pericles.
17 257
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.— 10
THE HOMKR OF THE ODYSSEY.
The Ulysses of the Iliad and Odyssey is not
tlit^ same, but the Homer is. JMiglit not the poet
liave conected in his earlier voyajjes many won-
derful tales about the chieftain of Ithaca ; about
Ills wanderings and return ; about his wife
and her suitors? Might not afterward
the son or grandson liave solicited his guest and
iViend to place the sagacious, the courageous,
the enduring man among the others whom he
was celebi'ating, in detached poems, as leaders
against Troy ? He describes with precision
everything in Ithaca ; it is evident he must have
been on the spot. Of all other countries — of
Sicily, of Italy, of Phrygia — he quite as un-
doubtedly writes from tradition and representa-
tion Pericles and Aspasia.
THE HOMER OF THE ILIAD.
Needless is it to remark that the Iliad is a
work of much reflection and various knowledge ;
the Odyssey is the marvelous result of a vivid
and wild imagination. Homei-, in the nearly
thirty years which I conceive to have intervened
between the fanciful work and the graver, had
totally lost his pleasantries. Polyphemus could
amuse him no longer ; Circe lighted up in vain
her fires of cedar-wood ; Calypso had lost her
charms ; her maidens were mute around her ;
the Lasstrigons lay asleep ; the Sirens sang,
" Come hither, O passer by ! Come hither, O
glory of the Achaians! " and the smooth waves
quivered with the sound, but the harp of the
oM man had no chord that vibrated. In the
Odyssey he invokes tlie Muse ; in the Iliad he
invokes her as a goddess he had invoked before.
He begins the Odyssey as the tale of a family,
to which he would listen as she rehearsed it ; the
Iliad as a song of warriors and divinities,
worthy of the goddess herself to sing before the
world Pellicles and Aspasia.
WALTER SAVACiE LANDUK.— 11
HOMER AN ASIATIC.
We claim Homer, but he is yours. Observe
with whtit partiality he always dwells upon Asia.
How infinitely more civilized are Glautus and
Sarpedon. than any of the Grecians he was
called upon to celebrate. Priam, Paris, Hec-
tor, what polished men. Civilization has never
made a step in advance, and never will, on those
countries : she had gone so far in the days of
Homer. He keeps Helen pretty vigorously out
of sight, but he opens his heart to the virtues of
Andromache. What a barbarian is Achilles,
the son of a goddess ! Pallas must seize him
by the hair to arrest the murder of his leader ;
l)ut at the eloquence of the Phi-ygian king the
storm of the intractable honucide bursts in
tears.
I cannot but think that Homer took from
Sesostris the shield that he has given to Achilles.
The Greeks never worked gold so skillfully as
in this shield, until our own Phidias taught
them ; and even he possesses not the art of giv-
ing all the various colors to the metal which are
represented as designating the fruitage and
other things included in this stupendous work,
and which the Egyptians in his time, and long
•■arlier undi^-stood. How happened it that the
Trojans had (ireek names, and the leader of
the Greeks an PLgyptian one? — Pericles and
Aspasia.
One passage at least in Gebir has become
a liouseliold word. The Sea-nymph, Ta-
iiiar. thus describes the chief treasures oC
her ocean home:
landor's sea-shell.
I>iit I have sinuous shells of pearly hue
Within, and they that lustre have imbibed
I 'I the Sun's ])alace-porch wdiere, when unyoked.
His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave:
Shake one, and it awakens, then apply
25i)
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.— 12
Its polished lips to your attentive ear,
And it remembers its august abodes,
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there.
Wordsworth in The Excursion^ used the
Sea-SlielL — Landor will have it, filched it
from him, and spoiled it: an opinion in
wliich we think no one will agree.
It is worth while to compare the two
Shells.
avordswokth's sea-shell.
" I have seen
A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract
Of inland ground, applying to his ear
The convolutions of a smootli-lipped shell;
To which, in silence hushed, his very soul
Listened intensely ; and his countenance soon
Brightened with joy ; for from within were
heard
Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed
Mysterious union with its native sea.
Even such a shell the universe itself
Is to tiie ear of Faith ; and there are times,
I doubt not, when to you it doth impart
Authentic tidings of invisible things ;
Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power,
And central peace, subsisting at the heart
Of endless agitation."
Touching this alleged appropriation and
deformation, Landor says :
THE TWO SEA-SHELLS.
Within these few months a wholesale dealer in
the brittle crockery-ware of market criticism has
picked up some shards of my Gebir, and stuck
tbem on his shelves. Among them is my " Sea-
Shell," which Wordsworth clapped in his
pouch. There it became incrusted with a com-
post of mucus and shingle : there it lost its
" pearly hue within," and its memory of where
it had abided.
260
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.— 13
EFFICACY OF TRAYEKS.
Ye men of Gades, armed Avitli brazen shields,
And ye of near Tartessus, where the shore
Stoops to receive tlie tribute which all owe,
To B«tis and his banks for their attire,
Ye too whom Durius bore on level meads.
Inherent in your hearts is bravery :
For earth contains no nation where abounds
The generous horse and not the warlike man.
But neither soldier now nor steed avails ;
Nor steed nor soldier can oppose the gods ;
Nor is their aught above like Jove himself.
Nor weighs against his purpose wlien once fixed.
Aught but the supplicating knee, the Prayers.
Swifter than light are they, and every face,
Though different, glows with beauty ; at the
throne
Of mercy, when clouds shut it from mankind,
Tiiey fall bare-bosomed, and indignant Jove
Drops, at the soothing sweetness of their voice,
The thunder from his hand. Let us arise
On tliese high places daily, beat our breast.
Prostrate ourselves, and deprecate his wrath.
Gebir.
SPARING FLOWERS.
And 'tis and ever was ray wish and way
To let all flowers live freely, and all die.
Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart.
Among their kindred in their native place.
I never pluck the rose ; the violet's head
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank,
And not reproached me ; the ever-sacred cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands
Felt safe, unsoiled, nor lost one grain of gold.
Fcesidan Idyl.
IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON.
Iphigeneia, when she heard her doom
At Aulis, and when all beside the King
Had gone away, took his right hand, and said :
"0 father ! I am young and very happy.
'^61
WALTER SAVAGE LAXDOU— 14
I do not think the pious Calchas lieanl
Distinctly what the Goddess spake. Old-age
Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew
:My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood,
Wliile I was resting on her knee both arms,
An 1 hitting it to make her mind my words,
And looking in her face, and she in mine,
Might not he also hear one word amiss,
Si)oken from so far off, even from Olympus?"
The father placed his cheek upon her head.
And tears dropped down it, but the King of men
Replied not. Then the maiden spake once more :
'■Ofatlier! say'st tliou nothing ? Hear'st thou
not
Me whom thou ever hast, until this hour,
Listened to fondly, and awakened me
To hear my voice amid the voice of birds,
When it was inarticulate as theirs,
And the down deadened it within the nest."
He moved her gently from him, silent still ;
And this, and this alone brought tears from her,
Although she saw fate nearer. Then with sighs:
" I thought to have laid down my hair before
Benignant Artemis, and not have dimmed
Her polished altar with my virgin blood ;
I thought to have selected the white flowers
To please the Nymphs, and to have asked of
each
By name, and with no sorrowful regret.
Whether, since both my parents willed the
change,
I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipped brow ;
Andl^ after those who mind us girls the most)
Adore our own Athena, that she would
Regard me mildly with her azure eyes —
But, father! to see you no more, and see
Your love, O father ! go ere I am gone—"
Gently he moved her off, and drew her back,
Bending his lofty head far over hers,
And the dark deptlis of nature heaved and burst.
He turned away ; not fiir, but silent still.
She now first shuddered ; for in liim, so nigh,
262
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.— 15
So long a silence seemed the approach of death,
And like it. Once again she raised her voice :
" O father I if the ships are now detained.
And all your vows move not the Gods al)ove.
When the knife strikes me there will be one
prayer
The less to them : and purer can there be
Any, or more fervent than the daughter's prayer
For her dear father's safety and success ? "
A groan that shook him shook not his resolve.
An aged man now entered, and without
One word, stepped slowly on, and took the wrist
Of tiie pale maiden. She looked up, and saw
Tlie fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes.
Then turned she whei'e her parent stood, and
cried
" 0 father ! grieve no more : the ships can sail ! "
Hdlenics.
ROSE AYLMER.
Ah ! what avails the sceptred race !
Ah ! what the form divine !
What every virtue, every grace !
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakefu* eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and sighs
I consecrate to thee.
ON SOUTHEY's death, 1843.
Friends, hear the words my wandering thoughts
would say.
And cast them into shape .some other day :
Southey, my friend of forty years, is gone,
And, shattered by the fall, I stand alone.
AN OLD POET TO SLEEP.
No god to mortals oftener descends
Than thou, O Sleep ! yet thee the sad alone
Invoke, and gratefully tliy gift receive.
Some thou invitest to explore the sands
Left by Pactolus ; some to climb up higher,
263
WALTER RAVAGE LANDOK.— iG
Wliei-c points ambition to the pomps oi' war;
Others thou watchest wliile they tighten robes
Which law throws round them loose, and they
meanwhile
Wink at the judge, and he the wink returns.
Apart sit fewer, whom thou lovest more,
And leadest where unruffled waters flow.
Or azure lakes 'neath azure skies expand.
These have no wider wishes, and no fears,
Unless a fear, in turning, to molest
The silent, solitary, stately swan.
Disdaining the garrulity of groves,
Nor seeking shelter there from sun or storm.
Me also hast thou led among such scenes.
Gentlest of gods ! and age appeared far off,
While tiiou wast standing close above the couch,
And whisperd'st, in whisper not unheard,
" I now depart from thee, but leave behind
My own twin-brother, friendly as myself
Who soon shall take my place : men call him
Death.
Thou hearest me, nor tremblest, as most do.
In sooth, why should'st thou ? What man hast
thou wronged
By deed or word. Few dare ask this within."
There was a pause ; then suddenly said Sleep :
" He whom I named approacheth : so farewell ! "
Last Fruits of an Old Tree.
A^■DREW LANG.— 1
LANG, Andrew, a British author, bom
at Selkirk, Scotlaud, in 1844. He was
educated at St. Andrews University and at
Balliol College, Oxford. In 1868 he was
elected a Fellow of Merton College, Oxford.
He is a frequent contributor to periodical
literature, writing sometimes light papers
on current topics, and sometimes masterly
essays on French literature, on scientific sub-
jects, and on comparative mythology. He
has published: Ballads in BlueCJmia {ISSl),
Helen of Troy (1882), Bhymes a la Mode
(1883), Custom and Myth (1884), and The
Mark of Cain, a novel (1886). He has
translated the Idyls of Theocritus, and has,
in conjunction with others, put forth a
prose version of the Iliad and the Odyssey.
EGYPTIAN DIVINE MYTHS.
All fort-es, all powers, were finally recognized
in Osiris. He was Sun and Moon, and the
Maker of all things; he was the Tinth and the
Life ; in him all men were justified. His func-
tions as king over death and the dead find their
scientific place among other myths of the homes
of the departed. M. Lefehure recognizes in
the name " Osiris " the meaning of " tlie infernal
abode," or "the nocturnal residence of the
sacred eye ; " for in the duel of Set and Horus he
sees a mythical account of the daily setting of
the sun. " Osiris himself — the sun at his set-
ting— became a centre round which the otiier
incidents of the war of the gods gradually crys-
tallized." Osiris is also the Earth. It would
be difiicnlt either to prove or disprove this con-
tention, and the usual divergency of opinion as
to the meaning and etymology of the woid
"Osiris" has always prevailed. Plutarch iden-
tifies Osiris with Hades; "both," says M. Lefe-
bure, "originally meant tiie dwelling — and came
to mean the god — of the dead."
266
ANDREW LANc;.-2
In the same spirit Aiiubi.s, tiie jackal (a beast
still degraded as a ghost by the Egy[)tiaiis), is
e.v[)laiiied as " the circle of the lioii/oii,"' or
>■' the portal of the land of darkness," tiie gate
kept — as Homer would say — by Hades, the
mighty warden. Whether it is more natural
that men should represent the circle of tiie hori-
zon as a jackal, or that a jackal totem should
survive; as a god, mythologists will decide for
themselves. The jackal, by a myth which can-
not be called pious, was said to have eaten his
father Osiris. Thus, throughout the whole
realm of Egyptian myths, when we find beasts-
gods, blasphemous fables, apparent nature-
myths, such as are familiar in Australia, iSouth
Africa, or among the Eskimo, we may imagine
that they are the symbols of noble ideas, deemed
appropriate by priestly fancy. Thus the hiero-
glyphic name of Ptali, for example, shows a lit-
tle figure carrying something on his head ; and
this denotes " Him who raised the heaven above
the earth." But is this image derived from v,n
point de vue philosophique, or is it borrowed from
a tale like that of the Maori Tutenganahan,
who Hrst severed heaven and earth? The most
enthusiastic anthx'opologist must admit that,
among a race which constantly used a kind of
picture-writing, symbols of noble ideas )Hlght be
represented in tlie coarsest concrete forms — as
of animals and monsters. The most devoted
believer in symbolism, on the other hand, ou^ht
to lie aware that most of the phenomena which
he explains as symbolic are plain matters of
fact, or supposed fact, among hundreds of the
lower peoples. However, Egyptologists are
seldom students of the lower races and tlieir
religions. The hypothesis maintained here is
that most of the Egptian gods (theriomorphic
in their earliest shapes), and that certain of the
myths about these gods, are a heritage derived
from the sa\age condition.
266
SIDNEY EANIER— 1
LANIER, Sidney, an American author,
born at Macon, Georgia, in 1842 ; died at
Lynn, N. C, in 188 L He studied at Ogle-
thorpe College, Georgia ; and at the break-
ing out of the civil war entered the Confed-
erate service ; took command of a block-
ade-runner; was captured, and held a pris-
oner for five months. After the conclusion
of the war he was engaged in various pur-
suits. In 1873 he took up his residence at
Baltimore, devoting himself to literature
and music. In 1876 he was engaged to
compose the Cantata for the Centennial
Exposition at Philadelphia, and in 1877
was appointed Lecturer on English Litera-
ture at the Johns Hopkins University. He
had for many years suffered from a pulmon-
ary affection, which rendered him a con-
firmed invalid. His works are : Tiger
Lilies^ a novel (1867), Florida ; Its Scenery,
Climate^ and History (1876), Poems (1877),
The Boys' Froissart (1878), The Science of
Enylish Verse and The Boys'' King Arthur
(1880), The Boys' Mabinogion (1881.)
After his death were published The Boys'
Percy ^ and The English Novel and the
Principles of its Development. An edition
of his Poems, prepared by his wife, with a
brief Memorial by W. H. Ward, was pub-
lished in 1844.
THE MARSHES OF GLYNN.
Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and
woven
"With intricate shades of the vines that myriad-
cloven
Clamber the forks of the multiform boughs,
Emerald twilights, —
Virginal skv lights,
267
SIDNEY LANIER.— 2
Wrought of the leaves to allure to the whisper
of vows,
When lovers pace timidly down through the
green colonnades
Of the dim sweet woods, of the dear dark
woods,
Of the heavenly woods and glades,
Tliat run to the radiant marginal sand-beach
within
The wide sea-marshes of Glynn ; —
Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noon-day
fire-
Wild wood privacies, closets of lone desire.
Chamber from chamber parted with wavering
arras of leaves —
Cells for tlie passionate pleasure of prayer to
tlie soul that grieves.
Pure with a sense of the passing of saints
through the wood.
Cool for the dutiful weighing of ill with good ; —
O braided dusks of the oak and woven shades
of the vine,
While the riotous noon-day sun of the June-day
long did shine
Ye lield me fast in your heart and I held you
fast in mine ;
But now w^hen the noon is no more, and riot is
rest.
And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of
the West,
And the slant yellow beam down the wood-aisle
doth seem
Like a lane into heaven that leads from a
dream —
Ay, now, when my soul all day hath drunken
the soul of the oak,
And my soul is at ease from men, and the weari-
some sound of the stroke
Of the scythe of time and the travel of trade is
low,
268
SIDNEY LANIER —3
Ami l)elief o'erniiisters doubt, and I know thai I
know.
And my spirit is grown to a lordly great compass
within,
That the length and the breadtli and the sweep
of the marshes of Glynn
Will work me no fear like the fear they ha^ c
wrought me of yore
When length was fatigue, and when breadth was
but bitterness sore,
And when terror and shrinking and dreary un-
namable pain.
Drew over me out of the merciless miles of the
plain —
Oh, now unafraid, I am fain to face
The vast sweet visage of space.
To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I am drawn
Where the gray beach glimmering runs, as a
belt of the dawn.
For a mete and a mark
To the forest-dark : —
80:
Affable live-oak, leaning low —
Thus — with your favor — soft, with a reverent
hand,
( Xot lightly touching your person. Lord of the
land! )
I'xiiding your b(;auty aside, with a step I stand
On the firm -packed sand.
Free
By a world of marsh that borders a world of sea.
.Sinuous soutliward and siimous northward the
shimmering band
Of tlie sand-beach fastens the fringe of the
marsh to the folds of the land.
Inward and outward to northward and south-
ward the beach-lines linger and curl,
As a silver-wrought garment that clings to and
follows the firm sweet limbs of a girl.
Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again
into .sight,
269
SIDNEY LANIER.- 4
Softly tlie sand-beach wavers ;i\vav to a dim
gray looping of light.
And what if behind me to westward the wall of
the woods stands liigh 't
The world lies east: how ample the marsh and
the sea and the sky !
A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high,
broad in the blade,
(rieen, and all of a height, and unfleck('<l with a
light or a shade,
Stietch leisurely off in a pleasant plain,
To the terminal blue of the main.
Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal
sea?
Somehow my soul seems suddenly free
From tlie weighing of fate and the sad discus-
sion of sin,
By the length and the breadth and the sw^eep ol
the marshes of Glynn.
Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing
withholding and free
Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer your-
selves to the sea !
Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains
and the sun.
Ye spread and span like the cathoiie man who
hath mightily won
God out of knowledge, and good out out of infi-
nite pain
And sight out of blindness, and purity out of a
stain.
As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery
sod,
Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness
of God :
I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh -
hen flies
In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the
marsh and the skies :
270
SIDNEY LANIER.— 5
By so many roots as tlie marsh-grass sends in
the sod
I will heartily lay me a-liold on the u;realness of
God :
Oil, like to the greatness of God is the greatness
within
The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of
Glynn.
And the sea bends large as the marsh ; Lo. o.it
of his plenty the sea
i'ours fast: full soon the time of the Hood-tide
must be :
Look how the grace of the sea doth go
About and about through the intricate channels
that flow
Here and there,
Everywhere,
Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks
and the low-lying lanes,
And tlie marsh is meshed with a million veins,
That like <is with rosy and silvery essences flow
In tlie rose-and-silver evening glow.
Farewell, my lord Sun !
Tlie creeks o'erflow ^ a thousand rivulets run
'Twixt the roots of the rod ; the l)lades of the
marsh-grass stir ;
Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that west-
ward whir ;
Passeth, and all is still ; and the currents cease
to lun ;
And the sea and the marsh are one.
How still the plains of the waters be !
The tide is in his ecstasy.
The tide is at his highest height :
And it is night.
And now from the Vast of the Lord will the
waters of sleep
Roll in on the souls of men,
But who will reveal to our waking ken
The forms that swim and the waves that creep
271
SIDNEY LANIER.— 6
Under the waters of sleep?
And I would I could know what swimmeth
below wlien the tide comes in
On tlie length and the breadth of the marvelous
marshes of Glynn.
A ROSE-MORAL.
Soul, get thee to the heart
Of yonder tuberose ; hide thee there,
There breathe the meditations of thine art
Suffused with prayer.
Of spirit grave yet light
How fervent fragrances uprise,
Pure-born from these most rich and pet most white
A irginities !
Mulched with unsavory death,
Reach soul ! yon rose's white estate :
Give off thine art as she doth issue breath,
And wait — and wait.
272
ClIAlvLEtJ LANMAN.— 1
LANMAN, Charles, an American
author, born at Monroe, Micliigan, in 1819.
For about ten years he was engaged in
mercantile business in New York, after
AV'hich he engaged in journahsm, first in
Micliigan, and subsequently in New York.
He studied Art, and though only an ama-
teur, was in 1849 elected an Associate of
the National Acadeni}- of Design, and lias
from time to time exhibited several credit-
able paintings. In 1849 he was made Li-
brarian of the War Department at Wash-
ington ; in 1850 he became Private Secre-
tary to Daniel Webster, whose Private
Life he afterwards wrote (1852.) In 1853
he was made Examiner of Depositories for
the Southern States: in 1855 Head of the
Return Office in the Department of the In-
terior: and in 1866 Librarian of the ILmse
of Representati ves. From 1871 till 1 882 he
was Secretary to the Japanese Legation.
He prepared the Diclionary of Congress
which originally appeared in 1858, and,
being published by order of Congress, was
continued in successive editions until 1869.
For many years he made excursions in vari-
ous parts of North America, of which ac-
counts were written for periodicals, and
afterwards published in book form. Many
of these were in 1856 brought together in
two volumes, entitled Adventures in the
Wilds of the United States and the British
American Provinces. He has also written
several works relating to Japan and the Jap-
anese, the latest of which is Leading Men of
Japan (1883.) Among his later works are
Farthest North (1885), and Haphazard Per-
sonalities (1886.)
273
CHARLES LANMAN.— 2
THE ACADIANS.
At the junction of tlie rivers Madawaska and
St. John is a settlement of about 300 Acadians.
How this people came by the name which they
bear, 1 do not exactly understand ; but of tiieir
history I remember the following particulars : —
In the year 1755, during the existence of the
colonial difficulties between England and France,
tliere existed in a remote section of Nova Scotia
about 15,000 Acadians. Aristocratic French
blood flowed in their veins, and they were a
peaceful and industrious race of husbandmen.
Even after the government of England had be-
come established in Canada, they cherished a
secret attachment for the laws of their native
country ; but this was only a feeling, and they
Continued in the peaceful cultivation of their
lands.
In the process of time, however, three Eng-
lishmen, named Lawrence, Boscawen, and
Moysten, held a council, and formed the hard-
hearted determination of driving this people
from their homes, and scattering them to tlie
four quarters of the globe. Playing the part
of friends, this brotherhood of conquerors and
heroes sent word to the Acadians that they must
all meet at a certain place, on business which
deeply concerned their welfare. Not dreaming
of their impending fate, the poor Acadians met
at the appointed place, and were informed of the
fact that their houses and lands were foi'feited,
and that they must leave the country to become
wanderers in strange and distant lands. They
sued for mercy ; but the iron yoke of a Chris-
tian nation was laid more heavily upon their
necks in answer to that prayer, and they were
driven from home and country. As they sailed
from shore, or entered the wilderness, they saw
in the distance, ascending to heaven, the smoke
of all they had loved and lost. Those who sur-
vived found an asylum in the United States and
in the remote portions of the British empire ;
274
CHARLES LAN MAN— 3
and when after the war thcv were invited to re-
turn to their early homes only 1.300 were known
to be in existence.
It is a remnant of this very people who, with
their descendants, are now the owners of the
Madawaska settlement ; and it is in an Acadian
dwelling that 1 am now [1847] penning tliis
cliapler. But through many misfortunes ( !
would speak it in charity), the Acadians h:i\ <
degenerated into a more ignorant and miserable
class than are the Canadian French, whom they
idosely resemble in their appearance and cus-
toms.
Thev believe the people of Canada to be a
nation of knaves ; and the people of Canada
know tJiem to be a half-savage community.
Worshipping a miserable priesthood is their prin-
(•i])al i)usirtess; drinking and cheating their neigh-
liors tlieir principal fimusement. They live by
tilling the soil, and are content if they can barely
make the provision of one year take them to the
entrance of another. They are at the same time
l)assionate lovers of money, and have brought
the science of fleecing strangers to perfection.
Some of them, by a life of meanness, have suc-
ceeded in accumulating a respectable property ;
but all the money they obtain is systematically
hoarded. It is reported of the principal man of
this place that he has in his house at the present
moment the sum of 10,000 dollars in silver and
gold ; and yet this man's children are as igno-
rant of the alphabet as the cattle upon the hills.
lint wnth all their ignorance, the Acadians area
iiappy people, though the happiness is of a mere
animal nature In the Wilds of America.
27!>
LUCY LA ROOM.— 1
LARCOM, Lucy, an American poet, born
at Beverly, Mass., in 1826. Wbile engaged
as an operative in a cotton factory at Low-
ell, she began to write for tbe Loivell Offer-
iny. She has afterwards became a teacher in
Massachusetts and Illinois, and from 1865
to 1874 was editor of Our Young Folks at
Boston. She published ^^hips in the Mist
(1859), Poems (1868), An Idyl of VVorl:
(1875), Childhood Songs (1877), Wild Roses
of Cape Ann (1880), and has edited several
volumes of collections of poetry,
HANNAH BINDING SHOES.
Poor lone Hannah,
Sitting at the window binding slioes,_
Faded, wrinkled
Stiching, stitching in a mournful muse,
Bright-eyed beauty once was she,
When the bloom was on the tree !
Spring and winter,
Hannah's at the window binding shoes.
Not a neighbor
Passing nod or answer will refuse
To her whisper,
" Is there from the fishers any news?"
Oh, her heart's adrift with one
On an endless voyage gone !
Night and morning,
Hannah's at the window binding shoes.
Fair young Hannah,
Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly wooes;
Hale and clever.
For a willing heart and hand he sues.
May -day skies are all aglow
And the waves are laughing so !
For her wedding
Hannah leaves her window and her shoes.
276
LUCY LARCOM— 2
May is passing ;
Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos.
Hannah shudders,
For tlie mild south-wester mischief brews.
Round the rocks of Marblehead,
Outward bound a schooner sped!
Silent, lonesome,
Hannah's at the window binding shoes.
'Tis November ;
Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews
From Newfoundland
Not a sail returning will she lose,
Whispering hoarsely ; " Fisher men
Have you, have you heard of Ben ? "
Old with watching,
Hannah's at the window binding shoes.
Twenty winters
Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views
Twenty seasons !
Never one has brought her any news ;
Still her dim eyes silently
Chase the white sails o'er the sea !
Hopeless, faithful,
Hannah's at the window binding shoes
277
DIONV-^IUS I. A UDNER.— 1
LARDNKH, Dionysius, a British scien-
tist, born at Dublin in 1793; died at Paris
in 1859. He entered Trinity College, Dub-
lin, in 1812, graduated in 1817, and was a
resident member of the University until
1827. He took Orders, and was for some
time chaplain of his college. It was during
this period that he became the "guardian "
of Dion Boucicaut. In 1828 he took uj)
his residence in London; and in 1880
began to edit the Cabinet Cyclojysedm^ which
was continued until 1844, making iti all 132
volumes. His own writings upon physical
and mathematical science were very numer-
ous. In 1840 he eloped with the wife of a
British officer (who recovered £8,000
damages), and came to the United States,
where lie i'emained about five years, and
delivered sevei'al courses of lectures in the
principal cities. The following extract is
from one of these lectures :
THE STEAM-ENGINE PROPER.
In tlie Atmospheric Engine the piston was
maintained steam-tight in the cylinder by sup-
plying a stream of cold water above it, by whicli
the small interstice between the piston and th«'
cylinder would be stopped. It is evident that
the effect of this wall, as the piston descended,
would be to cool the cylinder; besides wliicli,
any portion of it which might pass below tlie
piston would boil the moment it would fall into
the cylinder, which itself would be maintained
at the boiling-point. This water, therefore,
would produce steam, the pressure of which
would resist the descent of the piston.
Watt perceived that, even though this incon-
venience were removed by the use of oil or tal-
low upon the piston, still that as the piston
would descend in the cylinder, the cold atmos-
278
DI0KY8IUS LAKDNEK.— 2
phere would follow it, and would to a rcrtain
extent lower the temperature ot" the eylinder.
On the next ascent of tlie piston thit; tempera-
ture wouhl have to be again raised to 212° by
the steam coming from the boiler, and would en-
tail upon tlie machine a proportionate waste of
power. If the atmosphere ol' the engine-house
oouhl be kept heated to the tempeiature of boil-
ing water, this inconvenience wouki be removed.
The piston would then be pressed down by air
{IS hot as the steam to be subsequently intro-
duced into it.
On further consideration, however, it occurred
to Watt that it would be still more advantageous
if the cylinder itself could be worked in an at-
mosphere of steam, having only the same pres-
sure as the atmosphere. Sucii steam would
press the piston down as efl'ectually as the air
would, and it would have the further advantage
over air that if any portion of it leaked through
between the piston and the cylinder, it would be
condensed — which would not be the case with
atmospheric aix-.
He therefore determininl on suriounding the
cylinder by an external casing, the space between
which and the cylinder he proposed to be filled
with steam supplied from the boiler. The cyl-
inder would thus be enclosed in an atmosphei-c
of its own, independent of the external air ; and
the vessel so enclosing it would only require to
be a little larger than the cylinder, and to have
a close cover at the top, the centre of which
might be perforated with a hole to admit the rod
of the piston to pass through — the rod being
smooth, and so fitted to the perforation that no
steam could escape between them. This method
would be attended also with the advantage of
keeping the cylinder and piston always heated,
not only inside but outside. And Watt saw
that it would be further advantageous to employ
the pressure of steam to drive the piston in its
descent, instead of the atmosphere, as its in-
279
DIONYSIUS LAHDNEK.— 3
leiisity, or force, would be niucli more niaiiage-
iible ; for by increasing or diminishing the heat
of the steam in whicli the cylinder was enclosed,
its pressure might be regulated at pleasure, and
might be made to urge the piston with any force
that might required. The power of the engine
would therefore be completely undercontrol, and
independent of all variations in the pressure of
I lie atmosphere.
Tliis was a step which totally idianged the
character of the machine, and which rendered it
a Steam Engine instead of an Atmospheric
Engine. Not only was the vacuum below the
piston now produced by the property of steam in
virtue of which it is re-converted into water by
cold, but the pressure which urged the piston
iuto this vacuum was due to the elasticity of
steam. The external cylinder within which the
working cylinder was enclosed was called the
"Jacket," and is still in general use. — Lectures
on the Steam Engine.
280
NATHANIEL LARDXER.— 1
LARDNER, Nathaniel, an English di-
vine, a dissenter from the Established
Church, boru in 1684 ; died in 1768. He
was a voluminous writer, his works in the
latest edition (1828) lilliug ten octavo vol-
umes. The most important of these is Tlie
CredibUlty of the Gospel History, which is
still regarded as a work of standard value.
CREDIBILITY OF THE EVANGELISTS.
The history of the New Testament hath in
an eminent degree all the marks and characters
of credil)ility. The writers appear honest and
impartial. They seem to have set down very
fairly tlie exceptions and reflection of enemies,
and to have recorded without reserve the weak-
ness, mistakes, or even greater faults, wliicli they
themselves, or any of their own number, en-
gaged in the same design with them, were guilty
of There is between the four evangelists an
harmony hitherto unparalleled between so many
persons who have all written of the same times
or events. The lesser differences, or st'eming
contradictions, which are to be found in them,
only demonstrate that they did not write in con-
cert. The other parts of the New Testament
concur with them in the same facts and princi-
ples. These things are obvious to all who read
the books of the New Testament with attention ;
and the more they are read, the more conspic-
uous will the tokens of credibility appear.
But it must be an additional satisfaction to find
tliat these writers are supported in their narra-
tion by other approved authors, of diffei-ent
characters, who lived at or near the time in which
the facts related by the evangelists are said to
have happened. . . .
If it appear from other writers that our sacred
historians have mistaken the peoples and affairs
of the time in which, according to their own ac-
•ount, the things which they relate happened, it
281
NATHANIEL LARDNKR— 2
will be an argument that they did not wHIl' until
some considerable time athnuiuds. But if upon
inquiry there be found an agreement between
them and othei" writers, of undoubted authority
— not in some few but in many — in all the par-
ticulars of this kind whicii tln-y have mentioned,
it will be a very strong presumption that they
wrote at or very near the time in which the
things which tliey relal<! are said to have lutp-
pened.
This will give credit to the other — the main
parts of their narration; as history written and
published near the time of any event is credi-
ble, unless there appear some particular views of
interest — of which thei-e is no evidence, but
(piite the contrary. . . .
I propose to give a long enumeration of pai-
ticulars occasionally mentioned by the writers o1'
the New Testament, in which they are supported
by autliors of the best note ; and then, in answer
to diverse objections, I shall endeavor to show
that they are not contradicted in the rest. If I
succeed in this attempt, here will be a gocid
argument for the genuineness of these writings,
and for the truth of the principal facts contained
in them, distinct from the express and positive
testimonies of the Christian writers, and the
concessions of many others — llie CredihUify of
the Gospel History.
282
GEORGE PARSONS LATHROF.— 1
LATHROP, George Parsons, an
x4Lmerican journalist and author, born at
Honolulu, Hawaiian Islands, in 1851. He
was educated at Dresden, Germany, and at
New York. In 1871 he married Rose, the
second daughter of Nathaniel Hawthorne,
who has written several clever magazine
stories. From 1875 he was assistant editor
of the Atlantic Monthly. In 1879 he
purchased the house at Concord, Mass.,
formerly the home of Hawthorne, where he
resided until 1883, when he removed to
New York. His principal works are :
Rose and Roof tree., a volume of poems
(1875), A Study of Hawthonie and After-
ghiv, a novel (1876), An Echo of Passion
and In the Distance (1882), Spanish Vistas
(1883), Newport and True (1884.)
MUSIC OF GROAVTH.
Music is in all growing things ;
And underneath the silky wings
Of smallest insects there is stirred
A pulse of air that must be heard ;
Earth's silence lives, and throbs, and sings.
If poet from the vibrant strings
Of his poor heart a measure flings,
Laugh not that he no trumpet blows :
It may be that Heaven hears and knows
His language of low listenings.
THE SUNSHINE OK THINE EYES.
The sunshine of thine eyes (Oh still celcstiiil
beam !)
Wliatever it touches it fills with the life ol' it-
lambent gleam.
Th.- sunshine of thine eyes, Oh let it fall on
me !
Tlinugh I be but a mote of the air, I could turn
to sold for thee !
2k:{
GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.— 2
THE lover's year.
Thou art my Morning, Twilight, Noon, and Eve,
My Summer and my Winter, Sjiring and Fall ;
For Nature left on thee a touch of all
Th(! moods that come to gladden or to grieve
The heart of Time, with purpose to relieve
From lagging sameness. So do these fore-
stall
In thee such o'erheaped sweetnesses as pall
Too swiftly, and the taster tasteless leave.
Scenes that I love, to me always remain
Beautiful, whether under summer's sun
Beheld, or, storm-dark, stricken across with
rain.
So, through all humors thou 'rt the same, sweet
one :
Doubt not I love thee well in each, who see
Thy constant change is changeful constancy.
284
HUGH LATIMER— 1
LATIMER, Hugh, an Enulish ecclesias-
tic, born about 1485 ; burned at the stake
at Oxford, October 16, 1555. He was the
sou of a small faimer ; was sent to the
University of Cambridge at fourteen years
of age; received the degree of M. A. in 1514,
and, the baccalaureateship of theology in
consequence of a sharp disputation with
Melanchthon. In about 1520 he embraced
the doctrines of Protestantism, and was
summoned before Cardinal Wolsey, the
Archbishop of York, wlio, however, dis-
missed him with a mild admonition. He
took some part in furthing the divorce of
Henry VIII. from Catherine of Anigon.
In 1585 he was consecrated Bishop of Wor-
cester, but resigned his see in 1589, on the
adoption of the Six Articles making it a
penal offence to impugn the dogmas of
transubstantiation, communion in one kind,
celibacy of the clergy, monastic vows, pri-
vate masses, and auricular confession. He
lived in great privacy until 1541, Avhen he
was arrested and imprisoned until 1547.
Shortly after the accession of Edward VI.,
in 1547, he received an offer of restoration
to his bishopric, which he declined, but con-
tinued to be a popular preacher. Queen
Mary ascended the throne in July, 1553,
and in the next year Latimer was arrested,
in company with Cranmer and Ridle\'-, and
conveyed to Oxford, whe^i-e he was impris-
oned for more than a year in the common
jail ; and upon his final refusal to recant,
was brought to the stake. To Ridley, who
was executed with him, Latimer said, while
bound to the stake, " Be of good comfort,
Master Ridley, and play the man ; we shall
this day light such a candle, by God's grace.
285
HUGH LATIMER.— S
in England, as 1 trust shall never be put
out." Many of Latimer's discourses were
printed during his lifetime. A complete
edition of his WorJcs^ in eight volumes, was
put forth in 1845 ; and his Bioyrapliy^ by
Rev. R. Demaus, was published in 1869.
The following is an extract from a ser-
mon— Latimer's third preached before king
Edward VI., March 22, 1549. The young
king was then in his twelfth year. The
orthography of the age has been carefully
retained. If one will merely correct the
spelling of many words so as to correspond
to modern usage this sermon would j)ass as
a good specimen of the English of our own
day.
ON COVETOUSNESS.
Syr, what forme of preacliinge woulde you
have me for to preache before a kynge. Wold
you have me to preache nothynge as concern-
ynge a kynge in the kynge's sermon ? Have
you any commission to apoynt me what I shall
preach ? Besydes thys, I asked hym dyvers
otlier questions and he wolde no answere to
none of them .all. He had nothynge to say.
Then I turned me to the kynge, and sul)niitted
my selfe to his Grace, and sayed, •! never
thoughte my selfe worthy, nor I never sued to be
a preacher before youre Grace, but I was called
to it, would be wyllyng (if you mislyke me) to
geve place to my betters. For I graunt therbe
a gret many more worthy of the roume than I
am. And if it be your Grace's jHeasure so to
allowe them for preachers, I could be content to
here ther bokes after theym. But if you
Grace allowe me for a preacher I would desyri
your Grace to geve me leve to discharge my
conscience. Geve me leve to frame my doc-
trine accordyng to my audience. I had byne «
very dolt to have preached so at the borders of
286
HUGH LATIMER.— 3
your realm as I preaeli before your Graec. And
I tlianke Alniyghty God, wliyeh hath ahvayes
bvne remedy, tliat my sayinges were wt^ll ac-
ce(^)ted of the kynge, for like a uraeioiis Lord he
turned unto a nother conimunicaeyon. It is
even as the Scripture sayeth Co;- Regis in tnanu
Domini. The Lorde dyrecteth the kynge's
hart. . . .
In the vii of John the Priestes sent out cer-
tayne of the Jewes to bring in Christ unto them
vyolentlye. Wlien they came into the Temple
and liarde hym preache, they were so moved
wytli his preachynge that they returned home
agayne, and sayed to them that sente them,
" Nunquani sic locutus est homo ut hie homo —
There was never man spake lyke thys man."
Then answered the Pharysees, Nnm et vos se-
dncti estis? What, ye braynesyeke fooles, ye
hoddy peckes, ye doddye poules, ye huddes, do
ye beleve hym ? Are ye seduced also ? N'n7i-
cjnis ex Principibus credidit in enin ? Did ye
se any great man or any great offycer take hys
parte? doo ye se any boddy follow hym but
beggerlye fyshers, and such as her nothyng to take
to ? N'lmquis ex Phariseis ? Do ye se any holy
man ? any perfect man ? any learned man take
hys parte? Tiirba qui ignorat legem execrahilis
est. This laye people is accursed ; it is they
that kuowe not the lawe.
So here the Pharises had nothynge to choke
the people wytli al but ignoraunce. They d}d
as oure byshoppes of Englande, who upbiayded
the people ahvayes with ignoraunce, where they
were the cause of it them selves. There were,
sayeth St. John, Multi ex principibus qui credide-
runt in eum ; Manye of the chyefe menne b('-
hned in liym, and tliat was contrarye to the
Pharisyes saying. Oh then by lyke they belyed
iiim, he was not alone.
So, thoughte I, there be more of myne opin-
ion tlum I ; I thought I was not alone I have
nowe gotten one felowe more, a companyon of
287
HUGH LATIMER.— 4
sedytyon, and wot ye who is my t"elow<' '■: Esayc
the prophete. I spake but of a lytic pieaty
shyllyiige ; but he speaketh to Hienisalcin after
an otlier sorte, and was so bold to meddle with
theyi" coine. Thou proude, thou covetouse, thou
hautye cytye of Hierusalem, Argentum tunm rer-
sns est in scoriam. Thy silver is turned into
what ? into testyons. Scoriam, into drosse. Ah
^ 'diciouse wretch, what had he to do wyth the
niynte? Why should not have lefte tiiat matter
to some master of policy to reprove ? Thy sil-
ver is drosse, it is not fyne, it is counterfaite, thy
silver is turned, thou haddest good sylver.
What pertained that to Esay? Mnrry he es-
pyed a pece of divinity in that polici, he threat-
ened them God's vengeance for it. He went to
the rote of the matter, which was covetousnes.
He espyed two poyntes in it, that eythere it
came of covetousnesse whych became hym to
reprove, or els that it tended to the liuite of the
pore people, for the naughty nes of the sylver
was the occasion of dearth of all thynges in the
realme. He imputeth it to them as a great
cryme. He may be called a mayster of sedi-
cion in dede. Was not this a sedyciouse harlot
to tell them thys to theyr beardes ? to theyr
face?
In the following extract from Latimer's
sermon on "The Ploughers," the orthogra-
phy is modernized.
SATAN A DILIGENT PRELATE AND PREACHEI?.
And now I would ask a strange question :
Who is the most diligent bishop and prelate in
all England, that passetli all the rest in doing
his office? I can tell, for I know him who it
is ; I know him well. But now I tliink I see
you listening and hearkening that I should name
him. There is one that passeth all the others,
and is the most diligent prelate and preacher in
all England. And will ye know wlio it is? I
will tell you : it is the devil. He is the most
288
HUGH LATIMKR— 5
diligent preacher of all others ; he is never out
of liis dioeese ; he is never from his cure; ye
shall never find him unoceupied ; he is ever in
liis parish ; he keepeth residence at all times ;
ve shall never find him out of the wny ; call for
iiim when you will, he is ever at home; the dil-
igentest preacher in all the realm. He is ever
at his plough ; no lording or loitering can hinder
iiini ; he is ever applying his business; ye shall
never find liim idle, I wariant you.
And his oth'-e is to hinder religion, to main-
tain superstition, to set up idolatry, to teach all
kind of popery. He is ready as can be avIsIk il
tor to set forth his plough, to devise as many
ways as can be to deface and obscure God's
glory. Where the devil is resident, and hath
his plough going, there away with books, and
up with candles ; away wirh liibles, and up with
l)eads ; away with the light of the gospel, and
up with the light of candles, yea. at noondays.
Where the devil is resident, that he nuiy prevail,
up with all superstition and idolatiy ; censing,
painting of images, candles, palms, ashes, holy
water, and new service of men's inventing — as
though man coidd invent a better way to honor
ItoiI with than God himself hath appointed.
Down with Christ's cross ; up with purgatory
pick-purse, up with him — the popish purgatory I
iniian. Away with clothing the naked, the poor,
and nnpotent ; up with decking of images, and
ifav garnishing of stocks and stones. Up with
man's traditions and his laws ; down with God's
traditions and His most holy Word. Down with
the old honor due to God; and up with the new
( iod's honor.
Let all things be done in Latin ; there must
\i". nothing but Latin, not so much as — Memento,
Ihhiid. (/itod cinis es, et in cinem revcrteris — Re-
member, man, that thou art ashes, and unto
ashes shalt thou return : which be the words
that the minister speaketh unto the ignorant peo-
[de. wlien he <riveth them ashes upon Ash Wed-
la ' 289
HUGH LATIMER.— 6
nesday — but it must bespoken in Latin. God's
Word may in no wise be translated into English.
Oh that our prelates would be as diligent to
sow the corn of good doctrine, as Satan is to sow
cockle and darnel ! But some man will say to
me. What, sir, are ye so privy of the devil's
counsel that ye know all this to be true? Truly,
I know him to well, and hiive obeyed him a lit-
tle too much in condescending to some follies ;
and I know him as other men do, yea, that he
is ever occupied, and every busy in following his
plougli, I know by St. Peter, Aviiich saithof him :
" He goeth about like a roaring lion, seeking"
whom he may devour." There never was such
a preacher in England as lie is. Who is able to
tell his diligent preaching which every day and
every hour laboreth to sow cockle and darnel?
290
LAVATEIi.— 1
LAVATEK, JoHANN Caspar, a Swiss
writer on physiognomy, born at Zurich in
1741 ; died in 1801. After studying the-
ology at home and in Berlin, he became
pastor at Zurich in 1764. His mystical
views and enthusiastic but benevolent and
amiable character attracted much friendly
attention. Among his publications are
Schweilzerlieder (1767), Aussiditen in die
Ewigkeit (1768-73), and Pontius Pilatvs
(1785). The last was the means of break-
ing Goethe's friendship with the author.
The most important of his books is Phy-
sioyaomisclie Fraymente zur Beforderun</
der Mensclienkenntniss und Menschenliche
(1775-78), which first attempted to reduce
])hysiognomy to a science, as some claim,
though others say he regarded its practice
as dependent on individual talent, and
valued rules merely as a convenience. La-
vater at first welcomed the French Eevo-
lution, but soon repudiated its barbarities
with disgust. He was banished to Basel
in 1796, and shot when Massena tookZuricli
in 1799; this wound caused his death fif-
teen months later. His Life was written
by Gessner, 1802-3. A selection from liis
works, in 8 vols., appeared 1841-44. His
book on physiognomy has been translated
into many languages, and into English bv
II. Hunter (5 vols., 1789-98), bv T. Hol-
cn^ft (3 vols., 1789-93), bv Morton (3 vols.,
1793) and Moore (4 vols., 1797). His
Aphorisms on Man were translated by
Fuseli (1788). Shortly after his decease,
his Life was written by his son-in-law,
George Gessner. It has also been written
bv Boderain, from a ])urely religious point
oC view.
29}
LAVATPJK.— 2
MAXIMS.
Maxims are as n«'cessary ("or the Aveak, as
ruli'.s tor a beginner : the master wants neither
rule nor principle — he possesses both without
tliinking of them.
Wiio pursues means of enjoyment contradict-
ory, irreconcilable, and self-destructive, is a fool,
or what is called a sinner — sin and destruction
of order are the same.
He knows not how to speak who cannot be
silent; still less how to act with vigor and de-
cision. Who hastens to the end is silent : loud-
ness is impotence.
Wishes run over in lo(pia(;ious impotence. Will
presses on with laconic energy.
All affectation is the vain and ridiculous at-
tempt of poverty to ap})ear rich.
There are offences against individuals, to all
ap[)earance trifling, which are capital offences
against the human race : — fly him who can com-
mit them.
Who will sacnfice nothing, and enjoy all, is a
fool.
Call him wise whose actions, words, and steps,
are all a clear because to a clear why.
Say not you know- another entirely till you
have divided an inheritance with him.
Wlio, without call or office, industriously re-
calls the remembrance of past errors to con-
found liim who has repented of them, is a vil-
lain.
Too much gravity argues a shallow mind.
Who makes too much or too little of himself
has a false measure for everything.
Tlie more honesty a man has, the less he
affects the air of a saint — the affectation of
sanctity is a blotch on the face of piety.
Kiss the hand of him who can renounce what
he has publicly taught, 'when convicted of his
error, and who with heartfelt joy embraces truth,
thouirh with the sacrifice of favorite opinions.
LAVATER.— 3
TIr' iViend of order has made half his way to
virtue.
Whom mediocrity attracts, taste has :iban-
doned.
The art to love your enemy consists in never
losing sight of man in him. Humanity has
power over all that is human : the most inhuman
still remains man, and never can throw ofl' all
taste for what becomes a man — but you must
learn to wait.
The merely just can generally bear great
virtues as little as great vices.
He has not a little of the devil in him who
prays and bites.
Be not the fourth friend of him who had three
before, and lost them.
She neglects her heart who always studies her
glass.
AVho comes from the kitchen smells of its
smoke ; who adheres to a sect has something of
Its cant ; the college air pursues the student, and
dry inhumanity him who herds wnth literary pe-
dants.
He knows little of the Epicurism of reason
and religion who examines the dinner in the
kitchen.
Let none turn over books or scan the stars
in quest of God who sees Him not in man.
He knows nothing of men who expects to con-
vince a determined party man ; and he nothing
of the world who despairs of the final impar-
tiality of the public.
He who stands on a height sees faither than
those beneath; but let him not fancy that he
shall make them believe all he sees.
Pretend not to self-knowledge if you find
nothing worse within you than what enmity or
calumny dares loudly lay to your charge. Yet
you are not very good if you are not better than
Vuur best friends imagine you to be.
293
LAVATER.— 4
He who wants witnesses in order to be good,
has neither virtue nor religion.
He submits to be seen through a microscope,
who suffers himself to be caught in a fit of pas-
sion.
Receive no satisfaction for premeditated im-
pertinence. Forget it, forgive it — but keep him
inexorably at a distance wdio offered it.
The public seldom forgive twice.
He sui'ely is most in want of another's patience
who has none of his own.
Aphorisms on Man.
294
li
AUSTEN HENRY LAYARD.— 1
LAYARD, Sir Austen Henry, an
English diplomat and archgeologist, born at
Paris in 1817. He began the study of law,
but in 1839 set out upon a series of travels
which took him through European Turkey
and various parts of the East, during which
lie mastered the Arabic and Persian
languages. Of these early travels he pub-
lirfhed an account in 1887. In 1845, and
subsequently, he set on foot explorations
in the region of ancient Nineveh and
Babylon. The results of his remarkable
discoveries are embodied in two sumptu-
ously illustrated works, Nineveh and its
Remains (18-19), and Discoveries among the
Ruins of Nineveh and Babylon (1858.) As
early as 18-19 he entered upon political life
in a diplomatic or semi-diplomatic capacity.
In 1852 he was returned to Parliament for
Ailesbury, was an unsuccessful candidate
for York in 1859, but was returned as a
'• Liberal " for South wark at the close of
1850. In 18(38 he was made a member of
the Privy Council ; but near the close of
1869 he was appointed Envoy Plenipoten-
tiary at Madrid. In 1877 he was sent as
Ambassador to Constantinople; but in 1880
when Mr. Gladstone returned to power.
Sir Henry Layard " received leave of ab-
sence " from his post at Constantinople, and
iiis place was soon afterwards filled by Mr.
Goschen, who went out as Ambassador Ex-
traordinary.
THK RUINS IN ASSYRIA AND BABYLONIA.
These ruins, chiefly large mounds, apparently
of mere earth and rubbish, had long excited
curiosity from their size and evident anticjuity.
Tiicy were the only remains of an unknown
AUSTEN HENRY LAYARD.— 2
period — of a period antecedent to the Macedo-
nian conquest. Consequently they alone could
he identified with Nineveh and Babylon, and
could afford a clue to the site and nature of
those cities. There is at the same time a va^ue
mystery attaching to remains like these, whicli
induces travellers to examine them with more
tlian ordinary interest, and even with some
degree of awe. A great vitrified mass of brick-
work, surrounded by the accumulated rubbish of
ages, was believed to represent the identical
tower which called down the divine vengeance,
and was overthrown, according to an universal
tradition, by the fires of heaven. The mystery
and dread which attached to the place were kej)t
up l)y exaggerated accounts of wild beasts who
haunted the subterraneous passages, and of the
no less savage tribes who wandered among the
ruins. Other mounds in the vicinity were iden-
tified with the Hanging Gardens, and those mar-
velous structures which tradition has attributed
to two queens — Semiramis and Notocris. The
diliiculty of reaching the site of these remains
increased the curiosity and interest with which
they were regarded ; and a fragment fiom
I>al)ylon was esteemed a precious relic, not
altogether devoid of a sacred character.
The ruins which might be presumed to occupy
the site of the Assyrian capital were even less
known and less visited than those in Babylonia.
Several travellers had noticed the great mounds
of earth opposite the modern city of Mosul ; and
when the inhabitants of the neighborhood pointed
out the tomb of Jonah upon the summit of oije
of them, it was of course natural to conclude at
once that it marked the site of the great
Nineveh. Macdonald Kinneir — no mean anti-
quarian and geographer — who examined these
mounds, was inclined to believe that they
marked the site of a Roman camp of the time of
Hadrian ; and yet a very superficial knowledge
of the subject would have shown at once that
296
AUSTEN HENRY LAYAKD.— 3
fliey were of a very different period Nineveh
(tad its Reitiaitis. Introduction.
LAYAUO'S FIRST DAY'S EXCAVATION AT NIM-
KOUD.
1 had sl(;pt little during tlie night. The
liovel in which we had taken shelter and its in-
mates, did not invite slumber. I was at length
sinking into sleep, when, liearing the voice of
Awad, I arose from my carpet and joined him
outside the hovel. The day had already dawneil ;
lie had returned witli six Arabs, who agreed for
;i small sum to work under my direction. The
lofty cone and broad mound of Nimroud broke
like a distant mountain on the morning sky.
No sign of habitation, not even the black tent
of an Arab, was seen upon the plain. The eye
Wiiudered over a parched and barr(Mi waste,
across which occasionally swept the whirlwind,
dragging with it a cloud of sand. About a mile
from us was the small village of Nimroud — like
Naifa, a Iieap of ruins.
Ten minutes' walk brought us to tiie principal
mound. The absence of all vegetation enabled
me to examine the remains with which it was
covered. Broken pottery and fragments of
l»ricks, both inscribed with cuneiform characters,
were strewed on all sides. The Arabs watched
my motioiis as I wandered to and fro, and ob-
served with surprise the objects I had collected.
They joined, however, in the search, and brouglit
me handfuls of rubbish, amongst which I found
with joy the fragment of a bas-relief. The
material on which it was carved had been ex-
posed to fire, and reseml)led in every respect the
Inirnt gypsum of Khorsabad.
Convinced from this discovery that sculptured
leniains must still exist in some part of the
mound, I sought for a place where excavations
might be commenced with a prospect of success.
A wad led me to a piece of alaljaster which ap-
pi'aied above the soil. AVe could not icni"^ c
AUSTEN HENRY LAYARD.— 4
it, and on digging downward, it proved to be
the upper part of a large slab. I ordered all
the men to work around it, and they shortly un-
covered a second slab to wliich it had been
united Continuing in the same line, we came
upon a third ; and in the course of the morning
laid bare ten more — tlie whole forming a square,
with one stone missing at the northwest corner.
It was evident that the top of a chamber had
been discovered, and that the gap was its
entrance.
I now dug down the face of the stones, and an
inscription in the cuneiform character was soon
exposed to view. Similar inscriptions occupied
the centre of all the slabs, which were in the best
preservation, but plain with the exception of the
writing. Leaving half of the workmen to un-
cover as much of the chamber as possible, I led
the rest to the southwest corner of the mound
where I had observed many fragments of cal-
cined alabaster, I dug at once into the side ot
the mound, which was here very steep, and thus
avoided the necessity of removing much earth.
We came almost immediately to a wall bearing
inscriptions in the same character as those
already described ; but the slabs had evidently
been exposed to intense heat, were cracked in
every part, and, reduced to lime, threatened to
fall to pieces as soon as uncovered.
Night interrupted our labors. I returned
to the village well satisfied with the re
suit. It was now evident that buildings of
considerable extent existed in the mound ; and
that although some had been destroyed by fire,
others had escaped tlie conflagration. As there
were inscriptions, and as a fragment of a bas-
relief had been found, it was natural to conclude
that sculptures were still buried under the soil.
I determined to follow the search at the nortli-
west corner, and to empty the chamber partly
I'ncovercd during the day Nineveh and its Re-
ma-iJis, Cli;i|). II.
298
AlTrtTFA' TTEXRY LAYARD.— 5
THK DISCOVKKY OF " XIMK()1)."
I rode to tlie encainpnient of Sheikh Abd-ur-
rahniuii, and was returning to tlie mound when
I saw two Ai-abs of his tribe urging their
mares to the top of their speed. On approach-
ing me they stopped. '• Hasten, O Bey," ex-
c-hiimed one of them ; " hasten to the diggers,
for they have found Nimrod himself! AVallah,
it is wonderful, but it is true ! we have seen
him witli our eyes. There is no God but God ! "
And both joining in this pious exclamation,
they galloped off, without further words, in the
direction of their tents.
On reaching the ruins I descended into the
new trench, and found the workmen, who had
already seen me as I approached, standing near
a heap of baskets and cloaks. Whilst Awad
advanced and asked for a present to celebrate
the occasion, tlie Arabs withdrew the screen
they had liastily constructed, and disclosed an
enormous head sculptured in full out of the ala-
baster of the country. They had uncovered
the upper part of a figure, the remainder of
wliich was still buried in the earth. I saw at
once that the head must belong to a winged
lion or bull, similar to those of Khorsabad and
Persepolis. It was in admirable preservation.
The expression was calm yet majestic ; and the
outline of the features sliowed a freedom and
knowledge of art scarcely to be looked for in the
works of so remote a period. The cap had three
born-, and, unlike that of the human-headed
bulls hitherto found in Assyria, was rounded and
without ornamentation at the top.
AVhilst I was superintending the removal of
the earth which still clung to the sculpture, and
giving directions for the continuation of the
work, a noise of horsemen was lieard, and pres-
ently Abd-ur-rahman, followed by half of his
tribe, apjieared on the edge of the trench. As
soon as the two Arabs had reached the tents and
j)ni)lished tlie wonders they had seen, every one
299
AUSTEN TIEXRY J-AVARD— 6
mounted liis mare and rod(> to the ground to
satisfy himself of the truth of these inconceiv-
al)le reports. When they behehl the head they
all cried together, "There is no God but (iod.
and Mohammed is his Prophet ! " It was some-
time before the Sheikh eould be prevailed upon
to descend into the pit, and convince himself
that the image he saw was of stone. " This is
not the work of men's hands," exclaimed he,
'' but of those infidel giants of whom the Prophet
— peace be with him ! — has said that they were
higher than the tallest date-tree ; this is one of tlie
idols which Noah — peace be with himi — cursed be-
fore the flood." In this opinion, tlie result of a
careful examination, all the bystanders con-
curred Nineveh and its Remains, Chap. III.
THE PALACE OF SENNACHERIB.
Shortly before my departure for Europe in
1848, the forepart of a human -headed bull of
colossal dimensions had been uncovered on the
east side of the Kouyunjik Palace. This scul[>-
ture then appeared to form one side of an en-
trance or doorway ; and it is so placed on tlie
plan of the ruins accompanying my former
work, Nineveh and its Remains. I'he exoa\a-
tioiis had, however, been abandoned before any
attempt could be made to ascertain the fact. On
my return I directed the workmen to uncover
the bull, which was still partly buried in the rub-
bish ; and it was found that adjoining it were
other sculptures, and that it formed part of an
exterior faQade. The fagade opened into a wide
portal, guarded by a pair of winged bulls, twenty
feet long, and probably when entire more than
twenty feet high. Forming the angle between
them and the outer bulls were gigantic winged
figures in low relief, and flanking them were two
smaller figures, one above the other. Beyond
tiiis entrance was a group similar to and corre-
sponding with that on the opposite side, also lead-
ing to a smaller entrance into the palace, and to
3fX)
AUSTEN HEXRY LAYARD.— 7
;i wall of sculptural slabs; but here all Iniccsot'
ItiiiUliiig and sculpture ceased, and we found
oiii- Ives near the edge of" a water-worn ra\ fm'.
I'lius a tayade of the south-east side of the
palace, forming apparently the grand entrance
to the edifice, had been discovered. Ten colos.
sal bulls, with six human figures of gigantic pro-
portions were here gi'ouped together, and the
length of the whole, without including the sculp-
tured walls continued beyond the smaller en-
trances, was 180 feet. Although the bas-reliefs
to the right of the northern gateway had appar-
ently been purposely destroyed with a sharp in-
strument, enough remained to allow me to trace
their subject. They had represented the con-
(pit'st of a district — probably a part of Babylonia
— watered by a broad river and wooded with
palms; spearmen on foot in combat with Assy-
rian horsemen ; castles besieged ; long lines of
prisoners, and beasts of burden carrying away
the spoils. There were no remains whatever of
the supersti-ucture which once rose above the
coUossi guarding the magnificent entrance. . . .
The bulls were all more or less injured. The
same convulsion of nature — for I can scarcely
attribute to any human violence the overthrow
of these great masses — had shattered some of
them into pieces, and scattered the fragments
amongst the ruins. Fortunately, however, the
lower parts of all, and consequently the inscrip-
tions, had been mere or less preserved. To this
fact we owe the recovery of some of the most
precious records with which the monuments of
tiie ancient world have rewarded the labors of
the antiquary.
()ii the great bulls forming the central porta)
of the grand entrance Avas one continuous in-
scription, injured in parts, but still so far pre-
served as to be legible almost throughout. It
contained 152 lines. On thf four bulls of the
facade were two inscriptions, one inscription car-
ried over each pair, and the two being of pre-
301
AUSTEN HENRY LAYARD— 8
ciscly the same import. These two distinct re-
cords contain the annals of six years of the reign
of Sennecharib, besides numerons particuhus
connected with the religion of the Assyrians,
their gods, their temples, and the erection of
their palaces — all of the highest interest and im-
portance.— Discoveries at Nineveh and Babylon,
Chap. VI.
THE ASSYRIAN RECORDS.
The historical records and public documents
of the Assyrians were kept on tablets and cylin-
ders of baked clay. Many specimens have been
brought to Great Britain. On a large hexago-
nal cylinder, presented by me to the British Mu-
seum, are the chronicles of Essarliaddon ; on a
similar cylinder discovered in the mound of
Nebbi Yunus, opposite Mosul, are eight years
of the annals of Sennacherib ; and on a barrel-
shaped cylinder long since placed in the British
Museum, and known as Bellino's, we have part
of the records of the same king. The import-
ance of such records will be readily understood.
They present in a small compass an abridge-
ment or recapitulation of the inscriptions on the
great monuments and palace walls, giving in a
chronological series the events of each monarch's
reign. The writing is so minute, and the let-
ters are so close one to another, that it requires
considerable experience to separate and trans-
cribe them.
The chambers I am describing appear to have
been a depository in the palace of Nineveh for
such documents. To the height of a foot or
more from the floor they were entirely tilled
with them ; some entire, but the greater part
broken into many fragments — probably by the
falling in of the upper part of the building.
They were of diflTerent sizes : the largest tablets
were flat, and measured about 9 inches by Q>^
inches ; the smaller were slightly convex, and
some were not more than an inch long, with but
302
AUSTEX HENRY LAYARD.— 9
one or two lines of writing. The cuneiform
characters on most of them were singuhirly sharp
and well defined, but so minute in some instances
as to be almost illegible without a magnifying
glass. These documents appear to be of various
kinds. Many are historical records of Avars and dis-
tant expeditions undertaken by the Assyrians;
s:)me seem to be royal decrees ; others contain lists
of the gods, and probably a register of offerings
made in the temples. On one Dr. Hincks has
iletected a table of the value of certain cunei-
form letters, expn'ssing by different alphabetical
signs, according to various modes of using them
— a most important discovery. It is highly
[)robable that a record of astronomical obser\a-
tions may exist amongst them, for we know from
ancient writers that the Babylonians inscribed
such things upon burned bricks. The charac-
ters appear to have been formed by a very deli-
icate instrument before the clay was iiardened
l)y fire, and the process of accurately making
h'tters so minute and complicated must have re-
(juired considerable ingenuity and experience
Discoveries at Nineveh and Babylon, Chap. XVI.
303
EMMA LAZARUS.— 1
LAZARUS, Emma, an American })oet.
l)orri in 1849 ; died in 1887. Her first vol-
ume, Poeras and Translations^ was published
in 1867, her second, Admetus and Other
Poems, in 1871. A prose romance, Alidc,
appeai'ed in 1874, and a transhition of the
Poems and Ballads of Heine in 1881. The
persecution of tlie Jews in Russia and Ger-
many led her to study the history and lit-
erature of her race, and to write upon these
subjects. In 1882 she published a volume
of poems entitled Songs of a Semite. Her
Later Poems were published in 1887, and
all of her poetical work in two volumes
were issued "in 1888, under the title. The
Poems of Emma Lazarus.
THE BANNER OF THE JEW.
\Yake, Israel, wake? Recall to-day
The glorious Maccabean rage,
The sire heroic, hoary-gray.
His five-fold lion lineage.
The Wise, the Elect, the Help-of-God,
Tlie Burst of Spring, the Avenging Rod.
From Mizpeh's mountain-ridge they saw
Jerusalem's empty streets, her shrine
Laid waste where Greeks i)rofaned the Law,
With idol and with pagan sign.
Mourners in tattered black were there.
With ashes sprinkled on their hair.
Then from the stony peak there rang
A blast to ope the graves : down poured
The Maccabean clan, who sang
Tlieir battle-anthem to the Lord.
Five heroes lead, and following, see,
Ten thousand rush to victory!
Oh for Jerusalem's trumpet now.
To blow a blast of shattering power,
To wake the sleepers high and low.
And rouse them to the urgent hour!
304
EMMA LAZAKUS.— 2
No hand ior vengeance — but to save,
A million nakeil swords should wave.
Oh deem not dead that martial fire,
Say not the mystic flame is spent !
AVith Moses's law and David's lyre.
Your ancient strength remains unbent.
Let but an Ezra rise anew,
To lift the Banner of the Jew !
A rag, a mock at first — erelong.
When ni(;n have bled and women wept,
To guard its precious folds from wrong.
Even they who shrunk, even they who slept,
Shall leap lo bless it and to save.
Strike ! foi- the brave revere the brave !
THE NEW COLOSSUS.
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame.
With conquering limbs astride from land to land ;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome ; her mild eyes com-
mand
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp !"
cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your
poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Srntl these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
YODTH AND DEATH.
What hast thou done to this dear friend of mine,
Thou cold, wliite, silent Stranger ? From my
hand
Her clasped hand slips to meet the grasp of
thine ;
Her eyes that flamed with love, at thy com-
mand
2(J 305
EMMA LAZARUS.— 3
Stare stone-blank on blank air ; her frozen
heart
Forgets my presence. Teach me who thou art,
Vague shadow sliding 'twixt my friend and me.
I never saw thee till this sudden hour,
What secret door gave entrance unto thee?
Wliat power is thine, o'ermastering Love's own
power?
AGE AND DEATH.
Come closer, kind, white, long-familiar friend,
Embrace me, fold me to thy broad, soft breast.
Life has grown strange and cold, but tliou dost
bend
Mild eyes of blessing wooing to my rest.
80 often hast thou come, and from my side
So many hast thou lured, I only bide
Thy beck, to follow glad thy steps divine.
Thy world is peopled for me; this world 's bare.
Through all these years my coucii thou did'st
prepare.
Thou art supreme Love — kiss me — I am thine.
A JUNE NIGHT.
Ten o'clock : the broken moon
Hangs not yet a half hour high,
Yellow as a shield of brass,
In the dewy air of June,
Paused between the vaulted sky
And the ocean's liquid glass.
?]arth lies in the shadow still ;
Low black bushes, trees, and lawn
■ Night's ambrosial dews absorb ;
Through the foliage creeps a thrill.
Whispering of yon spectral dawn
And the hidden climbing orb.
Higher, higher, gathering ligiit,
Veiling, with a golden gauze
All the trembling atmosphere,
See, the rayless disk grows white !
Hark, the glittering billows pause !
Faint, far sounds j)ossess the ear.
306
EMMA LAZARUS— 4
Elves on siK'li a night as this
Spin their rings upon the grass ;
On tlie beach the water-fay
Greets her lover with a kiss ;
Through the air swift spirits pass,
Laugli, caress, and float away.
Shut thy lids and thou shalt see
Angel faces wreathed with light,
Mystic forms long vanished hence,
Ah, too fine, too rare they be
For the grosser mortal sight,
And they foil our waking sense.
Yet we feel them floating near,
Know that we are not alone,
Though our open eyes behold
Notiiing save the moon's bright sphere,
In tlie vacant heavens shown.
And the ocean's path of gold.
307
HENRY CHARLES LEA.— 1
LEA, Henry Charles, an American
pLiblisher and author, born at Philadelphia
in 1825. At the age of seventeen he en-
tered the publishing house of his father, of
which he in time became tlie head. Since
about 1857 he lias devoted himself espe-
cially to the study of European ecclesiastical
history, and has written: Superstition and
Force (1866), Historical Sketch of Sacerdotal
Celibacy (1867), Studies in Church History
(1869), and History of the Inqidsiiio7i of the
Middle Ages (1888.)
THE INQUISITION AS AN INSTITUTION.
The liistory of the Inquisition naturally di-
vides itself into two portions, each of which may
be considered as a whole. The Reformation is
the boundary-line between them, except in
Spain, where the new Inquisition was founded
by Ferdinand and Isabella. The Inquisition
was not an organization arbitrarily devised and
imposed upon the judicial system of Christen-
dom by the ambition or fanaticism of the
Cinirch. It was rather a natural — one might
almost say an inevitable — evolution of the forces
at work in the thirteenth century ; and no one
can rightly appreciate the process of its dev<do|)-
ment and the results of its activity, witliout a
somewhat minute consideration of the factors
controlling the minds and souls of men duiing
the ages which laid the foundations of modern
civilization.
No serious historical work is wortli the writ-
ing or the reading unless it conveys a moial ;
but to be useful, the moral must develop itself
in the mind of the reader without being obtruded
upon him. Especially must this be the case in
a history treating of a subject which has called
forth the fiercest passions of man, arousing
aUernately his highest and his basest impulses.
I have not paused to moralize, but I have missed
308
HENRY CHARLES LEA.— 2
my aim if the events uarrated arc not so |)re-
scutcHl as to teacli their appropriate lesson
History of the Liquisition, Preface.
IMiLK V or THE CHURCH TOWARDS HERESY.
The Church admitted that it had brought upon
itself the dangers which threatened it at the
close of tlie eleventh century; that the alarming
progress of heresy was caused and fostered by
clerical negligence and corruption. In his open-
ing address to the great Lateran Council (121^)
Innocent III. had no scruple in declaring to the
assembled fathers : " The corruption of the
people has its chief sources in the clergy. Fron
this arise the evils of Christendom : faith per
ishes. religion is defaced, liberty is restiicted.
justice is trodden under foot, the heretics multi
ply, the schismatics are emboldened, the faithless
grow strong, the Saracens are victorious." And
after the futile attempt of the Council to strike
at the root of the evil, Honorius III., in admit-
ting its failure, repeated the assertion. In fact,
this was an axiom which none were so hardy as
to deny ; yet wiien, in 1204, the legates whom
Innocent liad sent to o[)pose the Albigenses ap-
pealed to him for aid against prelates whom they
had foiled to coerce, and whose infamy of life
gave scandal to the faithful and an irresistible
argument to the heretic. Innocent curtly bade
them attend to the object of their mission, and
not to allow themselves to be diverted to less
impoi-taut matters. The reply fairly indicates
the policy of the Church. Thoroughly to cleanse
the Augean stable was a task from which even
Iiuiocent's fearless spirit might well shrink. It
seemed an easier and more hopeful plan to
erush i-evolt with fire and sword Hhtory of
ihi' Inquisition, Vol. I., Chap. IV.
THE ORGANIZATION OF THE IN(,tUISITION.
The Church had found persuasion powerless
to arrest tlie spread of iiei'esy. St. Bernard,
:;ii9
HENRY CHARLES LEA— 3
Foulques de NeuiUy, Duran de Huesea, St. Do-
niiinc, St. Francis, had successively tried the
rarest eloquence to convince, and the example
of the sublimest self-abnegation to convert
■ Only force remained, and it had been pitile^^h
eniployed. It had subjugated the population^
only to render heresy hidden in place of public •
and m order to reap the fruits of victory it be-
came apparent that organized, ceaseless persecu-
tion, contniued to perpetuity, was the only hoix-
of preserving Catholic unity, and of prevcntino-
the garment of the Lord from being permanently
rent. To this end the Inquisition was devel-
oped into a settled Institution manned by the
Mendicant Orders, which had been formed to
persuade by argument and example, and which
now were utilized to suppress by force.
The organization of the Inquisition Avas simple
yet effective. It did not care to impress tiie
minds of men with magnificence, but rather to
paralyze _ them with terror. To the secular
prelacy it left the gorgeous vestments and the
miposing splendors of worship, the picturesque
processions and the showy retinues of retainers.
The inquisitor wore the simple habits of his
Order. When he appeared abroad he was at
most accompanied by a few armed familiars,
partly as a guard, partly to execute his orders.'
His principal scene of activity was in the re-
cesses of the dreaded Holy Office, whence he
issued his commands and decided the fate of
whole populations in a silence and secrecy which
impressed upon the people a mysterious awe a
thousand times more potent than the external
magnificence of the bishop. p:very detail in the
Incpiisition was intended for work and not for
show. It was built up by resolute, earnest men
of one idea, who knew what they wanted, who
rendered everything subservient to the one object
and who sternly rejected all that might em-
barrass with superfluities the unerring and ruth-
less justice which it Avas their missioirto enforce "
310
►
HENKY CHARLES LEA.— 4
^History of the Inquisition, Vol. I., Chai)-
Till.
THE FITNCTIONS OF THE INQUISITOR. ■
The duty of the inquisitor was distingmshed
from that of the ordinary judge by the fact t^^t
the task assigned to him was the nnpossible one
of ascertaining the secret thoughts and opnnons
of tCpr onen External acts were to hn« only
ot value as indications of belief, to be accepted
o re ected as he might deem them conclusne
or illusory. The crime sought to suppress by
"d^uuL was purely a mental one ; a.- .,
however criminal, were beyond h,s junsdictum.
Thl murderers of St. Peter Martyr were pu.v
ished not as assassins but as fautors^of heresy
and impeders of the Inquisition Ihe usuiu
e me X\nn his purview when he asserted or
s owed by his acts that he considered usury no
sn the sorcerer when his incantations proved
thit he preferred to rely on the powers of
tno.' rllther than those of God, or tl.t u.
entertained wron-ful notions upon the bac a
^" ', Zanghino tells us that he witnessed he
"ndemnation of a concubinary pnes by tl^e
In,, nisi lion who was punished not toi his licen-
: "^ but because while thus polluted he
"lebrated daily mass, and urged m excuse tha
he considered himself purified by putting on the
sMcred vestments. ,.
Then, too, even doubt was heresy ; the believer
must have fixed and unwavering ^^^th, and t
was the duty of the inquisitor to ascertain he
Condition of his mind. External acts and verba
CO r/e sions were as naught. The accused migh
he re<rular in his attendance at mass ; he might
he liberal in his oblations, punctual in confession
,a communion, and yet be a heretic at heax .
Wh-n brought before the tribunal he might pio-
f.ss the most unbounde<l submission to the deci-
sions of the Holy See, the strictest adherence to
ortl.odox doctrine, the freest readiness to sub-
HENRY CHARLES LEA.— 5
scribe to whatever was demanded of liiin, and
yet be secretly a Catharan or a Vaiidois, fit otily
for the stake.
Few, indeed, were there who courageously
admitted their heresy when brought before the
tribunal; and to the conscientious judge, eager
to destroy the foxes which ravaged the vineyard
of the Lord, the task of exploring the secret
heart of man was no easy one. We cannot
wonder that he speedily emancipated himself
from the trammels of recognized judicial pro-
cedure which, in preventing him from commit-
ting injustice, would have rendered his labors
futile. Still less can we be surprised that fan-
atic zeal, arbitrary cruelty, and insatiable cupid-
ity rivalled each other in building up a system
unspeakably atrocious. Omniscience alone was
capable of solving with justice the problems
which were the daily routine of the inquisitor ;
human frailty — resolved to accomplish a i)re-
determined end — inevitably reached the prac-
tical conclusion that the sacrifice of a hundred
innocent men were better than the escape of
one guilty. — History of the Inquisition, Vol. L,
Chap. IX.
THE INQUISITION AND LUTHER.
Had the Inquisition existed in Germany in
good working order, Luther's career would have
been cut short. When, October 31, 1517, he
nailed his propositions concerning indulgences
on the cliurch-door of Wittenburg, and publicly
defended them, an inquisitor such as Bernard
Gui would have speedily silenced him, either
destroying his influence by forcing him to a
public recantation, or handing him over to be
burned if he proved obstinate. Hundreds of
hardy thinkers had been tlius served, and the
few who had been found stout enough to withstand
the methods of the Holy Office had perished.
Fortunately the Jjiquisition had never struck
Mi
HENRY CHARLES LEA.— 6
root ill (Teiiaan soil, and now it was thoroughly
(lisL'i-editt'd and useless.
In France the University had taken the place
of the almost forgotten Inquisition, repressing
all aberrations of faith, while a centralized mon-
archy had rendered — at least until the Concor-
dat of Francis I. — the national Church in a
irn-at degree independent of the Papacy. In
Germany, there was no national Church. There
was subjection to Rome which was growing un-
endurable for financial reasons ; but there was
nothing to take the place of the Inquisition,
and a latitude of speech had become customary,
whicii was tolerated so long as the revenues of
St. Peter were not interfered with. This per-
haps explains why the significance of Luther's
revolt was better appreciated at Rome than on
the spot.
After he had been foi-mally declared a heretic
by the Auditor-general of the Apostolic Chamber,
at the instance of the promoter-fiscal, the legale.
Cardinal Caietano, wrote that he could term-
inate the matter himself, and it was rather a
trifling afliiir to be brought before the Pope. He
did not fulfill his instructions to arrest Luther
and tell him that if he would appear before the
1 loly See to excuse himself, he would be treal-
ri\ with undeserved clemency. After the scan-
dal had been growing for a twelvemonth. Ltc*
again wrote to Caietano to summon Dr. Martin
iicfore him, and, after diligent examination, to
condemn or absolve him as might prove requi-
site. It was now too late. Insubordination had
spread, and rebellion was organizing itself. Be-
fore these last instructions reached Caietano,
Luther came in answer to a previous summons ;
but, though he professed himself in all things an
oi;edient sou of the Church, he practically man-
ifested an ominous independence, and was con-
veyed away unharmed. The legate trusted lo
his powers as a disputant rather than to fr)r(e ;
and hud he attempted the latter, he had no
HENRY CHARLES LEA.— 7
machinery at liand to frustrate the instructions
given by the Augsburg magistrates for Luther's
[)rotection. In this paralysis of persecution the
inevitable revolution went forward History of
the Inquisition, Vol. II., Chap. VI.
THE MIDDLE AGES AND THE PRESENT AGE.
The review which we have made of the follies
and crimes of our ancestors has reveajed to us a
scene of almost unrelieved blackness. Yet such a
review, rightly estimated, is full of hope and en-
couragement. Human development is slow and
irregular. To the observer at a given point it
appears stationary or retrogressive ; audit is only
by comparing periods removed by a considerable
interval of time that the movement can be ap-
preciated. Such a retrospect as we have wear-
ily accomplished has sliown us how, but a few
centuries since, the infliction of gratuitous evil
was deemed the highest duty of man ; and we
learn how much has been gained to the empire
of Christian love and charity. We have seen
how the administration of law — both spiritual
and secular — was little other than organized
wrong and injustice. We have seen how low
were the moral standards, and how debased the
mental condition of the populations of Christen-
dom. We have seen that the "Ages of Faith,"
to which romantic dreamers regretfully look
back, were ages of force and fraud, where evil
seemed to reign almost unchecked, justifying tlie
current opinion, so constantly reappearing, that
the reign of Antichi-ist had already begun. Im-
perfect as are human institutions to-day, a com-
parison with tlie past shows how marvellous has
been the improvement ; and the fact tliat this
gain has been made almost wholly within the
last two centuries, and that it is advancing with
accelerated momentum, affords to tlie sociologist
the most cheering encouragement. Pnnciples
have been established which, if allowed to de-
velope themselves naturally and liealthfully, will
314
HENRY CHARLES LEA.— 8
render the future ot" mankind very diHerent
from aught that the workl has yet seen His-
tory of the Inquisition, Vol. III., Chap. IX.
SUMMARY OF THE INQUISITION.
A few words will suffice to summarize tlie
career of the mediieval Inquisition. It intro-
duced a system of jurisprudence which infected
the criminal law of all the lands subjected to its
influence, and rendered the administration of
penal justice a cruel mockery for centuries. It
furnished the Holy See with a powerful weapon
in aid of political aggrandizement ; it tempted
secular sovereigns to imitate the example ; and
it prostituted the name of religion to the vilest
temporal ends. It stimulated the morljid sensi-
tiveness to doctrinal aberrations until the UKist
trifling dissidence was capable of fti'ousing in-
sane fury, and of convulsing Europe from end to
end. On the other hand, wlien atheism became
fashionable in high places, its thunders were
mute. Energetic only in evil, when its powers
might have been used on the side of virtue, it
held its hand, and gave tlie people to under-
stand that the only sins demanding repression
were doubts as to the accuracy of the Church's
knowledge of the unknown, and attendance on
the Sabbat. In its long career of blood and
fire, the only credit which it can claim is the
suppression of the pernicious dogmas of the
Cathari ; and in this its agency "was superfluous,
for these dogmas carried in themselves the seeds of
self-destruction, and might more wisely have been
left to self-destruction. Thus the judgment of
im[)artial history must be that the Inquisition
was the monstrous offspring of mistaken zeal,
utilized by selfish greed and lust of power to
smotlier the higher aspirations of humanity, and
stimulate its l)aser appetites — History of the In-
quisition, Conclusion.
315
WILLIAM E. H. LECKY.— 1
LKCKY, William Edward Hartpole,
a British author, born near Dublin, in 1888.
lie graduated at Trinity College, Dublin,
in 1859, and in 1861 published anony-
mously Leaders of Public Opinion in Ire-
land^ of which a new edition withliis name
appeared in 1872. After some time spent
in travel, he settled in London, and gave
himself to historical and philosophical
studies. His History of the Rise arid Influ-
ence of the Sjyirit of Rationalism in Europe
(1865), attracted great attention, and won
for its author reputation as a deep scholar,
acute thinker, and graceful and eftective
writer. His History of European Morals
from Augustus to Charlemayne (1869), was
(_)f equal merit ; and A History of England
i)i the Eighteenth Century (1878-82), has
probably been more widely read than its
predecessors. A lecture on The Influence of
the Imagination in History was subsequently
delivered before the Eoyal Institution.
THE MIDDLE AGES.
Every doubt, every impulse of rebellion
against ecclesiastical authority, above all, every
heretical opinion, was regarded as the direct in-
stigation of Satan, and their increase as the
measure of his triumph. Yet these things
were now gatiiering darkly all around. Europe
was beginning to enter into that inexpressibly
painful period in which men have learned to
doubt, but have not yet learned to regard doubt
as innocent ; in which the new mental activity
|)roduces a variety of opinions, while tiie old
creduHty persuades them that all but one class
of opinions are the suggestions of the devil. The
spirit of rationalism was yet unborn ; or if some
faint traces of it may be discovered in the writ-
ings of Abelard, it was at least far too weak to
31fi
WILLIAM E. H. LECKY.— 2
allay the panic. There was no inde[)endent in-
iliiiry; no confidence in an honest research ; no
<lis|)osition to rise above dogmatic systems or
iiaditional teaching, no capacity for enduring
the sufll'rings of a suspended judgment. The
Church had cursed the human intellect by curs-
ing the doubts that are the necessary conse-
(jutMice of its exercise. She had cursed even
the moral faculty by asserting the guilt of hon-
est error. — Rationalism in Europe,
K.VTIOXALISM.
Its central conception is the elevation of con-
science into a position of supreme authority as
the religious organ, a verifying faculty discrim-
inating between truth and error. It regards
Christianity as designed to preside over the
moral development of mankind, as a conception
which was to become more and more sublimated
and spiritualized as the human mind passed into
new phases, and was able to bear the splendor
of a more unclouded light. Religion it believes
to be no exception to the general law of pro-
gress, but rather the highest form of its mani-
festation, and its earlier systems but the neces-
sary steps of an imperfect development. In its
eyes the moral element of Christianity is as the
sun in heaven, and dogmatic systems are as the
clouds that intercept and temper the exceeding
brightness of its ray. The insect whose exist-
ence is but for a moment might well imagine
that these were indeed eternal, that their majes-
tic columns could never fail, and that their
luminous folds were the very source and centre
of light. And yet they shift and vary with each
changing breeze ; they blend and separati; ; they
assume new forms and exhibit new dimensions;
as the sun that is above them waxes more
glorious in its power, they are permeated and
at last absorbed by its increasing splendor ; they
recede, and wither, and disaj)pear, and the eye
ranges far beyond the sphere they had occupied
317
WILLIAM E. H. LECKY.— 3
into the infinity of glory tliat is above them. —
Rationalism in Europe.
ITALIAN SKEPTICS AND REFORMERS.
Padua and Bologna were then the great cen-
tres of free thought. A series of professors, of
whom Poniponatius appears to have been the
most eminent, had pursued in these universities
speculations as daring as those of the eighteenth
century, and had habituated a small but able
circle of scholars to examine theological ques-
tions with tl)e most fearless scrutiny. They
maintained that there were two spheres of
thought, the sphere of reason and the sphere of
faith, and that these spheres were entii'ely dis-
tinct. As philosophers, and under tlie guidance
of reason, they elaborated theories of the bold-
est and most unflinching ske[)ticism ; as Catho-
lics, and under the impulse of faith, they
acquiesced in all the doctrines of their Church.
The fact of their accepting certain doctrines as
a matter of faith did not at all prevent them
from repudiating them on the ground of reason ;
and the complete sepai'ation of the two orders
of ideas enabled them to pursue their intellectual
speculations by a metliod which Avas purely
secular, and with a courage that was elsewliere
unknown. Even in Catholicism a dualism ot
this kind could not long continue, but it was
manifestly incompatible with Protestantism,
wliich at least professed to make private judg-
ment the foundation of belief. Faith, considered
as an unreasoning acquiescence, disappeared
from theology, and the order of ideas which
reason had established remained alone. As a
consequence of all this, the Reformation in Italy
was almost confined to a small gi-oup of scholars
who preached its principles to their exti'eme
limits, with an unflincliing logic, with a disre-
gard for both tradition and consequences, and
above all with a secular spirit that was else-:
where unequalled. — Rationalism in Europe.
318
William e. h. lecky.— 4
PERSECUTIOX.
Tf men believe with an intense and realizing
iatli that their own view of a disputed question
is true beyond all possibility of mistake, if they
further believe that those who adopt other views
will be doomed by the Almighty to an eternity
of misery, which, with the same moral disposi-
tion but with a different belief, they would have
escaped, these men will sooner or later persecute
to tlie full extent of their power. If you speak
to them of the physical and mental suffering
which persecution produces, or of the sincerity
and unselfish heroism of the victims, they will
reply that such arguments rest altogether on th<'
inadequacy of your realization of the doctrine
they believe. What suffering that man can
inflict can be comparable to the eternal misery
of all "who embrace tiie doctrine of the heretic?
What claim can human virtues have to our for-
bearance, if the Almighty punishes the mere
profession of error as a crime of the deepest tur-
pitude? .... How'ever strongly the Homoon-
sians and Homoiousians were opposed to each
other on otiier points, they were at least per-
fectly agreed that the adherents of the wrong
vowel could not possibly get to heaven, and
that the highest conceivable virtues were futile
when associated with error
The avowed object of the persecutor is to sup-
press one portion of the elements of discussion ;
it is to determine the judgment by an influence
other than reason ; it is to prevent that freedom
of inquiry which is the sole method we possess
of 'arriving at truth. The persecutor never can
])e certain that he is not persecuting truth rather
tiian error, but he may be quite certain that he
is suppressing the spirit of truth — Rationalism
in Europe.
MARCUS AURELIUS.
lie had embraced the fortifying philosophy of
Ziiio in its l)est form, and that philosophy made
:',19
WILLIAM E. H. LECKY.— 5
him perhaps as nearly a perfectly virluoiis inaii
as lias appeared upon our world. Tiied by
the chequered events of a reign of nineteen
yeai's, presiding over a society that was pio-
foundly corrupt, and over a city that was nolo-
rious for its licence, the perfection of his char-
acter awed even calumny to silence, and the
spontaneous sentiment of Ids people proclahned
him rather a god than a man. . . . Never, per-
haps, had such active and unrelaxing virtue been
united witli so little enthusiasm, and been
cheered by so little illusion of success. "There
is but one thing," he wrote, "of real value — to
cultivate truth and justice, and to live without
anger in the midst of lying and unjust men." . . .
Shortly before his death he dismissed his at-
tendants, and, after one last interview, his son
and he died, as he long luul lived, alone. Tlius
sunk to rest in clouds and darkness the purest
and gentlest spirit of all the pagan world, the
most perfect model of the later Stoics. In him
the hardness, asperity, and arrogance of the sect
had altogether disappeared, while the affectation
its paradoxes tended to produce was greatly
mitigated. Without fanaticism, superstition, or
illusion, his whole life was I'egulated by a simple
and unwavering sense of duty. The contem-
plative and emotional virtues which Stoicism
had long depressed, had regained their place,
but the active virtues had not yet declined. The
virtues of the hero were still deeply honored,
but gentleness and tenderness had acquired a
nev/ prominence in the ideal type History of
European Morals.
HEATHEN CONFORMITY.
The love of truth in many forms was exhib-
ited among the Pagan philosophers to a degree
which has never been surpassed; but there was
one form in wliich it was absolutely unknown.
The l)elief that it is wrong for a man in relig-
ious ma!t<"rs to act a lie, to sanction by his
.S'20
WILLIAM E. H. LFXKY.-6
presence and by his example what he regards as
baseless superstitions, had no place in the ethics
of antit[uity. The religious tiexibility which
Polytheism had originally generated, the strong
political feeling that pervaded 'all chisses, and
also the manifest im[)OSsibility of making phil-
osophy the creed of the ignorant, had rendered
nearly universal among philosophers, a state of
feeling which is -often exhibited, but rarely
openly professed among ourselves. The relig-
ious opinions of men had but little influence on
their religious practices, and the skeptic consid-
ered it not merely lawful, but a duty to attend
the observances of his country. No one did
more to scatter the ancient superstitions than
Cicero, who was himself an augur, and who
strongly asserted the duty of complying with the
national rites. Seneca, having recounted in
the most derisive terms the absurdities of the
popular worship, concludes his enumeration by
declaring that "the sage will observe all these
things, not as pleasing to the Divinities, but as
commanded by the law," and that he should re-
member "that his worship is due to custom, not
to belief." Epictetus, whose austere creed rises
to the purest monotheism, teaches it as a funda-
mental religious maxim that every man in his
devotions should " conform to the customs of
his country." The Jews and Christians, who
alone refused to do so, were the representatives
of a moral principle that was unknown to the
Pagan world. — European Morals.
TRUTH versus DOGMA.
There is one, and but one, adequate reason
that can always justify men in ci'itieally review-
ing what they have been taught. It is the con-
viction that opinions should not be regarded as
mere mental luxuries, that truth should be
deemed an end distinct from and superior to
utility, and that it is a moral duty to pursue it,
whether it leads to pleasure or to pain. Among
21 321
WILLIAM E. H. LECKY — 7
the many wise sayings which antiquity ascribed
to Pythagoras, few are more remarkable than
his division of virtue into two distinct brandies
—to seek truth and to do good ....
An age whir-h has ceased to vahie impartial-
ity of judgment will soon cease to value accu-
racy of statement, and when credulity is incul-
cated as a virtue, falsehood will not long be
stigmatized as a vice. When, too, men are
(irmly convinced that salvation can only be
found within tlieir Church, and that their Cliurch
can absolve from all guilt, they will speedily
conclude that nothing can possibly be wrong
which is beneficial to it. They exchange the
love of truth for what they call the love of the
truth. Tliey regard morals as derived from and
subordinate to theology, and they regulate all
their statements, not by the standard of vera-
city; but by the interests of their creed. — Euro-
pean Morals.
322
JOHN LEDYAKD.— 1
LEDYARD. John, an American trav-
eller, born at Groton, Conn., in 1751 ; died
at Cairo, Egypt, in 1789. He entered
Dartmouth College in 1772, with a view
of fitting himself to be a missionary among
the Indians ; but abandoning this idea, he
paddled in a canoe down the Connecticut,
and went to New London, where he
shipued as common sailor on a vessel
bound to the Mediterranean. Afterwards
he went to London, where he enlisted as
corporal of marines in Captain Cook's last
expedition to the Pacific. He remained in
the British naval service until 1782. The
vessel to which he was attached happening
to be ofi:" the coast of Long Island, he left
it, and went back to his friends, having
been absent eight years. Wiiile with
Cook's expedition he kept a private jour-
nal of the voyage. The British Govern-
ment took possession of this ; but Ledyard
wrote out from memory an account of the
expedition, which was published at Hart-
ford, Conn., in 1783. He now formed the
project of an expedition to the then almost
uaknowii Northwest coast of America, and
went to Europe, hoping to find furtheranee
in his ])lan. Baffled in his efforts he deter-
mined to make the journey overland
through Northern Europe and Asia to
Beliring Strait. Reaching Sweden, he at-
tempted to cross the Gulf of Bothnia on
the ice; but finding the Gulf not entirely
frozen over, he went back, and walked
clear around it to St. Petersburg. The
foot-journey of 1,400 miles was performed
ill .seven weeks. He reached St. Peters-
~ burg in March, 1787, " without money,
shoes, or stockings," as he says. The
323
JOHN LEDYARD.— 2
Empress Catharine II. oraated him per-
mission to go with Dr. Brown, a Scotch-
man in the Russian service, to Barnaul, in
Soutliern Siberia, a distance of 3,000 miles ;
thence he sailed in a small boat down the
Eiver Lena, 1,400 miles, to Yakutsk, but
was not allowed to go further. Soon af-
ter, he was arrested by the order of the
Empress, conveyed to Poland, and sent
out of the country, under penalty of death
if he should return. He made his way
back to London, where he arrived, as he
says, "disappointed, ragged and penniless,
but with a whole iieart." An association
had been formed for the exploration of the
interior of Africa, and Ledyard eagerly
accepted an offer to take part in this expe-
dition. He was asked how soon he could
be ready to set out. " To-morrow morn-
ing," was the prompt reply. He left Eng-
land late in June, 1788; but on reaching
Cairo was attacked by a bilious disorder
from which he died, at the age of thirty-
eio-ht. The Memoirs of Ledyard, by Jared
Sparks, were published in 1828, and sub-
sequently in Sparks's "American Biogra-
phy."
THE TARTARS AND THE RUSSIANS.
The nice gradations by which I pass from civ-
ilization to in civilization appears in everything—
in manners, dress, language ; and particularly in
that remarkable and important circumstance,
color, which I am now fully convinced originates
from natural causes, and is the effect of external
and local circumstances. I think the same of
feature. I see here among the Tarters the
large mouth, the thick lip, the broad, flat nose,
as well as in Africa. I see also in the same
villao-e as great a diflfei-ence of complexion —
334
JOHN LEDYARD.— 3
from the fair hair, fair skin, and gray eyes, to
the olive, the black jetty hair and eyes ; and all
these are of the same language, same dress, and,
1 suppose, same tribe.
I have frequently observed in Russian til-
lages, obscure and dirty, mean and poor, that
the women of the peasantry paint their faces
both red and white. I have had occasion, from
this and many other circumstances, to suppose
that the Russians are a people wlio have been
early attached to luxury. Tlie contour of their
manners is Asiatic, and not European. The
Tartars are universally neater than the Rus-
sians, particularly in their houses. The Tartar,
however situated, is a voluptuary ; and it is an
original and striking trait in their character —
from the Grand Seignior, to him who pitches his
tent on the wild frontiers of Russia and China —
that they are more addicted to sensual pleasure
than any other people.
PHYSIOGNOMr OF THE TARTARS.
The Tartar face, in the first impression it
gives, approaches nearer to the African than the
European. And this impressioji is strengthened
on a more deliberate examination of the indi
vidua! features and the whole compages of the
countenance ; yet it is very different from an
AiVican face. The nose forms a strong feature
in the human face. I have seen instances among
the Kalmucks where the nose, between the eyes,
lias been much flatter and broader than I have
witnessed among the Negroes, and some few in-
stances where it has been as broad over the
nostrils quite to the end, but the nostrils, in any
case, are much smaller than in Negroes.
Where I -have seen those noses, they were ac-
companied with a large mouth and thick lips ;
and these people were genuin*; Kalmuck Tartars.
The nose protuberates but little from the face,
and is sliorter than that of the Enropfaii. Tlie
eyes universally are at a great distance from
325
JOHN LEDYARD.— 4
each other, and very small. At each corner of
the eye the skin projects over the ball ; the part
appears swelled ; the eyelids go in nearly a
straight line from corner to corner. When open,
the eye appears as in a square frame. The
mouth generally, however, is of a middling size,
and the lips thin. The next remarkable features
are the cheek-bones. These, like the eyes, are
very remote from each otlier, high, broad, and
withal project a little forward. The face is Hat.
When I look at a Tartar e)i profile, I can hardly
see tlie nose between tlie eyes ; and if he blow a
coal of fire, I cannot see the nose at all. Tlie
face is than like an inflated bladder. The fore-
head is narrow and low. The face has a fresh
color, and on the cheek-bones there is commonly
a good ruddy hue.
ORIGIN OP TARTAR PECULIARITIES.
The Tartars from a time immemorial (I mean
the Asiatic Tartars), have been a people of a
wandering disposition. Their converse has been
more among the beasts of the forests than
among men ; and when among men it has only
been those of their own nation. They have
ever been savages, averse to civilization ; and
have never until very lately mingled with other
nations. Whatever cause may have originated
their peculiarities of features, the reason why
they still continue is their secluded way of life,
which has preserved them from mixing with
other people. 1 am ignorant how far a constant
society with beasts may operate in changing the
features ; but I am persuaded that this circum-
stance, together with an uncultivated state of
mind — if we consider a long and uninterrupted
succession of ages — must account in some de-
gree for this remarkable singularity.
CHARACTERISTICS OF WOMAN.
I have observed among all nations that women
ornament themselves more than men ; tliat,
326
JOHN LEDYARi).— 5
wherever found, they are the same kind, civil,
and obliging, humane, tender beings ; that they
are ever inclined to be gay and cheerful, timo-
rous and modest. They do not hesitate, like
man, to perform a hospitable or generous action ;
are not haughty, nor arrogant, nor supercilious,
but full of courtesy and fond of society; in-
dustrious, economical, ingenuous; more liable in
general to err than man ; but in general, also,
more virtuous, and performing more good
actions than he. I never addressed myself in
the language of decency and friendship to a
woman,^ whether civilized or savage, without re-
ceiving a decent and friendly answer. With
man it has often been otherwise. In wandering
over the barren plains of inhospitable Denmark,
through honest Sweden, frozen Lapland, rude
and churlish Finland, unprincipled Russia, and
the wide- spread region of the wandering Tartar
— if hungry, thirsty, cold, wet, or sick, woman
has ever been friendly to me, and uniformly so.
And to add to this virtue, so worthy of the ap-
pellation of benevolence, these actions have been
performed in so free and so kind a manner that,
if I was thirsty I drank the sweet draught, and
if hungry ate the coarse morsel, with a double
relish.
327
HUGH S. LEGARE.— 1
LEGARfi, Hugh Swinton, an American
publicist and author, born at Charleston,
S. 0., in 1789 ; died at Boston in 1843.
He graduated at the College of South
Carolina in 1814, studied law, travelled in
Europe, and upon his return became a
cotton-planter. In 1830 he was elected
Attorney -general of South Carolina, and
took an earnest part in opposition to nul-
lification. In 1832 he was made Charge
d' Affaires at Brussels. In 1837 he was
elected to Congress as a Union Democrat ,
but his opposition to the Sub-treasury
scheme occasioned his defeat in 1839. In
1841 he was appointed by President Tyler
as Attorney-general of the United States,
and after the retirement of Daniel Webster
he was for some time acting Secretary of
State. He died suddenly while attending,
with President Tyler, the inauguration of
the Bunker Hill monument..
The writings of Mr. Legare were mainly
contributions to the Southeru. Review^ of
Avhich he was in 1830, one of the founders, and
subsequently to the New York Review A
Memoir of him, with selections from his
various writings, was in 1848 put forth by
his sister, Mary Swinton Legare Bullen,
who soon after removed to West Point,
Iowa, where she founded and endowed the
Legare College for Women.
CHARACTERISTICS OF LORD BYRON.
Lord Byron's life was not a literary or clois-
tered and scholastic life. He had lived generally
in the world, and always and entirely for the
world. If he sought seclusion it was not for the
retired leisure or the sweet and innocent tran-
(inillity of a country life. His retreats were
rather like those of Tiberius at Capreae — the
328
HUGH S. LEGAKE— 2
gloomy solitude of misanthropy and itinorse,
hiding its despair in darkness, or seeking to
sti4)efy and drown it in \nce and debauchery.
But even when he fled from the sight of men, it
was only to be sought after the more; and ni the
depth of his hiding-places — iis was long ago re-
marked of Timon of Athens — he could not live
without vomiting forth the gall ot his bitterness,
and sending abroad most elaborate curses in
good verse, to be admired by the very wretches
whom he affected to despise. He lived in the
world, and for the world ; nor is it often that a
career so brief affords to biography so much im-
pressive incident, or that the toll}' of an undis
ciplined and reckless spirit has assumed such a
motley wear, and played off, before God imd
man, so many extravagant and fantastic antics.
On the other hand, there was, amidst -tdi its
irregularities, something strangely interesting,
sometliing, occasionally grand, and even impos
ing, in Lord Byron's character and mode of life
His whole being was, indeed, to a remarkable
degree extraordinary, fanciful, and fascinating.
All that drew upon inm the eyes of men, whether
for good or evil — his passions and his genius, his
enthusiasm and his woe, his tnnmphs and his
downfall — sprang from the same source: a
feverish temperament, a burning, distempered,
insatiable imagination ; and these, in their turn,
acted most powerfully upon the imagination and
tlie sensibility of others. We well remember a
time — it is not more than two or three lustres
ago — when we could never think of him our-
.selves but as an ideal being , a creature — to use
his own words — "of loneliness and mystery,'
moving about the earth like a troubled spirit,
and even when in the midst of men, not o/them.
The enchanter's robe which he wore seemed to
disguise his person ; and, like another famous
sorcerer and sensualist —
329
HUGH S. LEG ARE.— 3
" he hurled
His dazzling spells into the spungy air,
Of power to cheat the eye with blear illusiou,
And give it false presentments."
It has often occurred to us, as we have seen Sir
Walter Scott diligently liobbling up to his daily
task in the Parliament House at Edinburgh, and
still more when we have gazed upon him for
hours seated down at his clerk's desk, with a
countenance of most demure and business-like
formality, to contrast him, in that situation, with
the only man who had not been at the time totally
overshadowed and eclipsed by Byron's genius.
It was, indeed, a wonderful contrast. Never
did two such men — competitors in the highest
walks of creative imagination and deep pathos —
present such a strange antithesis of moral
character and domestic habits and pursuits as
Walter Scott at home and Lord Byron abroad.
It was the difference between prose and poetry;
between the dullest realities of existence, and an
incoherent, though powerful and agitating ro-
mance ; between a falcon trained to the uses of
a domestic bird, and instead of " towering in lier
pride of place," brought to stoop at the smallest
quarry, and to wait upon a rude sportsman's
bidding like a menial servant — and some sa\ age,
untamed eagle who, after struggling with the
bars of his cage until his breast was bare and
bleeding with the agony, had flung himself forth
once more upon the gale, and was again chasing
before him the whole herd of timorous and flocking
birds, and making his native Alps, through all
their solitudes, ring to his boding and wild scream.
Byron's pilgrimages to distant and famous
lands — especially his first — heightened this effect
of his genius and of his very peculiar mode of
existence. Madame de Stael ascribes it to his
good fortune or the deep policy of Napoleon.
that he had succeeded in associating his name
with some of those objects which have through
Jill time most strongly impressed the imaginations
.330
HUGH S. LEGAKE.— 4
of men — with the Pyramids, the Alps, and the
Holy Land. Byron had the same advantage.
His poems are, in a manner, the journals and
common-place-books of the wandering Childe.
Thus it is stated, or hinted, that a horrible in-
cident, like that upon which the Giaour turns,
had nearly taken place within Byron's own obser
vation while in the East. His sketches of the
sublime and beautiful in nature seem to be mere
images, or, so to express it, shadows thrown
down upon his pages from the objects which he
visited, only colored and illumined with such
feelings, reflections, and associations as they
naturally awaken in contemplative and sus-
ceptable minds.
His early visit to Greece, and the heartfelt
enthusiasm with which he dwelt upon her love-
liness even " in her age of woe " — upon the
glory which once adorned, and that which
might still await her — have identified him with
her name in a manner which subsequent events
have made quite remarkable. His poetry, when
we read it over again, seems to breathe of " the
sanctified phrensy of prophecy and ins|)iration."
He now appears to have been the herald of her
resuscitation. The voice of lamentation Avhicli
he sent forth over Christendom was as if it had
issued from her caves, fraught with the woe
and wrongs of ages, and the deep vengeance
which at length woke — and not in vain.
In expressing ourselves as we have done upon
this subject, it is to us a melancholy reflection
that our language is far more suitable to what
we have felt tiian to what we rtoio feel, in refer-
ence to the life and character of Byron. The
last years of that life — the wanton, gross, and
often dull and feeble ribaldry of some of his
latest productions — broke the spell which he
had laid upon our souls ; and we are by no
means sure tliat we have not since yielded too
mncii to the disgust and aversion whicli follow
disencliantment like its shadow.
331
WILLIAM LEGGETT,— 1
LEGGETT, William, an American
journalist and author, born at New York
m 1802 ; died at New Rochelle, near New
York, in 1839. He entered the navy as
midshipman in 1822, but resigned in 1826,
and engaged in literary occupations in New
York. In 1829 he went upon the editor-
ial staff of the New York Evening Posf, to
which journal he was attached until 1836.
In 1839 he was appointed by President
Van Buren diplomatic agent to Guatemala,
but died the day before he was to have
sailed. He wrote Leisure Hours at Sea,
(1825), Tales of a Country Schoolmaster,
and Naoal Stories, (1835.) A voUime
made up from his Political Writings, with
a Memoir by Theodore Sedgwick was pub-
lished in 18-10.
JACK CADE.
Have those who use the name of Cade as a
word of scorn looked into the liistory of that
heroic man ? Have they sifted out, from the
mass of pi'ejudice, bigotry, and serA'ility, which
load the pages of the old chroniclers, the facts
in relation to his extraordinary career ? Have
they acquainted themselves with the oppres-
sions of the times, the lawless violence of the
nobles, the folly and rapacity of the monarch,
the extortion and cruelty of his ministers, and
the general contempt which was manifested for
the plainest and dearest rights of humanity.
Have they consulted tlie pages of Stow and
Hall and Hollingshed, who — parasites of loy-
alty as they were, and careful to exclude from
their chronicles whatever might grate harshly
on the delicate ears of the privileged ordeis —
have yet not been able to conceal the justice of
the cause for wliich Cade contended, the mod-
eration of his demands, or the extraordinaiy
forbearance of his conduct ? Or have they been
332
WILLIAM LEGGETT.— -2
eoiitent to learn his character from the scenes
of a play, or the pages of that king-worshipper,
that pimp and pander to aristocracy, the Tory
Hume, wlio was ever ready to lick absurd pomp
and give a name of infamy to any valiant spirit
that had the courage and true nobleness to
stand forward in defence of the rights of his
fellow-men ?
Let tliose who use the name of Cade as a
term of reproach, remember that the obloquy
which blackens his memory liowed from the
same slamlerous pens that denounced as rebels
and traitors, and with terms of equal bitterness,
though not of equal contumely, the Ilampdens
and Sydneys of England — glorious aj)Ostles and
martyrs in the cause of equal liberty ! Let them
remember, too, that as the pliilosophic Mackin-
tosh observes, all we know of Cade is througli
his enemies — a fact which of itself would im-
press a just and inquiring mind with the neces-
sity of examination for itself, before adopting
the current slang of the aristocracy of Great
Britain . .
If Cade was the wretched fanatic which it has
pleased tlie greatest dramatic genius of the
world (borrowing his idea of tiiat noble rebel
from old Hollingshed) to represent him, how
<lid it happen that twenty thousand men flocked
to his standard the moment it was unfurled "r*
IIow did it happen that his statement of griev-
ances was so true, and his demands for redress
so moderate, that, even according to Hume him-
self, " the Council, observing that nobody was
willing to fight against men so reasonable in
their pretensions, carried the King for safety to
Kenilworth?" How did it happen, as related
l)y F.ibian, that the Duke of Buckingham and
the Archbishop of Canterbury, being sent to ne-
gotiate with him, were obliged to acknowledge
tliat they found him " right discrete in his
answers ; howbeit they could not cause him to
333
WILLIAM LEGGETT.— 3
lay down his pt'ople, and to submit liini (uncon-
ditionally) unto the King's grace." ....
Follow Cade to the close of his career ; see
him deserted by his followers, under a deceitful
promise of pardon from the Government, trace
him afterwards, a fugitive through the country,
with a reward set upon his head, in violation of
the edict which but a few days before had dis-
solved liim of the crime of rebellion on con-
dition of laying down his arms ; behold him at
last enti-apped by a wretch and basely murdered ;
weigh his whole character as exhibited by all
the prominent traits of his life and fortune — re-
membering, too, that all you know of him is from
those who dipped their pens in ink only to
blacken his name — and you will at last be
forced to acknowledge that instead of the scoi-n
of mankind, he deserves to be ranked among
those gloi-ious men who have sacrificed their
lives in defense of the rights of man. Cade was
defeated, and his very name lies buiied under
the rubbish of ages. But his example did not
die :
For freedom's battle, once begun,
Bequeathed from bleeding sire to son,
Though often lost is ever won."
Shakespeare's Beatrice.
We have seen Beatrice — we will not call her
Shakespeare's Beatrice, nor Miss Tree's Beatrice,
but Beatrice herself. We have seen the ident-
ical Sicilian lady — the high-born, beautiful,
witty, gay-hearted and volatile yet loving and
constant woman of Messina, whom Shakespeare
imagined but whom Miss Tree is. Other act-
resses have given us particular traits of her
character with liveliness and effect ; but Miss
Tree infuses life and soul into them all, and
combines them into one with inimitable harmony
and grace.
What wonderful individuality there is in the
characters of Shakespeare ! No two of them
334
WILLIAM LEUGETT.— 4
are alike. Tlicy may belong to the same class,
but the shades of difference are not less obvious
than the features of resemblance they possess in
common. It is not merely that they are placed
in different circumstances, but they are essent-
ially different. Other dramatists have some-
times copied from themselves, but Shakespeare
always copied from nature, and his woi-ks are
distinguished by the same endless diversity.
" Custom could not stale his infinite variety."
If this remark is true of his characters generally,
it is more strikingly so of his females. From
Miranda to Lady Macbeth, from Ophelia to
Constance, there is a whole world of interval,
tilled up with women of every gradation and
combination of moral and intellectual qualities.
Wlio, for example, is like Beatrice?
The character of Beatrice we do not think
has usually been correctly appreciated on the
stage. She is spirited, witty, and talkative;
and the mere words of her railleiy, if we con-
sider separate phrases by themselves, have some-
times a sharpness not altogether consistent with
the general idea of amiableness in woman. But
if we examine her character more thoroughly,
we shall find that her keenest strokes of satire,
her sharpest repartees, and liveliest jests, are
but tiie artillery with which a proud woman
guards the secret of unrequited love.
It seems to us the clue to Beatrice's character
is that she is conscious of a secret attachment to
Benedick, and believing her passion unreturned
by the determined bachelor, she makes him the
object of her constant raillery, that .'-he may
thus more effectually hide hei- true feelings from
observation. She talks of Benedick, and to
Benedick, because Benedick fills her hf>art, and
"out of the abundance of the heart the mouth
speaketh ;" but she talks miithfully and scorn-
fully, that none — and least of all himself — may
suspect the sentiment which is hid beneath her
sparkling repartees. Tlie Hrst words Beatrice
WILLIAM LEGGETT.— 5
utters iU'e un inquiry concernitig Benedick ; yet
with the ready tact of a woman she asks after
him by a name that implies a taunt, that the
real anxiety which prompted the (jucstion mii>;ht
not be seen. The same feeling, directly after,
urges her to inquire who is his companion, and
the motive of concealment induces lier lightly to
add, ''He hath every month a new sworn brother."
The reader of the play is prepared, in the
very first scene, to set down Benedick and
Beatrice as intended for each other. Leonato
informs us that they are perpetually waging a
kind of merry war, and that " they never meet
but there is a skirmish of wit between them."
We soon perceive this very skirmishing is the
result of mutual attachment, but with a difference:
for Benedick is unconscious of the nature of his
feelings for Beatrice, and really supposes him-
self proof against all the shafts of blind Cupid ;
while Beatrice is aware of her love, but resolves,
in the true spirit of maidenly propriety, to hide
it deep in her heart until it shall be called forth
in requital for the proifered love of Benedick.
She is not of the disposition, however, to "let
concealment, like a worm i'th'bud, feed on her
damask cheek." She is too proud, too gay, too
volatile by nature to be easily dejected. She is
of tlie sanguine, not the melancholic tempera-
ment, and looks on men and things in their, sun-
niest aspects. Leonato tells us, " there is little
of the melancholy element in her ; " and she her-
self says, she " was born to speak all mirth and
no matter." Beatrice is not a creature of imag-
ination, but of strong intellect and strong feeling.
Her volatility relates only to her spirits, not to
her affections ; she is distinguished by gayety
and airiness of tamper, not fickleness of heart.
That she is constant in friendship, her fidelity
to her cousin Hero proves ; for when the breath
of slander blackens her character, and all — even
her own father — believe the tale of guilt, Beatrice
alone stands up the asserter of Hero's innocence,
336
WILLIAM LEGGETT.— 6
ami indignantly exclaims. " Oh, on my soul, my
I'ousinis belied ! " But the firmness of lier jil-
tachnient does not show itself only in words.
Her lover had just been led to a discovery of the
true cluiracter of his feelings towards her. and
had declared his attachment ; and she demands
from him, as the first proof of his love, that he
should challenge his friend Claudio, who had
renounced Hero at the altar, and traduced hei-,
•> with public accusation, uncovered slander,
unmitigated rancor."
It is no proof of a want of love for Benedick
that she is thus willing to risk his life to avenge
the wrong done to her cousin ; but it only proves
that her sense of female honor, and what is due
to it, outweiglis love. She sets Benedick to do
only what she herself would have done, could
she have exchanged sexes with him. " Oh,
God! that I were a man !" she exclaims in the
intenseness of her indignation ; "I would eat his
heart in the market-place ! " The thought that
Beneilick could be foiled in the enterprise, and
that he might fall beneath the sword of Claudio,
never once entered her mind. The spirit of the
age and the spirit of the woman alike repelled
the idea. Right and might were deemed to go
hand in hand together in such contests. 8he
could think only of the slanderer being punished,
and her cousin avenged. Her imagination
presented her lover returning triumphant, tlic
champion of injured innocence ; it refused to
paint him lying prostrate and bleeding beneath
tlie sword of the calumniator.
That Beatrice loves Benedick, and levels her
i-aillery at him only to turn attention from her
secret, is borne out by the effect of the pleasant
stratagem played off upon her, when she is
decoyed into " the pleached bower," that she
■may overhear the discourse of Ursula concern-
ing the pretended love of Benedick. Her ex-
clamation, as she emerges from her hiding-place,
is, ■' Contempt farewell, and maiden pride adieu!"
22 337
WILLIAM LEGGETT.— 7
These are the disguises she has worn hitherto :
but she now casts them otF, on finding that she
is beloved by Benedick. She at once fully ac-
knowledges his worth :
" Others say thou dost deserve — and I
Believe it better than reportingly. "
Her Iieart had long before felt the truth of such
commendations, and now that those feelings are
returned, she permits her tongue to join in the
praise of Benedick.
Mucli of Beatrice's share in the brilliant
dialogues between herself and Benedick depends
for its character on the style of the speaker. It
is modest if modestly spoken, and the reverse if
uttered only with a view to give it the greatest
possible degree of point. As spoken by Miss
Tree, the softness of woman's tenderest tone,
and the witchery of woman's kindest and most
feminine smile, qualify the meaning of her
words. Tlie arrows of her voluble wit are siiot
off with a playful air that shows they are aimed
only in sport ; and her most scornful jests are
delivered in a voice silvery and gentle, and ac-
companied by such a mirthful glance of the eye,
that we see there is no league between her
heart and her tongue. It is all "mirth and no
matter.'' We ?njoy the encounterof her nimble
wit with that of Benedick, because his character
as a professed contemner of the power of love
renders him a fair mark for such shafts as siie
aims at him ; and we are pleased to see him
foded by so fair an antagonist m a contest which
he had himself provoked. We accompany them
to the altar with a sense of gratification tbat two
such congenial spirits are to be united in wed
lock ; and when the curtain falls upon the
drama, our imagination completes the story by
allotting such happiness to the married pair, as
young persons of mutual intelligence and good-
humor, with mutual attachment founded on the
basis of esteem, may reasonably count upon
enjoying.
338
ROBERT LEIGH rON.—l
LEIGLLTON, Hobert, a Scottish eccles-
iastic, bom at Edinburgh in 1611; died at
London in 16S-1. He was educated at tlie
Universitv of Edinburgh, became a Pres-
byterian minister, and in 1653 Principal
of the University of Edinburgh, Upon
the restoration of Charles II., an attempt
was made to establish Episcopacy in Seot-
hmd, and Leighton accepted the po.siti(ni
of Bishop of Dumblanc, and in 1670 was
made Archbishop of Glasgow; but in
1674 he resigned the dignity and retired to
England. His works, none of whicli were
published during his lifetime, comprise
Sermoiis^ Theological Lectures, Sjfiriluai
Exercises, and a Commentary on St. Peter.
Coleridge (whose Aids to Reflection consists
mainly of extracts from Leighton, with
comments) styles him, the " one best de-
serving, among all our learned theologians,
the title of a spiritual divine."
THE HAPPINESS OF THE LIFE TO CMtE,
The first thing that necessarily occui-s in the
constitution of happiness is a full and complete
deliverance from every evil and every giicvance ;
which we may as certainly expect to meet in
that heavenly life, as it is impossible to be at-
tained while we sojourn here below. All tears
shall be wiped away from our eyes, and every
cause and occasion of tears for ever lemoved
from our sight. There are no tumults tliere,
no wars, no poverty, no death, nor disease.
There is neither mourning, nor fear; nor sin —
which is the source and fountain of all other
evils. There is neither violence within doors
nor without, nor any complaint on the streets of
that blessed city. There no friend goes out,
nor enemy comes in. Full vigor of body and
339
/
ROBERT LE1GHT0N.-2
mind; healtli, beauty, purity, and perfect tran-
quillity are there.
There is the most delightful society of angels,
prophets, apostles and martyrs, and all the
saints; among whom there are no reproaches,
contentions, controversies, nor party-spirit, be-
cause there are there none of the sources whence
they can spring, nor anything to encoui-age
their growth. Hence there is among them a
kind of infinite reflection and multiplication of
happiness, like that of a spacious hall, adorned
with gold and precious stones, dignified with a
full assembly of kings and potentates, and hav-
ing its walls quite covered with the brightest
looking-glasses.
But what infinitely exceeds and quito eclipses
all the rest is the boundless ocean of liappiness
which results from the beatific vision of the
ever-blessed God, without which neither the
tranquillity which they enjoy, nor the society
of saints, nor the possession of any finite good — •
nor indeed of all such taken together — can sat-
isfy the soul or make it completely happy. The
manner of this enjoyment we can only expect
to understand w^hen we enter upon the full pos-
session of it. Till then, to dispute and raise
many questions about it is nothing but vain and
ibolish talking, and fighting with phantoms of
our own brain. Nor is it any objection to this
doctrine that the whole of tliis felicity is com-
monly comprehended in Scripture under the
name of vision , for the mental vision, or con-
templation of the primary and infinite good
most properly signifies — or at least includes in
it — the full enjoyment of that good.
AVe must therefore by all means conclude
tliat this beatific vision includes not only dis-
tinct and intuitive knowledge of God, but, so to
speak, such a knowledge as gives us the enjoy-
ment of that most perfect Being, and, in some
sense unites us to Him ; for such a vision it
must of necessity be that converts that love of
340
ROBERT LEIGHTON.— 3
the infinite God wliich blazes in the souls of
saints, into full possession ; that crowns all their
\\ishes, and tills them with an abundant and
overflowing fulness of joy that vents itself in
everlasting blessings and songs of praise. — TJie-
ological Lectures.
THE COURSE OF HUMAN LIFE.
Every man walketh in a vain show. His
walk is nothing but an on-going in continual
vanity and misery, in which man is naturally
and industriously involved, adding a new stock
of vanity, of his own weaving, to what he litis
already within him, and vexation of spirit woven
all along in with it. He " walks in an image,"
as the Hebrew word is ; converses with things
of no reality, and which have no solidity in
them, and he himself has as little. He himself
is a walking image in the. midst of these images.
They who are taken with the conceit of pictures
and statues are an emblem of their own life,
and of all other men's also. Life is generally
nothing else to all men but a doting on images
and pictures. Every man's fancy is to himself
a gallery of pictures, and there he walks up and
down, and considers not how vain these are, and
how vain a thing he himself is.
341
CHARLES GODPHEY LELAND — 1
LELAND, Charles Godfrey, an Amer-
ican author, born in Philadelphia, in 1824
He graduated at Princeton in 1846, and
studied for two years at Heidelberg, Mu-
nich, and Paris, where he witnessed the
revolution of 1848. Admitted to the bar
in 1851, he soon relinquished law for liter
ature. His works, M^hich combine erudite
research, often in uncommon fields, with
quaint, sometimes brilliant humor, include
Meister Karl's Sketch Bool- (1855), The
Poetry and Mystery of Dreams (1855), Pic-
tures of IVavel, a translation of Heine's
Reisebilder (1856), anotlier of Heine's Book
of Songs (1863), Sunshine in Thought
(1862), Legends of Birds (1864), Hans
Breitman''s Ballads, in five parts (1867-70),
The Music Lesson 'of Coyifucius, and Other
Poems (1870), Oaudeamus, a translation
of humorous poems, by Scheffel and others,
(1871), Egyptian Sketch Book (1873), The
English Gypsies and their Language (1873),
Fu Sang, or the Discovery of America hy
Chinese Buddhist Priests in the Fifth Cen
tury (1875), English Gipsy Songs (witli the
aid of two friends, 1875), Johnnykin and
the Goblins (1876), Pidgin, English Sing-
Song (1876), Abraham Lincoln (1879), The
Minor Arts (1880), The Gypsies (1882), and
The Algonquin Legends of Neiv England
(1884). He also edited a series of Art Work
Manuals (1885.)
A THOUSAND YEARS AGO
Thou and I in spirit-land,
A thousand years ago,
Watched the waves beat on the strand,
Ceaseless ebb and flow ;
Vowed to love and ever love —
A thousand years ago.
342
CHAKLE.S GODFREY ICELAND.— 2
Thou and I ill givemvoud shade.
Nine huiidi-rd years ago,
Heard the wild dove in the glade,
Murmuring soft and low;
Vowed to love for evermore —
Nine hundred years ago.
Thou and I in yonder star,
Eight hundred years ago,
Saw strange forms of light afar
In wild beauty glow.
All things change, but love endures
Now as long ago !
Thou and I in Norman alls,
Seven hundred years ago,
Heard the warder on tlie walls
Loud his trumpet blow, —
" Ton amors sera tojors" —
Seven hundred years ago
Thou and I in Germany,
Six himdred years ago —
Then I bound the red cross on
" True love, I must go,
I^ut we part to meet again
In the endless flow!"
Thou and I in Syrian plains,
Five hundred years ago,
Felt the wild fire in our veins
To a fever glow.
All things die, but love lives on
Now as long ago !
Thou and I in shadow-land,
Four hundred years ago,
Saw strange flowers bloom on the strand,
Heard strange breezes blow.
In the ideal love is real,
This alone I know.
CHAKLES GODFKEY LELAND — 3
Thou and I in Italy.
Three hundred years ago.
Lived in failli and died for God,
Felt the faggots glow ;
Ever new and ever true,
Three hundred years ago.
Thou and I on Southern seas,
Two hundred years ago.
Felt the perfumed even-breeze.
Spoke in Spanish by the trees,
Had no care or woe :
Life went dreamily in song
■ Two hundred years ago.
Thou and I 'mid Nortliern snows,
One hundred years ago,
Led our iron, silent life.
And were glad to flow
Onwards into changing death,
One hundred years ago.
Thou and I but yesterday
Met in Fashion's show.
Love, did you remember me,
Love of long ago ?
Yes ; we keep the fond oath sworn
A thousand years ago !
THE TWO FRIENDS.
I have two friends, two glorious friends — two
better could not be ;
And every night when midnight tolls they meet
to laugh with me.
The first was shot by Carlist thieves, ten years
ago in Spain,
The second drowned near Alicante — while I
alive remain.
I love to see their dim white lorms come float-
ing through the night.
And grieve to see them fade away in early
morning light.
344
CHARLES GODFREY ICELAND— 4
The first with gnomes in the ruder Laml, is
leading a lordly lite ;
The second has married a mermaiden, a beauti-
lul water-wife.
And since I have friends in the Earth and Sea
— with a few, I trust, on high,
'Tis a matter of small account to me, the way
that I may die.
For whether I sink in the foaming flood, or
swing on the triple tree,
Or die in my bed, as a Cliristian should, it is
all the same with me.
SCHNITZERL's PHILOSOPEDE.
Herr Schnitzerl make a philosopede
Von of de newest kind;
It vent mitout a vheel in fi'ont,
And hadn't none pehind.
Von vheel was in de mittel, dough,
And it went as sure as ecks.
For he shtraddled on de axel dree
Mit der vheel petween his leeks.
Und ven he vant to shtart id off
He paddlet mit his feet,
Und soon he cot to go so vast
Dat avery dings he peat.
He run her out on Broader shtreet,
He shkeeted like de vind,
Hei ! how he bassed de vancy craps,
And lef dem all pehind !
De vellers mit de trotting nags
Pooled oop to see him bass ;
De Deutchers all erstaunislied saidt :
" Potztausend ! Was ist das ? "
Boot vaster shtill der Schnitzerl flewed
On — mit a gashtly smile:
He tidn't tooch de dirt, py shings!
Not vonce in half a mile.
345
CHARLES GODFREY LELAND.— 5
Oil, vot ish all dis eartly pliss ?
Oh, vot ish mail's soocksess ?
Oh, vot ish various kinds of dings?
Und vot ish liobbiiiess ?
Vc find a pank note in de shtreet,
Next dings der pank ish preak ;
Ve foils und knocks our outsides in,
Ven ve a ten shtrike make.
So vas it mit der Schnitzerlein
On his philosopede ;
His feet both shlipped outsideward shoost
Vhen at his extra shpede.
He felled oopon der vheel of coorse ;
De vheel like blitzen Hew ;
Und Schnitzerl he vas schnitz in vact,
For id shlislied him grod in two.
Und as for his philosopede,
Id cot so shkared, men say,
It pounded onward till it vent
Ganz teufelwards afay.
Boot vhere ish now der Schnitzel I's soul ?
Vhere does his shpirit pide?
In Himmel, troo de endless plue,
It takes a medeor ride.
346
ALAIN RENE Le SAGE.— 1
LE SAGE, Alain Eene, a French nov-
elist, bora at Sarzeau, Brittany, in 1668 ;
died at Boulogne in 1747. He was edu-
cated at the Jesuits' College at Vannes, held
an office in the revenue, went to Paris in
1692, married in 1694, and adopted literature
as his profession in preference to law, and
was pensioned by the Abbe de Lyoune,
who turned his attention toward Spanish
books and subjects. His earlier works at-
tracted little attention. In 1707 he won
his first successes by a play, Crisimi Rival
de son Ma'itre^ and a romance, Le Diablc
Boiteux^ known in English translations as
The Devil on Two Sticks, and Asmoderis.
\\\ another play, Turcaret, he attacked the
tanners of the revenue, who delayed its
production a year, after vainly trying to
bribe the author to suppress it. Vols. I. and
11. of the famous Gil Bias de Santillane
appeared in 1715, Vol. III. in 1724, Vol. IV.
not till 1735 ; it has been translated by
Sinollett and several others. The later
works of Le Sage (besides over 100 comic
operas) are Roland V amoureux (1717-21,)
an imitation of Boiardo ; an abridged trans-
lation of Aleman's Guzman de Al/arache]
Aventures de Robert, dit le Clievalier de
Beauchesne (1732) ; Histoire d'' Estevanille
Gonzales (1734), from the Spanish; Une
Journee des Parques (1735); Le Bachelier
Salamanque (1736); and Melanye amusant
(1743.) Ilis works were reprinted in twelve
volumes, Paris, 1828,
THEORY AND PRACTICE OF MEDICIXE.
"Child," said Dr. Sangrado, "I love thee, and
will make thy fortune. I will discover to thee
the whole mystery of the salutary art which I
347
ALAIN RENE Le SAGE.— 2
have so many years professed. Other doctors
make it consist in a thousand difficult sciences ;
but I will shorten the way, and spare thee the
pains of studying physics, phai'macy, botany, and
anatomy. Know, friend, all that is necessary
is bleeding and making them drink hot water.
This is the secret for curing all the distempers
in the world ; yes, this w^onderful secret which I
reveal to thee, and which Nature, impenetrable
to my brethren, has not been able to keep from my
observations, is all included in these two points,
frequent bleeding and drinking water. I have
nothing more to teach thee : thou knowest the
very bottom of physic, and reaping the fruit of
my long experience, thou wilt at once become as
skilful as I am.
" Thou mayst also be assistant to me : thou
shalt keep the register in the morning, and in
the afternoon visit some of my patients. While
I take care of the nobility and clergy, thou shalt
attend the third order for me ; and when thou
hast done so for some time, I will get thee admit-
ted into the Faculty. Thou wert learned, Gil
Bias, before thou wert a physician, whereas
others are a long time physicians, and most
of them all their lives, before they become
learned." ....
So far from wanting business, it happened
luckily, as my master foretold, to be a sickly
time, and he had his hands full of patients : not
a day but each of us visited eight or ten. Of
consequence there was a great deal of water
drank, and much blood let. But I cannot tell
how it happened, they all died. We rarely vis-
ited the same sick man thrice : at the second,
we either were informed that he was about to be
buried, or found him at tlie point of death.
Being young in the profession, my heart was not
sufficiently hardened for murders ; I was grieved
at so many fatal events, which might be im~
parted to me.
'■^ Sir, said I one evening to Dr. Sangrado, " I
348
ALAIN RENE Le SAGE.— 3
call Heaven to witness, I follow your method
exactly, yet all my patients go to the other
world. One would think they died on purpose
to bring our practice into discredit. I met two
being carried to the grave this afternoon."
" Child," said he, ''I might tell thee tlie same of
myself. I seldom have the satisfaction to cure
tliose who fall into my hands; and if I were not
certain of the principles I follow, I should take
my remedies to be contrary to almost all the dis-
eases I have in charge."
'' If you will be ruled by me. Sir, I replied, we
will change our method, and out of curiosity,
give our patients some drugs. The worst that
can happen, is that they may produce the same
effects as our hot water and bleeding."
" I would willingly make the experiment,"
said lie, '-if it would not have an ill result. I
have published a book in vindication of frequent
bleeding and hot water drinking. Would you
have me decry my own w^ork ? "
"■You are right," I replied; "you must not
give your enemies occasion to triumph over you.
They will say you have suifered yourself to be
undeceived; you will lose your reputation.
Rjither letthe people, the nobility, and the clergy
perish. Let us continue our accustomed prac-
tice."
We went on in our old course, and in such a
manner that in less than six weeks we made
as many widows and orphans as the siege of
Troy. One would have tliought the plague was
in Valladolid, there were so many funerals.
Fatlu-rs came every day to our house, to de-
mand an account of the sons we had robbed them
of; or uncles, to reproach us for the death of
their nephews. As for the nephews and sons
whose fathers and uncles fared the worse for
our medicines, they came not. Tlie husbands
whose wives we made away with were also very
discreet, and did not scold us on that score.
The afflicted persons, whose reproaches it was
349
ALAIN KENE Le SAGi:.— 4
necessary for us to wipe off, were sometimes
outrageoLis in their grief, and called us block
heads and murderers. They kept no bounds ; I
was enraged at tlieir epithets ; but my master
who iiad been long used to it, was not at all
concerned Gil Bias, Book II.
PERILS OF A CRITIC.
" My dear Gil Bias," the Arelibishop con-
tinued, " I require one tlung of your zeal.
Whenever yon find my pen savors of old age,
when you find nie flag, do not fail to apprise
me of it. I do not trust myself in that respect ;
self-love might deceive me. This observation
reqiiires a disinterested judgment, and I lely on
yours, which I know to be good '
"Thank Heaven, my Lord," I re|)lied, 'that
time is yet far from you, and you will always be
the same I look on you as another Cardinal
Ximenes, whose superior genius, instead of decay-
ing with years, seemed to gain new strength
" iVo flnttery, friend," said he. "1 know I
may sink all at once. People at my age begin
to feel infirmities, and those of the body impair
the mind. I repeat it, Gil Bias, wiienever you
think mu to be failing, give me notice at once
do not fear to be too free and sincere. I shall
receive this admonition as a mark of your affection
for me. Besides, your interest is concerned " if,
unluckily for you, I should hear in the city that
my discourses have no longer their wonted
energy, and that I ought to retire. I tell you
fairly that jou will both lose my friendship and
the fortune I have promised you."
Some time after we had an alarm at the
palace. His Grace was seized with an apoplexy.
He was relieved speedily; but he had rec<'ived
a terrible shock. I observed it the next sermon
he composed, but the difference was not very
great; I waited for another, to know better wlmt
I was to think. That put the matter beyond
doubt. At one time, the good prelate was tau-
350
ALAIN RENE Le SAGE. -5
toloifii-al, at another he soared too high or sank
too low. It was a long-windetl t)iation, the
ihetoric of a worn-ont schoohnaster, a mere
capneinade.
I was not the only one who noticed the fact.
Most of the audience (as if tliey too had been
retained to criticise it) whispered to each other,
as he was delivering it, " This serm«n smells of
the apoplexy." Hereupon I said to myself,
'• Come, Mr Arbiter ot the Homilies, prepare
to discharge your office. You see my Lord
llags ; you ouglit to apprise lum of .it, not only
as being his confidant, but also ibr tear .some of
his friends should be trank enough to speak be-
fore you. If that should happen, you know
your fate ; you will lose the promised legacy."
After these reflections, I niade others quite
contrary. The part I was to act seemed to me
very ticklish I judged that an author in love with
his own works might receive such an information
but coldly; but rejecting this thought. I repre-
sented to myself that it was impossible he should
take it ill, after having exacted the olRce of me
in so pressing a manner Besides thi.s, I relied
on speaking to him with tact and address, and
thought to gild the pill so well as to make him
swallow it. In short, concluduig that I ran a
greater risk in keeping silence than in breaking
it, I resolved on the latter
I was now perplexed about only one thing —
how to break the4ce. Hap|)ily for me the orator
himself assisted me to the plunge, by asking me
what the world said of him, and if people were
pleased with his last discourse I replied that
they always admired his homilies, but that I
thought that the hearers were not so much
affected by the last as by some earlier ones.
'• How, friend," said he with surprise, ''had
they an Aristarchus among them ?"
"No, my Lord," I answered; "no; such
works {IS yours are not to be criticised. There
was nobody but was charmed with it. But since
351
ALAIN RENE Lk SAGE.— 6
you have charged me to be free and sincere, I
take the liberty to tell you that your last dis-
course does not seem to possess your usual
energy. Are you not of the same opinion ?"
These words made my master turn pale. He
said to nie with a forced smile, " Wh;it, Mr. Gil
Bias, this piece then is not to your taste?"
■' I do not say so, Sii',". I replied in confusion.
•■ I think it excellent, though a little inferior to
your other works."
" I understand you," said he. " I seem o
flag, do 1 ? . Speak the word out. You believe it
is high time for me to think of retiring."
" I should not have taken the liberty to speak
thus," 1 answered, "• if your Grace had not com-
manded me. I do it only in obedience to you,
and I humbly beg your Grace not to take my
boldness amiss."
" God forbid," he interrupted, " that I should
reproach you with it. I do not take it at all ill
that you tell me your opinion ; I only think
your opinion wrong. I have been prodigiously
deceived in your narrow understanding."
Though I was confounded, I would have
found some expedient to qualify matters ; but
what way is there to pacify an exasperated
anthoi-, and especially an author used to nothing
but praise? "Speak no more, friend," said he;
you are too young yet to distinguisli truth from
falsehood. Know that I never wrote a finer
sermon than that which yow do not approve.
My mind, thank Heaven, has as yet lost noth-
ing of its vigor. For the future I will choose
my confidants better, and have such as are abler
judges. Go," he went on, thrusting me out of
the closet by the shoulders, "go tell my ti-eas-
urer to pay you a hundred ducats, and may
heaven direct you with the money. Farewell,
Mr. Gil Bias ; I wish you all manner of pros-
perity, with a little better taste."
I went out cursing the caprice, or rather
weakness, of the Archbishop, being more en-
352
ALAIN RENE Lk SAGE.— 7
raged at him than vexed at losing his favor. I
was even in doubt whether to take the luindred
ducats ; but after thinking well upon it, I was
not such a fool as to refuse them. I thougiit
the money would not deprive me of the riglir to
ridicule my Archbishop ; which I resolved not to
miss doing, every time his homilies should be
mentioned in my presence.
As I swore in my passion to make the prelate
pay for it, and to divert the wliole city at his ex-
pense, the wise Melchior said to me, " Be ruled
by me, dear Oil Bias; rather stiHe your chagrin.
Men of an inferior rank ought always to respect
persons of (piality, whatever reason they may
have to complain of them. I grant tliere are
many weak noblemen, who deserve no respect ;
but since it is in their power to hurt us, we
ougiit to fear tiiem." — Gil Bias, Book VII.
•23 353
GOTTHOLD KINIRAIM LK'^SING.—I
LESSING, GoTTFioLD Ephraim, a Ger-
man author, born at Kamenz in 1729 ; died
at Brunswick in 1781. His father, a Luth-
eran clergyman, wished him to adopt the
same profession, and at the age of seven-
teen he was sent to the University of Lei])-
sic to study theology. But he found the
stage more attractive than the pulpit, con-
sorted with actors, and wrote several dra-
matic pieces. At twenty he went to Ber-
lin, where he devoted himself to literary
pursuits. He early conceived the project
of freeing German literature from the pre-
valent imitation of that of France, and giv-
ing it a new and original character. In
conjunction with Nicolai he founded the
Li'.eraturhriefe, a periodical which was the
first to call public attention to the genius
of Kant, Hamann and Winckelmann. In
1772 he put forth the ir aged j Emilia Galof/i,
in which the story of the Roman Virginia is
presented in a modern aspect ; this still re-
mains one of the best tragedies on the Ger-
man stage. About 1763 he produced the
admirable drama Mi^ina von Barnhelm.
In 1776 he published Laocoon^ an elaborate
treatise upon the lim.itations of Painting
and Poetry. In 1779 he put forth the dra-
matic poem, Nathan the Wise, which may
be considered his profession of faith. The
principal characters are a Jew, a Mohamme-
dan, and a Christian, who rival each other
in tolerance, charity, and regard for the
principles of universal morality. His lat-
est work, published in 1780, was The Edu-
cation of the Human Race. All of the fore-
going have been excellently translated into
English. Lessing has been not unaptly
styled "the Luther of German literature, of
354
GOTTITOLD EPHRALM LESSING.— 2
tlieGennau drama, and of German art." A
complete edition of his Works, in oO vols.,
was published at Berlin in 1771-94; and
an excellent one in 13 vols., edited by
Lachmann, 1838-40.
NATHAX THE "WISE AND THE SULTAN SALADIN.
J^ath. — In days of yore dwelt in the East a man
Wlio from a valued hand received a ring
Of endless worth : tlie stone of it an opal,
That shot an ever changing tint. Moreover,
It had the hidden vntue liim to render
Of God and man beloved, who, in this view,
And this persuasion, wore it. Was it strange
Tlie Eastern man ne'er drew it otf his finger,
And studiously provided to secure it
For ever to his house ? Thus he bequeathed it
First to the most beloved of ids sons ;
Ordained that he again slioidd leave the ring
To the most dear among his children ; and,
That without heeding birth, the favorite son,
In virtue of the ring alone, should always
Remain the lord o' tli' house — You hear me.
Sultan ?
Sal. — I understand thee. On
A^nfh. — From son to son.
At length the ring descended to a father
"Wlio had tliree sons alike obedient to him,
AVIiom therefore lie could not but love alike.
At times seemed this — now that — at times the
third,
( Accordingly as each apart received
The overflowing of his lieart,) most worthy
To bear the ring, which witli good-natured
weakness,
He privately to each in turn had promised.
This went on for a while. But death approached,
And the good father grew embarassed. So
To disappoint two sons who tiust his promise
He could not bear. What's to be done.'' He
sends
In secret to a jeweller, of whom,
355
GOTTHOLD EPHUAIM LErfSlNU.— 3
Upon the model of the real ring,
He might bespeak two others ; and commanded
To spare nor cost nor pains to make them
like-
Quite like, the true one. This the artist man-
aged.
The rings were brought, and e'en the father's eye
Could not distinguish which had been the model.
Quite overjoyed, he summoned all his sons,
Takes leave of each apart, on each bestows
His blessing and his ring, and dies — Thou
hearest me ?
Sal. — I hear, I hear. Come, finish with thy
tale : Is it soon ended ?
Nath. — It is ended, Sultan.
For all that follows may be guessed of course.
Scarce is the father dead, each with his ring
Appears, and claims to be the lord o' th' house.
Comes question, strife, complaint ; all to no end,
For the true ring could no more be distinguished
Than now can — the true faith.
Sal. — How, how? Is that
To be the answer to my query ?
Nath. — No,
But it may serve as my apology
If I can't venture to decide between
Rings which the father got expressly made
That they might not be known from one another.
Sal. — The rings — don't trifle with me ; I must
think
Tliat the religions which I named can be
Distinguished, e'en to raiment, drink, and food.
Nath And only not as to their ground of
proof.
Are not all built alike on history.
Traditional or written ? History
Must be received on trust : — is it not so ?
In whom, now, are we likeliest to put trust ?
In our own people, surely; in those men
Whose blood we are ; in them who from our
childhood
356
GOTTHOLD EPHRAIM LESSING.— 4
Have given us proof of love; who iie'er de>
ceived us,
Unless 'twere wholesome to be deceived.
How can I less believe in my forefathers
Than tliou in thine? How can I ask of thee
To own that thy forefathers falsified,
In order to yield mine all the praise of truth ? —
The like of Christians.
Sal — By the living God,
The man is right, I must be silent.
• Hath. — Now let us to our rings return once
more —
As said, the sons complained. Each to the
Judge
Swore from his father's Iiand immediately
To have received the ring — as was the case —
After he had long obtained the father's promise
One day to have the ring — as also was
The father, each asserted could to him
Not have been false. Rather than so suspect
Of such a father — willing as he might be
With charity to judge his brethren — he
Of treacherous forgery was bold to accuse them.
Sal. — Well, and the Judge I'm eager now to
hear
What thou wilt make him say. Go on, go on.
Natfi. — The Judge said : •' If ye summon not
the father
Before my seat, I cannot give a sentence.
Am I to guess enigmas ? Or expect ye
That the true ring shall here unseal its lips?
But hold! You tell me that the real ring
Enjoys the hidden power to make the wearer
Of God and man beloved : let tliat decide —
Wliich of the you do two brothers love the best?
You're silent. Do these love-exciting rings
Act inward only, not without ? Does each
Love but himself, ye're all deceived deceivers ;
None of your rings is true. Tlie real ring
P<;rhaps is gone. To hide or to supply
Its loss, your fatlier ordered three )br one."
Sal. — Oh, charming, fliarniing !
357
GOTTHOLD EPHRAIM LESSING.— 5
Nath And the Judge continued :
" It" you will take tidvice in lieu of sentence,
This is my counsel to you ; To take up
The matter where it stands. If each of you
Has had a ring presented by his father,
Let each believe his own the real ring.
'Tis possible the father chose no longer
To tolerate the one ring's tyranny ;
And certainly, as he n^iich loved you all,
And loved you all alike, it could not please him,
By favoring one, to be of two the oppressor.
Let each feel honored by this free affection,
Unwarped of prejudice ; let each endeavor
To vie with both his brothers in displaying
The virtue of his ring , assist its might
With gentleness, benevolence, forbearance.
With inward resignation to the Godhead ;
And if the virtues of the ring continue
To show themselves among your children's
children,
After a thousand years, appear
Before this judgment-seat. A greater one
Than I shall sit upon it, and decide." —
80 spake the modest Judge.
Traml. of William Taylor.
358
CHARLES JAMES LEVER.— 1
LEVER, Charles James, an Irish nov
elist, born in Dublin in 1806 ; died near
Trieste in 1872. Having studied medicine
at home and Gottingen, he practiced for
some years. In 1837 he was ap}>ointed
physician to the British Embassy at Brus-
sels, and completed The Confessions of
Harry Lorrequer (1840), the first chapters
of which had previousl}'^ appeared (1843),
ill the DiihJin University Magazine. Its
success turned him to literature as a
jirofession. Charles C^'Malley^ the Irish
Dragoon^ appeared in 1841. In 1842-45 he
lived in Dublin, and edited the University
Magazine ; then he retired to the Continent,
residino- mostly in Florence. He was vice-
cousul at Spezia 1858-67, and consul at
Trieste from 1867. Among his later books
are: Tom Burke of Ours (1844), The 0' Don-
o^jhne (1845), The Knight of Oicynne {IS^I),
Roland Cashel (1849), The Daltons (1852),
The Nevilles of Garretstoivn (1854), The
Dodd Family Abroad (1853), The Commis-
sioner (1856), Con Cregan (1857), The Mar-
tins of Gro' Martin (1857), The Mystic Heirs
of Randolph Abbey (1858), Davey^port Dunn
(1859), Gerald Fitzgerald (1860), A Day's
Ride, A Life's Romance (1861), Barrington
(1862), LiUtrell of Arran (1865), Sir Brooke
Fosbrooke (1867), The Bramleighs of Blshopis
Folly (1868), That Boy of NorcotCs (1869),
.1 Rent in the Cloud (1870), Lord Kilgobbin
(1872.)
LEGEND OF LUTTRELL AND THE
Tliero was one of the Luttrells once that was
very rid), and a great man every way, but lie
-pent all liis money trj'ing to be ^renter tlian
liir King, for whatever the King did Luttrell
CHARLES JAMES LEVER.— 2
would do twice as grand, and for one great feast
the King would give, Luttrell would give two,
and he came at last to be ruined entirely ; and
of all his fine houses and lands, nothing was left
to him but a little cabin on Strathmere, where
his herd used to live. And there he went and
lived as poor as a laborin' man ; indeed, except
that he'd maybe catch a few fish or shoot some-
thing, he had nothing but potatoes all the year
round. Well, one day as he was wanderin'
about very low and sorrowful, he came to a
great cave on the hillside, with a little well of
clear water inside it; and he sat down for sake
of the shelter, and began to think over old times,
when he had houses, and horses, and fine
clothes, and jewels. " Who'd ever have thought,"
says he, " that it would come to this with me ;
that I'd be sittin' upon a rock, with nothing to
diink but water?" And he took some up in the
hollow of his hand and tasted it ; but when he
finished, he saw there was some fine little grains,
like dust, in his hand, and they were bright yel-
low besides, because they were gold,
"If I had plenty of you, I'd be happy yet,"
says he, looking at the grains.
" And what's easier in life, Mr, Luttrell,"
says a voice ; and he starts and turns round, and
there, in a cleft of the rock, was sittin' a little
dark man, with the brightest eyes that ever was
seen, smoking a pipe, " What's easier in life."
says he, "Mr, Luttrell? "
" How do you know my name?" says he.
" Why wouldn't I ? " says the other. " Sure
it isn't because one is a little down in the world
that he wouldn't have the right to his own name ?
I have had some troubles myself," says he, " but
I don't forget my name for all that."
'' And what may that be, if it's pleasin' to
you ?" says Luttrell.
"Maybe I'll tell it to you," says he, "when
we're better acquainted."
" Maybe I could guess ii now," says Luttrell.
360
CHARLES JAMES LEVER.— 3
• "Come over and whisper it then,' «iys he,
*> and I'll tell you if you're right." And Lut-
trell did, and the other called out, " You guessed
well ; that's just it.
" Well," says Luttrell, " there's many a
change come over me, but the strangest of all is
to think that here I am, sittin' up and talkin' to
the " The other lield up his hand to warn
him not to say it, and he went on: "And I'm
no more afeard of him than if he was an old
friend,"
" And why would you, Mr Luttrell? — and
why wouldn't you think him an old friend ? Can
you remember one pleasant day in all your life
that I wasn't with you some part of it ?''
" I know what you mean well enough," says
Luttrell. " I know the sort of bargain you
make, but what would be the good of all my
riches to me when Ld lose my soul?"
" Isn't it much trouble you take about your
soul, Mr. Luttrell? " says he " Doesn't it keep
you awake at night, thinkin' how you're to save
it? Ain't you always correctin" and chastisin'
yourself for the good of your sonl, not lettin'
yourself drink this or eat that, and warnin' you
besides, about many a thing I won't speak of,
eh ? Tell me that."
" There's something in what you say, no
doubt," says Luttrell ; " but after all," says he
with a wink, " I'm not going to give it up as a
bad job, foi- all that."
"And who asks you ?" says the other. " Do
you think that a soul more or less signifies to
me? It don't : I've lashins and lavinsof them."
" Maybe you have," says Luttrell.
"Have you any doubt of it, Mr. Luttrell?"
says he. " Will you just mention the name of
any one of your friends or family that I can't
give you some particulars of? "
" I'd rather you'd not talk that way," says
Luttrdl; " it makes me feel unpleasant."
" I'm sure," says the other, " nobody ever
361
CHARLES JAMES LEVER.— 4
said I wasn't polite, or that I ever talked of
what was not pleasin' to the company."
" Well," says Luttrell, " supposin' that I
wanted to be rich, and supposin' that I wouldn't
agree to anything that would injure my soul, and
supposin' that there was, maybe, sometliing that
you'd like me to do, and that wouldn't hurt me
for doin' it, what would that be ? "
" If you always was as cute about a bargain,
Mr. Luttrell," says the other, "you'd not be the
poor man you are to-day."
"That's true, perhaps," says he ; "but, you
see, the fellows I made them with wasn't as
cute as the "
" Don't," says the other, holding up his hand
to stop him; "it's never polite. I told you I
didn't want your soul, for I'm never impatient
about anything ; all I want is to give you a good
lesson — something that your family will be long
the better of— and you want it nnicli, for you
have, all of you, one great sin."
" We're fond of drink ?" says Luttrell.
"No," says he; "I don't mean that."
" It's gamblin' ? "
" Nor that."
" It's a likin' for the ladies ?" says Luttrell,
slyly-
"I've nothing to say against that, for they're
always well disposed to me," says he.
" If it's eatin', or spendin' money, or goin' in
debt, or cursin', or swearin', or bein' fond of
fightin' — "
" It is not," says he, " them is all natural.
It's your pride," says he — " your upsettin' fam-
ily pride, that won't let you do this, or say that.
There's what's destroyin' you."
" It's pretty well out of me now," says Lut-
trell, with a sigh.
" It is not," says the otlier. " If you had a
good dinner of beef, and a tumbler of strong
punch in von, you'd be as impudent this minute
as ever you were."
362
CHARLES JAMES LEVER.— S
•• Maybe you're right," says Luttrell.
" I know'l am, Mr. Luttrell. You're not the
first of your family I was intimate with. You're
an ouldstock, and 1 know ye well."
" And how are we to be cured ? " says Lut-
trell.
'• Easy enough," says he. " AVhen three gen-
erations of ye marry peasants, it will take the
pride out of your bones, and you'll behave like
otht'r people."
" We couldn't do it," says LuttreU.
" Try," says the other.
" Impossible ! '
" So you'd say about livin' on potatoes, and
drinkin' well-water."
" That's true," says Luttrell.
'' 80 you'd say about ragged clothes and no
shoes to your feet."
Luttrell nodded.
" So you'd say about settin' in a cave and
talking over family matters to — to a stranger,"
says he, with a laugh.
'• I believe there's something in it," says Lut-
trell ; '• but sure some of us might like to turn
bachelors."
"Let them, and welcome," says he. "1
don't want them to do it one after the other.
I'm in no hurry. Take a hundred years — take
two. if you like, for it."
" Done," says Luttrell. "When a man shows
a fair spirit, I'll always meet him in the .same.
Give; me your hand ; it's a bargain."
>> I hurt my thumb," says he ; " but take my
tail, 'twill do all the same."
And though Mr. Luttrell didn't like it, he
shook it stoutly, and only let go when it began
to burn his fingers. And from that day he was
rich, even till he died : but after his death
nobody ever knew where to find the gold, nor
ever will till the devil tells them. — Luttrell of
Arran.
CHARLES JAMES LEVEIi.-fi
AVIDOW MALONK.
Bid you hear of the widow Malone,
Who lived in the town of Athlone
O, she melted the hearts
Of the swains in them parts ;
So lovely the Widow Malone,
So lovely the widow Malone.
Of lovers she had a full score,
And fortunes they all had galore
Ohone !
Alone !
Ohone !
Or more,
In store :
From the minister down
To the clerk of the crown,
All were courting the Widow Malone
Ohone !
All were courting the Widow Malone.
But so modest was Mistress Malone,
'Twas known.
That no one could see her alone !
Ohone !
Let them ogle and sigh.
They could ne'er catch her eye,
So bashful the Widow Malone,
Ohone !
So bashful the Widow Malone.
Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare
(How quare !
It's little for blushing they care
Down there).
Put his arm round her waist —
Gave ten kisses at laste —
" O," says he, " you're my Molly Malone,
My own !
" O," says he "you're my Molly Malone ! "
And the widow they all thought so shy,
My eye !
364
CHARLES JAMES LEVER.— 7
Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh
Vov why ?
But, "Lucius," says she,
'• Since you've now made so free,
You may marry your Mary Malone,
Ohone !
Vou may marry your iNIary Malone."
There's a moral contained in my song,
Not wrong ;
And one comfort, it's not very long
But strong —
If for widows you die,
Learn to kiss, not to sigh ;
I'^or tliey're all like sweet Mistress Malone,
Ohone !
( ), they're all like sw^eet Mistress Malone !
aG5
GEORGE HENRY LEWES.— 1
LEWES, George Henry, an English
author, born in 1817; died in 1878." lie
was educated at home and abroad, and be-
gan active life as a merchant's clerk, but
soon turned to medicine and then to litera-
ture and philosophy, for which he prepared
himself by studies in Germany in 1838-39.
He contributed to the periodicals, won
an early reputation as a thinker and a
writer, was literary editor of the Leader
1849-54, founded the Fortnightly Review
1865, and conducted it for a year or two.
His connection with "George Eliot" began
m 1854 and lasted till his death ; they
were in entire sympathy, and it was he
who first suggested her attempting fiction.
His own opinions were strongly Positivist,
His works include a Biographical History
of Pldlosophy (4 vols. 1845), several times
re})rinted, and partly rewritten in 2 vols.
1871; two novels, Ranthorpe (1847), Rose^
Blanche^ and Violet (1848) ; The Spanish
Drama : Lope de Vega and Calderon
(1846); Life of Robespierre (1849); The
Noble Hearty a Tragedy (1850) ; Comte''s
Philosophy of the Sciences (1853) ; Life and
Works of Goethe (1855), Seaside Studies
(1857) ; Physiology of Common Life (1860);
Studies in Animal Life (1861) ; Aristotle; a
Chapter from the History -of Science (1864);
Problems of Life and Mind (1878-75), of
which the first volume was entitled. The
Foundations of a Creed. His researches in
anatomy and physiology bore fruit in
papers On the Spinal Cord (1858), and On
the Nervous System (1859), read before the
British Association. He is best known by
his earliest book and by his latest both in
the domain of philosophy.
366
GEORGE HENEY LEWES— 2
PHILOSOPHY AND SCIENCK.
The nature of Philosophy condemns its fol-
lowers to wander forever in the same labyrinth,
and in tliis circumscribed space many will neces-
>;irily fall into the track of their predecessors.
In other words, coincidences of doctrine at epochs
widely distant from each other are inevitable.
Positive Science is further distinguished from
Philosopliy by the incontestible progress it
rvi-rywliere makes. Its methods are stamped
witli certainty, because they are daily extending
our certain knowledge; because the immense
experience of years and of myriads of intelligen-
ces confirm their truth, without casting a
shadow of suspicion on them. Science, then,
])rogresses, and must continue to progress. Phi-
losophy only moves in the same endless circle.
Its Hrst principles are as much a matter of dis-
pute as they were two thousand years ago. It
luis made no progress although in constant
niovenient. Precisely the same questions are
Ix'ing agitated in Germany at this moment as
wi^e being discussed in ancient Greece, and
wifh no better means of solving them, with no
b'lter iiopes of success. The united force of
thousands of intellects, some of them among the
irreatest that have made the past illustrious, has
l)eeii steadily concentrated on problems, su|)posed
to l)e of vital importance, and believed to be
perfectly susceptible of solution, without the
least result. All this meditation and discussion
lias not even established a few first principles.
Centuries of labor have not produced any per-
ceptible progress.
The history of Science, on the other hand, is
the history of progress. So far from the same
(juestions being discussed in the same way as
they were in ancient Greece, they do not re-
main the same for two generations. In some
sciences — chemistry for example — ten years
suffice to render a book so behind the state of
knowledge as to be almost useless. EveryAvhere
367
GEORGE HENRY LEWES.— 3
we see progress, more or less rapid, according
to the greater or less facility of investigation.
In this constant circular movement of Phil-
osophy and constant linear progress of Positive
Science, we see the condemnation of the formei-.
It is in vain to argue that because no progress
has yet been made, we are not therefore to con-
clude none will be made; it is in vain to argue
that the difficulty of Philosophy is much greater
than that of any science, and therefore greater
time is needed for its perfection. The difficulty
is Impossibility, No progress is made because
no certainty is possible. To aspire to the
knowledge of more than phenomena, their re-
semblances and successions, is to aspire to trans-
cend the limitations of human faculties. To
know more we must he more.
This is our conviction. It is also the convic-
tion of tlie majority of thinking men. Con-
siously or unconsciously, they condemn Philos-
ophy. They discredit, or disregard it. The
proof of this is in the general neglect into
which Philosophy has fallen, and the greatei-
assiduity bestowed on Positive Science.- Loud
complaints of this neglect are heard. Great
contempt is expressed by the Philosophers.
They may rail, and they may sneer, but the
world will go its way. The empire of Positive
Science is established.
We trust that no one will suppose we think
slightingly of Philosophy. Assuredly we do
not, or else why this work ? . . . But we re-
spect it as a great pow^r that has been, and no
longer is. It was the impulse to all early spec-
ulation: it was the parent of Positive Science.
It nourished the infant mind of humanity ; gavt'
it aliment, and directed its faculties, rescued
the nobler part of man from the dominion oi'
brutish ignorance ; stirred him with insatiable
thirst for knowledge, to slake which he was
content to undergo amazing toil. But its office
has been fulfilled ; it is no longer necessary to
368
GEORGE HENRY LEWES.— 4
liumanity, and should be set aside. The only
iuterrst it can have is a historical interest — A
Biographical History of Philosophy.
XENOPHANES.
One peculiarity of his philosophy is its dou-
l)le-sidedness. All the other thinkers abided by
I lie conclusions to which they were led. They
were dogmatical; Xenophanes was skeptical.
He was the first who confessed the impotence
of reason to compass the wide, exalted aims of
philosophy. He was a great earnest spirit
struggling with Truth, and, as he obtained a
gliinpse of her celestial countenance, he pro-
claimed his discovery, however it might contra-
dict what he had before announced. Long
travel, various experience, examination of dif-
ferent systems, new and contradictory glimpses
of the problem he was desirous of solving —
these, working together, produced in his mind a
skepticism of a noble, somewhat touching sort,
wholly unlike that of his successors. It was
the combat of contradictory opinions in his
mind, rather than disdain of knowledge. His
faith was steady, his opinions vacillating. He
had a profound conviction of the existence of an
eternal, all-wise, intinite Being; but this belief
he was unable to reduce to a consistent formula.
There is deep sadness in these verses :
"Certainly no mortal yet knew, and ne'er shall
there be one
Knowing both well, the Gods and the All, whose
nature we treat of.
For when by chance he at times may utter the true
and the perfect,
He wists not, unconscious ; for error is spread over
all things."
It is one of the greatest and commonest of
critical errors to <'liarge the originator or sup-
porter of a doctrine with consequences which he
did not see, or would not accept. Because they
may be contained in his principles, it by no
24 363
GEOKGE HENRY LEWES.— 5
means follows that he saw them. To give an
mstance : Spinoza was a very religious man, al-
though his do<'trine amounted to atheism, or
little better; but his critics have been grently
in the wrong in accusing him of atheism. Al-
though Xenophanes was not a clear and system-
atic tliinker, he exercised a very remarkable
influence on the progi-ess of speculation — His-
tory of Philosophy.
X PICTUUIC OF WIEMAR.
Wiemar is an ancient city on the Ilm, a small
stream rising in the Thuiingian forests, and los-
ing itself in the Saal at Jena, a stream on which
the sole navigation seems to be that of ducks,
and which meanders i)eacefully tln'ough pleasant
valleys, except during the lainy season, when
the mountain torrents swell its current and over-
flow its banks. Tlie town is charmingly placed
in the Ilm valley and stands some 800 feet
above the level of the sea. " Wiemar," says
the old topographer, Matthew Merian, "is
Wienmar, because it was the wine-market for
Jena and its environs. Others say it was be-
cause some one here in ancient days began to
plant the vine, who was hence called IVeinmaycr.
But of this each reader may believe just what
he pleases." — Life and Works of Goethe
370
CHARLTON THOMAS LEWIS.— 1
LEWIS, Charlton Thomas, an Amer-
ican scliolar, born at West Chester, I'eun.,
Ill 1834. tie graduated at Yale in 1858;
was Professor first of Mathematics and
then of Greek in Troy Universit\- from
1859 to 1862 ; Deputy Commissioner ol'
Infernal Revenue at Washington, 1863-64;
Managing Editor of the New York Even-
in 'j Post, 1870-71 ; Secretary of the Cham-
ber of Life Insurance, 1871-74. He after-
wards entered the ministry of the ]\lc!ho-
dist Episcopal Cliurch, but left the clerical
profession, and became a lawyer in Xew
York. He is Chairman of the Prison As-
s^ociation of New Yorlc, in the interest of
which he has visited many European pr.s-
ons. He has, in conjunction with Hev.
^[arvin R. Vincent, translated and edited
Bpngel's Gnomon of the Nen^ Testament,
(1861); written a History of tlie German
Piople, (1870.) In conjunction with Prof.
Charles Short, he prepared IJarjicrs Latin
Dietio7iary, {1881); and' in 1889 was pre-
paring A School Latin Dictionary.
THE OWNERSHIP OF IDEAS.
It is a superstition that there can be such a
thing as property in ideas. AVe wlio live to-day
an^ the heirs of all the ages. Enforce the the-
ory of property in ideas, and there can be no
advance. There are ideas which have been
broiiglit into the woild within our own memory.
One is Rieardo's idea of rent — the foundation
of tin; entire modern system of political econ-
omy; another is that o.f the conservation of
force; aiiotlier is Darwin's •idea, wliich lias been
seized and utilized l)y Herbert Spencer. A^'hat
a tremendous loss to society tliere would have
})een if these ideas liad not Ijecn free to all, to
l)e built upon and devidope<i.
CHARLTON THOMAS LEWIS.— 2
It is also a superstition, tiiat authois believe
in, that tlieyare a tivvored class, for whom lliere
siiould be special legislation apart from the
others of the state. Authors are not a class. We
are simply those who express the opinions and
give utterance to the developments of society.
Legislation for a class is always pernicious ; and
it would be a detriment to the many to enact
hiws which would benefit simply a fcAv authoi-s.
The (juestion should be, " What legislation on
this subject will benefit the wliole community? "
Let authors be the best and noblest of mankind ;
but let them not expect special i)rivileges.
The utterances of Tennyson and Arnold and
Huxley on this question ax"e founded on the false
assumption that a man has an intrinsic and per-
petual and eternal and infinite right in the pro-
duct of his own mind. Here is the fundamental
error in the whole discussion. If I write a book,
it is mine. I can do with it as I please — burn
it, lock it up, or publish it. Now, when I give
it to the world, what is its commercial value
tlien ? It is dependent on the action of society,
which may create a monopoly of it in tlie hands
of a publisher. Here comes in the question of
deju'ivation. If it is a coat that I have made, I
am entitled to a monopoly of that ; for while one
man is wearing it, no other man could use it,
and he is deprived of no benefit that he may
complain of.
But with a book it is different. It is no de-
privation to me if othei'S are reading it as well
as I myself. The man who pens the pages of a
book can justly have no monoply in fact. It is
not his work alone. It is the product of society,
of which he is but a part — society which has
moulded and developed him ; and he is only the
medium of expressing the growth of that society,
and of putting into book shape tlie results of its
teaching and influence. I think it is expedient
only that the author should have copyright con-
trol for a limited time.
372
TAYLER LEWIS— 1
LEWIS, Tayler, an American scholar,
l)(^rn at Northumberland, Saratoga County,
N. Y., in 1802 ; died at Sclienectady, in 1877.
lie graduated at Union College, Schenec-
tady, in 1820 ; studied law, which he prac-
ticed for several years. But his attention
was directed especially to the study of the
Hebrew Bible and to the works of Plato.
In 1833 he opened a classical school, at
Waterford ; in 1838 became Professor of
Greek in the University of the City of New
York, and in 1849 was chosen to the same
position in Union College, where he also
lectured on ancient philosophy and poetry,
and gave instruction in Hebrew. He con-
tributed largely to periodicals, upon ethical
and philological subjects. In 1845 he put
forth, under the title, " Platonic Theologv,
or Plato against the Atheists," an edition
of the Tenth Book of The Laws of Plato,
with an elaborate Introduction, and illustra-
tive Dissertations. He translated Plato's
Thesetelus, and Lange's Commentary on Ec-
rlesiastes. His principal works are : The
Six Days of Creation (1855), The Bible and
Science (1856) ; The Divine Human in the
Scriptures (1860) , State Bights ; a Photo-
graph from t/ie Ruins of Ancient Greece
(1864), Heroic Periods in a Nation'' s His-
tory (1866) ; and in conjunction with E. W.
Blyden and Theodore Dwight, The People
of Africa ; their Character^ Condition^ and
Future Prospects (1871 )
THE THEOLOGY OF PLATO
It is generally agreed among those who hold
The Laws to be a genuine production of Pluto,
that it was a treatise written in liis old age. If
so, It may be regarded as containing his most
373
TAYLER LEWIS.— 2
matured and best settled opinions on many of the
great subjects discussed in his former Dialogues.
Some have thought that they discovered many
contradictions between this work and The Eepub-
lic. One has even gone so far as to say that
they are opposed on every page. In this opinion,
however, we cannot conc-ur. . . .
The practice of contrasting these two works
has arisen from a wrong view of the true title of
the one generally styled The Republic. Its most
appropriate designation i.s, "An Inquiry into the
Nature of Right." The imaginary State is evi-
dently made subservient to this ; or, as he ex-
pressly tells us in the Second Book, intended
only as a model of the Human Soul, so magni-
fied that we might read therein, in large letters,
what would not be distinct enough for the men-
tal view when examined in the smaller charac-
ters of the individual spirit. This comparison
of the Soul to a Commonwealth has been a
favorite not only with Plato, but with the most
philosophic minds of the ages. In Tlie RepiihUc
it is the great idea to which the construction of
the fancied State is altogether secondary. Some-
times, however, it must be admitted, the author
seems so taken up with this imaginary Com-
monwealth that lie — unconsciously, perhaps —
brings it into the primary place. . . .
The treatise on Laws is undoubtedly intended
for a really practicable, if not a really existing
State. In discussing, however, the primary
principles of legislation, the author takes a very
wide range, occupying far more time in what he
styles the "Preambles," or recommendatory
reasonings about the laws, than in the la\\>
themselves. Hence there are but few points in
the Platonic philosophy and ethics, as exhibited
in other Dialogues, but what have some repre-
sentative here. We find the same questions
started respecting the nature and origin of Vir-
tue ; whether it is capable of being taught as a
science or not ; whether it is One or Many — that
374
TAYLER LEWIS.— 3
is, whether the vii'tiies are all so essentially con-
nected that one cannot exist without the otliers.
We find tlie same views in regard to the end
and origin of Law — the importance of looking
in all things to the Idea — " the One in IMany."
Tliere is the same reverence for antiquity and
ancient myths ; the same disposition to regard
Religion as the beginning and foundation of
every system of civil polity ; and the same
method of representing the idea of a God — and
his goodness, his j)rovidence, of a present and
future retribution — as lying at the foundation of
all morals and of all religion.
In a moral and practical, as well as in a specu-
lative point of view, tiie particidar subject of
this Dialogue has some claim to attention. He
who thinks most deeply, and has the most inti-
mate acfpiaintance with human nature, as exhib-
ited in his own heart, will be the most apt to
resolve all unbelief into Atheism. Theism, we
admit, is everywhere the avowed creed ; but it
wants life. Tliere are times when the bare
thought that God is comes home to the soid
with a power and a tiash of light which gives a
new illumination, and a more vivid interest to
every other moral truth. It is on such occasions
that tlie conviction is felt that all unbelief is
Atheism, or an acknowledgment of a mere nat-
ural power, clothed with no moral attributes,
and giving rise to no moral sanctions. We want
vividness given to the great idea of God as a
Judge, a moral Governor, a special Supeiintend-
entof the world and all its movements; the head
of a moral syst(.'m to which the machinery of nat-
ural laws serves but as the temporary scattbld-
ing, to be continued, changed, replaced, or fin-
ally removed, when the great ends for which
alone it was designed shall have been accom-
plished.
Just as such an idea of God is strong and
dear, so will be a conviction of sin. so will be a
sense of the need of expiation; so will follow
375
TAYLER LEWIS.— 4
in its train an assurance of all the solemn veri-
ties of the Christian faith, so strong and deep
that no boastful pretension of that science
which makes the natural the foundation of the
moral, and no stumbling blocks in the letter of
tlie Bible, will for a moment yield it any dis-
quietude. There is a want of such a faith, as is
shown by the feverish anxiety in regard to the
discoveries of science, and the results of agita-
tions of the social and political world. This
timid unbelief, when called by it its true name,
is Atheism.
The next great battle-gi-ound of Infidelity
will not be the Scriptures. AVhat faith there
will remain will be summoned to defend the
very being of a God; the great truth involving
every other moral and religious truth — that He
IS, and that He is the rewarder of all who dili-
gently seek Him — Introduction to Plato against
the Atheists.
376
JOHN LF.YDEN- 1
LEYDEN, John, a Scottish Oriental
scholar and poet, born in 1775, died in
1811. He studied at the University of
Edinburgh, and was ordained to the min-
istry ; but abandoned the clerical profes-
sion for that of medicine. In 1802 he was
made an assistant surgeon m the service of
the East India Company. Upon arriving
in India he devoted himself to the study of
Oriental languages, and in 1806 was made
i^rofessor of Hindustani at Calcutta, and
soon after received a judicial appointment
]n 1811 he accompanied Lord Minto in an
ex]iedition against the Dutch colony m
Java, and died of a fever at Batavia. He
wrote an Historical Account of Discoveries
and Travels in Africa^ and an Essay on the
Languages and Literature of the Indo-Chi
nese Nations. A collection of his Poems
and Ballads was published in 1819. The
ibllowing poem was written after his ar-
rival in India.
.TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN.
Slave of the dark and dirty mine !
What vanity bus brouglit thee here?
How can I love to see tliee shine
So bright, whom I have bought so dear ?
The tent ropes flapping lone I bear.
For twilight converse, arm ni arm ;
The jackal's shriek bursts on my ear
When mirth and music wont to charm,
15y Cherical s dark wandering streams,
Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams
Of Teviot loved while still a child,
Of castled rocks stupendous piled
By Esk or Eden's classic wavt
Where loves of youth and friendships smiled,
UnciM'sed by thee, vile yellow slave !
377
JOHN r.EYDEN.— 2
l*\i(le (lay-dreains sweet, from memory fade !
The perished bliss of youth's first prime,
That once so bright on fancy played,
Revives no more in after-time.
Far from my sacred, natal clime
1 haste to an untimely grave ;
The daring thoughts that soared sublime
Aie sunk in ocean's southern wave.
Slave of the mine ! thy yellow light
Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear.
A gentle vision comes by night
My lonely widowed heart to cheer;
Her eyes are dim w^itli many a tear.
That once were guiding stars to mine ;
Her fond heart throbs w ith many a fear !
I cannot bear to see thee shine.
For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,
I left a heart that loved me true !
1 crossed the tedious ocean-wave,
To roam in climes unkind and new.
The cold wind of the stranger blew
Chill on my withered heart ; the grave,
Dark and untimely, met my view —
And all for thee, vile yellow slave !
Ha ! com'st thou now so late to mock
A Avanderer's banished heart forlorn,
Now that his frame tlie lightning shock
Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne ?
From love, from friendship, country, torn,
To memory's fond regrets the prey ;
Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn !
Go mix thee with thy kindred clay !
378
FRANCIS LIEBER.— 1
LIEBER, Francis, a German-American
publicist, born at Berlin in 1800; died at
Xew York in 1872. He had begun the
study of medicine when, in 1815, he joined
the Prussian army as a volunteer, and was
severely wounded at the siege of Namur.
After the close of the Waterloo campaign,
he resumed his studies ; but his liberal sen-
timents drew upon him the disfavor of the
Government, and he found it expedient to
leave Germany. After spending sometime
at Rome and London, he came to the Unit-
ed States in 1827, taking up his residence
in Boston, where he gave lectures on histor}^
and politics, and edited the Encycloi:)sedia
Americana^ based upon, and partly trans-
lated from Brockhaus's Conversations- Lexi-
koa (13 vols., 1829-33.) In 1832 he was
appointed by the trustees of Girard College,
Philadelphia, to draft a plan of education.
In 1835 he accepted the professorship of
History and Political Economy in the Uni-
versity of South Carolina, lie held this
position until 1856, when he was appointed
to a similar one in Columbia College, New
York, where he was subsequently made
Professor of Political Science, a position
which he retained until his death. His
writing's were very numerous, and in manv
departments. Notable among them are
his Manual of Pulitical .Ethics (1838, second
edition, 1875), and Civil Liberty and Self-
Government (1852, second edition 1874.)
Both of these works have been adopted as
text-books at Yale.
vox I'OPULI vox DEI.
The poetic })oldnes8 of the maxim, Vox PopuU
Vox De', its cpitrramniMiic fiiiisli. its Latin aiul
FRANCIS LIEBER.— 2
lapidary formulation, and its apparent connec-
tion of a patriotic love of the people with relig-
ious fervor, give it an air of authority and al-
most of sacredness- Yet history, as well as our
own times, shows us that everything depends
upon the question, who are "the people?" and
tliat even if we have fairly ascertained the legit-
nnate sense of this great yet abused term, we
frequently find that their voice is anything rather
than the voice of God.
If the term "people " is used for a clamoring
crowd, which is not even a constituted part of an
organic whole, we would be still more fatally
misled by taking the clamor for the voice of the
deity. We shall arrive, then, at this conclusion,
that in no case can we use the maxim as a test ,
for, even if we call the people's voice the voice
of God in those cases in which the people de-
mand what is right, we must first know that they
do so before we call it the voice of God. ] t is no
guiding authority ; it can sanction nothing. ...
There are, indeed, periods in history in which,
centuries after, it would seem as if an impulse
from on high had been given to whole masses,
or to the leading minds of leading classes, in
order to bring about some comprehensive
changes. That remarkable age of maritime dis-
covery which has influenced the whole succeed
ing history of civilization, and the entire pro-
gress of our kind, would seem, at first glance,
and to many even after a careful study of its
elements, to have received its motion and action
from a breath not of human breathing. No
person, however, living at that period, would
have been authorized to call the wide-spread
love of maritime adventure the voice of God,
merely because it was widely diffused. Impul-
sive movements of greater extent and intensity
have been movements of error, passion, and
ci-ime.^ It must bo observed that the thorough
historian often acts in these cases as the natural
philosopher who finds connection, causes and
380
FEANCIS LIEBER.— 3
rtrccts, where foi-raer ages thought they recog-
nized direct and detached manifestations or in-
terpositions of a superior power, and not the
ri-eater attribute of variety under eternal laws
liul unchanging principles. . . .
I am under tlie impression that the famous
maxim lirst came into use in the Middle Ages,
at a contested episcopal election, when the peo-
l<k', by apparent acclamation, having elected
one person, another aspirant believed he bad a
l)etter right to the episcopate on different
lii-ounds or a different popular acclamation.
Tliat the maxim has a decidedly mediiv^val
character no one familiar with that age will
doubt. When a king was elected it was by
conclamation ; the earliest bishops of Rome
were elected or confirmed by conclamation of
tile Roman people. Elections by conclamation
always indicate a rude or deficiently organized
state of tilings; and it is the same whether this
want of organization be the effect of primitive
rudeness or of relapse.
Now^ the maxim we are considering has a
strongly conclamatory character : and to apply
it to our modern affairs is degrading ratiier
than elevating them. How shall we ascertain,
in modern times, whether anything be " the
voice of the people? " and next, whether that
voice be "the voice of God," so that it may
command respect? For unless we can do this,
the whole maxim amounts to no more than a
poi-tic sentence, expressing the opinion of an
individual; but no rule — no canon.
Is it Unanimity that indicates the voice of
the people? Unanimity, in this case, can mean
only a very large majority. But even unanim-
ity itself is far from indicating the voice of
God. Unanimity is commanding only when it
is the result of digested and organic public
opinion ; and even then wa know perfectly well
tliat it may be erroneous, and consequently not
tile voice of God, but simply the best opinion at
384
FRANCIS LIEBER.— 4
which erring and sinful men at the time are
able to arrive. . . -
But the difficulty of fixing the meaning of
tliis saying is not restricted to tliat of ascertain
ing what is -'the Voice of God," It is equally
difficult to find out what is "the Voice of the
People." If by the voice of the people ht
meant the organically evolved opinion of a peo-
l)le, we do not stand in need of the saying. We
know we ought to obey the law of the land. If
by the voice of the people be meant the result
of universal suffrage without institutions — and
especially in a large country with a powerful
executive, not permitting even preparatory dis-
cussion— it is an empty phrase. It is deception,
or it may be the effect of vehement yet transi-
tory excitement. The same is true when the
clamoring expression of many is taken for the
voice of the whole people. ...
Whatever meaning men may choose to give
to Vox Popnli Vox Dei, in other spheres — or, if
applied to the long tenor of the history of a peo-
ple, in active politics and in the province of
practical liberty — it either implies political lev-
ity which is one of the most mordant corrosives
of liberty — or else it is a political heresy, as
much as Vox Regis Vox Dei would be. If it be
meant to convey the idea that the people can
do no wi-ong, it is as grievous an untruth as
would be conveyed by the maxim, "the king
can do no wrong," if it really were meant to be
taken literally Civil Liberty and Self -Govern-
ment.
382
A r. R A HAM r. I NCO LN — 1
l.IXCOLN. Abraham, sixteenth Presi-
(leiil of the United States, born in what is
now Larue County, Kentucky, February
12, 1809 ; died by assassination at Wasli
iugton, April 15, 1865, six weeks after en
tering upon his second term as President
Althougli Mr. Lincoln would not be gener
ally classed among men of letters, seveial
of his state papers, viewed simply from a
literary standpoint, are surpassed by noth-
ing in our language, or indeed any other
Among these are his Inaugural Address,
March 4, 1861 ; the Emancipation Procla-
mation, January 1, 1863 ; the Gettysburg
speech, November 19, 1868 ; and the second
Liaugural Address, March 4, 1865.
THE PERPETUITY OF THE UNION.
It is seventy-two years since the first iuaugu
r:ition of a President under onr National Con-
stitution. During that period fifteen different
:iiid greatly distinguished citizens have in suc-
cession administered the Executive branch of
the Government, They have conducted it
through many perils, and generally with gi-eat
success. Yet with all this scojie for precedent.
I now enter upon the same task for the brief
constitutional term of four years, under great
and peculiar difiiculty. A disruption of the
Federal Union, heretofore only menaced, is now
lininidably attempted.
I hold that, in contemplation of universal law,
;iiid of the Constitution, the Union of these
States is perpetual. Perpetuity is implied, if
not expressed, in the fundamental law of all
iiaiional governments. It is safe to assert that
net government proper ever had a provision in
\\< organic law for its own termination. Con-
tinue to execute all the express provisions of
our national government, and the Union will
I udure forever — it being impo.s.sible to destroy
.■J83
ABRAHAM LINCOLN— 2
it except by some action not provided for in the
instrument itself. Again, if tlie United States
l>e not a government proper, but an association
of States in the nature of contract merely, can
it, as a contract, be peaceably unmade by less
than all the parties who made it ? One party
to a contract may violate it — break it, so to
speak, but does it not require all to lawfully
rescind it?
But if destruction of the Union by one or bv
a part only of the States be lawfully possii>l(%
the Union is less perfect than before — the Con-
stitution having lost the vital element of per
petuity. It follows from these views that no
State, upon its own motion, can lawfully get
out of the Union ; that resolves and oidinanees
to that eifect are legally void ; and that acts of
violence within any State or States, against the
authority of the United States, are insurrection-
ary or revolutionary, according to circumstances,
I therefore consider that, in view of the Con-
stitution and the laws, the Union is unbroken ;
and to the extent of my ability I shall take care, as
the Constitution expressly enjoins upon me, that
the laws of the Union be faithfully executed in
all the States. Doing this I deem to be only a
simple duty on my part ; and I shall perform it,
so far as practicable, unless my rightful masters,
the American people, shall withold the requisite
means, or in some authoritative manner direct
the contrary. I trust that this will not be re-
garded as a menace, but only as the declared
purpose of the Union that it will constitutionally
defend and maintain itself.
In your hands, my dissatisfied felloAv-country-
men, and not in mine, are the momentous issues
of civil war. The Government will not assail
you. You can have no conflict without being
yourselves the aggressors. You have no oath
registered in heaven to destroy the government,
whilst I shall have the most solemn one to
" preserve, protect, and defend " it.
384
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.— 3
1 am loth to dose. We are not enemies but
tViLMids. We must not be enemies. Tliougb
passion may have strained, it must not break our
boiuls of affection. The mystic cord of memoi} ,
stretching from every battle-field and patriot
trrave to every living heart and hearthstone all
over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus
of the Union, when again touched, as they sure-
ly will be, by the better angels of our nature —
From the First Inaugural.
THE KMAXCIFATIOX PROCLAMATION.
Now therefore I, Abraham Lincoln, Presi-
dent of the United States, by virtue of the pow-
er in me vested as Commander-in-Chief of the
Army and Navy of the United States in time
of actual armed rebellion against the authority
and government of the United States, and as a
tit and necessary war measure for suppressing
said rebellion, do on this first day of January,
in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hun-
dred and sixty-three, order and designate as
States and parts of States wherein the people
thereof respectively are this day in rebellion
against the United States, the following to wit :
And by virtue of the power, and for the pur-
pose aforesaid, I do order and declare that all
persons held as slaves within such designated
States and parts of States are, and hencefor-
ward shall be free ; and the Executive Govern-
ment of tlie United States including the mili-
tary and naval authorities thereof, will recognize
and maintain the freedom of said persons.. ..And
upon this act, sincerely believed to be an act of
justice, warranted by the Constitution upon
military necessity, I invoke the considerate
judgment of mankind, and the gracious favor of
Almiglity God.
TIIK CONSECRATION SPEECH AT GETTYSBURG.
Four score and seven years ago our fathers
brought forth upon the continent a new nation,
25 385
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.— 4
conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the prop-
osition that all men are created equal. Now
we are engaged in a great civil war, testing
whether that nation or any nation so conceived
and so dedicated, can long endure. We are
met on a great battle-field of that war. We
have come to dedicate a portion of that field as
a final resting-place for those who here gave
their lives that that nation might live. It is
altogether fitting and proper that we should do
this.
But in a large sense we cannot dedicate, we
cannot consecrate, we cannot halt on this ground.
The brave men, living and dead, who struggled
here, have consecrated it far above our power to
add or detract. The world will little note nor
long remember what we say here ; but it can
never forget what they did here. It is for us —
the living — rather, to be dedicnted here to the
unfinished work which they who fought here
have thus far eo nobly advanced. It is rather
for us to be here dedicated to the great task rc-
maining before us, that from these honored dead
we take increased devotion to that cause for
which they gave the last full measure of devo-
tion ; that we here highly resolve that these
dead shall not have died in vain, that this na-
tion, under God, shall have a new birth of free-
dom ; and that government of the people, by the
people, and for the people, shall not perish from
the earth.
MALICE TOWARD NONE CHARITY FOR ALL.
Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray,
tliat this mighty scourge of war may speedily
])ass away. Yet if God wills that it continue
until all the wealth piled by the bondsman's two
hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall
be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn
with the lash shall be paid by another drawn
with the sword, as was said three thousand
years ago, so still it must be saiti, that the judg-
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.— 5
ments ot" the Lord are true and righteous alto-
gether.
With malice toward none, with charity for all,
with tirmness in the right, as God gives us to
see the right, let us finish the work we are in —
to bind up the nation's wound ; to call for him
who shall have borne the battle and for his
widow and his orphans ; to do all which may
achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace
among ourselves and with all nations. — From
the Second Inauoural.
387
JOHN LINGARD.— 1
LINGAKD, John, an English ecclesiastic
and historian, born in 1771 ; died in 1851.
He entered the Roman Catholic College at
Douai France, in 1791 ; this College being-
dissolved during the Revolution, Lingard
returned to England, and with some others
established a seminary near Durham, of
which he was made S^ice- President and
Professor of Natural and Moral Philoso-
phy. Ill 1825 he received the ofterof acar-
dinalship, which he declined. During his
later years he received a pension of £300
from the British Government in considera-
tion of his important historical labors. IJe
put forth Antiquities of the Amjlo-Saxon
Church (1806 ; enlarged edition, 1845), and
several treatises of a somewhat polemical
character. Of his principal work, The
History of England from the Fust Invasion
hy the Romans to the Accession of Willicnn
and Mary in 1688, the first volume in folio
appeared in 1819, and the eighth in 1830.
A new edition, thoroughly revised, was
published in 1849.
THE EXPULSION OF THE LONG PARLIAMENT BY
CROMWELL.
Cromwell's resoUition was immediately formed,
and a company of musketeers received orders to
accompany him to the House. At this eventful
moment, big with the most im])ortant conse-
quences both to himself and his country, what-
ever were the workings of Cromwell's mind he
liad the art to conceal them from the minds of
the beholders. Leaving the military in the
lobby, he entered the House, and composedly
seated himself on one of the outer benches.
His dress was a plain suit of black cloth with
gray worsted stockings. For a while he seemed
to listen with interest to the debate; but when
388
JOHN LINGARB.— 2
the Speaker was going to put the question, he
whispered to Hai-rison, " This is the time ; I
must do it ; " and rising put off iiis hat to address
the House.
At first his language was decorous, and even
lauchvtory. Gradually he became more warm
and animated ; at hxst he assumed all the ve-
liemence of passion, and indulged in personal
vituperation. He charged the members with
self-seeking and profaneness, with the frequent de-
nial of justice, and numerous acts of oppression ;
witli idolizing the lawyers, the constant advocates
of tyranny ; \\-ith neglecting the men who had
bled for them in the field, that they might gain
the Presbyterians who had a|)Ostatized from the
cause : and with doing all this in order to perpet-
uate tlieir own power and to replenish their own
purses. But their time was come, the Lord
had disowned theiu ; He had chosen more
worthy instruments to perform His work.
Here the orator was interrupted by Sir Peter
"NVentworth, who declared that he had never
heard language so unparliamentary — language,
too, the more offensive because it was addressed
to them by their own servant, whom they had
too fondly cherished, and whom, by their un-
[>recedented bounty they had made what he
was.
At these words Cromwell put on his hat, and,
springing from his place, exclaimed : " Come,
Sir, I will put an end to your prating 1 " For a
few moments, apparently in the most violent ag-
itation, he paced forward and backward ; and
then, stamping on the floor, added: " You are
no Parliament ; I say you are no Parliament ;
bring them in." Instantly the door opened, and
Colonel Worsley entered, followed by more than
twenty musketeers. '' This." cried Sir Henry
Vane, " is not honest ; it is against morality and
common honesty — " " Sir Henry Vane," re-
plied Cromwell ; " 0 Sir Henry Vane ! Tiie
Lord deliver me from Sir Henry Vane ! He
389
JOHN LINGARD.— 3
might have prevented this. But he is a juggler
and has not common honesty himself! " From
Vane he directed his discourse to Whitelock, on
whom he poured a tonent of abuse ; then point-
ing to Chaloner, "There," lie cried, "sits a
drunkard ; " next to Marten and Wentwortli,
<' There are two whoremasters ; ' and after-
wards selecting different members in succession,
described them as dishonest and corrupt livers, a
sliame and a scandal to the profession of the
gospel.
Suddenly, however, checking himself he
turned to the guard and ordered them to clear
the House. At these words Colonel Harrison
took the Speaker by the hand, and led him from
the chair Algernon Sidney was next compelled
to quit his seat ; and the other members, eighty
in number, on the approach of the military, rose
and moved towards the doors.
Cromwell now resumed his discourse. " It is
you," he exclaimed, " that have forced me to do
this. I have sought the Lord both day and
night that He would rather slay me than put me
on the doing of this work." Alderman Allan
took advantage of these words to observe that it
was not yet too late to undo what had been done ;
but Cromwell instantly charged him with pecu-
lation, and gave him into custody. When all
were gone, fixing his eyes on the mace, "What,"
said he, "shall we do with this fool's bauble ?
Here, carry it away." Then taking the act of
dissolution from the clerk, he ordered the doors
to be locked, and, accompanied by the military,
returned to Whitehall.
That afternoon the members of the Council
assembled in their usual place of meeting.
Bradshaw had just taken the chair, when the
Lord-general entered and told them that if
they were there as private individuals they were
welcome ; but if as the Council of State, they
must know tiiat the Parliament was dissolved.
" Sir," replied Bradshaw, with the spirit of an
390
JOHN LINGARD.— 4
ancient Roman, '' we have heard what you did
at the House this morning, and before many
hours all England will know it. But, Sir, you
are mistaken to think that the Parliament is dis-
solved. No power under heaven can dissolve
them but themselves ; therefore, take you notice
of that." After this protest they withdrew.
Thus, by the parricidal hands of its own
children, perished the Long Parliament, which,
under a variety of forms, had for more than
twelve years defended and invaded the liberties
of the nation. It fell without a struggle or a
groan, unpitied and unregretted. The mem-
bers slunk away to their homes, where they
sought by submission to purchase the forbear-
ance of their new master ; and their paitisans —
if partisans they had — reserved themselves in
silence for a day of retribution, which came not
before Cromwell slept in his grave. The
royalists congratulated each other on an event
which they deemed a preparatory step to the
restoration of the King ; the army and navy, in
numerous addresses, declared that they would
live and die, stand and fall with tli£ Lord-gen-
eral ; and in every part of the country the con-
gregations of the saints magnified the arm of
the Lord, which had broken the mighty, that in
lieu of the sway of mortal men, the Fiith Mon-
archy, the reign of Christ, might be established
on earth.
391
ELIZA LYNN LINTON.-l
LINTON, Eliza (Lynx), an English
author, was born at Keswick, in 1822.
Her first novel, Azeth, the Egyj^tian, pub-
lished in 1846, .was followed by Amymune:
a Romance of the days of Pericles (1848),
and Realities (1851.) She has contributed
many articles to periodicals, among them
are the papers on The Girl of the Period.
Among her other works are. Witch Stories
(1861), The Lahe Country., illustrated by
her husband 1864, Grasp your Nettle (1865),
Sowing the Wind (1866), The True History
of Joshua Davidson.^ Christian and Com-
munist (1872), Patricia Kemball (1874),
The Atonement of Learn Dundas., The World
Well Lost (1877) , The Rebel of the Family
(1880), My Love (1881), /one, (1882), and
The Autobiography of Christopher Kirhland
(1885.)
FEXCED IN.
Though a seaside place, the sea was only a
passing adjunct, not an active part of Milltown
existence. A land-locked, placid bay, shallow
and barren, it was artistically valuable on ac-
count of its color, and the changing lights lying
on its cliffs; but nearly worthless for fishing,
and very little used fur boatmg. Only one
liouse in the place had a yacht in the basin
within the breakwater. This was the Water Lily,
a pretty little toy belonging to the Lowes.
Being thickly inhabited by the gentry, every
rood of land had its exclusive owner, and its
artificial as well as natural value. The very
cliffs were fenced off against trespassers; per-
petual attempts were made to stop old-estab-
lished rights of way, which sometimes succeeded ;
if at others they failed when some man, of more
public spirit than his neighbors, was personally
inconvenienced, and the open paths across the
fields which Avere inalienable were grudgingly
392
ELIZA LYNN LINTON.— 2
marked otf by lines of thorns^ with licne warn-
ings of prosecution should the narrow strip be
departed from ; while all the gates were pad-
locked, and the stiles made unnecessarily high
and difficult.
The country was noted for its garden-like
neatness. Every hedge and bank for milts
around was trimmed and combed like a croquet
lawn. No wild flowers were allowed on the
Milltown public wayside; no trailing growths,
rich and luxuriant to attract an artist and dis-
tress the highway board and private gardens,
hung about the well-kept hedges of thorn and
privet. If you wanted to study botany you
must go some five miles or so inland, where a
certain stretch of unreclaimed lands gave tin;
growths that flourish in peat and neglect, as well
as afforded sfjuatting ground to a few half- starved
miserable sinners whom the Milltown people
regarded with a mixture of fear and contem|)t,
as if they were of another order of beings
altogether from themselves.
If the face of the country was fenced and
trimmed and curled, till not a vestige of wild
beauty or natural grace was left in it, the society
of Milltown was in harmony therewith It
would have been hard to find a more rigidly
I'espectable or more conventionalized set of peo-
ple anywhere, than were those who ordered
their lives in this pretty hypaithral prison by the
*' safe," if untrue, gospel of repression and con-
demnation. They were all retired admirals and
colonels and landed gentry, who lived tliere ; all
emphatically gentlemen.
The gentlefolks were one thing and the com-
monalty was another, and the one repi-esented
the sheep and the elect, and the other the goats
and the discarded. The gentry classed these last
all togetiier in a lump, and the idea that they
in their turn could be split into minor subdivis-
ions, wherein the baker and tlie boatman, tlie
furmer and his hind, held different degrees,
393
ELIZA LYNN LINTON —3
seemed to them as ridiculous as the wars of pig-
mies, or the caste distinctions of savages. But
tlie commonalty followed their leaders, and the
example of class exclusiveness set in the higlier
circles was faithfully copied through the lower.
Milltown was respectable ; as a rule, intensely
so. No one got into debt publicly, or did wrong
openly ; and whatever sins might be committed
were all out of sight and well covered down.
The majority, too, went the right way in poli-
tics. No confessed Republican had ever troubled
the clear stream of Milltown s Conservatism,
The worst of the pestilent fellows who conva&sed:
for the wrong side, and voted blue instead of
yellow at the elections, and who stood up-
against board meetings and vestries, were nothing
worse than mild Whigs, who would have been
shocked to have heard themselves classed with
Odger and Bradlaugli.
The parish church where Mr. Borrodailc, the
rector, preached his weekly ortliodox sermon, or
what may be called dogmas of a second intui-
tion, not wholly moral nor yet wholly theologi
cal, was a fine old building of the Early Eng
lish style. The services were conducted in
what they called " a proper and decent man-
ner." There was no ecclesiastical vagueness at
Milltown ; no tampering with the unclean thing
in any way. Extreme opinions were tabooed.
to which side soever they leaned, and enthus-
iasm was regarded as both vulgar and silly.
Milltown prided itself on being English — P^ng-
!ish to the backbone; and as England was, to its
mind, the Delos of the religious as well as of
the social and political world, and as the Thirty-
nine Articles were nourishment enough for the
most hungry soul, any line of thought which
would have led it a hair's breadth away from ec-
clesiastical Christianity, as decided by Act of
Parliament, would have been considei-ed a
heresy and a treason.
Tlie inhabitants did their duty and the rector
394
ELIZA LYNN LINTON.— 4
did his. Tliey went to church; heard what he
had to say with more or less attention and more
or less personal profit , then went home to what
amount of eartlily comfort their rents or wages
provided, and dismissed the subject of religion
till the next Sunday, when they look it up
agani with their best clothes and a sujierior din-
ner. He prepared his sermon, wherein he either
exhorted the poor to contentment and honest in-
dustry, or lectured his congregation on the sins
and temptations to which those of low estate
are specially prone (he dropped the subject of
tiie sins of those in high places) , or else he said
a few words about elementary dogmas, which
the more vigorous Wesleyan minister serving
the little chapel by ihe water side called " milk
for babes;"' then he, too, went home to his well-
spread table, where he drank his fine old crusted
port and ate his Dartmoor mutton witli a good
appetite and a tranquil soul.
Furthermore, there was the usual sprinkling
of widows with marriageable daughters; of old
bachelors who could, but would not ; and of
spinsters from whom hope, like chance, had long
since fled. Of these last were the two kinds
familiar to all who understand provincial life in
England . the one strict and severe, who ignored
all individual rights, as well as the rights of
human nature, in favor of the conventional law
— to wliom nio-;t things were shocking, and the
worst interpretation came easy ; and the other wlio
could read French, had been to London, had a
slight tendency to plain speaking, tolerated
cigars, and did not encourage scandal, and was
considered lax by mothers and strong-minded by
men.
Further more, still, and different from the
rest of the MiUtown world, were Dr. Fletcher,
and, liis sister Catherine, of whom more when
their turns come.
None of the questions agitating the woild out-
side this little Sleepy Hollow of l*hilistinism
■395
ELIZA LYNN LINTON.— 5
found a sympathetic echo here. Woman's rights
were considered immoral, unrighteous, and indeli-
cate ; strikes, and the theory of the rights of la-
bor, were criminal and treasonable ; tlie education
of the poor was the knell of England's prosper-
ity ; and the democratic spirit abroad boded the
downfall of the empire and tiie ruin of society.
But where all else was evil, one place at least
remained pure. Milltown held itself clear of
I lie prevailing sins, and constituted itself the
Zoar of English social order and political
righteousness Patricia Kemhall.
396
WILLIAM JAMES LINTON.— 1
LINTOX, William James, an English
wood-eugraver and author (husband of the
preceding, to whom he was married in 1858),
born at Loudon in 1812. In 1851 he was
one of the founders of Tke Leader, a Radi-
cal newspaper, and in 1855 became manager
of Pea and Pencil, an illusti'ated journal.
En 1867 he came to the United States, tak-
ing up his permanent residence at New
Haven, Conn. Before coming to America
he contributed largely to several pei^odi-
cals. He is the author of a life of Thomas
Paine, and of several works on wood-en-
graving, an art in which he for a long time
held the foremost place. In 18()5 he put
forth Glarihel and other Poems, a volume
profusely illustrated by himself. In 1882
he edited Rare Poems of the Sixteenth and
Seventeenth Centuries, and in 1883, in con-
junction with Richard H. Stoddard, Eng-
lish Verse, in five volumes.
A PRAYER FOR TRUTH.
0 Go 1 ! the giver of all which men call good
Or ill, the Origin and Soul of Power !
1 pray to Thee as all must in their hour
Of need, for solace, medicine, or food.
Whether aloud or secretly — undeistood
No less by Thee. I pray ; biU not for fame.
Nor love's best happiness, nor place, iiorwealtli:
1 iisk Tliee only for that spiritual health
Which is perception of the True — the same
As in Thy Nature : so to know and aim
Toward Thee my thouglif, my word, my whole
of life.
Then matters little whether care or strife,
Hot sun, or cloud, o'erpass this earthly day ;
Night Cometh, and my star climbeth Thy
heavenly way.
897
WILLIAM JAMES LINTON.- 2
REAL AND TRUE.
Only the Beautiful is real !
All tliiugs of which our life is full,
All mysteries which life inwreathe,
Birth, life, and death,
All that we dread or darkly feel —
All are but shadows, and the Beautiful
Alone is real.
Nothing but love is true !
Earth's many lies, whirled upon Time's swift
wheel,
Shift and repeat their state —
Birth, life, and death,
And all that they bequeathe
Of hope or memory, thus do alternate
Continually ;
Love doth anneal
Doth beauteously imbue
The wine-cups of the archetypal Fate.
Love, Truth, and Beauty — all are one !
If life may expiate
The wilderings of its dimness, death be known
But as the mighty ever-living gate
Into the Beautiful All things flow on
Into one Heart, one Melody,
Eternally.
POETS.
True Poet! Back, thou Dreamer! Lay thy
dreams
In ladies' laps ; and silly girls delight
With thy inane apostrophes to Night,
Moonsliine, and Wave, and Cloud ! Thy fancy
teems — • •
Not genius I Else some high heroic themes
Should from thy brain proceed, as Wisdom's
might
Fi'om head of Zeus. For now great Wrong
and Right
Affront each other, and War's trumpet screams,
398
WILLIAM JAMES LINTON.— 3
Giddyiiig the earth with dissonance. Oh.
where
Is He, voiced godlike, unto those who dare
To more than daring with tlie earnest sliout.
Of a true battle-hymn ? We tight without
The music which should cheer us in oiu- liglit
While Poets learn to pipe like whiflling streams.
LABOR IN VAIN.
Oh not in vain ! Even poor rotting weeds
Nourish the roots of fVuitfuUest fair trees ;
So from thy fortune-loathed hope proceeds
The experience that shall base high victories.
The tree of the good and evil knowledge needs
A rooting place in thoughtful agonies.
Failures of lofty essays are the seeds
Out of whose dryness, when cold Night dis-
solves
Into the dawning Spring, fertilities
Of liealthiest promise leap rejoicingly.
Therefore hold on thy way, all luidismayed
At the bent brows of Fate, untiringly !
Knowing this — past all the woe our earth in-
volves,
Sooner or later Truth must be obeyed.
399
SARA JANE LIPPINCOTT— 1
LIPPINCOTT, Sara Jane (Clarke),
an American author, born at Poiiipey, N
Y., in 1823. In 1843 she removed with
her parents to New Brighton, Pa., and en-
tered upon literary worlc, her first prose ar-
ticles being published over the signature
of" Grace Greenwood," by which she is best
known. She married Mr. Leander K. Lip-
pi ncott, of Philadelphia, and in 1854 estab-
lished there a juvenile paper, The Little
Pilgrim^ which she edited for several
years. Among her works are : Greenwood
Leaves (1850), Poems (1861), Haps and
Mishajys of a Tour in England (1854), The
Forest Tragedy and Other Tales (1856),
Stories and Jjegends of Travel (1858), Stor-
ies from Famous Ballads (1860), Stories
of Many Lands (1867), Stories and Sights
in France and Italy (1868), New Life in
New Lands (1873), Stories for Home Folks
(1884.)
THE POET OF TO-DAY.
More than the soul of ancient song is given
To thee, O ])oet of to-day ! — thy dower
Comes from a higher than Olympian heaven,
In holier beauty and in larger power.
To thee Humanity, her woes revealing,
Would all her griefs and ancient wrongs re-
hearse ;
Would make fhy song the voice of her appeal-
ing.
And sob her mighty sorrows through thy
verse.
While in her season of great darkness sharing,
Hail thou the coming of each promise-star
Which climbs the midnight of her long despair-
ing,
And watch foi- morning o'er the hills afar.
400
SARA JANE LIPPINCOTT.— 2
Wherever truth her holy warfare wages,
Or treedom pines, there let thy voice be heard.
Sound like a prophet-warning down the ages
The human utterance of God's living word !
But bring thou not the battle's stormy chorus,
The tramp of armies, and the roar of Hglit.
Not war's hot smoke to taint the sweet nioni
o'er us,
Nor blaze of pillage reddening up the night.
Oil, let thy lays prolong that angel-singing.
Girdling mth music the Redeemer's star.
And breathe God's peace, to earth glad tidings
bringing
From the near heavens of old so dim and far !
IXVOCATION TO MOTHER EARTH.
Oh, Earth! thy face hath not the grace
That smiling Heaven did bless,
When thou wert "good," and blushing stood
In thy young loveliness;
And, mother dear, the smile and tear
In thee are strangely met;
Thy joy and woe together flow —
But ah 1 we love thee yet.
Thou still art fail", when morn's fresh air
Thrills with the lark's sweet song;
When Nature seems to wake from dreams.
And laugh and dance along;
Thou 'rt fair at day, wiien clouds all gray
Fade into glorious blue ;
When sunny Hours fly o'er the flowers,
And kiss away the dew.
Thou 'rt fair at eve, when skies receive
The last smile of the sun ;
When thi'ough the shades the twilight spreads,
The stars peep, one by one;
Thou 'rt fair at night, when full starlight
Streams down upon the sod ;
When moonlight pale on hill and dale
Rests like the smile of God.
401
SAKA JANE LIPPINCOTT.— 3
And thou art grand, where hikes expand,
And mighty rivers roll ;
AVhen Ocean proud, with threateiiings loud,
Mocketh at man's control ;
And grand thou art when lightnings dart
And gleam athwart the sky ;
When thunders peal, and forests reel,
And storms go sweeping by !
We bless thee now for gifts that thou
Hast freely on us shed ;
For dews and showers, and beauteous bowers,
And blue skies overhead ;
For morn's perfume, and midday's bloom,
And evening's hour of mirth ;
For glorious night, for all things bright.
We bless thee, Mother Earth !
But when long years of care and tears
Have com(! and passed away.
The tmie may be when sadly we
Shall turn to thee, and say :
" We are worn with life, its toils and strife.
We long, we pine for rest ;
We come, we come, all weai'ied home —
Room, mother, in thy breast ! "
402
DAVID LIVINGSTONE— 1
LIVINGSTONE, David, a Scottish mis-
sionary and explorer in Africa, born at
Blantyre, near Glasgow, in 1813 . died at
llala, Central Africa, May 1, 1873. His
father was a poor weaver, and the son
gained the greater part of his early educa-
tion at an evening school, while working
through the day in a cotton-mill. While
still working in the mill, he studied medi-
cine and theology, and in 1838 oft'ei-ed him-
self to the London Missionary Society as a
missionary to Southern Africa, whither he
set out in 18-10. At Port Natal he mar-
ried the daughter of Robert Moft'att, a mis-
sionary, and took up his station at Kuru-
man, about 600 miles from Cape Town.
In 1849 he started on his first exploring
expedition, during which he discovered
Lake Ngami, the first of the great African
lakes made known to Europeans. In 1852
he set out upon his second expedition,
which lasted four years. Leaving Cape
Town, he made his'way to the Portuguese
settlements, thence going eastward across
the entire breadth of the African continent
to the sea, travelling in all not less than
11,000 miles. He returned to England in
1856, and next year published his Mis-
sionary Travels and JResearches in South
Africa.
In 1858, having been provided with
funds by Government and private individ-
uals, he returned to Africa. Among the
results of this expedition, which lasted
until 1863, was the discovery of Lake
Nyassa. He also re-visited the Falls of
Mosioatunye (" Sounding Smoke ") on the
Zambesi, which he had discovered during
his previous journey, l^o this cataract —
'403
DAVID LIVINGSTONE.— 2
not less remarkable than that of Niagara,
lie gave the name of " Victoria Falls." lie
returned to England in 1864, and in the
following year put forth his Narrative of
an Exiiedition to the Zamhesi and its Tribu-
taries.
In 1865 he set out on a new expedition.
Nothing was heard of him for a year, and
a report reached the coast that he had been
murdered by the natives ; but in April,
1868, letters were received from idm. The
next tidings came in May, 1869, when he
was at Ujiji, on Lake Tanganyika, in Cen-
tral Africa. It was nearly two years be-
fore anything further was heard from liim.
In 1871 the proprietor of the New York
Herald fitted out an expedition, under the
command of Henry M. Stanley, to go in
search of Livingstone. Stanley reached
Lake Tanganyika, where he encountered
Livingstone, who had just arrived fi-om a
long expedition, in the course of which he
came upon a great riVer to which he gave
the native name of the Lualaba, which he
erroneously believed to be the upper waters
of the Nile ; but which is now generally
known as the Congo — the same which
Stanley subsequently descended to its
mouth — more than- a thousand miles from
that of the Nile.
Of Livingstone nothing further was heard
until October, 1873, when Commander Cam-
eron, who had been sent by the British
Government with a party for his relief, met
a company of the explorer's paity, who
were bearing the dead body of their leader,
who had died hundreds of miles away on the
1st of May. The remains were carried to
the coast, thence to London, where they were
404
DAVID LIVINGSTONE.— 3
solemuly buried iu Westminster Abbey,
April 18, 1874:. These faitlifal attendants
of Livingstone also brought his papers
which were deciphered, and pubHshed in
187-i, under the title. The Last Journals of
David Livingstone, including his Wander-
ings and Discoveries in Eastern Africa from
1865 to ivithin a few days of his Death.
ENCOUNTER WITH A LION.
We found the lions on ti small hill about a
quarter of a mile in length, and covered with
trees. A circle of men was formed round it,
and they gradually closed up, ascending pretty
near to each other. Being down below on the
plain with a native schoolmaster, named
Mebdlwe — a most excellent man — I saw one
of the lions sitting on a piece of rock within the
now closed circle of men. Mebalwe fired at
him before I could, and the ball struck the rock
on which the animal was sitting. He bit at the
spot struck, as a dog does at a stick or stone
thrown at him ; then leaping away, broke
through tiie opening circle, and escaped unhurt.
The men were afraid to attack him, perhaps on
account of their belief in witchcraft. When the
circle was re-formed, we saw two other lions in
it ; but we were afraid to fire lest we should
strike the men, and they allowed the beasts to
I»urst through also. If the Bakatla had acted
according to the custom of the country, they
would have speared the lions in their attempt to
get out.
Seeing we could not get them to kill one of
the lions, we bent our footsteps towards the vil-
lage. In going round the end of the hill, how-
ever, I saw one of the beasts sitting on a piece
of rock as before ; but this time he had a little
bush in front. Being about thirty yards off, I
took a good aim at his body through the bush,
and fired both barrels into it. The men then
405
DAVID LIVINGSTONE.— 4
called out, " He is shot ! he is shot ! " Others
I'lied, "He has been shot by another mjin too ;
let us go to him ! " I did not see any one else
shoot at him ; but I saw the hon's tail erected
in anger behind the bush, and turning to the
people, said, " Stop a little till I load again."
When in the act of ramming down the bullets
I heard a shout, Starting, and looking half
round, I saw the lion just in the act of springing
upon me- I was upon a little height ; he caught
my shoulder as he sprang, and both came to the
ground below together. Growling horribly close
to my ear, he shook me as a terrier-dog does a
rat. The shock produced a stupor similai' to
that which seems to be felt by a mouse after the
first shake of the cat. It caused a sort of dreami-
ness, in which there was no sense of pain nor
feeling of terror, though quite conscious of all
that was happening. It was like what patients
partially under the influence of chloroform de-
scribe, who see all the operation, but feel not
the knife. This singular condition was not the
result of any mental process. The shake anni-
hilated fear, and allowed no sense of horror in
looking round at the beast. This peculiar state
is probably produced in all animals killed by the
carnivora; and if so, is a merciful provision of
our benevolent Creator for lessening the pain of
death.
Turning round to relieve myself of the weight
— as he had one paw on the back of my head —
I saw his eyes directed to MebAlwe, who was
trying to shoot him at a distance of ten or fifteen
yards ; his gun, a flint one, missed fire in both
barrels. The lion immediately left me, and at-
tacking Mebalwe, bit his thigh. Another man,
whose life I had saved before, after he had been
tossed by a buffalo, attempted to spear the lion
while he was biting MebAlwe. He left Mebalwe,
and caught this man by the shoulder ; but at
that moment the bullets he had received look
effect and he fell down dead. The whole was
406
DAVID LIVINGSTONE.— 5
tlie work of u tew moments, and must have been
his paroxysms of dying rage. In order to take
out the charm from him, the Bakathi on the fol-
lowing day made a huge bonfire over the car-
cass, which was declared to be that of the larg-
est lion they had ever seen. Besides crunching
the bone into splinters, he left eleven teeth-
wounds on the upper part of my arm Mis-
sionary Travels and. Researches.
THE FALLS OF MOSIOATUNYA.
It is rather a hopeless task to endeavor to
convey an idea of this cataract in words, since,
as was remarked on the spot, an accomplished
painter even by a number of views, could impart
but a faint impression of the glorious scene. The
probable mode of its formation may perhaps help
to the conception of its peculiar shape. Niagara
has been formed by a wearing back of the rock
over which the river falls ; and, during a long
course of ages, it lias gradually receded, and left
a liroad, deep, and pretty straight trough in
front. But the Victoria Falls have been formed
1) y a crack right across the river, in the hard, black
basaltic rock, which there forms the bed of the
Zambesi. The lips of the crack are still quite
sliarp, save about three feet of the edge over
which the river falls. The walls go sheer down
from the lips without any projecting crag, or
symptom of stratification or dislocation.
When the mighty rift occurred, no change of
level took place in the two parts of the bed of
the river tlius rent asunder ; consequently in
coming down the river to Garden Island,* the
water suddenly disappears, and we see the op-
posite side of the cleft, with grass and trees
growing where once the bed of the river ran, on
*" Garden Island" lies at the very edge of the
cataract, much as " Goat Island " does at Niagara.
It was so named by Living.stone when, in 1855, he
first saw Mosioatunya.
407
DAVID LIVINGSTONE.— 6
the same level us that part of the hed on
wli'udi we now sail.
The lirst erack is in length a few yards more
than the bi'eadtli of the Zambesi, which by meas-
ununent, we found to be a little over 1860
yards ; but this number we resolved to retain,
as indicating the year in which the fall was for
the first time carefully examined. The main
stream here runs nearly north and south,
and the cleft across is nearly east and west.
The depth of the rift was measured by lowering
a line, to the end of which a few bullets and a
foot of white cotton cloth were tied. One of us
lay witli his head over a projecting crag, and
watched the descending calico, till after his com-
panions liad i)aid out 310 feet, the weight rested
on a sloping projection, probably 50 feet fi'om
the water below — the actual bottom being still
farther down. The white cloth now appeared
the size ot a crown-piece. On measurmg the
width of this deep cleft by the sextant, it was
found at Garden Island — its narrowest part — to
be 80 yards, and at its broadest somewhat more.
Into this chasm, of twice the depth of Niagara
Falls, the rivei- — a full mile wide — rolls with a
deafening roar. And this is the Mosioatunya,
or Victoria Falls.
Looking from Garden Island down to the
bottom of the abyss, nearly half a mile of water
which has fallen over that portion of the falls to
our right, or west of our point of view, is seen
collected in a narrow channel, 20 or 30 yards
wide, and flowing at exactly right angles to its
previous course, to our left ; while the other
half — or that which fell over the eastern portion
of the falls — is seen on the left of the narrow
channel below, coming towards our right. Both
waters unite midway in a fearful boiling whirl-
pool, and find an outlet by a crack situated at
right angles to the fissure of the falls. This
outlet is about 1170 yards from the westei-n end
of the chasm, and some 600 from its Eastern
408
DAVID LIVINGSTONE.— 7
end. The whirlpool is at its commeiK-ement.
The Zambesi — now not apparently more than
20 or 30 yards wide — vuslies and surges
south, throiiiih the narrow escape-channel, for
130 yards; then enters a second chasm, some-
what deeper and nearly parallel with the first.
Abandoning the bottom of tlie eastern half of
this second chasm to the growth of large trees,
it turns sharply off to the west, and forms a pro-
montory with the escape-channel 1170 yards
long, and 416 yards broad at the base. After
leaching this base the river Hows abruptly round
the head of anotlier promontory, much narrower
tlian the rest, and away back to the west in a
fourth chasm ; and we could see in the distance
that it appeared to round still another promon-
tory, and bend once more in .another chasm to-
ward tiie east.
In this gigantic zig-zag, yet narrow trough,
tlie rocks are all so sharply cut and angular, that
the idea at once arises that the hard basaltic trap
must have been riven into its present yha[)e by a
force acting from beneath; and that this proba-
bly took place when the ancient inland seas were
let off by similar fissures nearer the ocean —
Expedition to the Zambesi.
Considering that it requires a journey of
not less than three months to reach Mosio-
atunya from the coast in either direction,
and as long to return, it is not strange that
so few Europeans have seen the falls. We
have endeavored to keep a record of these,
and do not find more than a score up to
1889. Charles Livingstone, the younger
brother of David, who accompanied him on
this expedition, is the only person, as far as
we know, who has seen both Mosioatunya
and Niagara, and he considers the former
to be the more striking of the two. — Of
Livingstone's last journey only a few words
409
DAVID LIVINGSTONE.— 8
Call here be said. In liis Journal^ late iii
August, 1872, lie notes the objects he had
in view: —
LATEST GEOGRAPHICAL SPECULATIOXS.
Mr. Stanley used some very strong arguments
in favor of my going home, recruiting my
strengtli, getting artificial teeth, and then re-
turning to finish my task. But now judgment
said, " All your friends will wish you to make a
complete work of the exploration of the Sources
of the Nile before you retire." My daughter
Agnes says, " Much as I wish you to come
home, I would rather that you finished your
work to your own satisfaction than return merely
to gratify me." Rightly and nobly said, my
darling Nannie. Vanity whispers pretty loudly,
" She is a chip of the old block." My blessings
on her and all the rest.
It is all but certain that four fullgrown, gush-
ing fountains rise on the water-shed eight days
south of Katanga (about lat. 8° S., long. 30° W.),
each of which at no great distance off becomes a
large river ; and two rivers thus formed flow nortli
to Egypt, the other two south to Inner Ethiopia;-
that is, Lufii'a, or Bartle Frere's River, flows
into Kamolondo, and that into Webb's Luahiba
— the main line of drainage. Another, on the
north side of the sources — Sir Paraffin Young's
Lualaba — flows through Lake Lincoln, otlier-
wise named Chibungo and Lomame, and that
too into Webb's Lualaba. Then Liambai Foun-
tain— Palmerston's — forms the Upper Zambesi ;
and the Longa(Lunga) — Oswell's Fountain — is
the Kafue ; both flowing into Inner Ethiopia.
It may be that these are not the fountains of the
Nile mentioned to Herodotus by the secretary
of Minerva, in Sais, in Egypt ; but they are
worth discovery, as in the last hundred of the
700 miles of water-shed from wdiich nearly all
the Nile springs do unquestionably arise.
I propose to go from Unyanembe to Fipa ;
410
DAVID LIVINGSTON K 9
tlicu round the south end of 'I'aiiganyika, Taiu-
bete, or Mbete ; tlien across the Cliambeze, and
round south of Lake Bangwelo, and due west to
the ancient fountains ; leaving the underground
excavations, till after visiting Katanga. This
route will serve to certify that no other sources
of the Nile can come from the south without be-
ing seen by me. No one will cut me out after
this exploration is accomplished. And may the
good Lord of All help me to show myself one
of His stout-hearted servants ; an honor to my
children, and perhaps to my country and my
race .... Stanley's men may arrive in July
next.
Then engage bearers half a month — August ;
five months of tiiis year will remain for joui-ney.
The whole of 1873 will be swallowed up in
work ; but in February or March, 1874, please
the Almighty Disposer of events, I shall com-
plete my task and retire.
Up to April 10, 1873, notwithstanding several
attacks of dissentery, Livingstone kept a full
journal of his doings ; but on that day he had a
severe attack, and failed rapidly, but was carried
in a palanquin. His journal thenceforth con-
tains only mere jottings. The last entry is dated
April 27 • " Knocked up quite, and remain —
recover — sent to buy milch goats. We are on
the banks of the Molilamo." The accounts of
his last hours are derived wholly from the re-
lations of two of his faithful native followers.
About midnight, April 30, May 1, he prepared
a dose of calomel for himself, and said to his at-
tendants, " All right; you can go now." These
wore the last words that mortal man ever heard
from his lips. Some hours later his men became
alarmed, and six of them entered his hut. This
is what they saw :
THE DEAD LIVINGSTONE.
Passing inside, they looked towards the bed.
Livingstone was not lying u[)oii it, but appeared
411
DAVID LIVINGSTONE.— 10
to be i-n gaged in prayer. A candle, stuck by
its own wax to the top of the bed, shed a light
sufficient for them to see his form. He was
kneeling by the side of his bed, liis body stretched
forward, his head buried in his hands upon the
pillow. For a minute they watched liim. He
did not stir, there was no sign of breathing.
Then one of them advanced softly to him and
placed liis hands to his cheeks. It was suffi-
cient : life had been extinct for some time, and
the body was almost cold. Livingstone was
dead.
412
LIVY.— 1
LIVY (Titus Livius, surnamed Patavi-
Nus, from the place of his birth), a Roman
historian, born at Patavium, the modern
Padua, B.C. 59; died there a.d. 17. "His
family, originally of Rome, was one of the
most important in his native city. He
went to Rome where he became prominent
as a rhetorician, which in his case was
equivalent to a lecturer on belles-lettres,
and was one of the brilliant circle, of which
Yirgil and Horace, somewhat his seniors,
were members, that adorned the Court of
the Emperor Augustus, at whose sugges-
tion, we are told, Livy set about his great
history, called by himself the •Annals of
Rome.
The Annals^ when entire, consisted of'
1-1:2 " Books ; " but of these only 35 are
now extant, so that more than three-fourths
luive been lost. They were at an early
period divided into " decades," or series of
ten Books. The decades which wx have
are the 1st, the 3d, the 4th, a portion of the
5th, and a few fragments of others. The
lost decades are those which — apart from
their quantity — would have been far more
valuable than those which remain, since
they relate to the later historj^ of Rome,
for which more trustworthy materi als existed
than for the early centuries. This defi-
ciency is, however, partially supplied by si
very early abstract of the contents of the;
lost portions; and these abstracts are our
only means of acquaintance with some of
the most important periods of Roman his-
tory. The quarter which remains makes
four stout volumes ; so that the Annals were
one of the most comprehensive historical
works ever written by a single person.
413
LIVY.— 2
The question of the authenticity of the
Annals of Livy has been much debated. It
is admitted that much is purely legendary.
Livy himself affirms this of at letist the
earlier Books. But our purpose is not to
set forth the verity of Roman history ; but
to sliow Livy's manner of telling it. Our
extracts are from the very literal and some-
what bald, translations by Spillan and Ed-
monds, and the more spirited rendering of
certain passages by the Rev. W. Lucas Col-
lins, embodied in his little work on Livy.
THE LEGEND OF ROMULUS AND REMUS.
In my opinion the origin of so great a city,
and the establishment of an empire next in
power to that of the gods, was due to the Fates.
The vestal Rhea, being deflowered by force,
when she had brought forth twins, declares Mars
to be the fatlier of her illegitimate offspring —
either because she believed it to be so, or because
a god was amox-e creditable author of her offence.
But neither gods nor man protect lier or her
children from the king's cruelty. The priestess
is bound and thrown into prison ; the children
he commands to be thrown into the current of
the river.
By some interposition of Providence, the
Tiber, having overflowed its banks in stagnant
pools, did not admit of any access to the regular
bed of the river ; and the bearers supposed that
the infants could be drowned in waters however
still. Then, as if they liad effectually executed
the king's orders, they exposed the boys in the
nearest land-flood, where now stands the Ficus
Rummahs (they say that it was anciently called
XXie Ficus Romulamis, "the Fig-tree of Romulus.")
The country thereabout was then a vast wilder-
ness.
The tradition is, that when the subsiding
water had left on the dry ground the floating
414
LIVY.— 3
trougli, in which the chikhrn had been exposed,
a thirsty she-wolf eoming from the ueigliboring
inoimtains, directed her course to the cries of the
itifants. and tliat she held down her dugs to them
with so much gentleness that the keeiier of the
king's flocks found her licking the boys with her
tongue. It is said that his name was Faust ii-
lus ; and tliat they were carried by him to his
homestead to be nursed by his wife Laiirentia.
Some are of opinion that she v as called Ltipa —
She-wolf — among the shepherds, from her being
a common prostitute, and that tliis gave rise to
the surprising story. — Annals, Book I. — TransL
o/'Si'ii.LAN and Edmonds.
THE COMBAT OF THE HOUATII AND THE
CURIATII.
The signal is given ; and the tliree youths on
each side, as if in battle array, rush to the charge
with determined fury, bearing in their breasts
the spirit of mighty armies ; nor do the one nor
the other regard their personal danger. The
public dominion or slavery is present to their
mind, and the fortunes of their country, which
was ever after destined to be such as they should
now establish it.
As soon as their arms clashed on the first en-
counter, and their burnished swords glittered,
great horror strikes the spectators ; and, hope
inclining to neither side, their voice and breath
wen; suspended. Then, having engaged hand to
hand, when not only the movements of their
bodies and the rapid brandisliings of their
weapons, but wounds also and blows Avere seen ;
two of the Romans fell lifeless, one upon the
other — the three Albans being wounded. And
when the Alban army raised a shout of joy at
their fall, hope entirely — anxiety, however not
yet — deserted the Roman legions, alarmed for
the lot of the one whom the three Curiatii sur-
rounded. He happened to be unhurt, so that,
being alone, he was by no means a match for
415
LIVY.— 4
them all. Yet, he was confident against each
singly. In order therefore, to separate their at-
tack, he takes to flight, presuming that they
would pursue him with sucli swiftness as the
wounded state of his body would suffer each.
He liad now fled a considerable distance fiom
the place where they had fought, wlien, looking
behind, he perceived them pursuing him at great
intervals from each other, and that one of them
was not far from him ; on liim he tmiied jiround
with great fury. And whilst the Albaii aimy
shouts out to the Curiatii to succor their brother,
Horatius, victorious in liaving slain liis ant:igo-
nist, was now proceeding lo a second attack.
Then the Romans encourage their cliam|)ion
Avith a shout such as is usually given by persons
cheering in consequence of unexpected success ;
he also" hastens to put an end to the combat.
Wherefore, before the other, who was not far
off, could come up, he dispatched this second
Curiatius also.
And now, the combat being brought to an
equality of numbers, one on each side remained ;
but they were equal neither in hope nor in
strength. The one, his body untouched by a
weapon, and by his double victory made cour-
ageous for a third contest ; the other dragguig
afoiig his body exhausted from the wound, ex-
hausted from running, and dispirited by the
slaughter of his brethren before his eyes, pre-
sents himself to his victorious antagonist. Nor
was that a fight. The Roman, exulting, says,
" Two I have ottered to the Shades of my
brothers ; the third I will offer to the cause of
this war, that tlie Roman may rule oyer the
Alban." He thrusts his sword down into his
throat, whilst faintly sustaining the weight of
his armor ; he strips him as he lies prostrate.
The Romans receive Horatius with triumph
and congratulation ; and with so much the
o-reater joy, as success had followed so close
on fear. ...
416
LIVY.— 5
After this both armies returned to their
homes. Horatius marched foremost, carrying
before him tlie spoils of the three brothers.
His sister — a maiden who liad been betrothed to
one of the Curiatii — met him before the gate
Capena ; and having recognized her lover's
military robe, which she herself had wrought,
on her brother's shoulders, she tore her hair,
iuul with bitter wailings called by name on her
.l.'ceased lover. The sister's lamentations in
ill the midst of his own victory, and of such great
public rejoicings, raised the indignation of the
excited youth. Having therefore drawn his
sword, he ran tlie damsel through the body, at
tlie same time chiding her in these words ; "Go
lience, with thy unseasonable love to thy es-
poused, forgetful of thy dead brotiiers, and of
him who survives — forgetful of thy native coun-
try. So perish every Ronuin woman who shall
mourn an enemy !" — Aiinah, Book 1 — Transl.
of Spillax and Edmonds.
Hannibal's passage of the alps.
On the ninth day they came to a summit of
the Alps, chiefly through places trackless; and
after many mistakes of their way, which were
caused either by the treachery of the guides ;
or, when they were not trusted, by entering val-
leys at random, on their own conjectures of the
route.' For two days they remained encamped
on the summit ; and rest was given to the sol-
diers, exhausted with toil and figliting ; and sev-
eral beasts of burden, which had fallen down
among the rocks, by following the track of the
:uiny, arrived at the camp. A fall of snow — it
h<-ing now the season of the setting of the con-
stellation of the Pleiades — caused great fear to
the soldiers, already worn out with weariness
of so many hardsliips.
On the standards being moved forward at day-
break, when the army ))roce<'ded slowly over all
places entirely block(;(l up witli snow, i\nd lan-
27 ' 417
LIVY.— 6
guor and despair strongly appeared in the eoun-
tcnanoes of all, Hannibal, liaving advanced be-
fore the standards, and ordered th(> soldiers to
halt on a certain eminence, whence there was a
prospect far and wide, points out to them Italy
and tlie plains of the Po, extending themselves
l>eneath the Alpine mountains ; and said that
they were now surmounting not only the ram-
parts of Italy, but also of the city of Rome ;
that the rest of the journey would be smooth
and down hill ; that after one, or at most a sec
ond battle, they would have the citadel and capi-
tal of Italy in their power and possession.
The army tlien began to advance ; the enemy
now making no attempts beyond petty thefts, as
opportunity offered. But tiie journey proved much
more difficult than it had been in the ascent, as
tlie declivity of the Alps being generally shorter
on the side of Italy, is consequently steeper.
Nearly all the road was precipitous, narrow, and
slippery, so that neither those who made the
least stumble coidd prevent themselves from fall-
ing, nor, when fallen, remain in the same place;
but rolled, both men and beasts of burden, one
upon another.
They then came to a rock much more narrow,
and formed of such per[)endicidar ledges that a
liglit-armed soldier — carefully making the at-
tempt, and clinging with his hands to the bushes
and roots around — could -with difficulty lower
himself down. The ground, even before very
steep by nature, had been broken by a recent
falling away of the earth into a precipice of
nearly a thousand feet in depth. Here, when
the cavalry had halted, as if at the end of their
journey, it is announced to Hannibal, wonder-
ing wdiat had obstructed the march, that the
rock was impassable. Having then gone him-
self to view the place, it seemed clear to him
that he must lead his army round it, I)y however
great a circuit, tlirough the pathless and untrod-
den regions around.
418
LIVY.— 7
But this route also proved impraoticiibk' ; for
while the new snow of a, moderate depth re-
mained on the old. wliich had not been removed,
their footsteps were planted with ease, as they
walked upon the new snow, which was soft, and
not too deep ; but when it was dissolved by the
trampling of so many men and beasts of burden,
they then walked on the bare ice below, and
through a dirty fluid formed by the melting
snow.
Here there was a wretched struggle, both on
jiccount of the slippery ice not affording any foot-
hold to the step, and giving away beneath the
foot the more readily by reason of the slope ; and
wliether they assisted tliemselves in rising l)y
tlii^ir hands or their knees, their supports theui-
-flves giving way, they would tumble again. Nor
were there any stumps or roots near, by pressing
i.^ainst which one might with hand or foot sup-
[)oit himself; so that they only floundered on tiie
smooth ice and amid the melted snow. The beasts
of burden also cut into this lower ice by merely
Heading upon it; at others they broke it com-
|)letely through by the violence with which they
struck it with their hoofs in their struggling ; so
that most of tiiem, as if taken in a trap, stuck
ill the hardened and deeply frozen ice.
At length, after the men and beasts of burden
had been fatigued to no purpose, the camp was
pitched on tlie summit, the ground being cleared
for tiiat purpose with great difficulty, so mucli
snow was tliere to be dug out and carried away,
i'lie soldiers being then set to make a way down
till' cliff, by which alone a passage could be ef-
frcted ; and it being necessary that they should
rut through the rocks, having felled and lopped
.1 number of large trees wliich grew around,
tlicy make a huge pile of timber; and as soon
as a strong wind fit for exciting the flames arose,
lli<!y set tire to it ; and pouring vinegar on the
heated stones, they render them soft and crumb-
ling. They then open a way with iron instru-
41',»
LIVY.— 8
meats through the rock thus heated by the fire,
and soften its declivities by gentle windings, so
that not only the beasts of burden, but also the
elephants, could be led down it.
Four days were spent about this rock, the
beasts nearly perishing through hunger ; for the
summits of the mountains are for the most part
bare, and if there is any pasture the snows bury
it. The lower parts contain valleys, and some
sunny hills, and rivulets flowing beside woods,
and scenes more worthy of the abode of man.
There the beasts of burden were sent out to pas-
ture, and rest given for three days to the men,
fatigued with forming the passage. They then
descended into the plains — the country and the
dispositions of the inhabitants being now less
rugged.
In this manner chiefly they came to Italy in
the fifth month, as some authors relate, after
leaving New Carthage, having crossed the Alps
in fifteen days. What number of forces Han-
nibal had when he passed into Italy, is by no
means agreed upon by authors. Those who state
them at the highest make mention of 100,000
Coot and 20,000 horse ; those who state them at
the lowest, of 20,000 foot and 6,000 horse.
Lucius Cincius Alimentus, who relates that he
was made prisoner by Hannibal, would influence
me most as an authority, did he not confound
the number by adding the Gauls and Liguiians.
Including these (who, it is more probable, flocked
to him afterwards — and so some authors assert),
he says that 80,000 foot and 10,000 horse were
brought into Italy ; and that he had hef^rd from
Hannibal himself that after crossing the Rhone
he had lost 36,000 men, and an immense number
of horses and other beasts of burden, among the
Taurini, the next nation to the Gauls, as he de-
scended into Italy Annals, Book XXI. —
Transl. of Spillan and Edmonds.
420
LIVY.— !)
IN ROMK, AFTER THE PEFEAT NEAR LAKE
THRASYMENUS
AVlien the first tidings of this disaster reached
Koine, great was the panic and confusion ; and
there was a general rush of the people into the
Forum. Wives and mothers wandered about
the streets, asking all they met what this sudden
calamity was that men reported, and which had
happened to the army. And when the crowd,
like a great public meeting, made its way to the
election-courts and the senate-house, and ap-
pealed to the magistrates for information, at
length, a little before sunset, Marcus Pomponius,
the Prtetor announced, " We have been beaten
in a great battle." And though no further par-
ticulars could be learned from him, yet men
caught vague rumors one from the other, and
went home saying, that "the Consul, with the
greater part of its forces were cut to pieces ;
that the few who survived had either been
made to pass under the yoke or were scattered
in flight throught Etruria." Various as was the
fate of the beaten army were the different forms
of anxiety felt by those who had relatives serv-
ing under the Consul; none knowing wliat tl\eir
fate had been, and all uncertain what they had
to hope or what to fear.
Next day, and for some days afterwards,
crowds thronged the gates — women in almost as
great numbers as men — waiting for some mem-
ber of their family, or for news of him. They
threw themselves upon all whom they met, with
anxious inquiries, and could not be shaken off —
especially from any one whom tliey knew — until
they had asked every particular from first lo last.
Then you might have marked the different
countenances, as they passed from their infoini-
ants, according as each had heard cheerinir or
mournful news; while, on the way home, friends
crowded around them to congiatulate or condole.
The women showed tlieir joy or grief most (con-
spicuously. One mother who met her son at the
LIVY.— 10
gate, returning safe, is said to have expired on
beholding him ; another, who had heard a false
report of her son's death, and was sitting weep-
ing in her house, saw him returning, and died
of over-joy. The Praetors kept the Senate sit-
ting for several days from sunrise to sunset, con-
sulting what commander and wliat troops could
be found to resist the victorious Carthaginians,
— Annals, Chap. XXII — Transl. of Collins.
IN ROME AFTER THE VICTORY ON THE
METAURLS.
While the city was in this state of anxious
suspense, there came a rumor, vague at first,
that two Narnian horsemen had ridden from the
battle to the Roman force wliicli lay watching
the passes of Umbria, with the news that the
enemy had received a heavy blow. Men took
it in with their ears rather than their minds, as
too great and too joyful to be entertained in
thought, or readily believed. The very rapidity
of the communication was an objection, for tlie
1 tattle was said to have taken place only two
days before.
Soon a letter was brought in from JManlius,
from the camp, announcing the arrival of the
horsemen. When this letter was carried
through the Forum to the court of the City
Praetor, the Senate rose in a body from their
hall ; and such a rush and struggle was made
by the people towards the doors of the Senate-
house that the courier could not make his way
through, but was dragged to and fro by eager
enquirers demanding that he should read it
loudly on the public rostra before he cariied it
to the Senate. At last the crowd was forced
back and kept under restraint by the authori-
ties, and the joyful news w^as circulated by
degrees, though men's minds were as yet un-
able to receive it. The letter was read in the
Senate first, then in public to the people ; and,
according to their various dispositions, some
i'ii
LTVY.— 11
felt ail assured joy, others would give no credit
to the tale until they had either heard or seen
despatches from the Consuls themselves.
Presently word was brought that official
messengers were coming. Then young and old
went forth to meet tliem, each longing to be the
ilrst to drink in such joyful tidings with eyes
and ears. There was one continuous stream of
j)eople out as far as the Milvian bridge. The
officers entered the P'orum, the centre of a crowd
of all ranks. Some questioned them, and some,
those who escorted them, as to what had hap-
pened ; and as each heard the news that the
enemy's forces, and their commander, Hasdrubal,
were cut to |)ieces — that the Roman legions were
safe, that the Consuls were unharmed — they at
once imparted their joy to others. The temples
during the next three days were crowded ;
wives and mothers in holiday attire, leading
(heir childi-en with them, were giving thanks to
heaven, and casting off all fear, as though the
war were already ended Annals, Chap.
XXVII Trunsl. of Collins.
HANNIBAL RECALLED FROM ITALY TO
CARTHAGE.
He is said to have groaned aloud, and
ground, his teeth and scarcely to have re-
frained from tears, as he listened to the mes-
sage of the envoys. When they had delivered
themselves of tlieir instructions, "Ay," said he,
"now they recall me in plain terms instead of by
iiii|ilication — they who have so long been trying
to drag me back by refusing me men or money.
Hannibal is defeated not by the Roman peoph-.
whom he has so often beaten and put to Hight,
but by the Carthaginian Government — their
jealousy and envy. Not Scipio himself will
lioast and exult so much in this ignoniinioiis
ntuin of mine, as will Hanno, who seeks to
('jfei't the destruclioii of our house by tin! ruin
of Carthage, since he caM do it in no other way."
42 i
LIVY.— 12
Seldom was any man, leaving his native land
for foreign exile, known to have parted from it
with more evident sorrow that Hannibal showed
in quitting the soil of an enemy. Often, as he
looked back on the shores of Italy, lie accused
gods and men, and cursed himself and his folly,
•'that he had not led his troops straight to
Rome while their swords were yet red from the
victory of Cannfe." — Annals, Chap. XXX
Transl. of Collins.
THE DEATH OP HANNIBAL.
He had always anticipated some such end to
Ills life [being delivered up to the Romans] ;
both because he knew the unrelenting hatred
the Romans bore him, and because he had little
faith in the honor of princes. He had taken
refuge with Prusias, King of Bithynia; and the
Roman General Flaminius demanded his death
or rendition to them. He asked a slave for the
(joison which he liad for some time kept ready
for such an emergency. "Let us free Rome
from this anxiety," said he, " since they think it
long to wait for an old man's death." [His age
was only forty-five.] "The triumph which
Flaminius will win over an unarmed and aged
man is neither great or glorious ; verily, this
moment bears witness that the character of the
Roman people has somewhat changed. Their
fathers, when King Pyrrhus — an armed enemy
— lay camped in Italy, forewarned him to be-
ware of poison. These present men have sent
one of their Consulars on such an errand as
tliis — to urge Prusias to the base murder of liis
guest."
Then launching execrations against Prusias and
his kingdom, and calling on the gods to witness
liis breach of faith and hospitalities, he swallowed
the draught. Such was the end of Hannibal
Annals, Chap. XXXIX. — Transl. o/" Collins.
424
JOHN LOCKE.— 1
LOCKE, John, an English philosopher,
born in 1632 ; died in 1704. After stndy-
iug at Westminster School he entered
Christ-churcli College, Oxford, where he
took his degree of Bachelor of Arts in
1655, and where he continued to reside un-
til 1664, when he became secretary to an
embass}^ to the Electoral Court of Branden-
burg. Returning to England after a year,
he was for some time in doubt whether
to continue in the diplomatic profession, to
study medicine, or to take Orders in tiie
Cliurch. In fact, though he became neither
a physician nor a clergyman, he entered
deeply into both medicine and theology.
In 1669 he was employed by Lord Ash-
ley, afterwards Earl of Shaftesbury, to draw
up a series of fundamental laws for the
government of the colony of Carolina,
which had been granted to Ashley and
seven others. In 1682 Shaltesbury was
impeached of high treason, and took refuge
ill Holland, whither he was soon followed
by Locke, whose name was by order of the
King stricken from the roll of Oxford stu-
dents. While residing at Utrecht he wrote
his noble essay on Toleration^ the cardinal
principle of Avhich is that the State has to do
only with civil matters, and should there-
fore tolerate all modes of Avorship not im-
moral in their nature or involving doctrines
inimical to good government. Returning
to England in the same fleet which brought
over the Princess of Orange, he received
the office of Commissioner of Appeals,
with a salary of £200 ; and in 1795 he
was made one of the Commissioners of
Trade and Plantations, a place worth £1,000
a year.
425
JOHN I.OCIvE.— 3
The writings of Locke, wliicli cover a
wide range of topics, have been many
times publislied, the most complete edi-
tion, in ten octavo vokimes, was pubhshed
ill 1823. His celebrity as a philospher,
however, rests mainly npon his two trea-
tises, the Essay on linrnan UnderstandhKj ^
and the shorter work entitled " The Gondiicl
of the Understayidi'ivjy The former of these
works was commenced as early as 1670,
was finished in 1687, but not publislied
until 1690. Of this work Sir James Mack-
intosh says :
"Few books have contributed more to rectify
prejudice, to undermine estal)Ii?hed erroes, to
diffuse a just mode of thinking, to excite a
fearless spirit of inquiry, and yet to contain it
within the boundaries which Nature has pre-
scribed to the human understanding. If Bacon
first discovered the rules by which knowledge is
improved, Locke has most contributed to make
mankind at large observe them. If Locke
made few discoveries, Socrates made none ; yet
both did more for the improvement of the un-
dei'standing, and not less for the process of
knowledge, than the authors of the most bril-
liant discoveries."
Of Hie Conduct of the Understanding.
Mr. Hallam says :
'' I cannot think any parent or instructor
justified in neglecting to put this little treatise
in the hands of a boy about the time when the
reasoning faculties become develo|)ed. It will
give him a sober and serious, not flippant or self-
conceited independency of thinking, and while
it teaches how to distrust ourselves, and to
watch those prejudices which necessarily grow
up from one cause or another, will inspire a
ii^isonal)le confidence in wliat has been well
considered."
426
.TOHNT LOCKE.— ;{
The Conduct of the Understanding is di^
vided into about fift}- short "Sections."
SCHOOL LOGIC AND THE UNDKK9TANDING.
The last resort a man has recourse to in (he
ooiuUict of himself is his Understanding; for
though we distinguish the faculties of tlie mind,
and give the supreme command to the "Will, us
lo an agent, yet the truth is, the man, which is
tin' agent, determines himself to this or that vol-
imtaiy action, upon some precedent knowledge,
or a|)p(>arance of knowledge, in tht^ Understand-
ing. \o man ever sets himself about anything
hut upon some view or other which serves him
as a reason for wliat he does ; and whatsoever
faculties he employs, the Understanding, with
suc.li light as it lias — well or ill informed — con-
stantly leads ; by that light, true or false, all his
operative powers are <lirected. The Will itself,
how absolute and uncontrollable soever it may
be thought — never fails in its obedience to the
dictates of the Understanding. The ideas and
images in men's minds are the visible powers
tliat constantly govern them, and to these they
all universally pay a ready submission. It is
therefore of the highest concernment that great
care should be taken of the Understanding, to
conduct it right in the pursuit of knowledge, and
in the judgments it makes.
The Logic now in use has so long possessed
the chair, as the only art taught in the schools
for the direction of the mind in the study of the
arts and sciences, tliat it would perhaps be
thought an affectation of novelty to suspect that
the rules which have served the learned world
these two or three thousand years, and which,
without any complaint of defect, the learned
have rested in, are not sufficient to guide the
Undci'standing. And I should not doubt but
that this attempt would be censured as vanity
or presumption, did not the great Lord Verulam's
autUo-ity justify it: who not thinking learning
427
JOHM LOCICE -4
could not be aflvaiiced Ijeyond Avhat it was. he*,
caiiso for many ages it liad not lieeii, did not rest
in the lazy appi'obation and applause of what
was, because it was, but enlarged his mind to
what might be.
In his Preface to his Novum Organum he
says : " They who attributed so much to Logic
{Dialectica) perceived very well and truly, that
it was not safe to trust the Understanding to
itself without the guard of any rules. But the
i-emedy reached not the evil, but became a part
of it ; for the Logic which took place — though it
might do well enough in civil affairs and the arts
wdiich consisted in talk and opinion — yet comes
very short of subtilty in the real performances
of Nature ; and catching at w hat it cannot reach,
has served to confirm and establish errors rather
than open a w^ay to truth." And therefore, a
little after, he says: ^^ Necessario requiritur itt
melior et perfectior mentis et intellectns humani
introducatur — It is absolutely necessary that a
better and perfecter use and employment of the
Mind and Understanding should be introduced."
— The Conduct of the Understanding, Sect. I.
NATURAL PARTS.
There is, it is visible, great variety in men's
understandings, and their natural constitutions
put so wide a difference between some men in
this respect that art and industry would never
be able to master ; and their very natures seem
to want a foundation to i-aise on it that wdiich
other men easily attain to. Among men of
equal education there is a great inequality of
parts. And the woods of America, as well as
the schools of Athens, produce men of several
abilities in the same kind.
Though this be so, yet I imagine most men
come very short of wdiat they might attain unio
in their several degrees, by a neglect of their
understandings. A ffnv rules of logic are thought
sufficient in this case for those who pretend to the
■i2S
JOHN LOCKE.— 5
highest improvements; whereas T tliiiik there are
a great many natural defects in the iinderstaiul-
ing capable of amendment, which are overlooked
anil wholly neglected. And it is easy to per-
ceive that men are guilty of a great many faults
ill the exercise and improvement of this faculty
of the mind, which hinder them ni their pro-
gress, and keep them in ignorance and error all
their lives. Some of them I shall take notice
of and endeavor to point out proper remedies
for, in the following discourse — The Conduct of
the Understanding, Sect. II.
THEOLOGY.
There is indeed one science — as they are now
distinguished — incomparably above all the rest,
when; it is not by corruption narrowed into a
trade or faction, for mean or ill ends and secular
interests. I mean Theology, which containing
tiie knowledge of God and his creatures, our
duty to Him and our fellow-creatures, and a view
of our present and future state, is the compre-
liension of all the other knowledge directed to its
true end: i.e., the lionor and veneration of the
Creator, and the happiness of mankind.
Tliis is that noble study which is every man's
dutv, and every one that can be called a rational
creature can be capable of. The works of Na-
ture and the words of Revelation display it too in
characters so large and visible that those who
are (piite blind may in them read and see the first
principles and the most necessary parts of it, and
penetrate into those infinite depths filled with the
treasures of wisdom and knowledge. This is that
science which would truly enlarge men's minds
were it studied, or permitted to be studied, every-
wiiere, with that freedom, love of truth, and
cliai-ity which it teaches; and were».not made,
contrary to its nature, the occasion of strife, fac-
lion, or malignity and narrow impositions. I
shall say no more here of this, but lliat it is un-
ih.iibti'dlv a wrouL'' ust' of mv Undci'standing to
JOHN LOCKE— 6
make it the rule, and measure of aiiothei maiTs
— a use which it is neither lit for, nor capable of.
The Conduct of the Understanding, Sect. XXllI.
FUNDAMENTAL VERITIES.
The mind of man being very narrow, and so
v*low in making acquaintance of things and tak-
ing in new truths, that no man is capable, in a
much longer life than ours, to know all truths, it
l)ecomes our prudence, in our search after know-
ledge, to employ our thoughts about fundamen-
tal and materhd questions, carefully avoiding
tiiose tliat are trifling, and not suffering our-
selves to be diverted from our main even purpose
by those that are merely incidental.
flow much of many young men's time is
thrown away in purely logical inquiries, I need
not mention. This is no better than if a man
who was to be a painter should spend all his
time in examining the threads of the several cloths
he is to paint upon, and counting the hairs of
each pencil and brush he intends to use in tiie
laying on of his colors. Nay, it is much worse
than for a young painter to spend his apprentice-
ship in such useless niceties ; for he, at the end
of all his pains to no purpose, finds that it is not
[)ainting, nor any help to it, and so is really to no
l)urpose. Whereas, men designed for scholars
have often their heads so filled and warmed with
disputes on logical questions that they take these
airy, useless notions for real and substantial
knowledge, and think their understandings so
well furnished with science that they need not
look any farther into the nature of things, or
descend to the mechanical drudgery of experi-
ment and inquiry.
This is so obvious a mismanagement of the
Understanding, and that in the professed way to
knowledge, that it could not be parsed by ; to
which might be joined abundance of questions
and the May of handling them in schools. What
faults in paiticular of this kind every man is or
430
JOHN LOCKE.— 7
maybe «uilty of. would be infinite to enumerate.
It suffices to have shown that puperiieiul and
slight discoveries and observations, that contain
nothing of moment in themselves, nor serve as
clews to lead us unto farther knowledge, should
be lightly passed by, and never thought worth
otu- searching after.
There are fundamental truths which lie at the
I)ottom, the basis upon which a great many others
rest, and in which they have their consistency.
These are teeming truths, rich in store with
which they furnish the mind ; and, like the lights
of heaven, they are not only beautiful in them-
selves, but give light and evidence to other things
that, without them, could not be seen or known.
Such is that admirable discoveiy of INIr. Newton,
tiiat all bodies gravitate to one another, which
may be counted as the basis of natural philoso-
phy ; which, of what use it is to the understand-
ing of the great frame of our solar system he
has, to the astonishment of the learned vk'orld,
shown ; and how much farther it would guide
us in other things, if rightly pursued, is not
known.
Our Saviour's great rule, that we should love
our neighbor as ourselves is such a fundamental
tiuth for the regulating of human society, that I
tliink that by that alone one might without diffi-
culty determine all the cases and doubts in social
moi-ality. These, and such as these, ai-e the
truths we should endeavor to find out and store
our minds with The Conduct of the Under-
standing, Sect. XLIII.
BOTTOMING.
The consideration of the necessity of search-
ing into fundamental verities leads me to another
thing in the conduct of the Undei'standing that is
no less necessary, viz: To accustom ourselves, in
any question proposed, to examine and find out
upon what it bottoms.
Most of the difilculties that come in our way,
431
JOHN LOCKE.— 8
when well considered and traced, lead us to some
proposition — which, known to be true, clears the
doubt, and gives an easy solution to the question ;
while to{)ical and superficial arguinents — of
which there is store to be found on both sides —
lining the head with variety of thoughts, and
the mouth with copious discourse, serve only to
amuse the understanding, and entertain com
pany, without coming to tlie bottom of the ques-
tion— the only place of rest and stability lor an
inquisitive mind, wiiose tendency is only to truth
and knowledge.
For example, if it be demanded whether the
Grand Seignior can lawfully take what he will
from any of his people ? This question cannot
be resolved without coming to a certainty
whether all men are naturally equal : lor upon
that it turns; and that truth, well settled in the
understanding, and cai'ried in the mind through
the various debates concerning the various rights
of men in society, will go a great way in putting
an end to them, and showing on which side the
truth is Tlie Conduct of the Understanding ,
Sect. XLIV.
432
FREDERICK LOCKER.— 1
LOCKER, Frederick, an English writer
of clever " verses of societ}'^," born in 1821.
He was for many years connected with the
Admiralty Office. He married a daughter
of the wealthy banker, Sir Curtis Lampson.
after whose death in 1885, he assumed the
name of Lampson in addition to his own.
He is especially noted for his unique col-
lection of drawings by the old masters, and
of rare books of the Elizabethan period. He
has published a volume of London Lyrics,
made up of his contributions to various
journals (fifth edition in 1872), a volume
entitled Patchwork (1879), and edited the
Lijra Elegantiarum (1867.)
THE UNREALIZED IDEAL.
JNIy only love is always near :
In country or in town
I see her twinkhng feet, I hear
The rustling of her gown.
She foots it ever fair and young ;
Her locks are tied in haste,
And one is o'er her shoulder flung,
And hangs below her waist.
She ran before me in the meads ;
And down this world-worn track
She leads me on ; but while she leads
She never gazes back.
And yet her voice is in my areams,
To witch me more and more ;
TliMt wooing voice — ah me ! it seems
L(;ss near me than of yore.
Iviglitly I sped wlicn hope was high,
And youth beguiled the chase ;
I follow, follow still, for I
Sliall never see her face.
433
FKEDEKICK LOCKER— 2
VANITY FAIR.
Vanitas vanitatum has rung in the ears
or gentle and pimple for thousands of years
The wail still is heard, yet its notes never scare
Either gentle or sini[)le fioni Vanity Fair.
I often liear people abusing it, yet
There the young go to learn, and the old to for
get;
The mirth may be feigning, the sheen may be
glare, *
But the gingerbread's gilded in Vanity Fair,
Old Dives rolls in his chariot, but mind
Atra Gara is up witii the lackeys behind;
Joan trudges with Jack : — are the sweet-hearts
aware
Of the trouble that waits them in Vanity Fair?
We saw them all go, and we something may
learn
Of the harvest they reap when we see them re-
turn ;
The tree was enticing, its bi-anches are bare : —
Heigh-ho for the promise of Vanity Fair !
That stupid old Dives — once honest enough —
His honesty sold for star, ribbon, and stuff;
And Joan's pretty face has been clouded with
care
Since Jack bought her ribbons at Vanity Fair.
Contemptible Dives ! too credulous Joan !
Yet we all have a Vanity Fair of our own ;
My son, you have yours, but you need not de-
spair : —
I own I've a weakness for Vanity Fair.
Philosophy halts, wisest counsels are vain ;
AVe go, we repent, we return there again ;
To-nicfht you will certainly meet with us there : —
So come and be merry at Vanity Fair.
434
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART— 1
LOCKHART, John Gibsox, a Scottish
author, born at Cainbiisnethan in 1794;
died at Abbotsford in 1854, He studied at
the University of Edinburgh and at Balllcl
College, Oxford, and in 1816 was called to
ilie bar of Edinburgh. In 1820 he married
a daughter of Sir Walter Scott In 1826
he succeeded Sir John T. Coleridge as editor
of the London QuarLerly Review, which he
conducted until 1853. As early as 1817 he
became a regular contributor to BJarlnoncrs
XfcKjazine his most notable contribut'on to
which was "Peter's Letters to his Kins-
folk," some of which, however, w^ro the
production of Wilson, while Lockhart
ui-ote portions of Wilson's "Christoijher
in his Tent," and " Noctes Ambrosiaiia*."
Lockhart wrote several novels, the best ot
wiiich are, Adam Blair and Rrciinahl Dal-
'oii. His spirited translations of the '' An-
cient Spanish Ballads," most of which had
j)reviously appeared in Bkichcood, were col-
lected into a volume in 1823. The princi-
pal of his other works are : Life of Robert
Burns (1828), Life of Napoleon Bonaparte
(1829), Life of Sir 'Walter Scott (7 vols.,
1836-38.)'
BURNS ON HIS FARM AT ELLISLAND.
It is difficult to imagine anythiiij; move beau-
tiful, more noble, than wluit sueh a person as
Mrs. Dunlop might at tliis period be supposed lo
ooiitemplate as the probable tenor of" Robert
Burns's life. What fame can biing of biippi-
' ness he had already tasted ; In^ had overleaped,
hy the force of his genius, all tlie painful bar-
riers of society ; and there was probably not a
man iu Scotland who would not have tiiouglit
himself honored by seeing Burns under his
roof lie had it iu ids own jtower lo phiee iiis
JOHN GIBSON LOCK HART. —2
poetical reputation on a level with tlie vpiv
highest names, by proceeding in the same course
of study and exertion whicli had originally raised
liijn into public notice and admiration. Sur-
rounded by an affectionate family, occupied, but
not engrossed, by the agricultural labors in
which his youth and early manhood had de-
lighted, communing with nature in one of the
loveliest districts of his native land, and, from
time to time, producing to the world some im-
mortal addition to his verse — tlius advancing in
years and in fame, with what respect would not
Burns have been thought of; how venerable in
the eyes of his contempoiaries — how hallowed
in those of after-generations, would have been
the roof of Ellisland, the field on which he
'• bound every day after his reapers," the solemn
river by which he delighted to wander ! The
plain of Bannockburn would hardly have been
holier ground Life of Burns.
CHILDREN OK GREAT MEN.
Tlie children of illustrious men begin the
world with great advantages, if they know how
to use them ; but this is hard and rare. There
IS risk that in the flush of youth, favorable to
all illusions, the filial pride may be twisted to
personal vanity. When expeiience cheeks this
misgrowth, it is apt to do so with a severity that
shall reach the best sources of moral and intel-
lectual development. The great sons of great
fathers liave been few. It is usual to see their
progeny smiled at through life for stilted preten-
sion, or despised, at best pitied, for an inactive,
inglorious humility. The shadow of the oak is
broad, but noble plants seldom rise within that
circle. It was fortunate for the sons of Scott
that his day darkened in the morning of theirs.
The sudden calamity anticipated the natural ef-
fect of observation and the collisions of society
and business. All weak, unmanly folly was
nipped in the bud, and soon withered to the
436
JOHN CIP.SOX TAK'KHART.— 3
root. They were both remarkably modest men,
liut in neither had the better stimulus of the
blood been arrested. — Life of Scott.
AN OLD ENGLISH MANSION.
They halted to bait their horses at a little vil-
lage on the main coast of the Palatinate, and
tlien pursued their course leisurely through a
rich and level country, until the groves of Gry-
pherwast received them amidst all the breath-
less splendour of a noble sunset. It would be
difficult to express the emotions with which
young Reginald regarded, for the first time, tlie
ancient demesne of his race. The scene was
one which a sti-anger, of years and experience
very superior to his, might have been pardoned
for conteniplating with some enthusiasm, but to
him the first glimpse of the venerable front, em-
bosomed amidst its " old contemporary trees,"
was the more than realization of cherished
dreams. Involuntarily he drew in his rein, and
the whole party as involuntarily following the
motion, they approached the gateway together
at the slowest pace.
The gateway is almost in the heart of the vil-
lage, for the hall of Grypherwast had been
reared long before English gentlemen conceived
it to be a point of dignity to have no humble
roofs near their own. A beautiful stream runs
hard by, and the hamlet is almost within the
arms of the princely forest, whose ancient oaks,
and beeches, and gigantic pine-trees, darken and
ennoble the aspect of the whole surrounding
region. The peasantry, who watch the flocks
and herds in those deep and grassy glades — the
fishermen, who draw their subsistence from the
clear waters of the river — and the woodmen,
whose axes resound all day long among the in-
exhaustible thickets, are the sole inhabitants of
the simple place. Over their cottages the hall
of Grypherwast has predominated for many
long centuries, a true old northern ni.inoi-house,
■28 4:57
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHAKT.— 4
not devoid of a certain maguilicence in its gen-
eral aspect, thougli making slender pretensions
to anything like elegance in its details. The
central tower, square, massy, rude, and almost
destitute of windows, recalls the knightly and
troubled period of the old border wars ; while
the overshadowing roofs, carved balconies, and
multifarious chimneys S(;attered over the rest of
the building, attest the successive influence of
many more or less tasteful generations. Except-
ing in the original baronial tower, the upper
parts of the house are all formed of oak, but
tin's with such an air of strength and solidity as
inight well shame many modern structures raised
of better materials. Nothing could be more
perfectly in harmony with the whole character
of the place than the autumnal brownness of the
stately trees around. The same descending rays
were tinging with rich lustre the outlines of their
liare trunks, and the projecting edges of the old-
fashioned bay-windows which they sheltered ;
and some rooks of very old family were cawing
overhead almost in the midst of the hospitable
smoke-wreaths. Within a couple of yards from
the door of the house an eminently respectable-
looking old man, in a powdered wig and very
rich livery of blue and scarlet, was sitting on a
garden-chair with a pipe in his mouth, and a
cool tankard within his reach upon the ground.
— Reginald Dalton.
THE BROADSWORDS OF SCOTLAND
Now there's peace on the shore, now there's
calm on the sea.
Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us
free,
Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and
Dundee.
Oh the hroadsionrds of old Scotland /
And oh, the old Scottish broadswords !
438
JOHN GIBSON I.OJKlIAliT.-5
Old Sir Ralph Abercruiiiby. the good and the
brave —
Let him flee from our board, k't him sU'c}) with
tlie shive,
Whose libation comes slow while we honor his
grave.
Oh. the broadswords of old Scolkmd !
And oh, the old Scottish broadswords f
Though he died not, like him, amid victory's
roar.
Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud on
the shore,
Not the less we remember the spirit of Moore.
Oh, the broads words of old Scot/and !
And oh, the old Scottish broadswords !
Yea, a place with the fallen the living shall
claim ;
We'll entwine in one wreath every glorious
name —
Tiie Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the
(_Traham.
All the broadswords of old Scotland !
And oh, the old Scottish broadswords !
Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves
of the Forth,
Count the stars in the clear cloudless heaven of
the north ;
Then go blazon their numbers, their names anil
their worth.
All the broadswords of old Scotland !
And oh, the old Scottish broadswords !
The highest in splendor, the luunljlest in place,
Stand united in glory, as kindred in race,
For the private is brother in blood to his Grace.
Oh. the broadswords of old Scotland!
And oh, the old Scottish broadswords !
439
JOKN GIBSON LOCKHART.— 6
Tlu'ii sacred to each and all let it be
Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us
free,
Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and
Dundee.
OA, the broadswords of old Scotland!
And oh, the old Scottish broadswords !
EULOGY UPON CAPTAIN PATON.
His waistcoat, coat and breeches, were cut off
the same web,
Of a beautiful snuff-color, of a modest gentry
drab ;
The blue stripe in his stocking round his neat,
slim leg did go ;
And his ruffles of the cambric fine, they were
whiter than the snow.
Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton
no mo'e!
His hair was curled in order, at the rising of the
sun,
In comely rows and buckles smart that down his
ears did run ;
And before there was a toupee, that some inches
up did grow ;
And behind there was a long queue, that did
o'er his shoulders flow.
Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton
no mo'e !
And whenever we foregathered, he took off his
wee tlu'ee oockit,
And he proffered you his snuff-box , which he
drew from his side-jjocket,
And on Burdett or Bonaparte he would make a
remark or so ;
And then along the plainstones like a provost
he would go
Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton
no mo'e!
440
JOHN LOGAN— 1
LOGAN, John, a Scottish poet, born in
1748 . died in 1788. He was ordained a
ciergyman, and preached at Leith from 1773
to 1786. He at length gave offense to liis
congregation by writing a tragedy, and went
t<^ Loudon, where he died.
TO THE CL'CKOO.
Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove,
Thou messenger of Spring !
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.
Wliat time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear ;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year ?
Delightful visitant ! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.
The schoolboy, wandering through the wood,
To pull the primrose gay,
Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,
And imitates thy lay.
NViiat time the pea puts on the bloom
Thou tliest tiiy vocal vale,
.\n annual guest in other lands,
Another Spring to hail.
Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green.
Thy sky is ever clear ;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No Winter in thy year.
Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee !
We'd make, with jf)yful wing,
Our annual visit o'er tlie globe.
Companions of the Spring.
441
GEORGK LONG.— 1
LONG, George, un English scholar, born
in 1800 ; died in 1879. He entered Trinity
College, Cambridge, where in 1822 hegracl-
uated as first Chancellor's Medallist; be-
came a Fellow of his College, and afterwards
accepted a professorship in the University
of Virginia. Returning to England, betook
an active part in the work of the Society
for the Diffasion of Useful Knowledge, ed-
iting the Penny Gyclopsedia from its com-
mencement in 1833 to its completion in
1845. He also edited the Biographical
Dictionary of the Society for the Diffusion
of Usefid Knoioled(je (184:2-44.) Among
his numerous works are the Decline of the
Roman Republic (five vols., 1864-84), and
Select Lives from Plutarch^ accompanied by
copious dissertations, in the form of " Notes,"
one of which is given in the following ex-
tract. In 1873 he received the grant of a
royal pension of £100.
MARCUS JUNIUS BRUTUS.
Brutus had moderate abilities, with great in-
dustry and much learning. He had no merit as
a general, but he had the courage of a soldier.
He had the reputation of virtue, and he was free
from many of the vices of his contemporaries :
he was sober and temperate. Of enlarged po-
litical views he had none; there is not a sign of
his being in this respect superior to the mass of
his contemporaries. When the Civil War broke
out, he joined Pompeius, though Pompeius had
murdered his father. If he gave up his private
enmity — as Plutarch says — for what he believed
to be the better cause, the sacrifice was honora-
ble. If there were other motives — and I believe
there were — his choice of his party does him no
credit.
His conspiracy against Cjesar can only be jus-
442
GEORGE LONG.— 2
litied by tliose who think that a usurper oiijiht to
he got rid of in any way. But if a man is to be
murdered, one does not expect those to take a
part in the act who, after being enemies have re-
ceived favors from him, and professed to be his
friends; the murderers should beat least a man's
declared enemies, who have just wrongs to
avenge. Though Brutus was dissatisfied with
things under Ctessu", he was not the first mover
in the conspiracy. He was worked upon by
others, who knew that his character and personal
relation to Ciesar would in a measure sanctify
the deed ; and by their persuasion, not his own
resolve, he became an assassin in tiie name of
freedom — which meant the triumph of his party,
and in the name of virtue — which meant no-
thing.
The act was bad in Brutus as an act of
treachery, and it was bad as an act of policy.
It failed in its object — the success of a party —
because the death of Ctesar was not enough ;
other victims were necessary, and Brutus would
not have them. He put himself at the head of
a plot in which there was no plan ; he dreamed
of success, and Ibrgot the means ; he mistook the
circumstances of the times, and the character of
tlie men.
His conduct after the murder Avas feeble and
uncertain ; and it was also as illegal as the usur-
pation of CiBsar. He left Rome as Prtetor with-
out the permission of the Senate; betook pos-
session of a province which, even according to
Cicero's testimony, had been assigned to an-
other ; he arbitrarily passed beyond the bound-
aries of his province, and set his effigy on the
coins ; he attacked the Bessi in order to give his
soldiers booty ; and he plundered Asia to get
money for the conflict against Caesar and An-
tonius for the mastery of Rome and Italy. The
means tliat he had at his disposal show that he
robbed without measure and without mercy ; and
there never was greater tyranny exercised over
GEORGE LONG.— 3
li(l[.kvs.s people in the name of liberty than the
wretched inhabitants of Asia experienced from
Brutus, "the Liberator," and Cassias, "the last
of the Romans." But all these great resources
were throAvn away in an ill-conceived and worse
executed campaign.
Temperance, industry, and unwillingness to
shed blood are noble qualities in a citizen and a
soldier ; and Brutus possessed them. But great
wealth gotten by ill means is an eternal re-
proach ; and the trade of money-lending, carried
on in the name of others with unrelenting
greediness, is both avarice and hypocrisy. Ci
cero — the friend of Brutus — is the witness for
his wealth and for his unworthy means to in
crease it.
Untiring industry and a strong memory had
stored the mind of Brutus with the thoughts of
others ; but he had not capacity enough to draw
profit from his intellectual as he did from his gol-
den treasures. His mind was a barren field on
which no culture could raise an abundant cro().
His wisdom was the thoughts of others, and lie
had ever ready in his mouth something that othei-s
had said. But to utter other men's wisdom is
not enough ; a man must make it his own by th<i
labor of independent thought.
Philosophy and superstition were blended in
the mind of Brutus, and they formed a chaos in
his bewildered brain, as they always will do. In
the still of night phantoms floated before his
wasted strength and watchful eyes ; perhaps of
him — the generous and brave — who had saved
the life of an enemy in battle, and fell by his
hand in tlie midst of peace. Conscience was
his tormentor, for truth was stronger than the
illusions of a self-imputed virtue.
Though Brutus had condemned Cato's death,
he died by his own hand, not with the stubborn
resolve of Cato, who would not yield to an
usurper, but merely to escape from his enemies.
A Roman might be pardoned for not choosing to
GEORGE LONG.— 4
liecomu the prisoner of a Roman, but his grave
should have been a battle-liekl, and the instru-
ment should liave been the hands of those who
vere fighting against the cause which he pro-
laimed to be righteous and just. Brutus died
without belief in the existence of that virtue
uhieli he had affected to follow. The triumph
of a wrongful cause, as he conceived it, was a
proof that virtue was an empty name. He for-
got the transitory nature of all individual ex-
istences, and thought that justice perished with
him. Brutus died in despair, with the courage
but not with the faith of a martyr.
When men talk of tyi-anny, and rise against
it, the name of Brutus is invoked : a mere name
and nothing else. What single act is there in
the man's life wdiich promised the regeneration
of his country and the freedom of mankind ?
Like other Romans, he only thought of main-
taining the supremacy of Rome ; his ideas were
no larger than tlieirs ; he had no sympathy with
those whom Rome governed and oppressed. For
his country he had nothing to propose ; its worn-
out political constitution he would maintain, not
amend ; indeed amendment was impossible.
Pi'obably he dreaded anarchy and the dissolution
of social order, for that would have released his
debtors and confiscated his valuable estates. But
C;esMi"'s usurpation was not an anarchy ; it was
a monarchy — a sole rule ; and Brutus, who
was ambitious could not endure that.
445
HENRY WADSWUKTH LONGFELLOW— 1
LONGFELLOW, Henry Wausworth,
an Ainerioau poet, born at Portland, Maine,
February 27, 1807; died at Cambridge,
^ Mass., March 24, 1882. He entered Bow-
(loin College at fourteen, graduated in 1825;
was tutor there for a short time, and in
1826 was appointed Professor of Modern
Languages. He then went to Europe
where he studied three j^ears; returning late
in 1829 he entered upon his duties as Pro-
Ifssor. In 1835 he was chosen to succeed
George Ticknor as Professor of Modern
Languages and Literature in Harvard Col-
lege. He established himself in the old
Cragie House, which had been Washing-
ton's headquarters in 1775-76, which con-
tinued to be his home during the remainder
of his life. He resigned his professorship
in 185-4. While a student at Bowdoin he
contributed several short poems to the Bos-
ton Literary Gazette^ which were afterwards
brought together under the title of i^arZ^er
Poems. While Professor at Bowdoin he
contributed several papers to the North
American Revieiv^ one of which, on "The
Moral and Devotional Poetry of Spain,"
contained his translation of the Coplas de
ManriqtLc.
Although Longfellow is most distinct-
ively known as a poet, he wrote much
graceful prose. Besides his college prelec-
tions and contributions to the North Ameri-
can Review he published Outre 3fer, a
series of sketches from Euroj^e (1826), Hy-
pn-ion, a romance, (1839), and Kavanah, a
tale of New England life (1849.)
446
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW.— 2
THE I'lOXIC AT ROARING BROOK.
Every state and almost every county of New
England lias its " Roaring Brook " — a mountain
streamlet overhung by woods, impeded by a
mill, enc'.imbered by fallen trees, but ever racing,
rushing, roarinti down tlirough gurg-lintr o;ullies,
and filling the forest with its delicious sound and
freshness; the drinking-place of home-returning,
herds; the mysterious haunt of squirrels and
blue-jays, the sylvan retreat of school-girls, wlio
frequent it on summer holidays, and mingle
their restless thoughts, their overflowing fancies,
their fair imaginings, with its restless, exuber-
ant, and rejoicing stream
At length tliey reached the Roaring Brook.
From a gorge in the mountains, through a long,
winding gallery of birch, beech, and pine,
leaped the bright brown water of the jubilant
streamlet, out of the woods, across the plain,
under tlie rude bridge of logs, into the woods
again — a day between two nights. "With it
went a song that made the lieart sing likewise ;
;'i song of joy and exultation, and freedom ; a
continuous and unbroken song of life and pleas-
ure, and i)erpetiial youth. Presently turning otf
from tiie road, which led directly to the mill, and
was rough with the tracks of heavy wheels, they
went down to the margin of the brook.
" How indescribably beautiful this brown
water is," exclaimed Kavauagh. " It is like
Avine or the nectar of the gods of Olympus ; as
if the falling Hebe had poured it from the gob-
let."
"More like the mead or the mctheglin of the
northern gods," said Mr. Churchill, " spilled
from the drinking-horn of Valhalla."
P>e long they were forced to cioss the brook,
stepping from stone to .stone of the little rapids
and cascades. All crossed lightly, easily, safely,
even "the sumpter mule," as jMr. Churchill
called himself on account of the pannier. Only
447
HENKY WADSWORTH LONGFKT.LO^y.— I?
Cecilia lingered behind as if nfrnid to oross ;
Cecilia, who had crossed at that 8uiue [jlace a
hundred times before ; Cecilia, who had the surest
foot and the firmest nerves of all the village
maidens. She now stood irresolute, seized with
a sudden tremor, blushing and laughing at her
own timidity, and yet unable to advance. Kav-
anagh saw her embarrassment, and hastened
back to help her. Her hand tremlded in his ;
she thanked him with a gentle look and woi-d.
His whole soul was softened within him. His
attitude, his countenance, his voice, were alike
submissive and subdued. He was as one pene-
trated with the tenderest emotions.
It is difficult to know at what moment love
begins; it is less difficult to know that it has
begun. A thousand heralds proclaim it to the
listening air ; a thousand ministers and messen-
gers betray it to the eye. Tone, act, attitude,
and look — the signals upon the countenance —
the electric telegraph of touch — all these betray
the yielding citadel before the word itself is
uttered which, like the key surrendered, opens
every avenue and gate of entrance, and makes
retreat impossible. — Kavanah.
Longfellow's first volume of original
poems, The Voices of the Niijlit, was pub-
lished in 1839. His subsequent works
appeared originally in many small volumes,
though now collected into Wo. Following
are the titles and dates of most of the larger
of these poems: Voices of the Nir/ht (1839);
Ballads and other Poems (1841) ; Poems on
Slavery (1842) ; The Spanish Student, a
drama (1843) ; Evamjeline (1847) ; The Sea-
side and the Fireside (1849) ; The Song of
Hiawatha (1855) ; The Courtship of Miles
Standish (1858) ; Tales of a Wayside Inn
(1863); The Masque of ^Pandora (1875);
Han < fin ( I of the Crane (1875'* Michael
448
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.— 4
Angela, a dramatic poem (1879) ; Ultima
Thale (1882.) Shortly after his death was
pubhshed In the Harbor, a small volume con-
taining his last poems. Besides these were
numerous collections of smaller poems,
several hundred in number. All the fore-
going are now included in Volume I. of his
Collected Poems. In Volume II-, under tlie
general title of " Christus," he brought
together in 1870 three dramatic poems
already published : The Divine Tragedy,
The Oolden Legend, and The Neiu England
Tragedies.
Longfellow's Translations — mainly from
French, Italian, German, Spanish, and Swed-
ish poets, are numerous. The collection en-
titled The Poets and Poetry of Europe (184:6),
contains many translations by himself, which
are now included in his Works. Of longer
translations the principal are : The Coplas
de Manrique, from the Spanish ; Tegner's
Children of the Lord's Supper, from the
Swedish ; and Dante's Divina Commedia,
from the Italian.
THEMES FOR SONG.
" The land of Song within thee lies,
Watered by living springs ;
The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes
Are gates unto that Paradise,
Holy thoughts, like stars arise,
Its clouds are angel's wings.
" Learn that henceforth thy song shall be
Not mountains capped with snow,
Nor forests sounding like the sea,
Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly,
Where the woodlands bend to see
The bending heaven Itelow.
29 449
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW— 5
"Look then, into thine heart, and write !
Yes, into Life's deep stream !
All forms of sorrow and delight,
All solemn Voices of the Niglit
That can soothe thee or affright
Be these henceforth thy theme."
From Prelude to Voices of the Night.
HYMN TO THE NIGHT.
1 heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls !
I saw her sabh' skirts all fringed witii light
From the celestial walls !
I felt her presence, by its spell of might
Stoop o'er me from above ;
The cahn, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight
Tlie manifold soft chimes.
That till the haunted chambers of the Night,
Like some old poet's rhymes.
From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there
From those deep cisterns flows.
O holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before !
Thou layest thy fingers on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.
Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like I breathe this
prayer
Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the fair,
The best-beloved Night!
Voices of the Night.
450
HENRY WADSWORTH LOXCiFELLOW.— 6
FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.
When the hours of Day are numbered,
And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight ;
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
Dance upon the parlor wall : —
Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door ;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more :
He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife.
By the roadside fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life ;
Tliey, the holy ones and weakly,
Wlio tlie cross of suflFering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on eartli no more.
And with them the Being Beauteous
AVho unto my youth was given.
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.
AVith a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me
Lays her gentle hand in mine.
And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.
Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Ls the spirit's voiceless prayer.
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended.
Breathing from her Hps of air.
Oh. though oft depressed and lonely
All my tears are laid aside,
If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died.
Voices of the Night.
451
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW— 7
THE AVAKNING.
Beware ! Tlie Israelite of old who tore
The lion in his path — when, poor and blind,
He saw the blessed light of heaven no more,
Shorn of his noble strength, and forced to
grind
In prison, and at last led forth to be
A pander to Philistine revelry —
I'pon the pillars of the temple laid
His desperate hands, and in its overthrow
Destroyed himself, and with him those who
made
A cruel mockery of his sightless woe ;
The poor blind slave, the scoff and jest of all,
Expired, and thousands perished in the fall !
There is a poor blind Sampson in this land.
Shorn of his strength, and bound in bonds of
steel,
AFiio may, in some grim revel, raise his hand.
And shake the pillars of the commonweal,
Till the vast temple of our liberties
A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies.
Poems on Slavery.
GRAND-PRE, IN ACADIE.
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring
pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, in-
distinct in the twilight.
Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and
prophetic.
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest
on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced
neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answer the
wails of the forest.
This is the forest primeval ; but where are the
hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe when he hears in the wood-
land the voice of the huntsman ?
452
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.— 8
"Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of
Acadian farmers —
Men whose lives glide on like rivers that water
the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting the
image of heaven ?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers
forever departed !
Scattered like dust and leaves when the mighty
blasts of October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle
them far o'er the ocean.
Naught but tra<lition remains of the beautiful
village of Grand-Pre.
Ye who believe in affection that hopes- and en-
dures, and is patient.
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of
woman's devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the
pines of the forest ;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie. home of the
happy.
Prologue to Evangeline.
Still stands the forest primeval, but far away
from its shadow,
Side by side in the nameless graves their lovers
are sleeping.
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic
churchyard,
In the heart of the city they lie, unknown and
unnoticed.
Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing be-
side them ;
Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are
at rest and forever ;
Thousands of aching brains, where theirs are no
longer busy ;
Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have
ceased from their labors,
Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have
completed their journey.
453
HENRY WADSWORTH LU\GFELL0W.-9
Still stands the forest primeval ; but under the
shade of its branches
Dwells another race, with other customs and
language.
Only along the shores of the mournful and misty
Atlantic
Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers
from exile
Wandered back to their native land to die in its
bosom.
In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom
are still busy ;
Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their
ku'tles of homespun ;
And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's
story, _
While from its rocky cavern the deep-voiced
neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsofate answers the
wail of the forest.
Epilogue to Evangeline.
LAUNCHING THE SHIP.
At the word,
Loud and sudden there was heard.
All around tliem and below
The sound of hammers, blow on blow.
Knocking away the shores and spars.
And see ! she stirs !
She starts — she moves — she seems to feel
The thrill of life along her keel ;
And, spurning with her foot the ground,
With one exulting joyous bound.
She leaps into the Ocean's arms !
And lo ! from the exulting crowd
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
That to the Ocean seemed to say,
" Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,
Take her to thy protecting arms,
With all her youth and all her charms ! "
454
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.— 10
How beautiful slie is ! How fair
Slie lies within those arms, that press
Her form with many a soft cai'ess
Of tendei-ness and watchful care !
Sail forth into the sea, O Ship !
Through wind and wave, right onward steer !
The moistened eye, the trembling lip.
Are not the signs of doubt or fear.
Sail forth into the sea of life,
() gentle, loving, trusting Wife,
And safe from all adversity
Upon the bosom of that sea
Thy comings and thy goings be!
For gentleness and love and trust
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ;
And in the wreck of noble lives
Something immortal still survives !
Tliou, too, sail on. O Ship of State !
Sail on, O Union, strong and great !
Humanity, with all its fears,
Witli all the hopes of future years-,
Is hanging breathless on thy fate !
We know what Master laid thy keel,
What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
Who made each mast and sail and rope,
What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
In what a forge and wluit a heat
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope.
Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
'Tis of the wave and nr t the rock;
'Tis but the flapping of the sail.
And not a rent made by the gale !
In spite of rock and tempest's roar,
In spite of false lights on the shore.
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears.
Our faith triumpliant o'er our fears,
Are all with thee — are all witli thee !
77ie Ihnldiny of the SJiip.
455
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.— 11
JOHN ALDEN AND PRISCILLA.
Thereupon answered the youtli, " Indeed, I do
not condemn you ;
Stouter hearts than a woman's have quailed in
this terrible winter.
Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a
sti'onger to lean on ;
So I am come to you now witli an otfer and
proffer of marriage,
Made by a good man and true — Miles Standish,
the Captain of Plymouth."
Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla,
tlie Puritan maiden.
Looked into Alden's face, her eyes dilated with
wonder.
Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned her
and rendered her speechless ;
Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the
ominous silence : —
" If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very
eager to wed me.
Why does he not come himself, and take the
trouble to woo me ?
If I am not worth the wooing, I am surely not
worth the winning ! "
Then John Alden began explaining and
smoothing the matter.
Making it worse, as he went, by saying the
Captain was busy —
Had no time for such things. " Such things ! "
the words, grating harshly.
Fell on the ear of Priscilla; and, swift as a flash,
she made answer : —
"Has no time for such things, as you call it,
before he is married ;
Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after
the wedding?
That is the way with you men ; you don't under-
stand us, you cannot.
When you have made up your minds, after
thinking of this one and that one.
Choosing, selecting, comparing one with another,
456
HENKY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.— 12
TIr'Ii you make known your desires, with abrupt
and sudden aAowal,
And are ottended and liurt, and indignant, per
haps, that a woman
Does not respond at once to a love that slie
never suspected,
Does not attain at a bound the height to which
you have been climbing.
This is not right nor just : for surely a woman's
affection
Is not a tiling to be asked for — and had only for
the asking.
When one is truly in love, one not only says it,
but shows it.
Had he bnt waited awhile — had he only showed
that he loved me —
Kvcn this Captain of yours — who knows?
at last might have won me,
Old an<l rougli as lie is ; but now it can never
happen."
Still John Alden went on. unheeding the
words of Priscilla,
Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, per-
suading, expanding :
He was a man of honor, of noble and generous
nature ;
Though he was rougli, he was kindly ; she had
known how, during the winter.
He had attended the sick with a hand as gentle
as a woman's ;
Somewhat hasty and hot — he could not deny it
— and headstrong ;
Not to be laughed at and scorned because he
was little of stature ;
P'or he was great of heart, magnanimous, courtly,
courageous ;
Any woman in Plymouth — nay, any woman in
England —
Might be happy and ))roud to be called the wife
of Miles Standish !
But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple
and eloquent language,
457
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLUW.— 13
Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise ot
his rival,
Archly the maiden smiled, and with eyes over-
running with laughter.
Said, in a tremulous voice, " Why don't you
speak for yourself, John ? "
The Courtship of Blihs Standish.
THE SONG OF HIAWATHA.
Should you ask me. Whence these stories ?
Whence these legends and traditions,
With the odors of the forest,
With the dew and damp of meadows,
AVith the curling smoke of wigwams,
With the rushing of great rivers,
Witli their frequent repetitions,
And their wikl reverberations
As of tlmnder in the mountain?
I should answer, I should tell you: —
" From the forests and the i)rairies,
From the great lakes of the Northland,
From the land of the Ojibways,
From the land of the Dacotahs,
From the mountains, moors, and fenlands
Where the heron, the Shuhshuhgah,
Feeds among the reeds and rushes.
I repeat them as I heard them
From the lips of Nawadaha,
The musician, the sweet singer."
Should you ask where Nawadaha
Found these songs, so wild and wayward,
Found these legends and traditions,
1 should answer, I should tell you : —
" In the birds' nests of the forest.
In the lodges of the beaver.
In the hoof-prints of the bison.
All the wild-fowl sang tliem to him,
In the moorlands and the fenlands,
In the melancholy marshes ;
Chetowack, the plover, sang them
Mahng, the loon, the wild-gosse, Waway,
The blue heron, the Shulishuhgah,
And the grouse, the Mushkodasa I "
458
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.— 14
If still further you should ask me
Saying, "Who was Xawadaha?
Tell us of this Nawadaha,
I should answer your inquiries
Straightway in such words as follows :
" In the Vale of Tawasentha,
In the green and silent valley,
By the pleasant water-courses,
Dwelt the singer Nawadaha.
Round about the Indian village,
Spread the meadows and the corn-fields,
And l)eyond them stood the forest,
Stood the grove of singing-pines trees.
Green in Summer, white in Winter,
Ever sighing, ever singing. —
And the pleasant water-courses,
You could trace them through the valley.
By the rushing in the Spring-time,
By the alders in the Summer,
By the white fog in the Autumn,
By the black line in the Winter ;
And beside them dwelt the singer,
In the vale of Tawasentha,
In the green and silent valley.
There he sang of Hiawatha,
Sang the Song of Hiawatha,
Sang his wondrous birth and being,
How he prayed, and how he fasted.
How he lived and toiled and suffered.
That the tribes of men might prosper
Tiiat he might advance his people."
THE DEPARTURE OF HIAWATHA
Then the Black-Robe chief, the prophet,
Told his message to the people,
Told the purport of his mission,
Told them of the Virgin Mary,
And her blessed Son, the Saviour;
How in distant lands and ages
He had lived on earth as we do ;
How he fasted, prayed and labored ;
How the Jews — the tril)e accui-sed —
459
HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLOW. -15
Mocked him, scourged him ciuciiied him ;
How he rose from where they hiid him,
"Walked again with his disciples,
And ascended into heaven.
And the chief made answer, saying : —
" We have listened to your message,
AVe have heard your words of wisdom
We will think on what you tell us.
It is well for us, O brothers,
Tliat you come so far to see us ! "
Then they rose up and departed.
Each one homeward to his wigwam ;
To the young men and the women
Told the story of the stranger
Whom the Master of Life had sent them
From the shining land of Wabun.
Heavy with the heat and silence
Grew the afternoon of Summer ;
With a drowsy sound the forest
Whispered round the sultry wigwam ;
With a sound of sleep the water
Rippled on tlie beach below it ;
From the cornfields shrill and ceaseless
Sang the grasshopper, Pahpukkeena ;
And the guests of Hiawatha,
Weary with the heat of Summer,
Slumbered in the sultry wigwam.
Slowly o'er the simmering landscape
Fell the evening's dusk and coolness.
And the long and level sunbeams
Shot their spears into the forest.
Breaking through its shields of shadow,
Rushed into each secret ambush,
Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow ;
Still the guests of Hiawatha
Slumbered in the silent wigwam.
From his place rose Hiawatlia,
Bade farewell to old Nokomis,
S[)ake in whispers, spake in this wise,
Did not wake the guests that slumbered :—
" I am going, O Nokomis,
On a long and distant journey
460
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.— 16
To the portals of the Sunset,
To the regions of the home-wind,
Of the northwest wind Keewaydin.
But these guests I leave behind me,
In your watch and ward I leave them ;
See that never harm comes near them,
See that never fear molests them ;
Never danger or suspicion,
Never want of food or shelter,
In the ]odge of Hiawatha."
Forth into the village went he,
Bade farewell to all the warriors,
Bade farewell to all the young men ;
Spake persuading, spake in this wise : —
'* I am going, O my people.
On a long and distant journey.
Many moons and many winters
Will have come and will have vanished
Ere I come again to see you.
But my guests I leave behind me ;
Listen to their words of wisdom,
Listen to the truth they tell you ;
For the Master of Life has sent them
From the land of light and morning."
On the shore stood Hiawatha,
Turned and waved lus hand at parting ;
On the clear and luminous water
Launched his birch canoe for sailing ;
From the pebbles of the margin
Shoved it forth into the water ;
Whispered to it, '' Westward ! Westward ! "
And with speed it darted forward.
And the evening sun descending
Set the clouds on fire with redness ;
Burned the broad sky, like a prairie,
Left upon the level water.
One long track and trail of splendor,
Down whose stream, as down a river,
Westward, westward, Hiawatha
Sailed into tlie fiery sunset.
Sailed into the ])urple vapors.
Sailed into the dusk of evening.
461
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.— 17
And the people from tlie margin
Watched him floating, vising, sinking,
Till the birch canoe seemed lifted
High into that sea of splendor,
Till it sank into the vapors,
Like the new moon, slowly, slowly,
Sinking in the purple distance.
And they said, " Farewell forever! "
Said, " Farewell, 0 Hiawatha ! "
And the forests, dark and lonely.
Moved through all their deptlis of darkness
Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
And the heron, the Shuhshuhgah,
From her haunts among tlie fenlands,
Screamed, " Farewell, O Hiawatha !"
Thus departed Hiawatha,
Hiawatha, the Beloved,
In the glory of the sunset,
In the purple mists of evening,
To the regions of the home-wind,
Of the nortliwest wind, Keewaydin,
To the Islands of the Blessed,
To the Kingdom of Ponemah,
To the land of the Hereafter.
Conclusion of Hiawatha.
MAIDENHOOD.
Maiden, with the dark brown eyes ;
In whose orbs a shadow lies.
Like in dusk the evening skies!
Thou whose locks outsliine the sun,
Golden tresses wreathed in one,
As the braided steamlets run !
Standing, witli reluctant feet,
Wliere the brook and river meet,
"Womanhood and childhood fleet !
Gazing, witli a timid glance.
Oil the brooklet's swift advance.
On the river's broad expanse !
462
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.— 18
Deep and still, that gliding stream,
Beautiful to thee must seem
As the river ot" a dream.
Then why pause with indecision
When bright angels in thy vision
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ?
Seest thou shadows sailing by,
As the dove, with startled eye,
See the falcon's shadow fly ?
Hearest thou voices on the shore,
That our ears perceive no more.
Deafened by the cataract's roar ?
Oh, thou child of many prayers !
Life hath quicksands ; life hath snares !
Care and age come unawares !
Like the swell of some sweet tune,
Morning rises into noon.
May glides onward into June.
Childhood is the bough, where slumbered
Birds and blossoms many-numbered ;
Age that bough with snow encumbered.
Gather, then, each flower that grows,
When the young heart overflows,
To embalm that tent of snows.
Bear a lily in thy hand ;
Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand.
Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth
In thy heart the dew of youth.
On thy lips the smile of truth.
Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal
Into wounds that cannot heal,
Even as sleep our eyes doth heal ;
And that smile, like sunshine, dart
Into many a sunless heait.
For a smile of God thon art.
463
HENRY WADSWOKTH LONGFELLOW.— 19
THE BUILDERS.
All are architects of Fate,
Working in these walls of Time ;
Some with massive deeds and great,
Some with ornaments of rhyme.
Nothing useless is and low ;
Each thing in its i)lace is best ;
And wliat seems but idle show
Strengthens and supports the rest
For the structure that we raise,
Time is with materials filled ;
Our to-days and yesterdays
Are the blocks with which we build.
Truly shape and fashion these ;
Leave no yawning gaps between ;
Think not, because no man sees.
Such things will remain unseen.
In the days of elder Art,
Builders wrought with greatest care
Each minute and unseen part ;
For the Gods see everywhere.
Let us do our work as well,
Both the unseen and the seen ;
Make the house, where Gods may dwell,
Beautiful and clean.
Else our lives are incomplete,
Standing in these walls of Time,
Broken stairways, where the feet
Stumble as they seek to climb.
Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
With a firm and ample base ;
And ascending and secure
Shall to-morrow find its place.
Thus alone can we attain
To those turrets, where the eye
Sees the world as one vast plain,
And one boundless reach of sky.
464
HENKY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW.— 20
THE DAY IS DONE.
The day is done, and the darkness falls fi'om the
' wings of Night ;
As a featlier is wafted downward from an eagle
in its flight,
I see the lights of the village gleam throngh the
rain and mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me that my
soul cannot resist ;
A feeling of sadness and longing that is not akin
to pain,
And resembles sorrow only as the mist resembles
the rain.
Come read to me some poem, some simple and
heartfelt lay,
Tliat shall soothe this restless feeling and banish
the thougiits of day.
Not from the grand old masters, not from the
bards sublime.
Whose distant footsteps echo througli the corri-
dors of time.
For, like strains of martial music, their mighty
thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor, and to-night I
long for rest.
Read from some humble poet, whose songs
gushed from his iieart
As the showers from the clouds of Summer, or
tears from tlie eyelids start ;
Who through long days of labor, and nights
devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music of wonderful
melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet the restless pulse
of care.
And come like the benediction that follows after
prayer
30 4«5
HENRY AVADSWORTH LONOFELLOW.— 21
Then read from the treasured volume the poem
of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet the beauty
of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music, and the
cares that infest the day,
Sliall fold their tents, like the Arabs, and as
silently steal away.
DANTE.
Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of
gloom,
With thoughtful face, and sad majestic eyes,
Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise.
Like Farinata from his fiery tomb.
Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom.
Yet in thy heart what human sympatliies,
AVhat soft compassion glows, as in the skies
The tender stars their clouded lamps relume !
Methinks I see thee stand with pallid cheeks
By Fra Hilario in his diocese,
As up the convent walls, in golden streaks,
The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease;
And as he asks what there the stranger seeks,
Thy voice along the cloister whispers, " Peace !"
THE TWO ANGELS.
[This poem was addressed to James Russell Lowell,
whose wife died on the same morning when a child
was born to Longfellow.]
Two angels — one of Life and one of Death —
Passed o'er our village as the morning broke ;
The dawn was on their faces, and beneath.
The sombre houses, hearsed with plumes of
smoke.
Their attitude and aspect were the same.
Alike their features and their robes of white ;
But one was crowned with amaranth, as with
flame.
And one with asphodels, like flakes of light.
466
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.— 22
I saw them pause on their celestial way ;
Then, said I, with deep fear and doubt
oppressed,
" Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray
The place where thy beloved are at i-est !"
And he who wore the crown of asphodels.
Descending, at my door Itegan to knock ;
And my soul sank within me, as in wells
The waters sink before an earthquake's shock.
I recognized tlie nameless agony,
The terror and the tremor and the pain.
That ott belbre had filled or haunted me,
And now returned with threefold strength
again.
The door I opened to my heavenly guest,
And listened — for 1 thought I heard God's
voice ;
And, knowing whatsoe'er Hii sent was best,
Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice.
Then, with a smile that filled the house with
light,
" My errand is not Death, but Uti," h<' said;
And, ere I answered, passing out of sight,
On his celestial embassy he sped,
'Twas at thy door, 0 friend ! and not at mine.
The angel with the amaranthine wreath.
Pausing, descended ; and, with voice divine.
Whispered a word that had a sound like
" Death."
Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom,
A shadow on those features fair and thin ;
And softly from that hushed and darkened room,
Two angels issued, where but one went in.
All is of God ! If He but wave His hand.
The mists collect, the rain falls thick and
loud.
Till, with a smile of light on sea and land,
Lo ! He looks back from the departing cloud.
467
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW,— 23
Angels of Life and Death alike are His ;
Without His leave they pass no threshold o'er;
Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this,
Against His messengers to shut the door ?
CURFEW.
I.
Solemnly, mournfully, dealing its dole,
The Curfew Bell is beginning to toll.
Cover the embers, and put out the light.
Toil comes with the morning, and rest with the
night.
Dark grow the windows, and quenched is the
fire ;
Sound fades into silence, all footsteps retire.
No voice in the chambers, no sound in the hall !
Sleep and oblivion reign over all !
II.
The book is completed, and closed, like the day ;
And the hand that has written it lays it away.
Dim grow the fancies ; forgotten they lie ;
Like coals in the ashes, they darken and die
Song sinks into silence, the story is told ;
The windows are darkened, the hearthstone is
cold.
Darker and darker the black shadows fall ;
Sleep and oblivion reign over all.
468
*•%
LONGINUS.— 1
LONGINUS, DiONYSius, a Greek rhet-
oricau, boru, probably in Syria, about 213
A. D, , executed at Palmyra iu 273. lie
studied at Athens, and after travelling
widely returned to Athens, where he estab-
lished a school of belles lettres. About
268 he was invited by Zenobia, Queen of
Palmyra to be tutor of her two sons ; and
he became in fact her minister. The noble
reply of Zenobia to the Roman Emperor
Aurelian, who demanded that she should
surrender unconditionally, on pain of death,
was written by Longinus, who upon the
capture of the queen was put to death by
Aurelian, The only extant work of Lon-
ginus is his treatise On the Sublime, the
best English translation of which is that
of Wilham Smith (1770.)
THE SUBLIME IN HOMER AND MOSES.
I have hinted in another place tliat the Suh-
Hme is an image reflected from the inward great-
ness of the soul. Hence it comes to pass that
a naked tliought, without words, challenges ad-
miratioM, and strikes by its grandeur. Sucli is
the silence of Ajax in the Odyssey, which is un-
doubtedly noble and far above expression. To
arrive at excellence like this, we must needs
suppose that which is the cause of it. I mean
that an orator of true genius must have no mean
and ungenerous way of thinking. For it is im-
possible that those who have grovelling and ser-
vile ideas, or are engaged in the sordid pursuits
of life should produce anything worthy of ad-
miration and the perusal of all posterity Grand
and sublime expressions must flow from them —
and them alone — whose conceptions are stored
and big with greatness.
And hence it is that the greatest thoughts
are always uttered by the greatest souls. When
I'armenio cried, " I would accept these proposi-
LONGINUS.— 2
tionsif I were Alexander,' Alexander made this
reply, "And so would I, if I were Parmenio. '
His answer showed the greatness of his mind.
So the space between heaven and earth marks
out the vast reach and capacity ot Homer s
ideas wiien lie says : —
Wliilst scarce the skies her horrid head can
bound, She stalks on earth.
This description may with more justice be aj)-
))lied to Homer's genius than to the extent of
Discord But what disparity, what a fall theie
IS in Hesiod's description of jMelancIioly, if the
poem of The Shield may be ascribed to liim :
"A filthy moisture from her nostrils flowed."
He has not represented his image as terrible,
but loathsome and nauseous On the other
hand, Avith what majesty and pomp does Homer
exalt his deities : —
Far as a shepherd, from some point on high,
O'er the wide main extends his boundless eye.
Through such a space of air, with thuudering sound,
At one long leap the immortal coursers bound.
He measures the leap of the horses by the ex-
tent of the world; and who is there that, con-
sidering the superlative magnificence of this
thought, would not Avith good reason cry out
that if the steeds of the Deity were to take
another leap, the world itself would want room
for it? How grand and jjompous also are
those descriptions of the combats of the gods —
Heaven in loud thunder bids the trumpets sound,
Aud wide beneath them groans the rending ground.
Deep in the dismal regions of the dead
The Infernal Monarch reared his horrid head ;
Leapt from his throne lest Neptune's arm should lay
His dark dominions open to the day.
And pour in light on Pluto's drear abodes,
Abhorred by men, and dreadful e'en to gods.
What a prospect is here ! The earth is laid
open to its centre ; Tartarus itself disclosed to
view , the whole world in commotion aud totter-
ing on its basis , and what is more, Heaven and
470
LONGINUS.— 3
Hell — things mortal and inunortal — all amilial-
ing together, and, sharing in the danger
of tliis immortal battle. But yet thesu bold
representations — if not allegorieally understood
— are downright blasphemy, and extravagantly
shocking. For Homer, in my opinion, when he
giv'es us a detail of the wounds, the seditions,
the punishments, imprisonments, tears of the
deities, with those evils of every kind under
which they languish, has to the utmost of his
power exalted his heroes who fought at Troy
into gods, and degraded his gods into men. Nay,
he makes their condition worse than human, for
when man is overwhelmed in misfortune, death
affords a comfortable port, and rescues him from
misery But he represents the infelicity of the
ajods as everlasting as their nature. And how far
does he excel those descriptions ot the gods, when
he sets a deity in his true light, and panits him
in all his majesty, grandeur, and perfection, as
in that description of Neptune which has been
already applauded by several writers : —
Fierce, as he passed, the lofty mountains nod,
The forests shake, earth trembled as he trod,
And felt the lootsteps of the immortal god.
His whirling wheels the glassy surface sweep
The enormous monsters rolling on the deep,
Gambol around him ou the watery way,
And heavy whales in awkward measure play
The sea subsiding spreads a level plain,
Exults, and owns the monarch ot the main ;
The parting waves before his eoursers fly ;
The wondering waters leave the axles dry.
iSo, likewise tiie Jewish legislator — not an
ordinary person — having conceived a just idea of
the power of God, has nobly expressed it in the
beginning of his law : "And God said, Let there
be light, and there was light ; Let the earth be,
and the earth was."
THE ILIAD AND THE ODYSSEY.
Homer himself shows us in the Odyssey that
when a great genius is in its decline, a fondness
471
LONGINUS.— 4
for the fabulous clings fast to age. In reiUity
the Odyssey is no more tlian tlie epilogue of the
Uiiul. Having written the Iliad in tlie youth
and vigor of his genius, he has furnished it with
continued scenes of action and combat ; whereas
the greatest part of the Odyssey is spent in narra-
tion— the delight of old age ; so that in the
Odyssey Homer may with justice be resembled to
the setting sun, whose grandeur still remains,
without the meridian heat of his beams. The
style is not so grand as tliat of the Iliad, the
sublimity not continued with so much spirit, nor
so uniformly noble ; the tides of passion flow not
along with so much profusion, nor do they hurry
away the reader in so ra[)id a current. There is
not the same volubility and gi-eat variation of
the phrase : nor is the work embellished with so
many stirring and expressive images. Yet, like
the ocean, whose very shores, when deserted by
the tide, mark out how wide it sometimes Hows,
so Homer's genius, when ebbing into all those
fabulous and incredible ramblings of Ulysses,
shows plainly how sublime it had been.
472
AUGtfSTUS BALDWIN LONGSTREET.— 1
LONGSTREET,' Augustus Baldwin,
ail American lawyer, clergyman, and author,
born at Augusta, Georgia, in 1790 ; died at
Oxford, Miss., in 1870. He graduated at
Yale in 1813 ; studied in the Law School at
Litchfield, Conn.; entered upon practice in
his native State, where he was chosen to
legislative and judicial positions. In 1838
he entered the ministry of the Methodist
Episcopal Church. In 1839 he became
President of Emory College, Oxford, Geor-
gia ; was subsequently President of Cen-
tenary College, Louisiana, of the University
of Mississippi ; and in 1857 became Presi-
dent of South Carolina College, at Colum-
bia. After the close of the civil war he
returned to the presidency of the University
of Mississippi. He was a frequent contribu-
tor to Southern periodicals, and published
several books, the latest being a story. Mas-
ter William Mitten (1864.) His best known
work is Oeorgia Scenes^ Characters^ Inci-
dents^ etc., written before he entered the
ministry, published originally at the South,
and afterwards at New York in 1840. A
second edition, purporting to be " revised,"
appeared in 1867.
A MONOMACHIA IN GEORGIA.
If my memory fail me not, the 10th of June,
1809, found me, at 11 o'clock in the forenoon,
ascending a long and gentle slope in what was
called " The Dark Corner of Lincoln." I
believe it took its name from the moral darkness
which reigned over that part of the country at
the time of which I am speaking. If in this
point of view it was but a shade darker than the
rest of the county, it was inconceivably dark.
If any man can name a trick or a sin which
had n(jt been comaiitted at tlie time of which 1
473
AUGUSTUS BALDWIN LONGSTREET.— 2
am speaking in the very focus of the county's
ilhimination, lie must be the most inventive of
the tricky, and the very Judas of sinners. Since
that time, however (all humor aside), Lincoln
has become a living proof that " light shineth
in darkness." Could I venture to mingle the
solemn with the ludicrous — even for the purpose
of honoralde contrast — I could adduce from this
county instances of the most numerous and won-
derful transitions from vice and folly to virtue
and holiness which have ever, perhaps, been
witnessed since the days of the apostolic minis-
try. So much, lest it should be thought by
some that what I am abont to relate is charac-
teristic of the county in which it occurred.
Whatever may be said of the moral condition
of the Dark Corner, at this time, its natural con-
dition was anything but dark. It smiled in all
the charms of Spring ; and Spring borrowed a
new charm from its undulating grounds, its
luxuriant woodlands, its sportive streams, its
vocal birds, and its luxui-iant flowers. Rapt
with the enchantment of the season and the
scenery around me, I was slowly rising the slope,
when I was startled by loud, profane, and bois-
terous voices, which seemed to proceed from a
thick covert of undergrowth about two hundred
yards in the advance of me, and about one hun-
dred to the right of my road.
" You kin, kin you ? "
" Yes, I kin, and am able to do it ! Boo-
oo-oo ! Oh, wake snakes, and walk your chalks !
Brimstone and fire ! Don't hold me,
Nick Stoval ! The fight 's made up, and let 's go
at it. my soul if I don't jump down his
throat, and gallop every chitterling out of him
before you can say ' Quit ! ' "
" Now, Nick, don't hold him ! Jist let the
wildcat come, and I'll tame hiin. Ned '11 see me
a fair fight ; won't you, Ned ? "
"Oh, yes ; I'll see you a fair fight, blast my
old shoes if I don't.''
474
AUGUSTUS BALDWIN LONGSTREET— 3
'• That's sufficient, as Tom Haynes said when
he saw the elephant. Now let him come."
Thus they went on, with countless oaths inter-
spersed, which I dare not even hint at, and with
much that I could not distinctly hear. " In
mercy's name !" thought I, "what band of ruf-
fians has selected this holy season and this
heavenly retreat for such pandemonium riots ! "
I quickened my gait, and had come nearly
opposite to the thick grove whence the noise
proceeded, when my eye caught indistinctly, and
at intervals, through the foliage of the dwarf-
oaks and hickories which intervened, glimpses
of a man, or men, who seemed to be in a violent
struggle ; and I could occasionally catch those
deep-drawn, emphatic oaths which men in con-
flict utter when they deal blows. I dismounted,
and hurried to the spot with all speed. I had
overcome about half the space which separated
it from me, when I saw the combatants come to
the ground ; and, after a short sti'uggle, I saw
the uppermost one (for I could not see the
other) make a heavy plunge with both his hands ;
and at the same instant I heard a cry in the ac-
cent of keenest torture —
" Enough ! My eye's out ! "
I was so completely horror-struck that I stood
transfixed for a moment to the spot where the
cry met me. The accomplices in the hellish
deed which they had perpetrated had all fled at
my approach ; at least I supposed so, for they
were not to be seen.
" Now, blast your corn-shucking soul," said
the victor — a youth of about eighteen years old
— as he rose from the ground. " Come, cutt'n
your shines 'bout me agin, next time I come to
the Court House, will you ! Git your owl eye
in agin if you kin ! "
At this moment he saw me for the first time.
He looked excessively embarrassed, and was
moving otf, when I called to him, in a tone em-
475
AUGUSTUS BALDWIN LONGSTREET.— 4
boldened by the sacredness of" my office, and the
iniquity ot his crime —
"Come back, you brute ! and assist me in re-
lieving your fellow-mortal whom you have ruined
for ever ! "
My rudeness subdued his embarrassment in an
instant, and, vv^ith a taunting curl of his nose he
replied —
" You needn't kick before you're spurred.
There ain't nobody there, nor ha'nt been, nother.
I was jist seein' how I coulda'yoM^"
So saying, he bounded to his plov.gli, which
stood in the corner of tlie fence about fifty yards
beyond the battle-ground.
And, would you believe it, gentle reader ! his
report was true. All that I had lieard and
seen was nothing more nor less tlian a Lincoln
rehearsal, in which the youtli who had just left
me had played all the parts of all the characters
of a Court House fight, I went to the ground
from whicli he had risen, and there were the
prints of his two thumbs, plunged to the balls in
the mellow earth, about the distance of a man's
eyes apart ; and the ground was broken up as if
two stags had been engaged upon it — Georgia
Scenes.
476
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